Ticks & Tocks

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Chapter 1

Malcolm Reynolds tilted his head as he let the cheap, dry alcohol slide down his throat, leaving a hot, burning trail behind it. The bitterness subsided, and the captain sighed, sitting alone at the dim bar, one of the dirty yellow lights above burnt out. Sometimes, Mal liked this sort of thing, thinking to himself with a bit of alcohol; Tyen alone knew when he would have some alone time on Serenity.

He checked the time: 9:46 P.M. His crew would be missing him; Zoe, more specifically; she never liked him leaving the ship by himself. 'Too many enemies; not enough friends, sir,' was always her reason. And most importantly, he certainly didn't want Jayne's appetite for power to get the best of him and for him to hijack Mal's ship. The mental image of Jayne at the helm of Serenity gave Mal all the motivation he needed to rise from his lopsided barstool.

"Hello, friend; can I get a minute from you?" a cheerful voice asked. Mal glanced to his side, finding a well dressed man standing next to him, his hand placed flat against the top of the bar. He wasn't much older than the captain, his forehead crinkled with three, long lines and his black hair beginning to show hints of grey. His smile was bright, his white teeth gleaming in the poor light. Even someone as clueless as Mal could tell the cheerful man's green jacket and black pants were tailor made.

The man seemed... off. From the corner of his eye he saw the man's hands; clean, relatively speaking, but scars and calluses were marked everywhere. Underneath his nails were minute, but dark, dirt lines.

Out of place, indeed.

Sitting back on his stool, Mal kept his eyes on the man. "I suppose; mind you, I'll be needing to get back to my crew shortly," he offered.

The man sat on the adjacent stool, motioning over the bartender. He ordered two drinks- the finest ones in the house- and the bartender went to work. The man turned toward Mal and held out his hand. "Archibald Mathers, pleased to make your acquaintance."

Mal took Archibald's hand in his own, gripping it tightly and shaking. "Captain Malcolm Reynolds," he introduced himself before each man released themselves from the handshake. "But you already knew who I was, else you wouldn't have bothered to stop me from leaving, would ya?"

Archibald chortled just as the bartender arrived, their drinks in hand. He thanked the gruff man and took a sip from the large mug. Mal tentatively reached over and took the wooden handle in his hand. He took a gulp from the mug; it certainly was much finer than the cheap vodka he was drinking before.

"You're a sharp man, Reynolds, so this meeting is already successful," Mathers replied, his finger skimming alone the top of his mug. "In fact, that's why I've come to you. I've heard of you and your crew, and was even keener to meet you when word got out that you were in this part of the 'verse."

Mal raised his eyebrows. "You heard?"

The smile Archibald wore faded slightly. "You seem to have a lot of enemies, Cap'n," he admitted, drinking from his mug. Mal winced; what else was new?

"But that's shiny; I'm not looking for heroes, even though you are one." Mathers laughed, bringing his mug to his lips.

Mal successfully hid his scowl; he was wise enough to know to never displease a man in fancy clothing, especially one who was willing to hire you. Instead of taking a swig from his alcohol, he paused and mulled over that idea. Money was always short and the inference they might be hired. That certainly piqued his interest!

"You ain't from here," Mal stated plainly. "And you certainly ain't from the Core Worlds, as much as you'd like people to think, with your expensive clothing. Them hands-" he nodded toward Mathers' hands resting on his mug, "have seen a good day's work on more than one occasion. Call me a man with a bad sense of humor, but I'd say that's a mite funny."

Archibald took another swig from his mug, placing it down against the wooden counter. "I don't know how much you know about me, Cap'n," he began, "but I'll tell you this: I make ships, and I'm good at it. I'm so good at it I've since moved my family and myself to the Core Worlds, from the money I make." Reaching into his inside pocket, Mathers produced a slim cigarette. He placed the stick between his lips, lighting it with a match.

