Old Friends

You made it this far…by becoming detached.

I strode away from Mark, towards another bank of controls on what resembled a main console. It was the one Samsa had prodded, extracted living creatures from, and attended most of the time I’d known her. Collectively…about thirty minutes.

(And not that I’m admitting it out loud, but I have killed other beings in much less time than that.)

My prediction (however optimistic) is that while Odyssey is reverse-engineering and better understanding this…pile of vomit which is, apparently, a supercomputer…we might learn something. Something related to Samsa’s character. Something which could make what I did seem…the word still isn’t ‘acceptable,’ it never will be.

Less bad. There we go; I can hope to find something that will make Samsa’s murder “less bad.”

By becoming detached.

It’s going to take time, of course. Mixing these two levels of sci/fi is the too-close equivalent of putting things through a blender to see how they work.

Samsa could’ve been selling all these relics to feed some starving Thrastrians. She might be inventing other tech, for the benefit of her galactic quadrant. She could…donate blood, I don’t know. Basically, it might transpire that we must upgrade what I did from ‘Bad’ to ‘Truly Horrific.’

Or. It might not.

Detached.

We must also remember that Samsa crashed her ship into this starwhale, and rather than seeking help or offering medical attention, she burrowed her way inside and began selling off pieces while it was still alive.

I could make this point to Mark. If he’s been retreating from the urge to throw up, I think it’d give him an extra, unintentional shove forwards.

“What’re you doing?” He asked me.

I didn’t look up. “Does it matter?”

“Well. Yeah. Your silence on this is pretty noticeable. Actually you being silent at all is pretty unusual.”

That awarded him some eye contact at least.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” He asked.

“No,” I said at last, and went back to my studies. “I already made my point. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, right. It’s my fault, isn’t it? Cos I’m ‘just a mechanic.’”

Anger was keeping me focused, and keeping me numb from the fact that this had all the makings of Mark and me’s final interaction – the moment that pushes him away from me, like the same happened with Aloy. No huge deal, I’ve got Al. I can actually afford to lose a companion, this time.

Something else, in a calmer, colder part of my brain, shuddered at that.

That was just my pride talking. I could afford to lose Mark and still not be travelling alone…but did I want to? And did I want to revert to just Al and myself, someone who was rapidly (conceringly) agreeing with me on a lot of things? All of time and space in a (near-infinite) echo chamber?

Best not.

And I care about him. That too. Obviously.

I sighed, and stood up straight.

“All right,” I said. “You think I’m detached. I can see that. But before you make your mind up. Mentally condemn me. Would you like to see what else I see? Okay, maybe I didn’t care much for Samsa. But does that mean I don’t care at all? No. Of course not. I do care. Just not about them. I care about the Timelord in my medical bay. About the people Samsa kidnapped, and ruined their lives. I care about the fate of a universe with her still in it. And I cared so fucking much, that I made the ultimate choice that others cannot make.”

I turned my head, to face the half-finished remains of a Thrastrian named Samsa. 

“What if I’m the one standing closer to the flames so that no-one else has to get burnt?”

I flinched, a little, when Mark laid his hand against my cheek. “All right,” he said, gently, then gifted me a single, short kiss. “Point made.”

I didn’t want to say anything. I didn’t want to move on. I wanted to stay there, Mark’s warmth against my cheek, feeling compassion for once, rather than giving it.

I wanted another kiss.

And without a spoken word, Mark did so.

“That isn’t a surrender, by the way,” he said, when finished. His hand fell away from me, and I tried not to watch it go. “You haven’t changed my mind. I don’t think I’ll ever agree with you, on the subject of killing.” He glanced back towards Odyssey. “But I concede that it can make a difference.”

“Then…why did you kiss me?”

“Because I’ve yet to see you look this sad. You may show some tendencies of a hardened killer, HH. You show other, stronger tendencies, of something much bigger. Something better. That’s the you I kissed. The same you I kissed that night, on the sofa.”

His hand slipped into one of mine. There was that two-hearted flutter again. 

“You are more than just one thing.”

“As are you,” I replied. “You, like Al, are the challenge to a self-made mind. You challenged me today; I can only urge you to keep doing it.” I gave his hand a short squeeze. “If you wish to stay, that is.”

He squeezed back. “I do. I want to see what happens next.”

“Good man,” I said. 

I told him the same as I’ve told Al, in the past. Take your time, learn what you can, and act accordingly. And, whenever possible, do the last one late. Last possible moment, ideally. You never know what might crop up during that second part – such as seeing Odyssey’s drones was zip through the air, with an almost visibly triumphant energy. It darted about and landed on my right shoulder.

HH. Progress. I believe I’ve discovered the means by which Thrastrian ships communicate – I’m currently accessing their planetary archives before finalising any hypothesis.

Mark caught me grinning. “She gets all fancy when I give her a challenge,” I told him. “Go on then, Ods. Impress me.”

