Post by Cap Al D on Oct 5, 2014 2:40:36 GMT
So, over on Gallybox we had a 'write a female Doctor' contest (It's actually a secret who wrote which one ((though I sort of blew it by posting the first line, because I don't listen very well)), so don't tell anyone I'm posting this here!)
Anyway, amid all the pretty good stories about sexism, identity and various other serious things, you'll find this. Picture Mrs. Mills as the Doctor.
The Doctor peered over her knitting at the agitated young man. The grey tabby on her lap lazily opened one eye.
“Gracious!” she said, “Take a deep breath, child, and tell me again.”
“I said, Mum, that the Oort Range Electronic Observation Station has registered a blip!”
“A 'blip', you say?”
“Yes'm. A rather large and rather fast blip, from the report.”
“A blip from the Oort... curious,” said the Doctor, “and possibly worth my time.”
“The Brig's nearly apoplectic, Mum.”
“That's hardly surprising, given his diet,” said the Doctor, noticing a drop of perspiration on the tip of the U.N.I.T. sergeant’s rather bulbous nose, “If I've told him once I've told him a thousand times, 'Brigadier, you simply must limit your intake of cheeses and fried foods!' He's as bad as his grandfather was, may he rest in peace.”
The sergeant nodded dutifully, causing the drop to congeal alarmingly. “Please, mum...”
“Are you aware you are standing on a tenth century Ottoman rug? One that's nearly brand new?”
“Yes?” stammered the sergeant, suddenly aware he'd breached one of the Doctor's many protocols, “I like it, it's very nice. Hand-woven, is it?”
“Oh, good grief. Here, have a handkerchief and wipe your nose. Why you lot don't carry them is beyond me.”
“Thank you, Mum.”
“Don't mention it.”
She smiled at him benevolently. “Good day, then,” she said and resumed her knitting. She studiously ignored the sergeant, who nervously shifted mopped his brow but otherwise made no move to vacate the Tardis. He began to rock in place, nearly bursting with inner turmoil. He locked pleading eyes with the cat, trying to impart the urgency of the situation and possibly convince the feline to intervene with his mistress. The cat returned his gaze with baleful indifference but otherwise made no effort to pass along the soldier's message.
Resigned to playing the familiar game, the sergeant rocked and heaved an occasional sigh.
Finally the Doctor could take it no more. She looked at the unfinished console blanket and sighed.
“A blip?”
He jumped a little. “Yes, mum!”
“A blip on the Oort Range Electronic Observation Station scanners?”
“Yes! Yes, Mum! All indications indicate a ship! The Brig requests your immediate presence!”
“Oh, very well. I suppose I've made him wait long enough. We'd best make an appearance before he has a stroke. Grab my bag, if you'd be so kind, and we'll... Goodness!”
Suddenly the Doctor surged upright, sending her knitting (and a deeply insulted cat) flying!
“What is it, Mum?”
“Something you said! Oort Range Electronic Observation Station!”
“Yes, Mum!”
“You've reminded me of something! Something dreadfully important!”
“What? What have I reminded you of, Mum?”
“My biscuits!”
Later, in the U.N.I.T. Command Centre, the Brigadier finished his milk, wiped crumbs from his mustache with a napkin and indicated a large screen showing a blip passing the orbit of Mars. The Doctor nodded and pointed her cane at the object.
“This blip of yours, Junior,” she said, “still refusing to say, 'Hello'?”
“It has ignored all standard hails, Doctor,” he answered, adding in a low whisper, “Please don't call me 'Junior' in front of the men. Protocol and all that, you know.”
“Of course, young Alistair.” She studied the screen, smiling at his offended frown. “Have we a better view of our guest?”
“Yes, of course. Lieutenant! Bring up the image from Deimos One!”
A lumpy, silvery ship appeared onscreen. The Doctor adjusted her reading glasses and studied the image. “Ah!” she said, tapping the screen. “See that, Brigadier? The insignia by the exhaust port?”
