Chapter Thirteen
"A little…more…" the Doctor urged, channeling power from the main ship to the cam he was trapped in once more, shoving at the thing with a last bright burst of enthusiasm.
At this latest onslaught, the cam shivered, shook, and moved to the left.
Whirrrr-katwik!
Whirrrrrr…
Kikik!
Whirrr…
A familiar face, wrapped in silver droplets and death, shimmied its way abruptly onto his viewing screen.
"Gaaah!" the Doctor cried, sending the camera lens spinning away from the sight.
The suit with Yahlas' body in it must have got free! Although he'd hoped for a more suitable re-entry for the both of them than dueling cameras and a prayer to the gods of space irony.
"Sorry, Yahlas," he murmured, as he yanked again with the camera, lassoing a receptor coil near the top right curve of the hull, near camera 15, "I'm going to have to borrow your body…"
Slowly, so slowly, he sent out waves of himself, golden tendrils of life force that tried to run up the cord attaching the suit to the ship. He concentrated, weaving gold into every fiber of the cord, forcing more and more controlled, focused essence up the wiring and into the suit.
"Just… a little more… and I've… damn!"
The suit jiggled between its moorings, jostling his threads of life energy out of sync with the cord as he felt himself tumble back and forth inside the camera.
It was an odd sensation, like being in a room filling slowly with water, then feeling that room shift sideways, the water sloshing against you for a tiny second.
He thought about it for a few minutes, taking in the way the camera seemed to sway back and forth, that awful screech. The patient, casual scraping. The pizzeria lens flare. Then he realized…
The camera was moving, not the suit. Dangling by a single wire… he'd forgotten.
"Well, I always wanted to try a loft!" he reasoned, before sending all of himself down through the cord, riding a rainbow of gold through tubes and tunnels and twists of roiling silver, "this is so much cooler than that weekend I spent housesitting for Tronnnnnn!"