Wait for me to find out Samsa’s actual name, and her password. 

I nodded. Contacting another Thrastrian ship, or their home planet, with no identification other than a personal nickname could prove eventful. Although how bureaucratic does The Planet of Immortal Cockroaches need to be? 

…is that racist? It feels racist. And if something feels racist, it almost definitely is.

Ah.

“What? What’ve I got to do?”

Odyssey told us. Mark and I exchanged a meaningful glance.

“See, I was waiting for this kind of thing,” I muttered.

Never misread ambivalence for indifference. I know what it is I’ve done. I know what it means, to me, to Mark, to Al. And the reason that Samsa’s death isn’t eating me up inside, unlike Mark, is because I’ve got more experience in this kind of thing. 

I know without exception, and without doubt. Which is one of the reasons I try to avoid it. Because a kill never, ever, ever comes for free. 

“Every action has its consequences?” Mark suggested.

“Mmm. Exactly.”

HH & M

Interactions

They’re incredible things, one-night stands*. Or just meeting people, in general. A moment, between two unique and multi-faceted individuals. Who know very little about the other. Who meet at a moment that is the culmination of everything that has ever happened to them**. Like a sudden intersection of two winding roads; or an unexpected alignment of two wholly separate universes.

But take Mark, for an example. There was a brief period in which his life ran parallel to my own. For less than a day, he stood close to the Time War, the Silent Plains disaster, several centuries of interuniversal travelling, and a failed career as a boat salesman – to name only a few. Two individuals with no connections, no history, no ties, and a whole lifetime sealed beneath their skin.

A sense of perspective that’s difficult to notice when you’re choosing the right playlist or trying to find a condom. Tricky to get the scope of someone else when you’re so busy losing yourself.

Because now let’s take me, for example. During that brief period, in which my life ran parallel to his, not once had I expected to find myself in a situation where I’d feel so utterly side-swiped by this twenty-nine year-old human.

“He does make an interesting point,” Al commented.

“Oh god, not you too.” I frowned. “Al?!”

“One of Odyssey’s drones opened a call. I didn’t want to interrupt.”

Her voice did have a distorted quality to it, but no matter where I looked or how fast I turned, none of Odyssey’s drones made itself known.

“Ods. A moment of your time, please.”

You listened to their conversations, it seemed only fair.

“Both of you,” I stated, quite firmly, “keep working. And close all communications.”

Al managed to sneak in a ‘Have fun, you two’ before the line closed. I glanced at Mark.

“Because privacy matters, or because she agreed with me?”

“Both,” I snapped. I don’t like being ganged up on.

Which is why I was doing my best to cool off. In this frame of mind, it was all too easy to say something short, fast, and irredeemable. I leant against the nearest piece of machinery, but upon feeling and hearing its dampness, I straightened up. 

“How’d you get so eloquent on ethics anyway? When was that on the mechanics exam?”

“When you spend 99% of your time at home, with social media, true crime podcasts, and endless shit on the news…it just sort of happens.”

21st century Earth morality in a nutshell.

Still, could be worse. A lot worse.

HH

* That’s not an endorsement, by the way. Just an observation. People should find their own pleasures, in their own (legal) ways.

** Just like how every single second that passes is the culmination of everything that has ever happened to you. If you’re reading this, you made it this far. You amazing, fascinating thing, you.

Many Blends, of Many Things

“It does surprise me that you. You, HH. Who likes jam and peanut butter sandwiches, and gets all misty-eyed after a tea break, and…and…”

“Makes friends with lonely Earth mechanics?” I suggested, innocent.

Mark looked ready to retort, but stepped down from it. “Well. Yeah.”

“What can I say?” I asked. “I’m many things, Mark. Much as anyone.”

“Not everyone’s a killer.”

“No, but anyone could be. After the life you’ve had, I can see how you could lose sight of that.”

Several of Odyssey’s drones, over Mark’s shoulder, swiftly fled from sight. Mark’s expression said ‘Oh really?’ so his mouth didn’t need to do it.

“You’ve spent day after day dealing with other mechanics, and stricken motorists, and suppliers and whatever else. You see a fraction of their life; a microscopic dot of it. You have no idea. The other mechanics in your local area might use their kids’ birthday money to bet on dog races, or like playing Kakuro; the stricken motorist might’ve been on their way to visit a dying relative; the guy who delivers tyres might dress up as a dog for his sexual kicks…”

An eyebrow rose.

“It’s what lives look like. And I’ve had thirteen goes at it. Resulting in this, the bookworm, tea-drinking, burrito-loving, ex-veteran idiot you’ve decided to accompany; and there’s still a lot of stuff left to learn about me. I’ve got more than 1,000 years over you and Al, and believe me, the shit one person can accomplish in that time.”

The amount of kills, for example. Six regenerations of concluding other people. No amount of new faces could ever make up for it. But I’m doing my best.

