A/N: My apologies for the delay in posting this - I've been preparing for out-of-town guests. Since they'll be here for the next week, it may be that long before I can continue on. Not to worry, I'll be back!
This is an interesting balancing act: including enough detail and description that readers who haven't seen (or aren't familiar with) End of Time understand what's going on, but not so much that those who have and are get bored and wander off. Hope I'm hitting it right. Do let me know!
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Subgroups
Elements n. 2. Subgroups: A distinct group within a larger community: the dissident element on campus.
^..^
"Thank you for coming, Mr Smith!"
"Not at all, Mr Naismith. I was quite intrigued by your description of the device. Where did you say you found it?"
"I 'found' it within the defunct Torchwood Institute's warehouse. I'm led to understand that they found it in a spaceship buried at the foot of Mount Snowdon. Since you are known in certain circles as having knowledge of extraterrestrial technologies, I thought you might like to take a look at it. We're having a bit of trouble bringing it online. Through here, if you please."
Mike followed the billionaire through yet another impressive doorwayin the mansion and into a huge room, previously known as a study; the far end of it was now taken over by an enormous three-sided structure from floor to ceiling, while along the two sides of the room were numerous workstations, computers humming and monitoring lights aflicker. On the left stood a matched pair of isolation booths – he couldn't be sure without a close sniff, but they appeared to be made of radiation-blocking tempered glass.
Naismith noticed his gaze towards the booths. "The device came with its own nuclear power supply, which we've installed in the cellar, directly below this room. The radiation bleedoff is strictly controlled in those booths – one technician on duty at all times. The power then runs to the gate, which encourages some kind of cellular regeneration."
"Fascinating. Seems to be some of it missing, though."
Naismith shot him a sharp look. "How did you know that? Never mind. Yes, it's actually a good deal larger than this. Much of it has been installed in the cellar, as well."
"I'd very much like to see it, if you wouldn't mind?"
"Well - " Distaste for the idea of guiding Mr Smith below like a valet flickered through Naismith's eyes. He was rescued by his own actual valet.
"Excuse me, sir. The video footage has arrived from the, ah, institute. There's something you should see, sir."
"Thank you, Danes. Would you – no. Mr Rossiter." He turned to one of the technicians. "Would you please escort Mr Smith to the cellar?"
Rossiter didn't look pleased – in fact, he looked distinctly trapped; but then he swallowed his discomfort and gave Mike an insincere smile. "Certainly, sir. I was just going to check on the power levels; there seems to be a fluctuation. Ms Addams, would you bring the baselines, please?"
Mike followed the two technicians down the back hallway to the stairs. Glancing behind, he was pleased to see they had left the armed guards behind; apparently Naismith had not (yet) ordered them to keep him in sight. As they walked into the former wine cellar below the study, he pulled out his reading glasses (real ones; one of the small disadvantages of being half-human was that his brainy prop turned real) and slipped them on to peer at the computer screens. The structure above continued down through the floor and into the cellar, taking up the entire end of the room as it did the study.
"Incredible..." he murmured. "But what I'd really like to know," he went on, not looking at the two techs standing together watching him, "is why you're both wearing shimmers."
"What?"
He pulled out his sonic screwdriver and whizzed it at them, still without turning. "Shimmer!" he intoned as the dim cellar light danced over their faces, then melted away, revealing green-skinned, spike-covered aliens. Their jaws dropped in unison as they glanced at each other, then stared in outrage.
"What did you do that for?" Addams (as cute in green as she had been in blonde) demanded.
Mike straightened up and turned to them, leaning back against the desk and crossing his arms. Ignoring her question, he started grilling them in return. "Who are you, what is this thing, and why are you interested in it?"
It took a bit of pushing, but they finally admitted they were Vinvocci salvagers, who had caught the signal the gate above had sent out when it was reactivated by Naismith's technicians and come to retrieve it. They had decided to infiltrate the operation and help with the repairs before liberating it, as working equipment triples in value (at least).
"So what is it, then?"
"It's just a medical device, to repair bodies."
"Then why is it so big?"
