Doctor Who: The Time of the Companions: Book Two (Doctor Who: The Companions Adventure 2)

by Cour M.

  “Oh, thank you!” Mozart replied, his chest swelling. “Yes, I am working on another piece, which I will complete soon—”

  “What are you both on about?” Guy Fawkes replied, “why the bloody hell would you both speak of such trivial matters when you can see that we are still restrained in the same situation as before? Truly, how can you smile during this occurrence?”

  “Is that…” Clara began.

  “Yes, it is,” Nine acknowledged, placing his hands in his pockets. “Master Guy Fawkes, I presume?”

  “My intimate friends call me Guy, sir. Yet I am Master Guido Fawkes.”

  “How’s that assassination plot going for you, Guido?”

  In mentioning this, Guy Fawkes flinched.

  “I do not know to which you are referring, good sir. I am from England. Assassination plots are occurring every five minutes.”

  “Good job, man. It’s best to keep it as obscure as you can, because England in the 17th century is in fact England as it shall always be… in the 17th century.”

  Guy Fawkes looked at the rest of the group as they all gazed at him.

  “I know not what he speaks of,” Guy Fawkes assured them all, “truly, I know not.”

  “Now, excuse me while I fanboy out,” Nine announced, “music always brings out the fanboy in me. Where was Ethel Waters again?”

  “Right here!” Ethel Waters said, raising her hand.

  “You Miss Waters, oh I just can’t get enough!” Nine rushed up to her and kissed her cheek. “Your rendition of St. Louis Blues is delightful. Just moving and powerful but in a simple way.”

  “Thank you,” she smiled. “And what’s your name, sir?”

  “I’m Smith. John Smith.”

  “Really? Well, you are the first John Smith that I have ever met.”

  “Really?” Clara asked.

  “Yes, it’s a name I always hear about, but never met one before. Now I have.”

  “See,” Nine winked at Clara, “I am special.”

  “Special has varying definitions,” Clara magnified, “so yes, you are special.”

  Nine chuckled and then he realized something.

  “Hang on, was that an insult?” He asked.

  “See, what did I tell you? Special.”

  “I heard the captain when you came in,” Ethel continued, “You’re a governor, can you help us then?”

  “Yes,” Emily Bronte said, coming forward, “And can you explain this all to us?”

  “And you’re Emily Bronte!” Nine cried, “sorry but I must,” he bowed, “Wuthering Heights is one of my favorite books! So dark, sad, triumphant and moving. Everything that is fascinating about the human race.”

  “Truly, it is!” Clara came forward as well, “it’s one of my favorite books to teach.”

  “Teach?” Emily Bronte stuttered, “no one teaches my books, and you both like them, really?”

  “Yes, of course,” Clara faltered.

  “Well then,” Emily sighed, “that puts you in the populace of two. No one likes my book really.”

  “Oh, but they are popular,” Jeannette Picard said, coming forward, “right?”

  “What?” Emily Bronte muttered, to which Nine was left scratching his head, trying to give Jeanette the hint.

  “Not quite yet,” Nine whispered, “not quite yet. Now unto you. Jeannette Picard! The first woman in history to fly into the stratosphere on Earth.”

  “Wait, what?” Euripides faltered, “what is such talk?”

  “Pardon?” Jeanette asked him, “Sorry, I do not speak Greek or whatever language that is?”

  “He wasn’t speaking Greek,” Clara said, “He was speaking English.”

  “Oh, he was speaking Greek all right,” Nine said, and then he raised up his finger, “everyone, please hang on a mo’.” Nine leaned down to Clara and whispered in her ear. “Just to be clear, you can now understand every language that there is. Always.”

  “I can? How can I do that?”

  “I’ll explain later. It’s a time traveler sort of skill now. So we shall have to translate for them.”

  “Righty-ho then,” Clara comprehended, then she turned to Jeannette, “Don’t worry, we’ll explain. Euripides and Virgil, this is Ethel Waters, and she is a blues singer from the 1920s, this is Emily Bronte, who will write a famous novel, and this is Jeannette Picard, she is the first woman and female scientist who will fly into the stratosphere. Think of that as being in outer space.”

