Doctor Who and the Great Eclipse - Part 7 - Fire
Part Seven
Fire
Liquid fire sloshed in his belly, from the liquor he’d consumed, from his fear of what he was seeing, from his need, burning through his veins and leaving him feeling icy in spite the heat of this horrible dusty world. It was impossible. Totally, completely, utterly impossible. But it had happened. Marshal William Johns was seeing the evidence in the empty space of shadows. His fogged brain just came to a screeching halt as it processed not only what he was seeing but the implications of it. Then the deep, primitive fear hit. The sort of panic induced fright that made lesser men drop in their tracks. Once he remembered to breath again he stepped back to make sure the threat was really, truly in his head. Sure that it was so, he doubled over and gripped his knees. Then he thought about what it meant again... Through the heat of this world’s day, ice moved down his spine at the thought of the killer on the loose.
There was the cutting torch, so carelessly left behind, the blindfold with its tear in the leather from some stunt the con pulled before his near fatal choking attempt. The cut and melted coils of metal are like a slap to the face. A dare. The pricey item is useless, not even repairable. The only thing that steadies his shaking hands is the rising anger. The redhead kicks it and plucks his pistol out of his holster. Riddick has cost him a fuckin' fortune, and that is in addition to the threatened sanity, attempts on his life, and scrapped ships. The con is like the ultimate bad luck charm. If he sees the son-of-a-bitch he gonna just shoot ‘em and leave ‘em to bleed. Bounty be damned.
He stomped outside, “Stay close to the hull, and in sight of each other. He’s less likely to pick you all off if you are in a group.” The tone is commanding enough that the other survivors huddle around where the bushwhackers are working. Paris even shimmies his back to the wall. “Let me see if I can figure out where he might have gone.” No one argues with him as he stepped out, alone, into the alien afternoon. He pulls his scope and scales the hull, looking for glints that are not from broken ship.
The Horizon is clear, there’s no sign of movement to indicate someone running. But he spots flashes of chrome sliver, far too bright to be from the ship’s hull, scattered at even points all around the crash site, that look an awful lot like the high security cables have been sliced apart into segments rather evenly. And there’s one other larger piece. He practically flies off the hull in a run towards it. It’s the section of the horse-bit that was across the con’s face, the teeth guard snapped in two, and the cable straps sprinkled around it in small sections about the size of a pinky joint. “Like we needed another way to die,” he muttered to himself as he kneels to scoop it up.
Only it trails through his fingers like so many marbles. Riddick had the time to carefully set every damn piece to make it look like a solid bit. “Ah, Fuck!” The animal could be miles away, or watching. There’s no way to tell. And Johns hasn’t a clue as to what is going on in the killer’s mind either. Suddenly he’s scared. So stupid to put himself in this position. Riddick could kill me here and the others wouldn’t know until they find the body, if they found the body at all. He stands and hurries back to the main cluster of survivors.
Carolyn spotted the redhead first as he came into view. The man looks pasty. It’s not a good look for him, nor does it bode well. “What did you find?”
“He’s playing a mind-game. I gotta figure it out. You, all of you, need to stay together, don’t go anyplace without at least one other person with you. And that means one of you older boys stays with the two kids at all times. Am I clear?” He looks at the pilgrims and gets nods from them. “Imam, Zeke, -- Paris, we’ll need weapons, objects to set up a perimeter, ways to keep in constant communication. I’ve seen this animal take out squads of highly trained specialists on his own.”
“So, back to the cargo bay?” Paris prompts.
Carolyn coughs, “Um. Owens had a security card that will unlock all of the compartments. You want it?”
“Give it to Zeke.” He caught one of the older pilgrims with a friendly arm over his shoulder and waved to Paris, “Lets head back over there, and we’ll help you sort through your stuff, Mr. Olgivie. Father, you and Zeke can catch up with us after you get the card.”
Abu nodded, face grave. As the one group of three detached from the others, he and Zeke turned to follow the docking pilot into the nav bay. He was glad that he did so, as the body still needed to be dealt with. Fry had put a cloth over the fellow’s face at least. She found the card and handed it over. “Get it right back t’ you, as soon as we’re done with it. You should have it, not me,” said Zeke.
