01-08-2010, 07:31 AM
The Doctor rushed into his lab on the Khonsu, a metal box in his hands and his Order-issue black greatcoat fluttering behind him in an atypical show of haste - at least for the normally reserved and apathetic Doctor it was. His cane was nowhere to be seen, and he seemed to forget that it hurt to walk on one leg.
He'd been looking forward to this for quite a while.
The first thing he'd thought when he swung his legs off his bed this morning (technically eighteen hours ago) was "whiskey." The second thing was "slippers." The third thing was "damned Edge Nebulae aggravating my arthritis." But, the forth, and most important thing he thought that morning was "The Coalition's delivery." That had got him up and preparing for the arrival of comrade Mao.
And now, the comrade was departing the Khonsu with the Hanoi, and the Doctor had the delivery safe in his hands, in the lab.
He shut the steel door behind himself with his foot as he rushed inside.
Only then did he remember that it hurt to walk on one leg.
He then proceeded rather carefully toward the steel table at centre of the room - that is, he was hopping on one foot and was quite good at keeping his balance while muttering what appeared to be a "Damn" with each hop, followed by a rather articulate string of profanities between each "Damn" and hop. This rather skilful display came to an end as he let the box down on the table with a wince as he leaned on it with both hands, picking his foot up. He winced and took a breath in, closing his eyes. "Dammit." he muttered. "Why they can't possibly do these sorts of things for me?" he grumbled. He then recalled that he'd been the one to snatch the box from Namura's hands and scamper off to his lab on the Khonsu, disregarding the cane that probably now lay in a corridor of the battleship somewhere, tripping some nameless ensign up because they didn't look where they were walking.
Young men these days. Always looking in all the wrong places. Why...
The Doctor disbanded these thoughts with a wave of his hand, and then with a wince as he settled on his bad leg in the absence of that hand's support. There didn't seem to be any burning, stabbing, chewing, gnawing, or otherwise terribly tormenting pains in his leg, and as such, he reached for the box.
It was steel - a good, old fashioned, Coalition style lockbox. It was quite weighty, actually - it was lined with lead, and any number of secret alloys. It had a biometric lock on front, the likes of which the Doctor was unfamiliar with. The thumb-pad, however, was certainly recognizable, and he placed his digit where it was evident that it should be placed.
The box popped open somewhat quickly, and the Doctor had the distinct feeling that it had taken a sample of some of his blood. Blasted contraption.
Any misgivings about the box were immediately drowned out by what lay inside it.
It was about the size of a grapefruit, and looked like a crystalline pearl - but it was a purpley colour, like the energy discharges from the Newcastle Ruins. The Doctor quickly picked it up, but no before placing his hand inside a thick, lead-lined gloved. He examined it more closely, bringing it to his face. Darker purple, thin veins ran through it, amethyst crevasses that seemed to continue on for longer than the sphere had diameter. A strangely ornate, twisting, tentacled metal cap crowned each pole of the sphere, approximately where the veins all joined together.
The entire thing seemed to give off a faintly pulsating purple glow, beating from the inside and surfacing through the scaley crystal lattices of the thin, darker lines across it.
The Doctor ran a gloved finer across it, watching as a few fine tendrils of mist seemed to rise off of it and trail behind his finger. He smiled broadly. This was quite the artifact, and was quite the opportunity - and he had the SCRA to thank for it. He was certainly going to make the most of this tantalising artifact. The most indeed...
Just a few hours within the lab later, instruments were set up all around the artifact, which was now levitating on an antigravity cushion in the middle of a table. Computer screens were chained from one to the other, set up on the counter all the way around the lab, cords all snaking around each other and together into the myriad of datajacks in the scanning computer that sat on one end of the metal table at the centre of the lab.
The Doctor tapped a few times at the screen on this, peeking over at the slowly rotating artifact, surrounded by antennae and prongs and wires and nets of wire mesh - nothing touching it, but everything observing it. He moved sorely over to a computer screen ten feet away, painfully aware of how rambunctious he had been with his leg earlier.
The screen seemed to confirm his suspicions.
Ever since he'd applied Nomad power to the artifact - generated by a Nomad weapon turned into a generator that he had, which was sitting on the floor at the other end of the table - things had seemed a little bit strange. Mara had come in a few hours later, it seemed, and was not only quite startled by the sheer amount of equipment that the Doctor had set up, (and he thought he'd been rather slow about it) but about the amount of information he'd already gathered. He sent her on her way with a strange look.