  “It sounded like you were still speaking English,” Jeannette noted.

  “Don’t worry,” Nine said, “she was speaking Greek and Italian at the same time. Well, Roman Italian enough. And she was also speaking in enough old English for Master Fireworks display over there.”

  “I did indeed comprehend your meaning behind that,” Guy Fawkes said.

  “I meant for you to. Look on the bright side, I could have called you worse things, mate.”

  “You, Master Smith, are egregious in manner and lacking in all refinement.” Guy Fawkes turned to Clara. “My lady, I would strongly recommend that you find another gentleman to escort you to places, and where is your chaperone?”

  “Hey, get your own companion,” Nine hissed, “and bugger off.”

  “Don’t worry,” Clara stressed, smiling kindly at Guy Fawkes, “Governor Smith is not directly offending you, good sir. But rather, he merely treats everyone like that when he meets them, for it is merely his natural way.”

  “Are you apologizing for me?” Nine grimaced.

  “Yes and something tells me that I shall do that very often.”

  “I like you, my lady,” Guy Fawkes smiled, “but not you, Governor.”

  “Yes, you and your ongoing problem with authority, huh?”

  “Anything that oppresses me in such a terrible manner is no proper authority to follow.”

  “Shut up, you both, for we are quite alienating the rest of the group because they don’t know what we are talking about,” Clara pointed out.

  

  “Thank you,” Virgil noted, “what nonsense was he spouting? Truly, was it Celtic?”

  “No believe me, Celtic sounds completely different,” Nine said, “He is Guy Fawkes, and he is from 17th century Britain.”

  “Britain? The land of savages.”

  “Oi!” Clara declared, “don’t worry, times change. Well, for Master Fawkes time, not so much. But from Emily’s time, it’s not too bad. Well, as long as we don’t count the War of 1812, but no one ever really counts that one. So, we don’t really need to, now do we?”

  No one got the joke, so Clara bit her lip.

  “Was my timing bad?” Clara asked Nine.

  “No, just the joke in general.”

  “Still mad about me calling you special?”

  “Oh yes.”

  “Ah.”

  

  “This language barrier between us shall not do,” Nine said, raising up his sonic screwdriver.

  “You’re not about to sonic them, are you?” Clara asked, skeptical.

  “Not really, I’m just signaling the TARDIS to have it help us with this little problem. I’m activating its translation matrix to receive it in my screwdriver and… well, yes, I am sonicing them.”

  Light erupted from his sonic and then vanished.

  “Pretty, very pretty,” Euripides admitted, “but what did that truly accomplish?”

  “Wait, that was English!” Emily Bronte declared.

  “No, it was still Greek,” Nine reported, “but you simply heard it as English, and now you are speaking English, but he hears it as Greek.”

  “So, when they didn’t hear me before…” Mozart trailed off.

  “Yes, now they can understand everything. So, you can now understand each other.”

  “We can?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well then first thing is first,” Euripides declared, “Smith, son of…”

  “Don’t worry about calling me son of anyone,” Nine dismissed, �
�you probably wouldn’t be able to pronounce his name anyway.”

  “I’m Clara, daughter of… Oswald.”

  “Well, Smith, son of no one, and Clara, daughter of Oswald, do you come with a means of returning us to our present lives? For I was taken right while I was in the middle of my play ‘Alcestis’ being premiered.”

  “And I was in the midst of a very good line when I was writing an epic poem,” Virgil announced, raising up a quill, “look, I even have my lucky pin with me. Also, I would love it if someone gave me a scroll to write on, for I just had an epiphany.”

  “I have always wondered what you were like,” Emily Bronte acknowledged, “And now I know; you’re as obsessed as the rest of us people who are plagued with the gift of writing.”

  “And you… a woman writer?”

  “Indeed, that is a great deal of nonsense!” Euripides stated.

  “Horrid and unnatural,” Virgil confirmed.