“Yes, do you know it?”
“I was hoping you did.”
“We've run it through Jane's Interstellar and all other standard references. There's nothing on record.”
“Have you queried the embassies?”
“None of our alien guests can identify her.”
“And still bound for Earth, then?”
“Yes, Mum.”
“And we've no idea who it is?”
“No, Mum.”
“Well, we'd best have a gander, then.” She offered him an arm. “Fancy an excursion, young man?”
“We will conquer the Earth and enslave its puny inhabitants!” thundered the Testro Warlord, brandishing his acid lance at the blue planet below. Cheers erupted around the bridge, armoured feet rhythmically stamping carelessly discarded take-out boxes into the filthy metal deck.
“And then we will strip this pitiful rock of all its wealth! We shall mine it, defoliate it, bottle its atmosphere! And then we will build a great armada and terrify the galaxy! And I, Phlemish the Indomitable, will rule the universe!”
In the ensuing celebratory huzzahs none of them heard the lift doors whoosh open.
“Oh, will you now? Can't say I haven't heard that one before,” said an even, human voice from the turbolift.
“Put your gun away, Alistair, and stand up straight. Good posture is good manners. There's a boy,” said another, female voice.
“Who dares?” cried Phlemish, whirling dramatically. At the lift door he saw a tall, male human with a neat uniform and admirable mustache. Beside him, barely reaching his shoulders, an older, stout female in clothing which – even taking into account inevitable cultural differences – clearly identified her as someone's auntie. She held an Earth phone, pointing it around the bridge as it made a sonic trilling sound.
“Plainly, it is I,” said the Doctor, stepping into the garbage-strewn bridge with unveiled distaste. “Honestly, you should be ashamed of this clutter. How do you expect to command a well-ordered galactic empire if you cannot even clean your flagship?”
“We have travelled far and faced many challenges!” sputtered Phlemish, discomfited by these trespassers and their infuriatingly unconcerned manner.
“Faced many exchange rates, from the look of it,” said the Doctor, raising an eyebrow. “Let's see... Fried Cybermat from Techno 4, Ultra-Clam pizza from Skaro, Grumman kebab's from Rifty's...” She surveyed the dozens of takeout containers, idly moving a finger as if connecting invisible dots. Her companion quietly let her get on with it, Phlemish noted, as if invading the bridge of an enemy battlecruiser and critiquing their dining choices was a routine activity. He even had the temerity to appear quietly amused.
The Doctor turned, her critical examination complete, and stepped into the lift. The Brigadier deftly sidestepped to block her from view. A series of beeps emanated from the lift, then the female's voice said, “Hullo?”
Phlemish realized he'd been standing idle for some time and the men were looking at him quizzically. Looking at him for indomitable leadership. Well, he would not let them down.
“You will cease this pointless activity at once!” he cried, “Kanker! Soor! Take these Earth creatures prisoner at once! If they resist, slay them, in the name of Warlord Phlemish of Testro!”
The two soldiers happily saluted and unholstered their blasters. The weapons whines as their atomic reactors engaged. They marched to the turbolift, all eyes on the bridge following them.
This, then, is where the fate of the Earth was to be decided. Would the Doctor and the Brigadier emerge victorious? Or would their names be inscribed atop the list of Phlemish's victims, the first fallen in the war with Testro?
Later, Phlemish would convince himself that the Doctor possessed some awesome secret power, a cybernetic enhancement, perhaps, or some marvel of cosmic biology. Anything, anything would do, any excuse, anything to spare him the ignominy of his utter, shameful defeat and subsequent unfair punishment.
The assembled alien warriors all leaned forward in anticipation of a violent capture or, hopefully, a double execution. The human called 'Brigadier' stood in the open lift door, blocking their view of the short female. The fearsome muzzles of the blasters were pointed at his head. He raised an eyebrow, smiled slightly, and stepped aside. The Doctor emerged, telephone in hand, engaged in animated conversation. She spared the soldiers a glance, mildly irritated at the interruption.