The room we’d left behind, him sooner than I, would be a fabulous example.

“For what it’s worth,” I went on, finding my rhythm to this dance I’ve done before, “I try to avoid it. And when I can’t avoid it, I will never and have never found pleasure in the act.”

The conversation was over – or I deemed it so – and I approached the nearest bank of controls, to do…something, I’m sure. When I come right down to it, a slime-slicked, pulsating glob of something foul is just a slime-slicked, pulsating glob of something foul. Was this the eject button? Another trap in waiting? Something edible?

Well, most things are edible. Not all of them offer a chance for a second helping, is all.

Mark appeared beside me.

“If you try to avoid it, why did you kill her?”

“Survival,” I said, immediately, and without pausing my inspection of this revolting machinery. “Between realising she’d tricked me, and reacting to it, I had a chance to wonder what Samsa would have done with an unconscious…or dead Timelord body. And I decided to avoid the question.”

And without thinking, I added:

“Besides. We’d had a deal. Samsa and I.” 

Mark blinked. “That’s not survival. That sounds like revenge.”

“And ‘aren’t’ and ‘aunt’ sound alike, but they aunt. It wasn’t revenge, we had a deal. Samsa gives me the information I need.” (i.e. the name of one kidnap-tech-desiring prickbiscuit.) “And I give her the rest of her life.”

“Give her the…wow. HH, tell me. How does it feel? To play God?”

“Fucking exhausting, if you must know.” And I repeated my mantra on this whole thing: I’ve never been one for faith, myself. People tend to believe in Gods, until a Timelord rocks up.

“It still sounds like revenge, to me,” Mark replied, indifferent. “She didn’t give you what you wanted, and you reacted accordingly. And why do I get the feeling you’ve done that before?”

I looked up, staring directly into Mark’s eyes. And for the first time in my life, I felt as though I had finally unlocked that ability of my future self; that way his eyes seemed to blaze like newborn galaxies. Partly because of the immense rush of warmth inside my skull. And partly because Mark took a step backwards.

“Because I’ve survived more than one-and-a-half thousand years of time and space.” I’d said it, in one fast hiss. I took a deep breath. “You don’t make it this far by playing it safe.”

Mark leant a little further away from me, just a little. While his face remade itself into something I recognised. An expression I cause often. Worn by those whom I’ve somehow, accidentally, proven right.

“I guess not. You’ve been travelling, and running, and fighting for so long, you saw Samsa’s death as a means to an end. An advantage, even.”

Mark looked right at me, then. Seeing more than what was just in front of him. “One-and-a-half thousand years of time and space is how long it takes. You made it this far…by becoming detached.”

HH & M

New Blood

Things had turned quite still, in Samsa’s Grotto. Even Odyssey’s drones had called a synchronised halt. This was the silent space we inhabited, following Mark’s discovery that the mass of limbs, spines, and green goo before him had once been a living thing.

“They’re the being who took me. Who took all of the others, back in that room you hated being in. She’s a Thrastrian. One I nicknamed Samsa. And one for whom I made…let’s say, an executive decision.”

“I think,” he said, quietly, “in your own, not-so-subtle way, you’re trying not to admit that you’ve killed someone.”

“It’s a possibility. However,” I said, and held up an index finger, “I will point out, she did try to kill me first. A little scheme of hers is the reason you two needed to bring breathing equipment.”

I told them to do that.

I blew a kiss at the nearest drone, and faced Mark again. Or, faced the back of his head – he still hadn’t turned around.

“If that bothers you-”

“It doesn’t.”

That knocked some air loose. I felt like an orator who just stood up, speech notes in hand, and had a glass tumbler thrown at their face.

Mark finally turned to face me. I admit, he might’ve just had his fill of seeing (and smelling) the remains of Samsa.

“You look surprised,” he said. “Al and I…” He took a moment to think. “Okay, I’m from Earth. You think the concept is new to me? I might’ve learned that there’s a lot more stuff beyond Earth, but I’m not so naive to think that crime just stops at the Ozone Layer.”

I did my best ‘you’re not wrong’ face. “Actually, from an outside-in point of view, it actually gets a lot milder.”

And here’s me in my greenhouse with a bucket of rocks. Sure, humans can kill. I can erase people.

Not that Mark needs to hear that, just now…

“And, besides,” Mark cleaved ever onwards, “you already told me. Kane Manor, superpowers. I think the words you so delicately chose were… ‘neither the cultists nor the manor were ready for me.’”

I could almost hear Al snorting into that hot drink Odyssey had conjured for her…

Mark nodded. “So, no. It doesn’t bother me that you killed someone.”

I braced myself. There’s always an ‘and’ when it comes to Al and me. Why do I get the feeling that the next work between us is about to be:

“But,” said Mark.

HH & M

Back Inside the Undead Starwhale

Don’t worry, I’m not about to pen a Song Sequel. Some classics do not require sequels*.