  “Well, it depends on the woman, really,” Mozart said, “My wife had her own gifts and…”

  “A female writer!” Guy Fawkes scoffed, “I have never heard of such a thing. That’s as preposterous as a woman being seen on the stage as an actor.”

  “I’m an actress,” Ethel Waters said.

  Euripides, Virgil and Guy Fawkes jumped back in shock.

  “I wish that we had not learned to understand each other now,” Virgil said, “for women cannot possibly understand the depth of the human will and spirit.”

  “Despite having spirits of their own?” Clara declared, “However could we manage having a spirit, and then not being able to comprehend it?”

  “Due to the inferiority of women of course.”

  “Inferiority?” Jeannette Picard stated, “I doubt you can even spell that word properly.”

  “I am a learned man, my lady.”

  “I’m not your lady, and if you are learned, tell me then, what is the difference between an ionic and covalent bond in regards to the Table of Elements when composing a chemical compound?”

  Guy Fawkes looked as if he had been struck across his face.

  “What blasphemy do you speak? Such discussion sounds like witchcraft!”

  “Ah, and that’s the 17th century version of being a learned man, I see,” Clara sneered, “claiming to being one step forward while being eighteen steps behind.”

  Nine chuckled at this.

  “Right, this is hardly helpful,” Mozart interrupted, coughing. “Now, good sirs, in my time, there will be actresses singing in opera, and I would know for I have worked with them before. And female writers, while scarce, are not unheard of.”

  “And don’t look so very perturbed about this, gentlemen,” Nine added, “for you really are not so pretentious that you really believe every single war that was fought in your times had no female soldiers dressed as men. Really, are you all that thick? Besides, Virgil, you even go on to write a female warrior in your epic.”

  “I do?”

  Nine bit his lip.

  “I do believe that it’s my turn to say not quite yet,” Clara whispered to Nine.

  “Right,” Nine replied back.

  “Good one though.”

  “Thanks,” Nine turned back to Virgil, “well, you will now.”

  “Will I?”

  “Yes, you very much will,” Jeannette stressed, “I read your finished book, The Aeneid.”

  “You did?”

  “The average woman is also allowed to read?” Guy Fawkes interjected.

  “You have got to be the most unlikable historic figure that I have ever met,” Nine determined. “But I’m not surprised, really.”

  “Oh stop acting like I am the worst man in the world. Indeed, I know not what I have even done.”

  “Give it time, mate. Give it time.”

  “Right,” Clara stressed, “like Mozart said, this is hardly helpful. Blimey, I kind of liked you all better when you couldn’t understand each other.”

  “You and me both, sister,” Ethel Waters declared.

  

  “All right, everyone, do this!” Nine said, and he raised his hand up, pressing his fingers and thumb together.

  Everyone looked confused by this, but they raised their hands up and followed his instruction.

  “Why are we doing this precisely?” Emily Bronte asked.

  “Because a moment ago, this was what you were doing,” Nine indicated that they were talking a lot, “and instead this is what I wish for you to do.” He kept his fingers shut.

  “Are you indicating that you wish for us to… shut up?” Virgil asked.

  “Virgil, I knew there was some levels of understanding implications within you somewhere. Thank you for not letting me down completely.”

  “Did you just call me a—”

  “Yes, I believe that I did.”

  

  “Right,” Euripides sighed, “I comprehend your point. We are acting like children.”

  “Well,” Clara smiled, “welcome to the wonderful world of acceptance. I would hate to think that I supported a narrow-minded prat because he wrote my favorite Greek play, ‘Medea’.”

  “When did I write that?”

  Clara bit her lip.

  “I’m about to say it now,” Nine whispered to Clara.

  “Don’t even start,” she demanded.

  “Very well.”

  Nine and Clara gave each other a quick smirk and then turned to the rest of the group.

  “Medea,” Euripides thought about it, “well now, that is a very good idea, though.”

  “You’re welcome,” Clara saluted him.

  “What was that hand gesture?”

  “Right, sorry, after your time.”

  “And that’s what this is always,” Emily Bronte said, “Governor Smith and Miss Clara, is it true? Are we really in the future?”