"I'm also a historian," he added, inhaling the toxic fumes and breathing them out slowly. "Out on Kiyome all we do is work on machinery. To distract me from my inevitable fate, my mama, when I was a youngin', used to give me books to read. They were all history books, from when she was a school teacher, 'fore she met my daddy. I was so obsessed with what I read; I had to have read them at least three times 'fore I was twelve years of age. There was nothing 'bout Earth-That-Was that I didn't know about. Hell, I knew more than my teachers!" Archibald laughed, inhaling his cigarette again. "And when I was fixing ships with my pa, I would dream about riding in a great ship and going back to Earth-That-Was. It's as much a part of me as building ships is."

Mal drank from his mug, placed it back down and wiped the foam from his lips. He recognized the man's home world: it was Kaylee's. From the time he spent there, Mal could confirm the main export of that lonesome planet. But most importantly, he was born on one of the border worlds, making Mathers worthy of business.

Mathers paused, allowing the smoke to billow out of his nostrils. "Since becomin' a successful man, I've used some of my money to fund my interests. I've amassed one of the largest collections of Earth-That-Was artifacts in the 'verse. One of my more prized possessions is this small book I bought in a flea market. To any other man it's just a bunch of gibberish. However, I recognized it as hieroglyphics from ancient Egypt. The drawings inside show constellations of skies not found in this solar system!" he explained, his eyes fervently alight.

Nodding, Mal drummed his fingers once across the bar. "How can me and my crew be of service?"

Archibald's face became sullen and he looked down at his mug. "The Egyptian language has been dead since 1000 A.D.; there was no way to read it 'til the discovery of the Rosetta Stone. This stone was written in three different languages, one of 'em Greek, that nonsense they speak in the Alexandrian Colonies. Unfortunately, when Earth-That-Was was abandoned, many things were lost, including the stone. Or, at least it was believed to be lost."

"But you think otherwise."

Archibald took another deep breath of cigarette before continuing. "I've recently come into some information that says it survived when everyone left Earth-That-Was. As you can see, Cap'n, I need this here stone. The information the stone could help me decrypt would be invaluable and I am willing to pay handsomely for it," he offered, taking his cigarette out of his mouth and crushing it in the nearby ashtray.

Mal inwardly smiled. Archibald had his interests, and Mal had his; this was how it was. "How handsome we talking?"

Mathers finished the last of his beer and pushed the empty mug away. "5,000 platinum upfront, another 5,000 when I get the stone." Mal almost choked on his liquor, coughing some of it up as he took in the information. Archibald grinned once again. "I told you I was serious about getting this stone. Money is no object. Now, are you serious 'bout taking this job?"

Mal pat his chest several times as he continued coughing. Never in his life did he even think that he'd hear that number being rattled off as a God's honest payment. He calmed himself down and tried to think like Zoe; she always knew the right questions to ask in business-like meetings.

"What's the catch?" he asked flatly. That was Zoe enough for him.

"The stone in question," Archibald began, reaching into his pocket and producing several credits, "is in the possession of a man known as Ulysses Procter. I reckon that's enough of a catch to be going on with." He placed the bills for their drinks under his empty glass.

The captain finished his own mug and looked back at Mathers, wary. "You got all this money; you could get any number of fine men from some Core world. Why hire no-good-criminals like us?"

"Ai ya tyen ah," The man said, disgusted, his face cringing. "I'm insulted you even suggested it! You think some Core world soldiers could be up to the task of stealing from Ulysses Proctor? I need strong, good criminals, as you finely put it. Proctor's a native of Three Hills, and he's got his whole lot from there. I don't need good ole' boys loyal to the Alliance involved in my business, anyhow." Archibald spat, the expectorant hitting the side of the nearby spittoon.

Sighing, Mal reviewed the details in his head. Steal some rock, make 10,000 platinum, seemed simple enough. However, the target was a wily man who played by Boarder Planet rules, not Alliance ones. He smiled crookedly.

"You got yourself some criminals," he stated, holding out his hand. The good outweighed the bad; Serenity's crew had been involved in worse deals.

Archibald smiled widely and dug into his inside pocket again. He pulled out a pristine white envelope, sealed and unmarked. The man handed it over to Mal, who himself placed it in his own coat pocket. Mathers gripped his hand and shook it.

