Doctor Who Fan Fiction ❯ Rose and Nine The Inbetweens and backstories ❯ Chapter Fourteen ( Chapter 14 )

`I seek audience with the Raxacoricofallapatorius Government, under peaceful contract according to convention 15 of the Shadow Proclamation,' the Doctor said into the console communications equipment.

There was a long pause, and the Doctor just smiled at Rose and Jack, waiting not-so-patiently for a reply. He pressed the button and tried again.

`I seek audience with the Raxacorico . . .'

`Audience under convention 15 is granted,' a pleasant voice replied. `May we ask who seeks audience?'

`I'm the Doctor, and I have two companions. May I also know who I am addressing?'

`I am Bratch Tel Tack Palsameer-Kai Jahbeen, attaché to the Minister of External Affairs . . . Er, doctor who?'

`Just, the Doctor,' he said in his usual, cheerful style. `We have something of yours, and we need to return it.'

`Really, what could an off-worlder have that belongs to us?'

`Er . . . it's an egg,' the Doctor said hesitantly.

`Oh, how nice, you've brought breakfast,' Bratch said with pleasant sarcasm.

`No, no, you misunderstand. It's a Raxacoricofallapatorian egg . . . y'know, one of your lot.'

`Oh!'

The Doctor landed the TARDIS in a designated area and met with Bratch Tel Tack Palsameer-Kai Jahbeen, and a delegation from the medical profession, who would take responsibility for the egg.

He explained that there had been . . . `an accident' with a complex alien machine, and the individual had been regressed to an egg.

`Do you know who it was?' Bratch asked, looking at the egg.

`Er, no, we never found out her name,' the Doctor lied. They didn't want the Slitheen family getting their hands on Blon and turning her into a homicidal maniac again. This was supposed to be her second chance, and they would give her the best chance they could.

`She just needs a kind and loving family to bring her up right,' Rose said with sincerity.

`Of course,' one of the doctors said. `We will find adoptive parents for when she hatches, they will imprint on each other.'

`Right, now that's sorted, we'll be off then,' the Doctor said smiling and thrusting his hands in his jacket pockets.

`Won't you stay and enjoy our hospitality, as a thank you for your kindness,' Bratch said.

The Doctor and Rose visibly paled, and the Doctor gulped loudly. Jack, on the other hand, was smiling and looking forward to some Raxacoricofallapatorian hospitality.

Jack, being a fiftieth century guy, had an open mind about foreigners, and it was fair to say, very liberal views. He had only ever met Margaret, aka, Blon Fel Fotch Passameer-Day Slitheen, and although the Doctor and Rose had told him about her family's attempt to turn the Earth into radioactive fuel, speak as you find, she didn't seem that bad (apart from the smell, the farting, and wearing a dead woman's skin).

The Doctor and Rose on the other hand, had experienced the Slitheen in London trying to kill them, and the Blathereen on Justica trying to kill them. On the whole, their experience of the Raxacoricofallapatorians had not made a good impression.

The Doctor knew that under convention 15 of the Shadow Proclamation, they were quite safe. No one, and I mean no one, wants Jadoon troops stomping about their world causing all sorts of bother. They may not have been very bright, but they couldn't be bribed, couldn't be reasoned with, and couldn't be stopped from performing their duty.

`Er, no thanks,' the Doctor said, managing to force a smile on his lips. `Must be going, things to do, places to be.'

`Very well, thank you again Doctor for your kindness.'

Jack looked disappointed, as they turned and headed back to the TARDIS. He was probably hoping to get another proverbial notch on the proverbial bedpost. (Well, he did have liberal views about foreigners)

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Chips had been a mistake. Rose blamed the Doctor. He was used to this travelling lark. Other worlds, other times. He ought to have tipped her the wink, explained to her that chips here weren't chipped potatoes but chipped something-or-other-else. Some local vegetable, a bit too soft, a bit too blue, with an oily texture and a peppery aftertaste.