“Just don’t get caught out there with that killer, that’s all I ask. I’ll lend Shazza a hand.”
0o0o0o0o0o0o0
Simon Tam found himself walking and carrying a pole of metal with fabric wrapped around the top of it so that it functioned as a walking stick. More than once he had almost slipped as the alien dirt shifted underfoot. River was carrying his bag; her sturdy boots and easy stride making it look like she was just walking down the sidewalk. The solars she refused to wear, giving them back, but the floppy, wide brimmed hat she wore with glee, especially after the Doctor had teased her by trying to unsuccessfully steal it. Two buttons just above her waist fitted her long, sleeveless duster to her thin form, but it hung open the rest of the way. The skirt of it swished about her legs, bellowing elegantly like a ball gown as she playfully moved between them, sometimes walking backwards, her eyes caught up in watching something he couldn’t see.
He glanced at the Doctor, catching the soft near-smile that the gent seemed to reserve just for River. The strange being moved with the same ease over the alien soil that Mei-Mei did. Almost matching her energy, if not her playfulness. The main concession Simon had gotten out of him was that he wear a brimmed cap, one that nearly matched the leather jacket. While the Doctor had scoffed at him, River’s desire to not wear a hat eventually made him see sense and don one himself. Simon’s headgear was more like a cross between a cowboy and a top hat, but at least he put it on without complaint.
They had been walking for a very long time, under the fire of twin suns that are slowly creeping toward sunset. The Doctor seemed unconcerned about nightfall, and Simon wondered why but refused to ask. There are cryo-lockers, plexi cracked from extreme heat and filled with blackened bodies, scattered along their route. Most have been opened and the eyes of the dead closed. Simon knows that this is the Doctor’s work, him doing what he can for dead and the living. He tries not to dwell on it.
There existed a certain sense, a circumstance that the trauma surgeon was aware of enough that it bothered him, of something altered. River was more like her old self, but far too quiet. Not like she wanted to be, but more like she didn’t remember words as such. He’d gotten single syllables out of her, his name, yes, no, here, and laugher. It wasn’t like she couldn’t communicate, but rather that she was communicating above him, over his head, and forcing herself to drop down to his level once in a while. But with the Doctor, there existed a constant stream of information like they were carrying on total discourses with each other, on some level far over his head. He felt like an idiot among intellectual giants.
River made him feel like that a lot, actually. Usually though she tried at least to include him. Now she wasn’t. Or couldn’t. Pain flashed through his soul at the surfacing thoughts about what he witnessed happening to his sister, Mei-Mei, what did they do you? He stumbled and felt cool hands settle on his upper arms, catching him before he fell face first into the shifting grains of rocky earth. That strength was still there, like steel cable, and every time Simon thought he’s going to loose it he found himself centered, and the panic held at bay. Something whispered across his mind, like a rumble of thunder or voices overheard on approach to a lecture hall. It faded. He glanced at the Doctor, who was setting him back on his feet and got a smile that left him feeling bewildered.
“Keep listening, doctor Tam, and you will hear.” River’s delight, vocalized, floated on the dense, hot air at the words, leaving him feeling even more confused.
“Hear what?”
River stuck her tongue out at him. “Always problematical to get him to see past his own face,” she said to the Doctor like it’s a secret shared between friends. It’s the most Simon has heard his sister say at once since she went away to that cursed academy. He stared at her.
“Is it now? Well I suppose then that we have our work cut out for us, then. Don’t we?” The Doctor is scrutinizing him over like he’s a lab specimen. Simon started with surprise at the look then noticed the humor behind it. “Now, did you see that expression? Oh, yes. That was classic.” River smiled at her brother with a twinkle in her brown eyes that he’s missed terribly for the last two years. It lit up her face and made him feel all of eight years old again, washing away the time and pain.