But now, the screen seemed to confirm his suspicions.
There was only one final thing to do to test his hypothesis.
The Doctor moved slowly to the other end of the table, ducking under a rather large antennae that looked like it belonged on an Interspace base, and pushed several wires out of his way as he did so. He crouched at the end of the table, joints cracking and leg protesting most violently with its own peculiar version of pain. The Doctor's curiosity and drive overrode any feelings of discomfort he had at the moment, however, and he avidly took to tinkering with the console on the power generator. Several moments later, he pushed the "Return" button on the keypad and tapped the "+" button several times. The generator's humming increased slightly in pitch, and the Doctor, drew his pocket watch out from his coat, which he was still wearing. He opened it with shaking fingers.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
It was working normally.
The Doctor straightened up, using the crowded counter as a support. One of the information monitors was directly in front of him, so he used the touchscreen to access the ship's chronometer - and the result made him smile quite triumphantly. His watch was a good deal ahead of the ship.
Just as he thought.
And his watch was never wrong.
He checked other computers, and a fine analysis seemed to suggest that the effect of the artifact was directly localised in relation to the power - that is, it effected the immediate area around it and the surrounding areas less and less, according to power. More power meant more effect everywhere, but the effect immediately around the artifact was the greatest.
He smiled again.
Time-compression. How novel.
Or, perhaps, it was something more than that. Time would only tell, he guessed.
Luckily for him, the SCRA had granted him this artifact for some time. And he had all the time in the world now, to study it. All the time in the world indeed. Perhaps now he could finish that book, or maybe he could catch up on his sleep some - get some rest without Nealis nagging him about something or something else or something other than those original two somethings.
And, as if on que, Nealis' voice came over the internal comms. "Er, Doctor, ion storm incoming. Shut down whatever you need to shut down now."
The Doctor felt a twinge of panic. "Will," he began, but things were already too late.
The artifact had delayed this bubble of time, and the storm was already upon them. There was a bright flash of light, some cords sparked....
The artifact lit up, a brilliant purple.
The computer screens blew out in a blue symphony of wonderful Order engineering. The lighting fixtures all flared and overheated as well, leaving the room dark.
And in that dark, there was the artifact, glowing bright and brighter and bright until...
The light burst, falling into little pieces - sparkles, flower petals...
Then there was darkness.... and simply the falling purple petals... or stardust.
Falling backward, so softly and gently, just...
... peace...
The Doctor growled as he awoke.
It was most likely just an instinctual reflex, as if he were angry at the afterlife for not yet taking him. And perhaps it wouldn't have him, with that sort of attitude.
That, at least, was what Mara joked when the Doctor would come downt to the galley late.
Which he always did. Not that he cared, of course, it was his damned ship.
The Doctor rolled over in his bed, and reached for the carafe on his nightstand - pure, golden, Molly Whiskey. Imported straight from Dublin. Drinkable sunshine, the best stuff he'd ever tasted. At least in the morning.
One glass and he was awake.
Two, and he was sitting up.
Three had him on his feet, and..
He glanced around, narrowing his eyes.
Where were his goddamned slippers? Where the hell were they, he was going to gi-...
He found that his feet were on top of them.
Pouring himself another shotglass with one hand while he yawned, he slipped his feet into his slippers.
He downed that one in one gulp, and stood up, feeling ready to face the day.
His leg immediately buckled underneath him, and he had to steady himself on his nightstand.
The environment here - the Edge Nebulae - had such an adverse effect on his arthritis. It had gotten progressively worse and worse since he'd come out to this arse-end of the universe, and he didn't see it getting any better. He couldn't even get away from these damned nebulae, wherever he went, it was the same. Damp, damp, damp, cold, and bad arthritis.
He growled a bit again and sniffed his shotglass.
He felt like he was missing something. He knew there was something important today, something titanic that he was looking forward to. No, Will wasn't getting married. Mara wasn't getting reassigned to a medical transport. Namura wasn't taking some silly religious vow of silence for the next seven years. And Miles didn't have a new electronic device to keep himself endlessly occupied.
No, it was something that was actually going to happen.
What was it, what was it...?
Aha!
And then he remembered.
His fourth thought this morning - the Coalition's Delivery.
And then he remembered.
The purple light, the surge, the darkness.
He groaned and fell back onto his bed with a crack of his back.