As she pushed her plate aside, though, she felt a familiar tingle. Sometimes it took just that sort of incidental detail to remind her how far she was from home; that she was breathing the air of the future. The air of another world.

Another world . . .

Rose still found it hard to take in, as if it was too much for her mind to process all at once and it would only let her focus on one thing at a time. It didn't help that this particular world was so human, so . . . mundane.

Crowded pavements littered with discarded wrappers, streets clogged with traffic, and the buildings . . . Almost without exception, they were concrete towers, devoid of character, no more than boxes to hold people. Like the ones on the estate back home, thought Rose, built before she was born. How disappointing!

It could almost have been London, or any big American city. Peering through the grease-streaked window beside their table, she eyed a line of cars simmering resentfully at a nearby junction.

She would hardly have been surprised to see a big red bus turning that corner. Look at the details, she thought. Like the menu, no thicker than a normal piece of cardboard and yet it projected life-sized aromagrams of its featured dishes.

And the way the cars floated over the roadway on air jets, churning the gravel beneath them. And the TV screens, as

flat as posters, seemingly attached to every available surface. It reminded her of the film "Bladerunner".

That had been her first impression of this place: newsreaders looking down at her from the sides of every building, their words subtitled so as not to be lost in the ever-present traffic grumble. There were two screens in the café itself, one behind Rose and one on the wall in front.

She kept finding her eyes drawn to this second one over Captain Jack's shoulder:

"Mr Anton Ryland the Sixth of Sector Four-Four-Kappa-Zero was celebrating today after a well-earned promotion. Mr Ryland, who has worked for the Office of Statistical Processing for thirty-seven years, is now a Senior Analytical Officer, Blue Grade. Commenting on his rapid rise, Mr Ryland said, `It means I earn an additional 2.4 credits per day before tax, and my parking space . . .'."

The Doctor had been attacking his food with the same gusto with which he tackled Autons and Slitheen and other alien menaces. As he glanced up between forkfuls, though, his eyes followed Rose's gaze and his lips pulled into a grimace.

`Yeah, I know,' he said, `not exactly “Man Bites Dog”, is it? You want those chips?'

`Suits me to have a bit of downtime,' said Jack nonchalantly, biting into his burger . . . and Rose didn't even want to think about what manner of alien creature that might have come from. Those chips had opened up one hell of a mental can of worms.

Jack hadn't known the Doctor for as long as she had, but the lifestyle was nothing new to him. Born in the fifty-first century . . . allegedly . . . he claimed to have spent his life in the space lanes, even travelled in time. Of course, you couldn't always believe a word Jack said.

`Wouldn't wanna live here, though,' he continued in his American drawl. `This must be the most boring planet in the universe!'

`Er, do you mind?' said the Doctor. `I don't do “boring”. There's something new and exciting to find on every world if you look for it.'

`Y'know,' Rose teased, `I thought it was only in naff old films that people in the future wore those one-piece jumpsuits.'

`Yeah, I figure that's why they've been giving us the eye,' said Jack. `Our gear.'

The Doctor frowned. `They have?'

`A few of them, discreetly. They must think we're pretty eccentric.'

`A while since I've been called that,' said the Doctor.

`Hey, maybe there's a few credits to be made here. What do you say, Rose? Start this world's first fashion house. You design 'em, I flog 'em.'

`This is Rose's future,' the Doctor reminded Jack. `I doubt she could show these people anything they haven't seen before, at some point in their history.'

`So the car-mechanic look is what?' said Rose. `A fashion statement?'

`I'm more bothered about the time,' said the Doctor. `I make it just gone . . .' he did his usual joke of glancing at his wristwatch . . . at least, Rose assumed it was a joke . . . `2775, but the technology here's still stuck in the twenty-seventh century. Earlier.' He sniffed the air thoughtfully.

`And?' Jack prompted.