"I'm looking forward to working with you, Cap'n," he said honestly, continuing to hold onto the Browncoat's hand. It didn't take Mal long to realize something was in Mathers' hand; it was solid, slightly warm and digging into his palm. He felt Archibald loosen his grip on it, allowing Mal to wrap his hand around it.

Satisfied, Archibald winked and let go. He stood up from his stool, straightened out his jacket, and turned to leave.

Mal leaned forward, clenching his fist round the small object. "Wei! What's-?"

"Everything you need to know," Archibald cut him off. "There's also information on there as to how to contact me. Bao jone, Cap'n." He turned around again, and disappeared from the bar.

Scowling, Mal turned away from the bartender, who'd arrived to collect the money and the empty mugs. Tilting his hand away from the bartender, Mal uncurled his fingers. In the center of his palm was a silver piece of metal, his image reflecting off of its high sheen. Mal jiggled it around, inspecting it from every angle: it was a computer chip. From what Mathers had said the little chip contained everything the captain needed to know about the job.

Placing it in his pocket, Mal slid off of the bar stool and walked toward the door, back to Serenity.

---

"Oi!" the Doctor exclaimed, gripping onto the slick sides of the console, as the TARDIS jerked abruptly. He groaned as he felt his ship tilt to its side, his feet lifting off the floor. Scattered objects he left lying around rolled across the metal grids, clanking loudly against the other side of the vessel. The painful roar of the TARDIS' column bounced off the walls as the control room began to shake violently, rattling parts of arches loose.

The Doctor's hands were slick with sweat from holding onto the console so tightly. He felt his hold loosen and his fingers slipping as he attempted regain his balance. The TARDIS bucked forward and the Doctor finally lost his hold colliding painfully with the hard floor. He slid across the metal panes as the TARDIS tipped horizontally, his foot catching onto one of the room's support beams. The Doctor wrapped himself around the same beam and clung, watching as tools and spare parts rolled past him.

He turned his head toward the light blue column at the centre of the console and glared at it. "Get it together!" he scolded, shinning his way up the curvature of the beam. As if in response, the TARDIS wrenched sideways again, causing the Doctor to embrace the support beam even tighter. She would not be told what to do.

Scowling, the Doctor looked away. "All right, all right. I'm sorry!" he shouted, attempting to stand up again. With that the shaking suddenly ceased, the floor evening out. The Time Lord stood up, his hands still around the coral beam, for reassurance. The up and down motion of the central column calmed, crying out briefly, before stopping altogether.

The Doctor sighed, tentatively released his grip from the support beam and knelt on the floor; he turned over bits of mechanical parts, inspecting them for damage. "No significant damage," he noted, observing the piece in his hand "though travelling's going to be bumpy for a while, to say the least."

Standing up, he walked toward the console, pushing away the debris with the toe of his white trainer. Brightly colored wires were exposed in several places, immediately attracting the Doctor's attentions; open wires were never good. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulled out a large magnifying glass and his black rimmed glasses; they served no real purpose, though they certainly made him look clever. Putting on his glasses, the Doctor moved the magnifying glass over the collection of wires. Everything was in working order; he would just have to repair the console's exterior.

"Ach," he mumbled under his breath, twirling the wires slowly between his fingers. "Two of the materialization unit's wires have snapped." It wasn't a big problem -there were ten wires attached to the device. However, after driving this particular TARDIS for over 500 years, the Doctor knew better than to let the seemingly small things go.

He dug into his trouser pocket, and brought out a small, brown tube. Placing the end of the plastic tube between his teeth, the Doctor tugged the broken wires further out of the console. With the wires held in one hand, he removed the tube from his mouth and twisted the cap off, squeezing the tube's contents onto the wires. His nose twitched at the smell of the yellow substance; the odor was sour, immediately assaulting his nostrils. Concentrating again, the Doctor pressed the wires together at the gel, rubbing his nose against the back of his hand.

"Time vortex has been awfully rocky lately," he mused, allowing the gel to dry. Not that it was happening suddenly; the Doctor had noticed the increase in 'bumps' a while back and the TARDIS had encountered worse; when Martha was still aboard, the TARDIS was damaged so badly from a vortex bump that they were stuck in the Chronos Galaxy for nearly two weeks.