  “And on another planet,” Jeannette added, happily.

  “Yes, you are on the planet of Uxarieus, and you are in the distant future.”

  “Then the human race really does reach into the furthest depths of space,” Jeannette exclaimed, “we really do populate other worlds?”

  “Yes,” Nine replied gently, smiling kindly at her, “you very much do. You travel everywhere, reaching to the many corners of time and space. And you always survive.”

  Jeannette was beside herself, so almost weeping with joy that she turned away from the group, her emotion etched across her features. She wiped the air with her hand, amazed at the idea of it, then covered her hand with her mouth. At last, feeling the euphoria that comes with all of one’s dreams being achieved, she ran her hands through her hair and turned back to them.

  “We did it!” She cried, “We really did it!”

  “Yes,” Nine replied gently, “you did.”

  Everyone were silenced by Jeannette’s moment of quiet but open ecstasy.

  

  And the moment of ecstasy cast a spell, an incredible spell! Her amazement seemed to bring home the reality that they were all beyond their element, that they were all transported to another world and they all sat down, individually, contemplating the very reason for this all occurring while Nine and Clara stood by each other.

  “What is happening?” Clara asked Nine.

  “What often happens when the reality of time travel and space travel reaches the four corners of a human’s mind who was once in doubt. Emily Dickinson got it quite right when she wrote her poem of tell the truth, but tell it slant. The truth can blind them. Jeannette Picard’s reaction was heartfelt, raw—real. And the one thing that touches the heart more than laughter and comedy is sadness and gravitas.”

  “But how is what we told them sad? Isn’t it uplifting to know that the human race will one day reach the stars?”

  “The human race does it,” Nine acknowledged, “but not them. Other individuals will, but not them.”

  “Except for Mrs. Picard,” Clara noted, looking at Jeannette, who clearly was the happiest in the set.

 
“Yes, for she has seen the vastness of space. You saw it Clara, the vastness of space and time and all of its infinite beauty. Because she has seen it, she might as well have seen the chimes of midnight.”

  “You just quoted Shakespeare.”

  “Yes, I did,” Nine said, “you knew the quote?”

  “Yes, from ‘Henry IV, Part II’.”

  “Clara, I have walked this universe for almost nine centuries and I have never met a random person who just happened to know that quote.”

  “Well, I hope that means that I’m unique.”

  Clara looked up at Nine and her smile faltered when she saw the serious look on his face.

  “Mr. Smith? John? What is it?”

  “Clara, how long were you uploaded to that computer again? How long were you placed in the Wi-Fi and used as food?”

  “I was uploaded twice, but less than a day.”

  “Twice but less than a day. Not enough time to be fully harvested, but just enough time.”

  “Enough time for what?”

  Nine did not respond, but looked out at the seven people who were before him. Clara followed his gaze.

  “Governor…”

  “Smith. Just call me John Smith.”

  “Well, John Smith. Can’t you help them?”

  “Clara Oswald, oh, just watch me.”

  Nine placed himself in front of them all and began his speech.

  “Mozart, Miss Waters, Miss Bronte, Euripides, Miss Picard, Virgil and terrorist.”

  “Is he referring to me?” Guy Fawkes said.

  “Don’t worry,” Clara covered, “there are many meanings to that word.”

  “Oh.”

  “I shall be back presently, and on my life, I shall be the man to send you all back home.”

  “You promise, sir?” Emily Bronte pleaded. “Forgive me for doubting you now, but I don’t know what to trust.”

  Nine walked up to Emily Bronte and leaned down in front of her.

  “Look at this face, Miss Bronte? You see my face. Tell me, does it truly look like the face who makes empty promises?”

  Emily Bronte smiled sadly.

  “No, it doesn’t.”

  “Have faith, Miss Bronte,” Nine reassured her, “recall that book of yours. No matter how bleak the situation, how dire the circumstances, how dark the nature of the character, at the end of it all, didn’t you find a moment of happiness? Did not your lead character’s daughter rise above it all and find her own spirit?”