“And the dust and the stones, and the broken thrones…the visceral jail, when this Timelord hails.”

Plus, I know, I’m a long way off topping any music charts across the universe. Or even making it onto the charts. Or being heard by more than four people and a time machine.

But I made something. And I can be proud of that.

“Inside the undead starwhale.”

Mark wasn’t in the console room, when I returned to it. I assumed he’d retired to his bedroom. Then I assumed Odyssey had designed and built for him a bedroom, somewhere in these (almost) infinite hallways. Then I assumed it might resemble a certain homestead, stacked on top of a car garage named Emerson Green.

Well, if he and I ever do spend another night together, it might be enjoyable to spend it in familiar, nearly-nostalgic surroundings. Though Odyssey does have a number of others, from which to choose…

And with my brain nestled somewhere comfortable between post-watershed fantasies and personal creativity, I took that moment to return to Samsa’s Grotto.

“Inside the undead starw-hello.”

My short-lived inner peace splintered into nothingness. 

Things I had expected to see upon returning to Samsa’s Grotto: the bulbous and nauseating technology. Odyssey’s drones zipping about the place like agitated mushrooms, scanning and probing – even a palm-sized and faceless drone can convey deep disgust. The remains of Samsa.

Things I hadn’t expected to see: Mark.

He’d managed to make it here before me.

He was standing beside the remains of the Grotto’s previous owner. It wasn’t a pretty sight, though when compared to the rest of the chamber…well, that’s basically judging a Beautiful Manure competition, isn’t it? Samsa’s twice-shot body was a sad, wet lump of broken limbs and freed innards. It was like pistachio ice-cream had collided with thick gravy and a pile of sticks. Though it stank several thousand times worse.

“Y’know, for someone recovering from phobia-induced nausea, you’re not doing yourself any favours.” He didn’t respond. I deliberately stayed behind him, hoping I could draw his gaze. “What brought you out here? I thought you’d go back to your…Odyssey, does Mark have a room, yet?”

Obviously.

“I wanted to see it,” he said. “For myself, y’know.” Mark’s voice sounded odd. I suspected he was choking something back, and emotion seemed unlikely. I hope to never offend my olfactory senses like this, ever again.

“Samsa?”

“No, the starwhale – what’s Samsa?”

“Who,” I corrected, “and, you’re looking at her.”

HH & M

* Looking your way, Jurassic Park. The Matrix. Ghostbusters. Jaws. Rocky. Alien. Most of Star Wars. Almost every Disney sequel**.

** There are some Bad Sequel exceptions. The Dark Knight, and Shrek 2***.

*** Two films which don’t often end up on the same list. But if anything, maybe that was something The Dark Knight really lacked: a final act containing the villain, voiced by a British comedian, belting out one of the best power ballad covers of almost all generations. +

+ I promise HH will stop, soon – R

**** I do quite like Men in Black 3. Mainly for Griffin. A being who perceives all multiversally-possible outcomes, simultaneously. Beautiful stuff.

Starting the Starwhale Stock Take

“Because I start to worry that we’ve been travelling just long enough, you’re starting to turn into me.”

A handheld tablet device appeared on the end table, besides the fear suppressant pills. I grabbed it, unlocked, and handed it to Al.

“Which, admittedly, is also why I’m entrusting this next bit to you.”

She took the device from me, an eyebrow raised. “Not that worried, then?”

“Some negative influences still have their advantages.” *

I went and stood on the edge of the platform, hands clasped behind my back. “Right now, on the platforms above and below us, mainframe interfaces will start appearing – a place where these survivors can directly communicate with Odyssey, and work towards getting home. They’ll give their names, species, planet of origin. Just let them get on with it.”

When were you going to inform me of these design changes?

“Right now.” I turned around, addressing Al. “I want you to focus on the items. Samsa stole a lot of things over the years. Relics. Treasures. Weapons. As Odyssey categorises, have a look through, and see what catches your eye.”

Al snorted. “You. Setting homework?”

Her expression gradually retreated to a seriousness that matched my own.

“Why me?”

“Cos I’ve got an infinite interior. I’ll just chuck everything in a room and let it rot.”

“And?”

“There’s always an ‘and’ with you, isn’t there?”

“No, HH, there’s always one with you. Go on.”

I sighed at the floor. “This Thrastrian managed to build technology that neither Odyssey nor I recognised, or could overcome. I want to see what else she’s got.”

Al gave a self-satisfied smile, and settled back in her chair. “There it is. The big, bad Timelord doesn’t like people having better toys than him.” I went to argue; Al raised her voice. “Say please.”

My jaw clicked together almost on impulse. But then, I remembered the other vast empire she’d worked with before.

“Please.”

“All right then, I’ll get started on the…what’re we calling it?”

“The Starwhale Stock Take.”