River and the Doctor are teasing him, at the moment. He half-laughs, makes a rueful face and shakes his head. He’ll let this slide, for now. But he knows something is going on, and where his sister is concerned he can’t let there be any more secrets. As Simon turned to resume his pace he missed the look that passes between the other two. They know his determination and are counting on it to force him to look into the impossible and see, really see, what the ‘Verse is all about.
0o0o0o0o0o0o0
Shazza and the ‘captain’ had moved the breather assembly line inside, dragging in the two young boys, Ali and Jack, and the older pilgrim, Suleiman, with them. Waiting for the men, Johns, Paris, Zeke, Hassan, and the Imam to return, they forced the boys into helping with the construction process, measuring and cutting tubing, fitting parts together and applying glue to the joints, and in general staying busy.
Johns’ voice echoes through the dense air, “I don’t know, it seems the cargo bay might be more defensible than the main hull area, It’s got fewer openings to guard…”
“Death trap, tha’ is,” replied Zeke. “No bloody way out.” The footsteps are heavy and laden down as they clamber up into the nav bay. Zeke finally spots Shazza, “Gees, luv. Don’t go scaring me like that.” She set down the part she is fitting and moved to him, offering a hug and removing some of his load.
Hassan is helping Paris carry in what has been salvaged from his cargo in the way of ‘weapons’ while Abu and Johns both carry gear from other storage areas. They have trip wires and the makings for snares and traps. Someone on board was a hunter of big game, not that the individual has survived. Johns doesn’t anticipate Riddick will fall for the traps, but the man might think twice if he spots one and imagines there are more better hidden.
His own gear was stored near his cryo-locker, one of the benefits of having a badge. He settled down the gear that he’d carried in for Zeke and moved over to his own. He pulls out two hard cases and begins putting his guns together.
Zeke and Shazza have survival gear, including a pick-ax, digging tools, hunting boomerangs, knives, and, best of all, their experience. They offer it all up to the others, allowing total strangers access to their stuff in hopes that it improves the chances of survival for everyone.
Imam and his boys have ceremonial blades, but not much else by way of weapons other than their faith.
And then there are the items from Paris’s cargo. “Want to explain what you got, Mr. Olgivie?” Johns said.
“Oh. Well - These are authentic Maratha crow-bill war-picks from Northern India. Not reproductions, but the real thing. Very rare.”
“Go on, wow the ladies with your impressive carved stick,” Zeke adds fingering the odd object that he’s been staring at the entire trip back from the cargo bay.
Paris frowns, “Excuse me, but that is a Blow-dart hunting stick from Papua New Guinea. Also authentic. Worth more than this entire ship, in fact. It’s very, very rare, since the tribe's extinct and the secret to making them has been lost. I should have left it in it’s packing, but the marshal said to gather all weapons.”
The dusty skinned man looks less than impressed with the lecture, “Extinct, huh? 'Cuz they couldn't hunt shit with this thing, be my guess.”
“They used poison darts and were very effective hunters. Habitat destruction and war killed them off not the weapons they used,” he snapped. Zeke stepped away from the man and his temper. Paris turned to Johns, “Now, you said this was necessary, why? What's the need, anyway? If he's gone, he's gone. Why should he bother us?”
Johns looked at Paris and then the others that were all watching him. He sighed. “How long do you think he can live out there? No food? No water? He’s gonna come back and take what we got. That’s just survival. But y’all don’t know Riddick, so I’ll tell you his real reason.” He noted he has their full attention. “The man loves a good game, and there’s nothing better than picking off a bunch of folks one at a time, unless it’s making them turn on each other. If he don’t come back to kill y’all in your sleep then he’ll do it to skull-fuck you. The animal lives for the thrill of the kill.”
“Sounds like a charmer,” Shazza comments as people scramble for weapons.
0o0o0o0o0o0o0
He had a feeling in the pit of his stomach that was like a lead ball. It was that ‘danger’ feeling that he’d developed in the war and after surviving hundreds of years, thousands of battles, it became instinct, second nature, to listen to it. If it weren’t for the fact that the enemy had to be totally wiped out he’d be jumping for a weapon of his own. As it was, he settled for gripping his sonic screwdriver and wishing for a nice hot cuppa. London would have been a nice stop, maybe just after the turn of the 20th century. But no, here he was 500 years later, on some forsaken planet; feeling like a giant pepper mill was going jump out at him at any moment.