"Because it doesn't just repair one body, it repairs whole populations! It sends the medical template out across the entire planet. We use it for ending plagues and pandemics."
Mike was thoughtful. "Pandemics... that's a useful device. Beats the hell out of vaccinating six billion people one at a time."
"Well, you're not keeping it," Rossiter pointed out firmly. "As soon as it's working, we're transporting it up to our ship."
Mike had his head back, thinking through the possibilities. "Does it work on psychology, too? Could you make tiny adjustments in everyone's mind, or is it too crude?"
"How should we know? We're not doctors, we're salvage operators." Addams was still irritated at being so rudely unmasked.
"Tell you what, then. I'll make a deal with you," Mike decided. "I'll help you fix it, and you let me use it, just once, then I'll help you steal it away."
The Vinvocci looked at each other, considering. Then Addams, who seemed to be in the lead, nodded decisively and turned back. "OK. You've got a deal. Now do you mind if we put our faces back on before we go back upstairs?"
Mike nodded back, grinning. The two techs each pushed up a sleeve and pressed the center of their wristwatches, and their human disguises shimmered back into place. Apparently they weren't very comfortable, as they squirmed a bit, adjusting. "You people are so... flat! How can you stand it?" Addams grumbled.
On the way upstairs, Mike was deep in though. If I can use this thing to just... tone things down a bit, how wonderful that would be. Just a teeny-tiny bit less aggression, less hatred, less fear, in every human being.
It's all well and good for the Doctor, his mental tone turned sarcastic as he thought of his former, other self, to run on at the mouth about how wonderful humans are – he never hangs around long enough to watch the fallout. He's never dealt with his kids getting bullied, never had his mum-in-law mugged at knifepoint. His fists balled as he remembered those awful days, and the unexpectedly agonizing helplessness he'd felt. And that's just the tiniest little slice off the top of human aggression.
For every act of charity or kindness are dozens of acts of cruelty. For every life saved medically, hundreds are lost. For every brilliant leap forward, every brave march into the unknown, there are a thousand broken lives. Not a single day has gone by since the dawn of history without a war being waged somewhere in the world. The only thing that changes is the number of casualties – and the inventiveness of how to make them.
How much better the world, and humanity, if everyone were just a tiny bit calmer, less aggressive! What a Christmas present to the world that would be!
They came back into the study and sat down at the terminals, and Mike dove in, deciphering the code to find the part of the programming he wanted. A few minutes later, he noticed a tech enter and walk to the right-hand isolation booth. He waved at the man in the left booth, "Shift change! My watch!" Closing the door firmly behind him, he pushed a large red button on the console. The signs above the doors switched, his turning to "locked" and the other "open"; the left-hand door audibly unlocked, and the man he relieved smiled and left.
^..^
In Naismith's private office down the hall, the billionaire was watching security videos of the massive explosion and fire the night before, which had burned Broadfell prison to the ground; his pretty, utterly spoiled daughter Abigail watching over his shoulder.
"There!" he said quickly, as a figure raced past the camera in front of the flames, far too fast to be human. "It looks like someone survived, after all."
"Do you think it's him?" asked Abigail.
"At that speed? Has to be." He smiled over his shoulder at his precious jewel.
"Oh, that would be such a Christmas present!" she smiled joyfully. The holiday was, after all, just two days away.
"You just leave it to Daddy," he replied.
They walked back into the gate room, the handsome, supremely self-confident black man and his twenty-something princess. "Attention, everyone! Christmas is canceled! It seems help is at hand! Prepare the gate!"
What am I, chopped liver? thought Mike, but then he shrugged, turning to watch the gate come to life with brilliant flashes and splashes of unearthly energy. Whoever else he's bringing in can't know more than I do. I'll have this baby humming in no time.
Briefly, he thought about calling Donna, and asking her to contact the Doctor – this was definitely something he'd be interested in. Then he grimaced, and squashed the thought. What, and tell him Baby Brother can't handle a little adventure and needs his help? Forget it. I can take care of this all by myself – and be home in time for Christmas.
