Chapter 4:
"Anything that walks, swims, crawls,
Or flies with its back to heaven is edible."
-Cantonese. Source: The Chinese Kitchen by Eileen Yin-Fei Lo
Phix made a tutting sound under his breath. "Ah, well." He muttered. "Tokish, take our guest. I have to finish the manifolds."
"Of course." Tokish moved as if to personally take the Doctor's arm, but the little man danced away.
"So soon? I mean, I could help you."
"No, no, civilians can't be involved in this." Phix rubbed his head against an ache. "Captain was distracted; he forgot I have the latest training in the manifolds, not Tokish."
"It's probably the strain from the pinhole." Tokish pointed out reasonably. "We're not disobeying orders, we're following them if I take our guest to his room."
"I beg your pardon? I'm afraid I don't quite understand." The Doctor puzzled.
"Captain was reverting to an older memory, probably from the pinhole's damage on the ship. You see, we all take turns in training, and I'd had the latest updates." Phix tapped his temple, and the skin gave way slightly to show something hard and rigid and oval-shaped.
"Is that an Augmenter?" The Doctor asked interestedly. "I haven't seen one of those in ages!"
"Special design because I needed some re-wiring done from an illness." The willowy alien explained. "But anyway, Captain's data was off and he was remembering Tokish as the trained one. But no matter what, ship's Law states the latest trained and updated crewmembers are responsible for the manifolds. So I'll have to stay here, and Tokish can take you to your rooms."
"Oh, well, that's very kind of you really," The Doctor clasped his hands nervously. 'But really, I don't want to be a bother…"
Only slightly off and sideways by a few trillion trillion trillion light-years from the Doctor's current dilemma, an impressively high number of Gallifreyans would, had they heard his last statement, rejected it volubly and enthusiastically.
Being a bother was the Doctor's natural state of being. Whether or not he WANTED to be a bother was irrelevant to the point of insult. He simply WAS a bother. To someone, somewhere. It was a new and immutable Law of the Universe, the recognition of which was swiftly gaining momentum amongst the political scientists of Gallifrey (It was already entrenched as a part of Shobogan counter-culture, and the wall graffiti in Old Town proved it).
"I cannot BELIEVE that little buffoon!"
"Mailing a pinhole to Gallifrey. That's one for the Matrix!"
"That's not as surprising as the mailbox he used. Did you see it? Encrypted Calcium Paper! It's almost as old as Polarfrey! I bet you anything he picked it up in the Grey Zone, back when he was looting the scrapyards in the Wastelands for parts for his thesis. Probably pulled it out of an old glove-box-"
"Hush, that's all hearsay…"
"A-HEM."
Conversation stilled.
Sardon mentally prayed to a God he still refused to believe in (but took comfort in the familiarity of habit), and cleared his throat.
"Now that we're all with a now-clearly-outlined problem," he paused and gave that the needed time to sink into the collective consciousness (as well as note the glaze-eyed expressions about the room), "We need to plan our next step."
The Grey Man pressed a small, clear cube that was embarrassingly out of date compared to the modern models of telepathic messaging. Its stonepaper sides still bore the delicate scorchmarks of its expedient journey to Gallifrey. The cube skated forward upon the polished fossilwood table. It slid easily on the near-frictionless surface, and came to a stop a few centimetres from Goth's left wrist. The large Prydonion picked it up with mild curiosity staining his aquiline face.
"So he was able to send another message out." The man observed with enough calm satisfaction to warm a Movellian's chest unit. "Very commendable. And what would be the content of the message?"
It was a surprising courtesy when you thought of it. Goth didn't have to ask a lowly no-House officer anything, even if Sardon ranked higher than most Prydonions. But his concession to manners forced the others to treat Sardon the same way—remove the ruffled feathers and you had a much-more smoothly flowing conversation. Sardon didn't flatter himself. Goth was permitting Sardon to rule uncontested because it suited him to wait in the shadows. Prydonians liked to move in for the kill when the prey thought it was in control.
"A much simpler message, thank goodness." Sardon interleaved his long fingers within each other and rested his hand-heels upon the cool mineral wood. "A secondary warning in case we failed the first message about the contents of the message cube that came into the Bay; and almost in afterthought, he added there was 'something not right' about the ship that recently suffered the pinhole's attack."
"A pinhole cannot attack!" The Cerulean protested. "That would imply intention!"
"The Doctor was absolutely certain in his wording." Sardon sighed.
"Can you be certain? He just survived a complex retrieval across Time and Space using nothing more than the calculations in his head—"
Jokul's voice trailed off.
Goth had tapped the cube open.
The Doctor's message glowed in a small holographic pattern in the air.