The Doctor snorted at his own internal melodrama. The only thing about to happen here was the dual sunrise and sunset of three stars. Another couple hundred thousand years he’s going to have to come back to witness the supernova, he thought as the blue star nudged its way toward crest of the hills.
“Doctor?” Came the rather uncertain voice of the male Tam.
“Yes?” he answers, looking over at the lad.
“Is that? - I mean, there,” he gestures at the blue glow tainting what should have been darkness falling. The poor young man is speechless.
“A third sun, you mean?” The Doctor offered, as he caught River by the hand lightly. “Yes, Simon. There’s no - nightfall here, not for a bit at least.”
The Tam scion swallowed and forced his eyes away from the brightness growing to the east, “That’s why you suggested walking now? Because it’s cooler?”
The Doctor made a typical scoffing sound before adding, “A point to you, lad. But come on. It’s only going to get hotter from here.”
“You don’t seemed surprised.”
“It’s not my bloody fault that you humans don’t have an internal sense for magnetic fields, now is it? The planet is washed with solar winds from both sides and lacks a magnetic north. That’s how I knew.” Simon stands there staring at the Doctor’s back as he and River pull ahead on the path, “Now, let’s go. We’ve got places to be.”
0o0o0o0o0o0o0
Johns stood atop the crash ship, scanning with his scope. The traps are set, but there’s no sign of the bounty anywhere. He fixated on another oddity though. There’s a blue glow on the horizon. What the hell is it? He has a bad feeling that he knows already.
Below him the breathers are being tested and fitted to folks. Shazza gives prototype to Jack who sucks on the mouthpiece -- and finds that it works, supplying oxygen on demand rather than in a constant flow. The sound of a delighted child floats up to Johns’ ears. At least something is going right.
The pilgrims have converted to traditional bedouin head-gear, readying for travel, because the must find water. Carolyn has managed to get the three others of the Hunter-Gratzner crew ready for burial. It’s the least they can do. She looked to the yellow sun, low on the horizon. The red sun seemed inclined to follow. If they are going to find water then now is the time. “Imam. We should leave soon. Before nightfall but while it's cooler.”
Johns scrambles to the ground as the pilgrims begin calling in Arabic, “Imam...Imam...”
Paris clears his throat, “Um, I think there’s something you all should see.”
They turn as a third sun flares into view.
“Bloody Hell!” Shazza stated. Carolyn found that she is inclined to agree.
Jack murmured, “Three suns?”
“So much for your nightfall,” Zeke said to the docking pilot. She opens and closes her mouth and then nods at him, blinking.
“So much for my cocktail hour.” Paris states glumly.
Abu and Hassan walk up, arm in arm, “We take this to be a good sign -- a path, a direction from God. Blue Sun, Blue Water.”
Zeke looks at him like he’s off his rocker, “Ever wonder why I’m atheist?” The Imam just smiles at him.
“I take it as a bad sign. I’m guessing that’s Riddick’s direction,” Johns cut in.
“But you found your gear scattered all over, and the bit over at sunset.” Fry pointed out.
Johns pinched the bridge of his nose, “Call it a hunch from hunting his ass all over the gorram ‘Verse, Okay? I think he went toward sunrise.” He took off his pistol and handed it to Zeke.
“What, you're goin' off, too?”
“Look, Zeke. I don’t want to run into this guy without a gun. Johns is leaving you one, you said you were a crack shot. We need the marshal with us, just in case. Stay on your guard and -- Just do me a favor, huh? Get my crewies buried? They were good guys who died bad.” Fry begs.
Shazza placed a hand on the blonde woman’s arm, “A'course we will.”
“Zeke, one shot if you spot him, okay? I’ll come straight back.” Johns reassures the dusky skinned man. Zeke made a resigned face and nodded.
“What if Mr. Riddick spots us first?”