My friend nodded and consulted the screen. She drew up her knees and rested it against the diagonal of her thighs, the soft white light of the screen illuminating her face. With no word spoken, Odyssey delivered a hot drink to the end table.

“Is this the starwhale inventory?” She asked the room at large.

It’s part of it. I don’t know if you’ve noticed how large this room is…

Al grunted, and caught eyes with me. “Off you go, then. Find your man and make a speech. Another one. A different one.” Her eyes brightened, a little. “Wonder if you’ll end up somewhere fancier than a virtual reality lakehouse in the dusty Old West.”

I didn’t answer, just made my way towards the exit walkway.

“Sure you’ll be all right?” I asked, before leaving.

“Think you should be asking yourself that,” was her reply.

So, I left her to it.

HH & Al

* Look at Earth history, for starters. World War 1 put into motion women gaining the right to vote. The Great Fire of London (allegedly) killing off the Black Plague; or at least eradicating the environment in which it could’ve returned. Hell, even plane crashes can lead to an improvement in design and safety.

Sometimes (not always) something good stumbles out of the dark.

The Best of a Bad Situation

Inside Odyssey’s insides. The reclaimed and reformatted TARDIS interior, once housed within the belly of a starwhale.

Let’s get you home.

The vast space around us was coming alive before the echoes of my last word could fade. The air was rippling with the distant, background buzz of intermingling voices, of intermingling language, dialect, and means of expressing oneself verbally. We’re not all lip-bound mammals, after all. I could translate, but not differentiate nor understand, that many voices at once.

Except I knew every single one of them sounded grateful. Hopeful.

And around us, above and below, bit by bit, more platforms and access ramps and walkways were forming, to meet these stowaways. The central shaft, curving and looping like a strand of DNA, started building more bridges to link every section of the hive. Soon, everyone would be able to leave.

My god, I (Odyssey) had a lot of admin to deal with.

Before I could sit down, however, Mark blurted out:

“Are we done here?”

I considered the man sitting before me. Whether or not he’d taken one of the fear suppressants, he did not look well. Or very happy.

“Yes,” I said. “We’re done here.”

“Good,” Mark said. He stood, a hand pressed to his mouth. “Nice speech. I like it. That is. What you’re doing. In this room. I like it. Now. I need to get off this platform.” 

Mark hurried off, back along the walkway taken to get here, and returned to the interior of my TARDIS. Leaving Al and I to the events of this acquired one.

I then dropped back into the armchair, and swung my legs over the armrest. 

Al was watching me, very carefully.

“Yes?” I asked, having made 100% sure the sonic’s microphone function was switched off again.

“He’s right. It was a good speech. But there’s a lot you said; and a lot you didn’t say.”

“Well, true. I didn’t tell them I like jam and peanut butter sandwiches. Can you be more specific?”

“The fact that a Thrastrian kidnapped them. And a Timelord rescued them.”

I snorted. “Introducing yourself as a Timelord’s like admitting you’re a psychiatrist at a dinner party.”

Avoidance, distrust, a few odd requests. But mostly, you’re on the verge of killing the mood.

“As for Samsa the Thrastrian, I didn’t want to cause an intergalactic incident. Give a specific species of culpability, and I’m sure someone in here will retaliate.”

There’s your intergalactic incident, by the way. Not just affecting the Thrastria homeworld, but yours truly. If Samsa were still alive right now, a great many people in this room would want a piece of her. And I would be obliged to hand her over*. But… to who, exactly?

I don’t need that kind of attention. 

“Or?” Al asked.

We stared one another down, and I lost. “Or…?”

“If I were to ask Mark how many were there, in that disgusting room, when we arrived. Me, you, him…that older guy you were with. And…?”

I nodded. “Okay, yes. If you stepped in something crunchy and green on your way through that workshop, that was the remainder of the fifth person.”

“Five,” Al repeated. “Which means the Timelord is trying to lie to me.”

“The Timelord wouldn’t dare.”

“Or to Mark.”

I huffed. “Well. Is it still lying if you don’t actually say anything?” I asked. As a genuinely honest question, I might add. I pointed an index finger her way. “You and I may have already done this bit. But I’m nervous.” My finger swung to the exit. “Because we haven’t.”

My words diffused Al entirely. She sat back in her chair, propped one leg on the other’s knee. “Right.” She drummed her fingers along the armrest, and winked. “Best of luck, then.”

“Thanks awfully.” I adjusted in my seat, to retrieve hat and coat, but paused in doing so. “Does it bother you? That’s Samsa’s dead?”

Al rolled her eyes. “Ah. This again. Look, that whole thing with you and Sinclair made me realise: you’re still a shining example compared to the Father. Long as you keep it that way, you and I will never have a problem.”

She commented on my moralities in the same way someone might observe the weather. When finished, I just shrugged. “Fair enough.”

“Equally,” she added, “I’m not going anywhere. Without you, it’s back to Earth, or try and make something of my life on the Westford. No, ta.”