“Anyway, it's fabulous. We're doing 'Ulysses', which is rather inappropriate I'd have thought, but the younger girls are enjoying it so that's alright and if I'm honest we're just there for tea really...”
“You will cease your communication and come with us!” ordered Kanker.
“... and Dolores declared it was meant to be a classic but I popped over and asked Mr. Joyce and he said he was just trying to pay for an operation – his eyes are dire, poor thing – but...”
“Yes, surrender!” added Soor, shaking his weapon for emphasis.
The Doctor covered the mouthpiece with one hand and said, “Excuse me, I'm on the phone.”
“You are our prisoners!” bellowed Phlemish from his command swivel-chair. “You will cease this tiresome prattle and surrender now!”
The Doctor half turned and returned to her call.
“I'm sorry, dear, there's a quite rude someone on this end speaking very loudly – yes, you guessed it, how you endure it is anyone's guess – and I didn't quite catch what you said? Oh! Oh, certainly...”
“Enough! Enough, I say!” exclaimed Phlemish. “Last chance! Surrender or die!”
The Doctor held up a palm – just wait. “Well, I'd certainly consider it a courtesy, and Wednesday does sound good. I'll have to check my book, of course...”
Enough! “Just kill them, kill them now!Everyone attack!”
The entire crew leaped from their chairs and crowded toward the lift, vibro-swords aloft and hungry for blood. Phlemish popped the claws on his battle-gauntlets and leaped, acid-lance ready! The two soldiers fired!
And that's when it happened, when the awesome power of the Doctor was made explicitly manifest. Like lightning, but without actually paying attention, the Doctor folded all her fingers save the index: the universal mum sign signifying, 'whatever it is, it isn't important while I'm on the phone'.
Time seemed to stop. The alien invaders, gripped by an explicable terror of interrupting the call further, froze in their steps. Equally immobile, Phlemish saw that the power bolts themselves were caught motionless. Only the human Brigadier seemed immune. He calmly ducked beneath the deadly discharges and removed the blaster from Soor's nerveless fingers. Making an adjustment, he calmly strolled around the bridge, stunning the entire crew save Phlemish. Yet, gripped in some occult manner by the finger, they did not fall.
“Well, lovely! I'm so glad we've had this chat and you simply must pop in once this unpleasantness is over... Eh? No, no... I've had enough of him, you understand... What's that? Oh, of course, of course. Just don't be too rough with him!.... Oh, fine. Fine! I'll let you go, then. Tah!”
The Doctor hung up. Smiled with unmistakable self satisfaction at the scene on the bridge. Her finger dropped. The entire crew save Phlemish slumped to the deck. The two blaster bolts harmlessly scored the turbolift interior. Phlemish stood astonished and alone. Then a slightly tinny military fanfare began to play. The alien warlord looked at his phone, saw who was calling, and turned to the Doctor and her companion. “Um, do you mind? This is sort of private?”
The Doctor smiled. “Come along, Alistair. Nothing to see here.”
Later, in the UNIT Command Centre, the Brigadier took his vitamins and pressed the Doctor for explanations.
“The ship left our orbit hours ago and you still haven't explained. Please, Mum, for my report.”
“Oh, very well! You and your reports! It's quite simple, really. I needed to know who they were and hadn't a clue. But fortunately for Earth they were very sloppy young men.”
The Brigadier snapped his fingers. “The refuse on the bridge!”
“Exactly! By correlating the source of their poor dining choices with the age of the containers, I ascertained their course and deduced that they were inhabitants of Testro V.”
“Brilliant, mum!”
“Don't interrupt while I'm boasting! And if they were from Testro, that meant there could only be one person with the wherewithal to launch that expedition and he confirmed it himself! Phlemish, son of Simak. Testro's a lovely, peaceful planet, ruled by matriarchs who are, shall we say, more than uncommonly indulgent of their rather savage male offspring. But there's a limit to any tomfoolery.”