Johns looks at Paris, “There will be no shots.”
Fire
Liquid fire sloshed in his belly, from the liquor he’d consumed, from his fear of what he was seeing, from his need, burning through his veins and leaving him feeling icy in spite the heat of this horrible dusty world. It was impossible. Totally, completely, utterly impossible. But it had happened. Marshal William Johns was seeing the evidence in the empty space of shadows. His fogged brain just came to a screeching halt as it processed not only what he was seeing but the implications of it. Then the deep, primitive fear hit. The sort of panic induced fright that made lesser men drop in their tracks. Once he remembered to breath again he stepped back to make sure the threat was really, truly in his head. Sure that it was so, he doubled over and gripped his knees. Then he thought about what it meant again... Through the heat of this world’s day, ice moved down his spine at the thought of the killer on the loose.
There was the cutting torch, so carelessly left behind, the blindfold with its tear in the leather from some stunt the con pulled before his near fatal choking attempt. The cut and melted coils of metal are like a slap to the face. A dare. The pricey item is useless, not even repairable. The only thing that steadies his shaking hands is the rising anger. The redhead kicks it and plucks his pistol out of his holster. Riddick has cost him a fuckin' fortune, and that is in addition to the threatened sanity, attempts on his life, and scrapped ships. The con is like the ultimate bad luck charm. If he sees the son-of-a-bitch he gonna just shoot ‘em and leave ‘em to bleed. Bounty be damned.
He stomped outside, “Stay close to the hull, and in sight of each other. He’s less likely to pick you all off if you are in a group.” The tone is commanding enough that the other survivors huddle around where the bushwhackers are working. Paris even shimmies his back to the wall. “Let me see if I can figure out where he might have gone.” No one argues with him as he stepped out, alone, into the alien afternoon. He pulls his scope and scales the hull, looking for glints that are not from broken ship.
The Horizon is clear, there’s no sign of movement to indicate someone running. But he spots flashes of chrome sliver, far too bright to be from the ship’s hull, scattered at even points all around the crash site, that look an awful lot like the high security cables have been sliced apart into segments rather evenly. And there’s one other larger piece. He practically flies off the hull in a run towards it. It’s the section of the horse-bit that was across the con’s face, the teeth guard snapped in two, and the cable straps sprinkled around it in small sections about the size of a pinky joint. “Like we needed another way to die,” he muttered to himself as he kneels to scoop it up.
Only it trails through his fingers like so many marbles. Riddick had the time to carefully set every damn piece to make it look like a solid bit. “Ah, Fuck!” The animal could be miles away, or watching. There’s no way to tell. And Johns hasn’t a clue as to what is going on in the killer’s mind either. Suddenly he’s scared. So stupid to put himself in this position. Riddick could kill me here and the others wouldn’t know until they find the body, if they found the body at all. He stands and hurries back to the main cluster of survivors.
Carolyn spotted the redhead first as he came into view. The man looks pasty. It’s not a good look for him, nor does it bode well. “What did you find?”
“He’s playing a mind-game. I gotta figure it out. You, all of you, need to stay together, don’t go anyplace without at least one other person with you. And that means one of you older boys stays with the two kids at all times. Am I clear?” He looks at the pilgrims and gets nods from them. “Imam, Zeke, -- Paris, we’ll need weapons, objects to set up a perimeter, ways to keep in constant communication. I’ve seen this animal take out squads of highly trained specialists on his own.”
“So, back to the cargo bay?” Paris prompts.
Carolyn coughs, “Um. Owens had a security card that will unlock all of the compartments. You want it?”
“Give it to Zeke.” He caught one of the older pilgrims with a friendly arm over his shoulder and waved to Paris, “Lets head back over there, and we’ll help you sort through your stuff, Mr. Olgivie. Father, you and Zeke can catch up with us after you get the card.”
Abu nodded, face grave. As the one group of three detached from the others, he and Zeke turned to follow the docking pilot into the nav bay. He was glad that he did so, as the body still needed to be dealt with. Fry had put a cloth over the fellow’s face at least. She found the card and handed it over. “Get it right back t’ you, as soon as we’re done with it. You should have it, not me,” said Zeke.