I rubbed my eyes. “Swell. That’s it then, Al? I’m the best of a bad situation.”

“Life is full of the best of bad situations, most of the time it’s a procession of nothing but.” Al sighed. “HH, I watched you build a new life for my mother; I know full well I could leave, anytime I want to. D’you know why I don’t?”

“Not because you love me. What?” I said, in response to her surprise. “You know I hear conversations that go on in here, even if I’m not. Admittedly it took a while to catch up, by the time you and Ods found me, but I got there.”

“All right,” Al said, icily.

“And, you’re right, I do saunter about like I own the place. I’m glad that comes across.”

“All right. Look, the reason I stay, and the reason which is being tested right now,” she gave a pointed glance, “is because I’m still following what you said at the start of all this. ‘There can be good, in the universe…’”

“And it can be us.”

She nodded. “I’ve lived with the Father, and been with you long enough, to know that there is no good and bad. Just one big Grey Area. The universe is seeped in fog.”

“You’re not wrong,” I replied, a little glumly. What a universe it would be, to be full of obvious right or wrong choices. Could get boring, I suppose. But there’ll always be that type of person who chooses the wrong ones on purpose.

“I will say,” Al went on, “that you getting rid of Samsa is…a tad extreme. But it led to this.” She waved a hand to the room around us. “And I…I think I can live with that.”

I looked back at her. Fascinated. “You can?”

“One life to save a thousand others. Nothing’s ever simple, but I’ll know if you’re on the wrong side, if you start doing it the other way around. You’ve read enough Batman graphic novels to realise it, yourself.”

“I mean, if he just killed Joker…”

“Mmm,” Al said, placatingly. Then frowned to herself. She looked up. “So, why haven’t you killed Father Kane, yet?”

I blinked. In that one moment, there was no room of lost souls. There wasn’t even Odyssey. All I saw, for a few moments, were Al’s searching eyes awaiting my response.

“Would you like me to?” I said, at last.

“Answer the question.”

“Will you do the same?”

“Let’s find out.”

I looked off, in thought. Some of the Samsa Collection denizens were reaching the central column. No doubt they’d be making their ways up or down, to me. And I still needed to speak with Mark.

“Because I’m not finished with him yet,” I said. 

I got up, at long last, and replaced my coat and top hat. “Now, it’s your turn.”

Al turned her attention back to the room at large. As though she’d forgotten that I practically invented the ‘Do Something To Avoid Awkward Conversations’ thing. 

“Can I be good in the universe, and the daughter who wants her father dead?”

“People can be many things, Miss Al.” I took a deep breath. “Example. I also said, all that time ago, that I wanted you to tell me ideas I’d never otherwise have.”

“You did.” Al looked up. “So?”

“Because I start to worry that we’ve been travelling just long enough, you’re starting to turn into me.”

HH & Al

* Under my own conscience, or possibly some obscure title of the Timelord code of honour**.

** In which case, result. I’ve broken another Timelord rule.

“Your attention please!”

I cleared my throat. Some several hundred beings, across the spectrum of alien races and sentient technology, heard me do it. Translated accordingly, of course. I just hoped the sound hadn’t offended anyone.

I heard it, too. My voice, amplified to the maximum. Whatever I told them, however I led them. I’d be hearing it for myself, as well.

Better keep things clear and concise… 

“Perhaps.” Bad start.

“I should introduce myself.” Still bad.

“Right now. I’m just a sound you don’t recognise.” Only way’s up.

“I can only imagine. That for the past however-many years. However long you have spent as a prisoner in here. You’ve heard only one voice. One voice. Your own voice. Telling you everything you didn’t want to hear. That you’d never make it home. That you’d never seen them again. That you would die here.”

“I imagine you felt sure.”

“Today. I want you. To hear a new voice. A voice that will help. That will bring you out of the dark. That will. Give you back your hope.”

That’s certainly what I’ll be hoping for…

“So I won’t introduce myself. I already have. I am that voice. I am the one…who’s going to get you all home again.”

“Please. Be sure of that. If nothing else.”

~ * ~

Ooh, it’s been a while since we did this.

And I have done this before. Leading survivors off their crashing refugee starship. Evacuating a city while untold horrors (insert-horrors-here, the universe has a-plenty) bear down on their homes. Guiding people away from the floodwaters. From the earthquake. From the landslide.

From the past.

When I make these speeches, and I have made a fair few, it’s not about saving their lives, inspiring them, getting them to come with you – 99.99% of the time, they’ll go. Gladly. If you’re not an imploding sun or impending meteorite or escalating civil war or any natural disaster (please, no jokes or snide comments) then they will go with you.

I’m not saving their lives. That bit’s already been done. Their life’s saved once I (or more accurately, Odyssey) has synced with their timeline(s). Any mistakes can usually be redone; and those that can’t might be for a good reason.

The speech isn’t about saving their lives. It’s preparation. For the rest of it. 