She took a sip of tea and nibbled her biscuit. “I knew exactly what to do.”
“You mean, you stopped an invasion of Earth by...”
“Yes! I called his mother!”
Anyway, amid all the pretty good stories about sexism, identity and various other serious things, you'll find this. Picture Mrs. Mills as the Doctor.
The Doctor Calls
The Doctor peered over her knitting at the agitated young man. The grey tabby on her lap lazily opened one eye.
“Gracious!” she said, “Take a deep breath, child, and tell me again.”
“I said, Mum, that the Oort Range Electronic Observation Station has registered a blip!”
“A 'blip', you say?”
“Yes'm. A rather large and rather fast blip, from the report.”
“A blip from the Oort... curious,” said the Doctor, “and possibly worth my time.”
“The Brig's nearly apoplectic, Mum.”
“That's hardly surprising, given his diet,” said the Doctor, noticing a drop of perspiration on the tip of the U.N.I.T. sergeant’s rather bulbous nose, “If I've told him once I've told him a thousand times, 'Brigadier, you simply must limit your intake of cheeses and fried foods!' He's as bad as his grandfather was, may he rest in peace.”
The sergeant nodded dutifully, causing the drop to congeal alarmingly. “Please, mum...”
“Are you aware you are standing on a tenth century Ottoman rug? One that's nearly brand new?”
“Yes?” stammered the sergeant, suddenly aware he'd breached one of the Doctor's many protocols, “I like it, it's very nice. Hand-woven, is it?”
“Oh, good grief. Here, have a handkerchief and wipe your nose. Why you lot don't carry them is beyond me.”
“Thank you, Mum.”
“Don't mention it.”
She smiled at him benevolently. “Good day, then,” she said and resumed her knitting. She studiously ignored the sergeant, who nervously shifted mopped his brow but otherwise made no move to vacate the Tardis. He began to rock in place, nearly bursting with inner turmoil. He locked pleading eyes with the cat, trying to impart the urgency of the situation and possibly convince the feline to intervene with his mistress. The cat returned his gaze with baleful indifference but otherwise made no effort to pass along the soldier's message.
Resigned to playing the familiar game, the sergeant rocked and heaved an occasional sigh.
Finally the Doctor could take it no more. She looked at the unfinished console blanket and sighed.
“A blip?”
He jumped a little. “Yes, mum!”
“A blip on the Oort Range Electronic Observation Station scanners?”
“Yes! Yes, Mum! All indications indicate a ship! The Brig requests your immediate presence!”
“Oh, very well. I suppose I've made him wait long enough. We'd best make an appearance before he has a stroke. Grab my bag, if you'd be so kind, and we'll... Goodness!”
Suddenly the Doctor surged upright, sending her knitting (and a deeply insulted cat) flying!
“What is it, Mum?”
“Something you said! Oort Range Electronic Observation Station!”
“Yes, Mum!”
“You've reminded me of something! Something dreadfully important!”
“What? What have I reminded you of, Mum?”
“My biscuits!”
Later, in the U.N.I.T. Command Centre, the Brigadier finished his milk, wiped crumbs from his mustache with a napkin and indicated a large screen showing a blip passing the orbit of Mars. The Doctor nodded and pointed her cane at the object.
“This blip of yours, Junior,” she said, “still refusing to say, 'Hello'?”
“It has ignored all standard hails, Doctor,” he answered, adding in a low whisper, “Please don't call me 'Junior' in front of the men. Protocol and all that, you know.”
“Of course, young Alistair.” She studied the screen, smiling at his offended frown. “Have we a better view of our guest?”
“Yes, of course. Lieutenant! Bring up the image from Deimos One!”
A lumpy, silvery ship appeared onscreen. The Doctor adjusted her reading glasses and studied the image. “Ah!” she said, tapping the screen. “See that, Brigadier? The insignia by the exhaust port?”
“Yes, do you know it?”
“I was hoping you did.”
“We've run it through Jane's Interstellar and all other standard references. There's nothing on record.”