“Just don’t get caught out there with that killer, that’s all I ask. I’ll lend Shazza a hand.”
0o0o0o0o0o0o0
Simon Tam found himself walking and carrying a pole of metal with fabric wrapped around the top of it so that it functioned as a walking stick. More than once he had almost slipped as the alien dirt shifted underfoot. River was carrying his bag; her sturdy boots and easy stride making it look like she was just walking down the sidewalk. The solars she refused to wear, giving them back, but the floppy, wide brimmed hat she wore with glee, especially after the Doctor had teased her by trying to unsuccessfully steal it. Two buttons just above her waist fitted her long, sleeveless duster to her thin form, but it hung open the rest of the way. The skirt of it swished about her legs, bellowing elegantly like a ball gown as she playfully moved between them, sometimes walking backwards, her eyes caught up in watching something he couldn’t see.
He glanced at the Doctor, catching the soft near-smile that the gent seemed to reserve just for River. The strange being moved with the same ease over the alien soil that Mei-Mei did. Almost matching her energy, if not her playfulness. The main concession Simon had gotten out of him was that he wear a brimmed cap, one that nearly matched the leather jacket. While the Doctor had scoffed at him, River’s desire to not wear a hat eventually made him see sense and don one himself. Simon’s headgear was more like a cross between a cowboy and a top hat, but at least he put it on without complaint.
They had been walking for a very long time, under the fire of twin suns that are slowly creeping toward sunset. The Doctor seemed unconcerned about nightfall, and Simon wondered why but refused to ask. There are cryo-lockers, plexi cracked from extreme heat and filled with blackened bodies, scattered along their route. Most have been opened and the eyes of the dead closed. Simon knows that this is the Doctor’s work, him doing what he can for dead and the living. He tries not to dwell on it.
There existed a certain sense, a circumstance that the trauma surgeon was aware of enough that it bothered him, of something altered. River was more like her old self, but far too quiet. Not like she wanted to be, but more like she didn’t remember words as such. He’d gotten single syllables out of her, his name, yes, no, here, and laugher. It wasn’t like she couldn’t communicate, but rather that she was communicating above him, over his head, and forcing herself to drop down to his level once in a while. But with the Doctor, there existed a constant stream of information like they were carrying on total discourses with each other, on some level far over his head. He felt like an idiot among intellectual giants.
River made him feel like that a lot, actually. Usually though she tried at least to include him. Now she wasn’t. Or couldn’t. Pain flashed through his soul at the surfacing thoughts about what he witnessed happening to his sister, Mei-Mei, what did they do you? He stumbled and felt cool hands settle on his upper arms, catching him before he fell face first into the shifting grains of rocky earth. That strength was still there, like steel cable, and every time Simon thought he’s going to loose it he found himself centered, and the panic held at bay. Something whispered across his mind, like a rumble of thunder or voices overheard on approach to a lecture hall. It faded. He glanced at the Doctor, who was setting him back on his feet and got a smile that left him feeling bewildered.
“Keep listening, doctor Tam, and you will hear.” River’s delight, vocalized, floated on the dense, hot air at the words, leaving him feeling even more confused.
“Hear what?”
River stuck her tongue out at him. “Always problematical to get him to see past his own face,” she said to the Doctor like it’s a secret shared between friends. It’s the most Simon has heard his sister say at once since she went away to that cursed academy. He stared at her.
“Is it now? Well I suppose then that we have our work cut out for us, then. Don’t we?” The Doctor is scrutinizing him over like he’s a lab specimen. Simon started with surprise at the look then noticed the humor behind it. “Now, did you see that expression? Oh, yes. That was classic.” River smiled at her brother with a twinkle in her brown eyes that he’s missed terribly for the last two years. It lit up her face and made him feel all of eight years old again, washing away the time and pain.