He was behind twenty hours. Damned artifact, damned Ion Storm.... damned everything.
This was going to be a loooong day.
The Doctor wondered if he would get a discount off his life expectancy for this or not...
He'd been looking forward to this for quite a while.
The first thing he'd thought when he swung his legs off his bed this morning (technically eighteen hours ago) was "whiskey." The second thing was "slippers." The third thing was "damned Edge Nebulae aggravating my arthritis." But, the forth, and most important thing he thought that morning was "The Coalition's delivery." That had got him up and preparing for the arrival of comrade Mao.
And now, the comrade was departing the Khonsu with the Hanoi, and the Doctor had the delivery safe in his hands, in the lab.
He shut the steel door behind himself with his foot as he rushed inside.
Only then did he remember that it hurt to walk on one leg.
He then proceeded rather carefully toward the steel table at centre of the room - that is, he was hopping on one foot and was quite good at keeping his balance while muttering what appeared to be a "Damn" with each hop, followed by a rather articulate string of profanities between each "Damn" and hop. This rather skilful display came to an end as he let the box down on the table with a wince as he leaned on it with both hands, picking his foot up. He winced and took a breath in, closing his eyes. "Dammit." he muttered. "Why they can't possibly do these sorts of things for me?" he grumbled. He then recalled that he'd been the one to snatch the box from Namura's hands and scamper off to his lab on the Khonsu, disregarding the cane that probably now lay in a corridor of the battleship somewhere, tripping some nameless ensign up because they didn't look where they were walking.
Young men these days. Always looking in all the wrong places. Why...
The Doctor disbanded these thoughts with a wave of his hand, and then with a wince as he settled on his bad leg in the absence of that hand's support. There didn't seem to be any burning, stabbing, chewing, gnawing, or otherwise terribly tormenting pains in his leg, and as such, he reached for the box.
It was steel - a good, old fashioned, Coalition style lockbox. It was quite weighty, actually - it was lined with lead, and any number of secret alloys. It had a biometric lock on front, the likes of which the Doctor was unfamiliar with. The thumb-pad, however, was certainly recognizable, and he placed his digit where it was evident that it should be placed.
The box popped open somewhat quickly, and the Doctor had the distinct feeling that it had taken a sample of some of his blood. Blasted contraption.
Any misgivings about the box were immediately drowned out by what lay inside it.
It was about the size of a grapefruit, and looked like a crystalline pearl - but it was a purpley colour, like the energy discharges from the Newcastle Ruins. The Doctor quickly picked it up, but no before placing his hand inside a thick, lead-lined gloved. He examined it more closely, bringing it to his face. Darker purple, thin veins ran through it, amethyst crevasses that seemed to continue on for longer than the sphere had diameter. A strangely ornate, twisting, tentacled metal cap crowned each pole of the sphere, approximately where the veins all joined together.
The entire thing seemed to give off a faintly pulsating purple glow, beating from the inside and surfacing through the scaley crystal lattices of the thin, darker lines across it.
The Doctor ran a gloved finer across it, watching as a few fine tendrils of mist seemed to rise off of it and trail behind his finger. He smiled broadly. This was quite the artifact, and was quite the opportunity - and he had the SCRA to thank for it. He was certainly going to make the most of this tantalising artifact. The most indeed...
~
Just a few hours within the lab later, instruments were set up all around the artifact, which was now levitating on an antigravity cushion in the middle of a table. Computer screens were chained from one to the other, set up on the counter all the way around the lab, cords all snaking around each other and together into the myriad of datajacks in the scanning computer that sat on one end of the metal table at the centre of the lab.
The Doctor tapped a few times at the screen on this, peeking over at the slowly rotating artifact, surrounded by antennae and prongs and wires and nets of wire mesh - nothing touching it, but everything observing it. He moved sorely over to a computer screen ten feet away, painfully aware of how rambunctious he had been with his leg earlier.
The screen seemed to confirm his suspicions.
Ever since he'd applied Nomad power to the artifact - generated by a Nomad weapon turned into a generator that he had, which was sitting on the floor at the other end of the table - things had seemed a little bit strange. Mara had come in a few hours later, it seemed, and was not only quite startled by the sheer amount of equipment that the Doctor had set up, (and he thought he'd been rather slow about it) but about the amount of information he'd already gathered. He sent her on her way with a strange look.
But now, the screen seemed to confirm his suspicions.
There was only one final thing to do to test his hypothesis.