Give ‘em hope, and send ‘em home. And they might just do the same themselves, one day.

And I’ll know I made the right kind of difference.

I spent so long as a soldier. I don’t know if I’ll ever be what’s known as a Good Man.

But I would settle, as any dreamer is compelled to do. I would settle, for being the reason behind someone else’s hope.

~ * ~

I said more. I went on to explain how my ship was reverse engineering their captor’s technology, in an attempt to understand who they all were; and more importantly, when and where they came from. It was my intention, I told them, to return everybody to the exact time, and the exact place, from which they were taken. 

(And oh how my hearts went out to Odyssey. I need her, so much right now. If this doesn’t work, we’ll just have to rely on the old-fashioned way. Yes, I will be asking several hundred lifeforms to form an orderly queue.)

“It will be as though you never left.”

My speech was ending; their lives, beginning once more.

“Let’s get you home.”

HH

Architecture and Acrophobia

Mark wasn’t alone this time; both he and Al paused in the doorway. The amount of adventuring thus far hadn’t prepared her quite enough. Walking into the interior, inside another interior, could’ve made Al’s head start to hurt all by itself.

But unlike HH’s – or more specifically, Odyssey’s – impossible interior, this one wasn’t arranged into rooms and hallways. It was like they’d opened a door onto the inside of a gigantic silo. Far above and beneath them were storeys upon storeys of antechambers, almost like shelves of a bookcase, all of them containing a mad variety of things and people. 

The second reason they paused in the doorway was because there hadn’t been a floor. At first. HH had strolled without pause, straight into the empty air which wasn’t staying empty. A wide, metal walkway was forming in the space just before his footsteps and remaining in place behind him. Thick bars and guardrails folded out of the base of it, bordering its parallel edges. Lamps emerged in its surface like air bubbles rising in mud. The whole thing went from nonexistent to fully functional, almost between blinks.

Al took the first tentative step onto it. It seemed stable enough. 

“How is he doing that?” Mark asked in an awed whisper.

He isn’t.

HH stopped on a disc that was expanding in size. The metal platform that Odyssey had made for him grew, in what appeared to be the centre of the vast space. When Al crossed the necessary distance to join him, she heard him murmur:

“Thanks for losing the starwhale’s interior. You’re going to need a lot of drones, I’m afraid.”

We’re still preoccupied, reverse-engineering Thrastrian technology. The process is slow…and viscous.

HH grunted. “Keep at it. Whatever you discover may be enough. Ah, hello Al. Mark, you can come in.”

Al looked back, to see Mark a quarter of the distance across the walkway. She couldn’t blame him for being cautious. Besides the point where they’d entered this mad room, the walkway and joining platform weren’t connected to anything else.

Yet. The platform had stopped expanding; it was now more than large enough for twenty people. More lamps and guardrails were appearing, apart from on the two north and south sides. There, a curved ramp was rising along the edge of their platform; while on the opposite side, one was dropping away. 

Odyssey was working on the stairs.

Even with HH still chattering away. “And we also need to download absolutely everything we can find on starwhale anatomy. I’ve no intention of leaving that thing here to die.”

One was enough for today, I take it?

Al frowned at the back of HH’s head. 

“Keep your drones moving, Ods, thanking you. Mark, so pleased you could join us.”

One hand clamped on the guardrails, and eyes fixed straight ahead, Mark had managed to turn their duo into a trio. He had also managed to change colour from across the room.

“You all right?” Al asked.

“I’m not the biggest fan of heights,” he admitted.

Al nodded. The space they inhabited was so deep, she couldn’t actually see the bottom. Odyssey would be conjuring access ramps for a long time.

“My apologies,” HH said, earnestly, “I didn’t know.”

“Nor did I.” Mark positioned himself in the exact centre of the platform. “Never had an opportunity to find out.”

Before anyone could say ‘Acrophobia,’ the three of them were suddenly being orbited by furniture. Odyssey’s new platform delivered a full lounge set – a grey two-seater sofa and a matching armchair, a brushed steel side table, lava-lamp, and an accompanying bottle of pills with a glass of water. 

HH cleared his throat.

A final addition of a fake plant – bamboo, for some reason – materialised next to the table. 

The Timelord nodded, and threw his hat and coat onto the armchair. Half a second later he remembered something, and started wrestling with his coat, focused on its inner pockets. 

Mark gratefully sank onto the sofa, and inspected the bottle of pills. “Fear suppressants?” He read off the label.

“Effective,” HH stated, busy with his coat.

But highly addictive. My prescription would be to only take half of one.

“We shouldn’t be here for too long,” HH added. “If I can just find my-”

The sonic plopped onto the floor and started to roll. Al retrieved it, rescuing it from a very long drop.

“Thank you, Al,” he said, accepting it from her. He lowered his voice. “How’d we think this first impression is going?”