The Doctor sighed. They were nosy buggers, but the Time Lords did know how to keep the vortex under control, he thought to himself, almost sadly. Time and space travel had been perfected by the Time Lords, who had mastered the ability to tame and harness the time vortex. Since the destruction of Gallifrey the Doctor had noticed his people's creations were beginning to unravel. He needed to upgrade his systems to compensate for the vortex's unnatural roughness.

Ping!

The Doctor immediately looked up, glancing around the console. The small screen perched atop the controls flashed brightly, small boxes and pictures popping up all over the screen. Satisfied with the progress of the wires, the Time Lord rushed over, nearly tripping over one of his mallets. Leaning against the console, the Doctor read the bright text:

You have now entered the borders of Beaumonde, the manufacturing capital of the 'Verse! Come to New Dunsmier and see its famous clear blue ocean...

"An advertisement? I thought I installed an ad blocker," he muttered, turning away from the screen and toward the other controls. The message though, as advertisements are wont to, echoed round his head.

"Beaumonde?" the Doctor said aloud, moving back to the screen and running his hand through his hair That name was familiar; albeit, it had been years since he last heard it. Moving away from the monitor, the Doctor checked the coordinates of the planet on the console; Beta System. 2518 A.D.

Beep! Beep! Beep!

The Doctor rolled his eyes. "What now?" Walking around the console, he looked at the screen; the greeting was gone. It had been replaced by pictures that displayed themselves as long sentences of information racing across the screen; the TARDIS had picked up several readings from other nearby ships.

"Oh, I hate postwar periods," he mumbled as Unification War scrolled across the monitor. The years following were so unstable that the Doctor almost preferred arriving during the war itself.

The Time Lord immediately blocked the forthcoming information from other ships, as one particular one caught his eye. Someone was sending out a false signal, the Doctor was sure of it; the practice was common in the black market. Oh, and was installed on his own ship.

"Those are prohibited, you know," Romana stated, her arms crossed as she leaned against the white control panel.

She pushed her new, blond hair behind her ears and watched her fellow Time Lord work, his upper half inside the base. Feeling ignored, she cleared her throat.

An agitated sigh echoed out from the console, the Doctor's hand reaching to grab a nearby tool. "I came to realize this when we had to go to Ftefla for the part. That false signal can throw off the Black Guardian, and give us some time to lose him."

"We have a randomizer. It should be efficient enough."

"Extra precaution," his voice boomed, tossing his tool aside for another.

She nodded slowly, playing with the cuffs of her navy blue blazer. "And what happens if our own people locate us? False signals are pirate technology, and thus, are worthless protection. What then?" The Time Lady asked. In her new body and personality she was coming to enjoy the excitement the Doctor seemed to constantly be in the middle of. In fact, she came to adore the randomizer, in spite the trouble it led them both in to. That is, she enjoyed it so long as it didn't endanger her safety too much.

"Gallifreyan technology can easily identify us by suspending-"

"-Suspending all transmissions of the ship via the sound net," The Doctor finished to himself, pushing a lever. The beacon's steady pulse immediately died out. Softly, the rhythmic sound of the real beacon came through.

Snowy lines buzzed across the signal, new information flashing across the console monitor. The Doctor smiled, "That's more like it." Finally, the screen stabilized and he could read the correct information.

"Not a TARDIS," he said breathlessly, twisting several knobs and hitting keys.

As the screen updated itself, the Doctor frowned, his brows pressing together. "That beacon reading is from a Model MMC892-44 Kluvian ship. I don't remember Kluvians settling in this section of the galaxy in this period," he commented, moving his face closer. His eyes widened and glimmered, his hand adjusting his glasses as the vast array of knowledge he possessed flooded into his consciousness

"Because they didn't!" Removing his glasses, the Doctor moved toward the controls. The materialization unit would work fine, despite the minor damage, and he set the ship to land on Beaumonde. The TARDIS wasn't the only thing that needed repairing.

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