No one was about to admit they couldn't read a single scrap of Old High Gallifreyan without a very expensive translator program.
Sardon was just thankful he was rootless enough to be spared that shame. He took in the reactions of the others in idle note-taking mode in the back of his head.
He wondered if Goth really was annoyed, or just nonplussed. There was just enough of a delicate flair in the way the Doctor had signed his name that might just be seen as showing off. The fact that he'd used Old High Gallifreyan (the joined-up script form) was a pointed comment that escaped no one: The Doctor was still, after hundreds of years, protesting Instructor Waterramble's failing grade in Language Arts for using 'obsolete dialect.'
"At any rate, a message written in Old High Gallifreyan is legally incorruptible." Sardon exhaled through his nose. "Even the Doctor, for all his love of rule-bending and breaking, has concepts he holds sacred and dear. His language is, once it was carefully translated, very simple. The pinhole demonstrated INTENT when it struck the ship."
"And according to his rather…complicated…way of thinking," Goth murmured, "Any unanswered questions involving the pinhole must be answered." He stroked his chin slowly. "It remains to be seen what he will discover, does it not?"
"We could activate the Scanners and watch him."
"If I had a month of Otherstides, I wouldn't have enough time to list the reasons why that's a bad idea."
"It would take away the doubt…"
"I don't think my nerves…"
Sardon watched the debacle, and thought longingly of the assignments in which he had no obligation to bring in an Oversight Committee, or even one of its members.
The rooms were nice, if you liked Third Zoner Architecture.
There was a reason why the Doctor didn't mind going to Earth quite so much. Save a few better-forgotten tributes to Living and Dead Ego on one of the continents, Earthers hadn't yet had their impressionistic minds permanently contaminated by triangles.
The little Time Lord stood ramrod straight in the middle of his allotted quarters, and pasted a smile on his face as Tokish demonstrated the controls of his personal atmosphere, nourishment needs, and musical choices.
Third Zoners liked triangles.
There were triangles everywhere.
The walls were along slanted lines which, if you lined them up with the opposing lines upon the floors and ceilings, made triangles.
The rooms were triangular.
The lights were triangular.
Triangles were…to put it gently…"infelicitous" to Gallifreyans. They hadn't had much to do with them since the old days, when the Founding Triad of Rassilon, Omega and the Other was shattered. After that sad epoch, anything compelling the Third Numeral was unfashionable.
Which was just as well, the Doctor often thought. Any time he encountered a pyramid or a triangle, something bad usually followed: The pyramidal structure of the Great Intelligence's control spheres. The intellect-sucking pyramid it was planning for him in the London Underground. The right-angles on the Time Zone maps of the War Lords' Planet. Brr. And Osirians—mustn't forget the Osirians (as if one could!). Or Exxilons. Or Anubians. Or the Jagaroth…or—my word—the Rani and her atrocious love of pink pyramids. So much for that being a school-age phase! Or—
The Doctor politely yet firmly shut his mind from going further down that unpalatable trail, and concentrated on the subject at hand.
"It has everything you need." Tokish said with great deference.
"It's all very nice, really." The Doctor lied cheerfully, and projected truthfulness because he knew the big alien WAS doing his best and good efforts should never, ever go unrewarded.
"Thank you, you're very kind." The Perelaccan shuffled awkwardly. "Phix is better at explaining things."
"You did just fine." The Doctor patted him on an arm the size of a fossilwood trunk after the Firestorm of '300,000,045. "Phix seems a good-hearted fellow, letting you do this instead of himself. Does Captain really mind having his orders disobeyed?"
"Captain is a machine." Tokish shrugged. "And Phix' clan helped design and create him. Their people are more flexible than mine, Doctor. They are very results-oriented."
"Oh, how refreshing." The Doctor clasped his hands and spun on one heel about the room. "I'm sure I'll be quite comfortable here." Gracious, his acting skills weren't rusty by half, were they? "Is it possible to get some rest? Now that I've managed to slow down I'm suddenly very tired. It must be from all the excitement."
Of course, sir." The big man was already out the door, his thoughts turning ahead to his work. "Breakfast bells at tilalitep. The ship will show you the way."
"Oh. Oh, how very convenient," The Doctor said uncertainly—and to the closing triangular door.
"Well." He said to himself.
For all of a moment the little man stood, listening with all ears and all senses. He could not yet detect anything that suggested observation, but it was always better to assume, because Jamie was too honorable to think of not speaking candidly and—
Oh.
The small man grimaced, and let his forehead rest against his fingertips, just a moment. He breathed slowly, evenly, and with the patience of long, long practice, began counting in his head, reciting a chain of pedantic, mindless numbers, until the pain went to sleep in the back of his mind.