Without giving them a chance to answer, HH held the sonic like a microphone, and swept his other hand into a wide, welcoming pose.

With the type of grin usually reserved for magicians, pitchmen, ringleaders, or other crowd-fed performers, HH spoke three words:

“Your attention please!”

HH, Al, & M

Tea Break

HH had power-walked down numerous indistinguishable hallways of marble, stormed past oak doors and haphazard art pieces, until he reached a door which wasn’t finished yet. How HH knew which way to go, Mark wasn’t sure. He’d become lost even while being led.

The semi-door was coming to life. It was like watching an old printer push out a piece of paper coloured brown and black. Line by line, row by row of atoms, the rectangular shape was encroaching up the white walls behind it. 

HH stood before the rendering architecture, hopping from foot to foot, wringing his hands.

Mark finally had a chance to look round. They’d lost Al. He wasn’t massively surprised.

“Shouldn’t we wait for Al to catch up?” He asked.

“No need,” said the familiar voice, behind him. Mark turned around in time to see an archway shrinking back into a plain, unremarkable wall. On the other side were counters, sinks, ovens – all laden with various types of food. Al stepped through, allowing in wafts of something sweet and delicious. Her cheeks were bulging while she chewed something.

“Angel cake?” She asked, scattering crumbs, and holding up a blue plate. On it were little blocks of white, pink, and yellow sponge. “Saw an opportunity to pass the kitchens on the way,” she said, helping herself to another piece. “So, I took it.”

Mark took an offering from the plate. He’d eaten store-bought angel cake before. This tasted the same, and yet somehow better than all of them put together. “And a shortcut, I take it?”

Al nodded. “Ods’ great, for shortcuts. Except when he’s involved.” She gestured to HH with the plate.

I was rather hoping I’d be done by the time he got here. Somehow I forgot about his unnatural walking speed.

“It is not-” HH’s head turned. “You brought snacks. You genius.”

There followed a brief, but literal Tea Break. A table and three chairs – “IKEA,” HH commented – rose out of the floor. Odyssey reopened the shortcut back to the kitchens, enabling Al to fetch a tray of tea, milk, sugar, spoons, and a platter of scones, jam, and cream. 

She had to make one additional trip, as Mark admitted to preferring coffee. She and HH shared a brief, slightly aghast look.

Mark’s eyes lit up at the table in front of him. “And now, the all-important question. Jam or cream first?”

Al, refugee of spaceship/prison Westford, looked to HH for help. “Is that a thing?”

Both humans watched, horrified and/or transfixed, as HH halved a scone, put jam on one half, cream on the other, smushed them back together as a sandwich, and bit into the whole ensemble. He chewed happily to himself, making self-contented ‘mmm’ noises, before noticing their expressions. “What?” He asked, spraying crumbs everywhere. 

Mark then showed Al the slightly-more-acceptable way of doing it: jam and cream together on one half. He felt foolish, having to explain: “And some people do it one way round, and others do it the opposite way. Causes a lot of fights. Online.” His voice was getting quieter. He hoped they’d both stopped listening. “Like pineapple on pizza.”

HH choked on some tea, laughing. “Hah! Pineapple on pizza. Classic. D’you, that’s one of a very few times I’ve ever disagreed with Terry Pratchett?”

Al tried her scones both ways; inspired by the outburst, she ordered Odyssey to make some Hawaiian pizza. Minutes of tasting and chewing later, she stared in silence at her plate. “This stuff matters to some people?”

“Apparently,” Mark said. He’d moved along the fruit spectrum and was enjoying a punnet of strawberries, sometimes dipping them in leftover clotted cream. “I don’t get it either.” 

Their shared hallway was slowly filling with an odd, yet pleasing consortium of smells; and an even odder, and perhaps less pleasing consortium of chatter. 

Between blowing Al’s mind with useless Internet trivia, and having access to literally any food he wanted, Mark quietly came to a personal conclusion that he was having a wonderful time. He was on a strange ship, with strange people, sitting down to a spontaneous and nonsensical picnic.

He was also, by accident, eating more healthily than he had in ages. He’d forgotten how good strawberries were. Each one, when bitten into, were like taste explosions. There was so much strawberry in each bite.

Almost everything about this experience was the first, in a length of time that was much too long. Mark wanted to live each individual moment as best he could.

Which is why he flinched, a little, when HH spoke. The Timelord had been staring off into space, an arm leaning over the back of his chair. Mark had assumed he’d been waiting for the door to finish loading; only now did he realise, HH was facing the wrong way.

“I live for moments like this,” he said, in a barely-there voice.

“You okay?” Al asked. “How’s the…whatever we’re calling it? Odyssey, how long’s left?”

The amalgamated interior, previously contained inside one wounded starwhale, has been available for access.

For the past twenty-three minutes.

Both she and Mark stared at HH. He calmly drained his teacup.

“I know, Ods,” he said. “Thank you.”

And got up. 

HH, Al, & M