“Have you queried the embassies?”
“None of our alien guests can identify her.”
“And still bound for Earth, then?”
“Yes, Mum.”
“And we've no idea who it is?”
“No, Mum.”
“Well, we'd best have a gander, then.” She offered him an arm. “Fancy an excursion, young man?”
“We will conquer the Earth and enslave its puny inhabitants!” thundered the Testro Warlord, brandishing his acid lance at the blue planet below. Cheers erupted around the bridge, armoured feet rhythmically stamping carelessly discarded take-out boxes into the filthy metal deck.
“And then we will strip this pitiful rock of all its wealth! We shall mine it, defoliate it, bottle its atmosphere! And then we will build a great armada and terrify the galaxy! And I, Phlemish the Indomitable, will rule the universe!”
In the ensuing celebratory huzzahs none of them heard the lift doors whoosh open.
“Oh, will you now? Can't say I haven't heard that one before,” said an even, human voice from the turbolift.
“Put your gun away, Alistair, and stand up straight. Good posture is good manners. There's a boy,” said another, female voice.
“Who dares?” cried Phlemish, whirling dramatically. At the lift door he saw a tall, male human with a neat uniform and admirable mustache. Beside him, barely reaching his shoulders, an older, stout female in clothing which – even taking into account inevitable cultural differences – clearly identified her as someone's auntie. She held an Earth phone, pointing it around the bridge as it made a sonic trilling sound.
“Plainly, it is I,” said the Doctor, stepping into the garbage-strewn bridge with unveiled distaste. “Honestly, you should be ashamed of this clutter. How do you expect to command a well-ordered galactic empire if you cannot even clean your flagship?”
“We have travelled far and faced many challenges!” sputtered Phlemish, discomfited by these trespassers and their infuriatingly unconcerned manner.
“Faced many exchange rates, from the look of it,” said the Doctor, raising an eyebrow. “Let's see... Fried Cybermat from Techno 4, Ultra-Clam pizza from Skaro, Grumman kebab's from Rifty's...” She surveyed the dozens of takeout containers, idly moving a finger as if connecting invisible dots. Her companion quietly let her get on with it, Phlemish noted, as if invading the bridge of an enemy battlecruiser and critiquing their dining choices was a routine activity. He even had the temerity to appear quietly amused.
The Doctor turned, her critical examination complete, and stepped into the lift. The Brigadier deftly sidestepped to block her from view. A series of beeps emanated from the lift, then the female's voice said, “Hullo?”
Phlemish realized he'd been standing idle for some time and the men were looking at him quizzically. Looking at him for indomitable leadership. Well, he would not let them down.
“You will cease this pointless activity at once!” he cried, “Kanker! Soor! Take these Earth creatures prisoner at once! If they resist, slay them, in the name of Warlord Phlemish of Testro!”
The two soldiers happily saluted and unholstered their blasters. The weapons whines as their atomic reactors engaged. They marched to the turbolift, all eyes on the bridge following them.
This, then, is where the fate of the Earth was to be decided. Would the Doctor and the Brigadier emerge victorious? Or would their names be inscribed atop the list of Phlemish's victims, the first fallen in the war with Testro?
Later, Phlemish would convince himself that the Doctor possessed some awesome secret power, a cybernetic enhancement, perhaps, or some marvel of cosmic biology. Anything, anything would do, any excuse, anything to spare him the ignominy of his utter, shameful defeat and subsequent unfair punishment.
The assembled alien warriors all leaned forward in anticipation of a violent capture or, hopefully, a double execution. The human called 'Brigadier' stood in the open lift door, blocking their view of the short female. The fearsome muzzles of the blasters were pointed at his head. He raised an eyebrow, smiled slightly, and stepped aside. The Doctor emerged, telephone in hand, engaged in animated conversation. She spared the soldiers a glance, mildly irritated at the interruption.
“Anyway, it's fabulous. We're doing 'Ulysses', which is rather inappropriate I'd have thought, but the younger girls are enjoying it so that's alright and if I'm honest we're just there for tea really...”