River and the Doctor are teasing him, at the moment. He half-laughs, makes a rueful face and shakes his head. He’ll let this slide, for now. But he knows something is going on, and where his sister is concerned he can’t let there be any more secrets. As Simon turned to resume his pace he missed the look that passes between the other two. They know his determination and are counting on it to force him to look into the impossible and see, really see, what the ‘Verse is all about.
0o0o0o0o0o0o0
Shazza and the ‘captain’ had moved the breather assembly line inside, dragging in the two young boys, Ali and Jack, and the older pilgrim, Suleiman, with them. Waiting for the men, Johns, Paris, Zeke, Hassan, and the Imam to return, they forced the boys into helping with the construction process, measuring and cutting tubing, fitting parts together and applying glue to the joints, and in general staying busy.
Johns’ voice echoes through the dense air, “I don’t know, it seems the cargo bay might be more defensible than the main hull area, It’s got fewer openings to guard…”
“Death trap, tha’ is,” replied Zeke. “No bloody way out.” The footsteps are heavy and laden down as they clamber up into the nav bay. Zeke finally spots Shazza, “Gees, luv. Don’t go scaring me like that.” She set down the part she is fitting and moved to him, offering a hug and removing some of his load.
Hassan is helping Paris carry in what has been salvaged from his cargo in the way of ‘weapons’ while Abu and Johns both carry gear from other storage areas. They have trip wires and the makings for snares and traps. Someone on board was a hunter of big game, not that the individual has survived. Johns doesn’t anticipate Riddick will fall for the traps, but the man might think twice if he spots one and imagines there are more better hidden.
His own gear was stored near his cryo-locker, one of the benefits of having a badge. He settled down the gear that he’d carried in for Zeke and moved over to his own. He pulls out two hard cases and begins putting his guns together.
Zeke and Shazza have survival gear, including a pick-ax, digging tools, hunting boomerangs, knives, and, best of all, their experience. They offer it all up to the others, allowing total strangers access to their stuff in hopes that it improves the chances of survival for everyone.
Imam and his boys have ceremonial blades, but not much else by way of weapons other than their faith.
And then there are the items from Paris’s cargo. “Want to explain what you got, Mr. Olgivie?” Johns said.
“Oh. Well - These are authentic Maratha crow-bill war-picks from Northern India. Not reproductions, but the real thing. Very rare.”
“Go on, wow the ladies with your impressive carved stick,” Zeke adds fingering the odd object that he’s been staring at the entire trip back from the cargo bay.
Paris frowns, “Excuse me, but that is a Blow-dart hunting stick from Papua New Guinea. Also authentic. Worth more than this entire ship, in fact. It’s very, very rare, since the tribe's extinct and the secret to making them has been lost. I should have left it in it’s packing, but the marshal said to gather all weapons.”
The dusty skinned man looks less than impressed with the lecture, “Extinct, huh? 'Cuz they couldn't hunt shit with this thing, be my guess.”
“They used poison darts and were very effective hunters. Habitat destruction and war killed them off not the weapons they used,” he snapped. Zeke stepped away from the man and his temper. Paris turned to Johns, “Now, you said this was necessary, why? What's the need, anyway? If he's gone, he's gone. Why should he bother us?”
Johns looked at Paris and then the others that were all watching him. He sighed. “How long do you think he can live out there? No food? No water? He’s gonna come back and take what we got. That’s just survival. But y’all don’t know Riddick, so I’ll tell you his real reason.” He noted he has their full attention. “The man loves a good game, and there’s nothing better than picking off a bunch of folks one at a time, unless it’s making them turn on each other. If he don’t come back to kill y’all in your sleep then he’ll do it to skull-fuck you. The animal lives for the thrill of the kill.”
“Sounds like a charmer,” Shazza comments as people scramble for weapons.
0o0o0o0o0o0o0
He had a feeling in the pit of his stomach that was like a lead ball. It was that ‘danger’ feeling that he’d developed in the war and after surviving hundreds of years, thousands of battles, it became instinct, second nature, to listen to it. If it weren’t for the fact that the enemy had to be totally wiped out he’d be jumping for a weapon of his own. As it was, he settled for gripping his sonic screwdriver and wishing for a nice hot cuppa. London would have been a nice stop, maybe just after the turn of the 20th century. But no, here he was 500 years later, on some forsaken planet; feeling like a giant pepper mill was going jump out at him at any moment.