The Doctor moved slowly to the other end of the table, ducking under a rather large antennae that looked like it belonged on an Interspace base, and pushed several wires out of his way as he did so. He crouched at the end of the table, joints cracking and leg protesting most violently with its own peculiar version of pain. The Doctor's curiosity and drive overrode any feelings of discomfort he had at the moment, however, and he avidly took to tinkering with the console on the power generator. Several moments later, he pushed the "Return" button on the keypad and tapped the "+" button several times. The generator's humming increased slightly in pitch, and the Doctor, drew his pocket watch out from his coat, which he was still wearing. He opened it with shaking fingers.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
It was working normally.
The Doctor straightened up, using the crowded counter as a support. One of the information monitors was directly in front of him, so he used the touchscreen to access the ship's chronometer - and the result made him smile quite triumphantly. His watch was a good deal ahead of the ship.
Just as he thought.
And his watch was never wrong.
He checked other computers, and a fine analysis seemed to suggest that the effect of the artifact was directly localised in relation to the power - that is, it effected the immediate area around it and the surrounding areas less and less, according to power. More power meant more effect everywhere, but the effect immediately around the artifact was the greatest.
He smiled again.
Time-compression. How novel.
Or, perhaps, it was something more than that. Time would only tell, he guessed.
Luckily for him, the SCRA had granted him this artifact for some time. And he had all the time in the world now, to study it. All the time in the world indeed. Perhaps now he could finish that book, or maybe he could catch up on his sleep some - get some rest without Nealis nagging him about something or something else or something other than those original two somethings.
And, as if on que, Nealis' voice came over the internal comms. "Er, Doctor, ion storm incoming. Shut down whatever you need to shut down now."
The Doctor felt a twinge of panic. "Will," he began, but things were already too late.
The artifact had delayed this bubble of time, and the storm was already upon them. There was a bright flash of light, some cords sparked....
The artifact lit up, a brilliant purple.
The computer screens blew out in a blue symphony of wonderful Order engineering. The lighting fixtures all flared and overheated as well, leaving the room dark.
And in that dark, there was the artifact, glowing bright and brighter and bright until...
The light burst, falling into little pieces - sparkles, flower petals...
Then there was darkness.... and simply the falling purple petals... or stardust.
Falling backward, so softly and gently, just...
... peace...
~
The Doctor growled as he awoke.
It was most likely just an instinctual reflex, as if he were angry at the afterlife for not yet taking him. And perhaps it wouldn't have him, with that sort of attitude.
That, at least, was what Mara joked when the Doctor would come downt to the galley late.
Which he always did. Not that he cared, of course, it was his damned ship.
The Doctor rolled over in his bed, and reached for the carafe on his nightstand - pure, golden, Molly Whiskey. Imported straight from Dublin. Drinkable sunshine, the best stuff he'd ever tasted. At least in the morning.
One glass and he was awake.
Two, and he was sitting up.
Three had him on his feet, and..
He glanced around, narrowing his eyes.
Where were his goddamned slippers? Where the hell were they, he was going to gi-...
He found that his feet were on top of them.
Pouring himself another shotglass with one hand while he yawned, he slipped his feet into his slippers.
He downed that one in one gulp, and stood up, feeling ready to face the day.
His leg immediately buckled underneath him, and he had to steady himself on his nightstand.
The environment here - the Edge Nebulae - had such an adverse effect on his arthritis. It had gotten progressively worse and worse since he'd come out to this arse-end of the universe, and he didn't see it getting any better. He couldn't even get away from these damned nebulae, wherever he went, it was the same. Damp, damp, damp, cold, and bad arthritis.
He growled a bit again and sniffed his shotglass.
He felt like he was missing something. He knew there was something important today, something titanic that he was looking forward to. No, Will wasn't getting married. Mara wasn't getting reassigned to a medical transport. Namura wasn't taking some silly religious vow of silence for the next seven years. And Miles didn't have a new electronic device to keep himself endlessly occupied.
No, it was something that was actually going to happen.
What was it, what was it...?
Aha!
And then he remembered.
His fourth thought this morning - the Coalition's Delivery.
And then he remembered.
The purple light, the surge, the darkness.
He groaned and fell back onto his bed with a crack of his back.
He was behind twenty hours. Damned artifact, damned Ion Storm.... damned everything.
This was going to be a loooong day.
The Doctor wondered if he would get a discount off his life expectancy for this or not...