`And that usually means trouble,' said Rose, relishing a chance to show off her experience. `It means someone or somethin' is holdin' back progress, right, Doctor?'

`Maybe. Don't you think it's odd? That these people escaped Earth, found their brave new world, and all they've done is copy what they left behind?' He gave her no time to answer.

`How long do you think this city has been here? Long enough for the dirt to be ground in. Long enough to be bursting at the seams. But what have these people . . . what have any of them . . . done about it?' He raised his voice as he went on, as if personally accusing everyone at the neighbouring tables.

Rose leaned forward and spoke quietly, hoping to regain some measure of privacy. `They are buildin', though. We saw builders on the way in. Remember, they used those floatin' disc things instead of scaffoldin'.'

`On car parks and squares.' The Doctor waved a dismissive hand. And I doubt there's a blade of grass left in this city.'

`He's right,' said Jack. `They're bulldozing skyscrapers to replace them with bigger ones. Building upwards, not outwards. How much of this world did the TARDIS say was jungle, Doctor?'

`Over 90 per cent of its landmass . . . but we saw no sign of construction at the edge of the city as we came in.'

`The settlers must have cleared an area when they got here.'

`But they haven't expanded since then,' realised Rose. `They're just . . . just tryin' to squeeze more people into the same space.'

`I think it's time we found out a few things about this place. Its name, for a start.' The Doctor twisted in his seat and spotted a middle aged woman leaving the table behind him.

She had just swiped a plastic card through some sort of a reader, and was fumbling to replace it in her hip pouch as she headed for the door. `You look as if you could settle a bet for us,' he said. `This planet, what's it called?'

Rose made a show of wincing and covering her eyes. Jack just grinned.

The woman was flustered. `What is this? You trying to trick me?' She looked around suspiciously, as if expecting to see a camera.

Peering between her fingers, Rose saw the disapproving looks and despairing headshakes of the café's other customers.

`This is Colony World 4378976.Delta-Four,' said the woman. I know it by no other name and I'm sure I don't know what you're suggesting. Good day to you!' She barged past the Doctor and bustled out onto the street without a backward glance.

`You see?' said the Doctor triumphantly. `Scratch the surface and there's usually something going on underneath. Fantastic!' He seized a handful of Rose's chips and stuffed them into his mouth. Then, catching her raised-eyebrow stare, he glanced around and mumbled, `Oh, let them look. We're the most interesting people in this room.'

`You're mental, you are,' laughed Rose.

`Excuse me, gentlemen, lady. I'm afraid I must ask you to leave.' A man had appeared at the Doctor's elbow. He was short and stocky, his jumpsuit white instead of the usual grey. He held his head at a tilt and looked down his nose at them. `Your appearance and behaviour are, ah, confusing my other patrons.'

`Confusing them?' The Doctor leaped on the words.

Rose didn't know whether to be angry or amused. `We weren't disturbin' anyone.'

`You mean to say you're kicking us out for dressing a little differently?' said Jack.

`Listen, mate, this is hardly the Savoy!'

`Go now,' said the white-clad man sniffily, `and I might overlook the fact that you were all heard lying on these premises.'

`It's all right,' said the Doctor quickly, leaping to his feet. `Time we were off anyway. And you were right about the chips, Rose. They're rubbish.'

The manager cleared his throat meaningfully. `There is the matter of your bill, sir.'

The Doctor patted down the pockets of his battered leather jacket, then shared an abashed look with his two friends. Meanwhile, the voice of the television newsreader boomed at them from each side:

"Mrs Helene Flangan is the luckiest woman in Sector One-Beta this evening. Usually, when the 31-year-old schoolteacher drives home from work in her seven-year-old 1.5g injection Mark 14.B family vehicle, the journey takes her an average of forty-two and a half minutes. Tonight, though, she made it in half that time. The reason? Every one of the traffic lights on her route showed green. Earlier, we asked Mrs Flangan what she did with the time she had saved. She spent it watching TV."