The Doctor snorted at his own internal melodrama. The only thing about to happen here was the dual sunrise and sunset of three stars. Another couple hundred thousand years he’s going to have to come back to witness the supernova, he thought as the blue star nudged its way toward crest of the hills.
“Doctor?” Came the rather uncertain voice of the male Tam.
“Yes?” he answers, looking over at the lad.
“Is that? - I mean, there,” he gestures at the blue glow tainting what should have been darkness falling. The poor young man is speechless.
“A third sun, you mean?” The Doctor offered, as he caught River by the hand lightly. “Yes, Simon. There’s no - nightfall here, not for a bit at least.”
The Tam scion swallowed and forced his eyes away from the brightness growing to the east, “That’s why you suggested walking now? Because it’s cooler?”
The Doctor made a typical scoffing sound before adding, “A point to you, lad. But come on. It’s only going to get hotter from here.”
“You don’t seemed surprised.”
“It’s not my bloody fault that you humans don’t have an internal sense for magnetic fields, now is it? The planet is washed with solar winds from both sides and lacks a magnetic north. That’s how I knew.” Simon stands there staring at the Doctor’s back as he and River pull ahead on the path, “Now, let’s go. We’ve got places to be.”
0o0o0o0o0o0o0
Johns stood atop the crash ship, scanning with his scope. The traps are set, but there’s no sign of the bounty anywhere. He fixated on another oddity though. There’s a blue glow on the horizon. What the hell is it? He has a bad feeling that he knows already.
Below him the breathers are being tested and fitted to folks. Shazza gives prototype to Jack who sucks on the mouthpiece -- and finds that it works, supplying oxygen on demand rather than in a constant flow. The sound of a delighted child floats up to Johns’ ears. At least something is going right.
The pilgrims have converted to traditional bedouin head-gear, readying for travel, because the must find water. Carolyn has managed to get the three others of the Hunter-Gratzner crew ready for burial. It’s the least they can do. She looked to the yellow sun, low on the horizon. The red sun seemed inclined to follow. If they are going to find water then now is the time. “Imam. We should leave soon. Before nightfall but while it's cooler.”
Johns scrambles to the ground as the pilgrims begin calling in Arabic, “Imam...Imam...”
Paris clears his throat, “Um, I think there’s something you all should see.”
They turn as a third sun flares into view.
“Bloody Hell!” Shazza stated. Carolyn found that she is inclined to agree.
Jack murmured, “Three suns?”
“So much for your nightfall,” Zeke said to the docking pilot. She opens and closes her mouth and then nods at him, blinking.
“So much for my cocktail hour.” Paris states glumly.
Abu and Hassan walk up, arm in arm, “We take this to be a good sign -- a path, a direction from God. Blue Sun, Blue Water.”
Zeke looks at him like he’s off his rocker, “Ever wonder why I’m atheist?” The Imam just smiles at him.
“I take it as a bad sign. I’m guessing that’s Riddick’s direction,” Johns cut in.
“But you found your gear scattered all over, and the bit over at sunset.” Fry pointed out.
Johns pinched the bridge of his nose, “Call it a hunch from hunting his ass all over the gorram ‘Verse, Okay? I think he went toward sunrise.” He took off his pistol and handed it to Zeke.
“What, you're goin' off, too?”
“Look, Zeke. I don’t want to run into this guy without a gun. Johns is leaving you one, you said you were a crack shot. We need the marshal with us, just in case. Stay on your guard and -- Just do me a favor, huh? Get my crewies buried? They were good guys who died bad.” Fry begs.
Shazza placed a hand on the blonde woman’s arm, “A'course we will.”
“Zeke, one shot if you spot him, okay? I’ll come straight back.” Johns reassures the dusky skinned man. Zeke made a resigned face and nodded.
“What if Mr. Riddick spots us first?”
Johns looks at Paris, “There will be no shots.”