Phix was halfway through a stack of thin plastic report-sheets when Tokish knocked on the door-way.
"That didn't take long." The delicate-looking alien grinned. "Our guest is settled?"
"Yes, he's very little trouble." Tokish smiled peaceably. "Any progress?"
"Oh, not bad. Not bad." Phix straightened and neatly stacked the long, triangular reports into a cozy little pile against the corner (the Doctor would have uncharitably compared it to a ferret's litter pan). "Other than a few hitches. I had to alert our clients through a hyperspace channel that there was a regrettable delay in shipping, but if Engineer finished the repairs under schedule, and we maximize our speed, we ought to be clear of the Kirkwood Gap only a week late!"
Tokish sighed. "What a relief. I was worried about the tithe."
"Don't worry. We all contracted for our percentage of the payload, and a percentage is what we'll get." Phix laughed and got to his feet. "Now that I've done all the hard work with my brain, I'm starving. Let's go back for another up of your tea and I've got a tine of redbiscuits we can open for the occasion!"
"Another cup of tea?" Tokish rolled his eyes. "Are you certain you weren't secretly adopted by the Perelaccans? You drink more of it than I do!"
"Tea—and biscuits!"
"Fine," Tokish grumbled. "I'll go get the water." He left, still mumbling good-naturedly.
Phix' own, matching expression of goodwill and humor melted as soon as his friend was gone. In a trice he had leaned his long body almost backwards, toggling a quick code into the small computer screen tied into the wall-circuits.
A soft bleep and the screen opened to show their guest. He was to all appearances, lying flat on his back on the padded bed, his hands folded neatly across his abdomen. His eyes were closed, but Phix didn't know if he was asleep or not. He really wasn't certain about his physiology, save that he was probably a Minyan, or one of the other humanoid-like 3-Zoners…
He didn't bother to ask himself if the Doctor was a Time Lord. That was silly.
And perhaps he was just being paranoid, but Phix had learned to be suspicious the hard way. The Feathered Sun was a lucrative ship for all its humble origins as an ordinary cargo-freighter. Everyone worked hard and the 'Sun's blessedly limited artificial intelligence helped them maximize output.
But you couldn't factor for everything, and Phix was still shaking in personal terror of their narrow brush with death. He could only be glad it hadn't happened, and pat himself on the back for not letting Tokish pick up on his fear. Precs rarely panicked, but when they did even a Martian would take a step back.
Satisfied for the moment, Phix locked his office. After a full twenty tzaks the computer sensed no other activity and gently powered itself down, the image of the Doctor dissolving into opaque darkness.
But…
Almost as quickly…
A tiny red light snapped it back on.
INCOMING TRANSMISSION.
RECEIVED.
QUEUED.
AWAITING RESPONSE.
AWAITING RESPONSE.
AWAITING RESPONSE.
TRANSMISSION TERMINATED FROM LACK OF RESPONSE.
ADDRESS COORDINATES REQUESTED.
REQUEST GRANTED.
TRANSMISSION RECORDED AND LOGGED FOR CAPTAIN.
A string of code and coordinates rolled vertically down the computer's interface. It was followed by an audio-version of the transmitted message.
The tone of the words were rough, guttural, and almost coarse, but the clarity of intent more than made up for the brusqueness.
Someone was very unhappy, and they were going to do something about it.
On the other side of the screen, the Doctor was lying still enough to fool a casual bioscan, but his brain was working deep in its vaults, allowing his body the illusion of lassitude.
They had expected him to rest, so he would be good about it and give them a show, trusting that eventually they would be bored enough to return to their duties or whatever was going on with this ship…but there was a very good chance that "duties" might not be the only thing driving the freighter.
The 'Sun was still hurting. The typical hums and whistles of a Third Zone craft was very much out of true in his hearing—which was thankfully better than ever. Melody and music had been an excellent way to be sneaky about learning things in subterfuge as a child. It trained the ear to seek out patterns and from there, draft out predictions and algorithms of behavior. Gallifreyans adored music as much as anyone else, but they tended to be a little self-serving about it, lumping all under 'haute culture' and 'civilised refinement.'
It was all just nonsense, really, but convenient nonsense.
That odd fellow, Phix…he had a clear need to be in control. Interesting. Tokish was more relaxed about it, but the Doctor's sense of curiosity had ever played in a dangerous relationship with risk. The pieces of this puzzle weren't quite fitting, and until that curiosity of his was satisfied…it would burn him as patiently and eternally as the Sisterhood's Flame.
And of all the Doctors, this particular incarnation was the least likely to resist the siren song of a puzzle.
Without warning, his eyes snapped open.
It was that quick. He had waited long enough.
It was time to do some exploring.
Answers, after all, did not have a habit of finding themselves.