“You will cease your communication and come with us!” ordered Kanker.
“... and Dolores declared it was meant to be a classic but I popped over and asked Mr. Joyce and he said he was just trying to pay for an operation – his eyes are dire, poor thing – but...”
“Yes, surrender!” added Soor, shaking his weapon for emphasis.
The Doctor covered the mouthpiece with one hand and said, “Excuse me, I'm on the phone.”
“You are our prisoners!” bellowed Phlemish from his command swivel-chair. “You will cease this tiresome prattle and surrender now!”
The Doctor half turned and returned to her call.
“I'm sorry, dear, there's a quite rude someone on this end speaking very loudly – yes, you guessed it, how you endure it is anyone's guess – and I didn't quite catch what you said? Oh! Oh, certainly...”
“Enough! Enough, I say!” exclaimed Phlemish. “Last chance! Surrender or die!”
The Doctor held up a palm – just wait. “Well, I'd certainly consider it a courtesy, and Wednesday does sound good. I'll have to check my book, of course...”
Enough! “Just kill them, kill them now!Everyone attack!”
The entire crew leaped from their chairs and crowded toward the lift, vibro-swords aloft and hungry for blood. Phlemish popped the claws on his battle-gauntlets and leaped, acid-lance ready! The two soldiers fired!
And that's when it happened, when the awesome power of the Doctor was made explicitly manifest. Like lightning, but without actually paying attention, the Doctor folded all her fingers save the index: the universal mum sign signifying, 'whatever it is, it isn't important while I'm on the phone'.
Time seemed to stop. The alien invaders, gripped by an explicable terror of interrupting the call further, froze in their steps. Equally immobile, Phlemish saw that the power bolts themselves were caught motionless. Only the human Brigadier seemed immune. He calmly ducked beneath the deadly discharges and removed the blaster from Soor's nerveless fingers. Making an adjustment, he calmly strolled around the bridge, stunning the entire crew save Phlemish. Yet, gripped in some occult manner by the finger, they did not fall.
“Well, lovely! I'm so glad we've had this chat and you simply must pop in once this unpleasantness is over... Eh? No, no... I've had enough of him, you understand... What's that? Oh, of course, of course. Just don't be too rough with him!.... Oh, fine. Fine! I'll let you go, then. Tah!”
The Doctor hung up. Smiled with unmistakable self satisfaction at the scene on the bridge. Her finger dropped. The entire crew save Phlemish slumped to the deck. The two blaster bolts harmlessly scored the turbolift interior. Phlemish stood astonished and alone. Then a slightly tinny military fanfare began to play. The alien warlord looked at his phone, saw who was calling, and turned to the Doctor and her companion. “Um, do you mind? This is sort of private?”
The Doctor smiled. “Come along, Alistair. Nothing to see here.”
Later, in the UNIT Command Centre, the Brigadier took his vitamins and pressed the Doctor for explanations.
“The ship left our orbit hours ago and you still haven't explained. Please, Mum, for my report.”
“Oh, very well! You and your reports! It's quite simple, really. I needed to know who they were and hadn't a clue. But fortunately for Earth they were very sloppy young men.”
The Brigadier snapped his fingers. “The refuse on the bridge!”
“Exactly! By correlating the source of their poor dining choices with the age of the containers, I ascertained their course and deduced that they were inhabitants of Testro V.”
“Brilliant, mum!”
“Don't interrupt while I'm boasting! And if they were from Testro, that meant there could only be one person with the wherewithal to launch that expedition and he confirmed it himself! Phlemish, son of Simak. Testro's a lovely, peaceful planet, ruled by matriarchs who are, shall we say, more than uncommonly indulgent of their rather savage male offspring. But there's a limit to any tomfoolery.”
She took a sip of tea and nibbled her biscuit. “I knew exactly what to do.”
“You mean, you stopped an invasion of Earth by...”
“Yes! I called his mother!”