MIA09.1

THE EXILED ONES
Chapter One: Outstanding Debts
by Jason A. Miller
 The seating cards were neatly arranged in alphabetical order around a
circular table in the ballroom lobby. One neat row, from the Abbots at
the outer edge of the table, to the Cutlers in the center, near the floral
arrangement. The next row worked its way inwards, from Darby to Feldman. 
And so on.
 I was seated at Table 11. I only knew the groom from a divorce case
we'd tracked together in the United States years and years before. 
Consequently, I didn't know anyone else at my table. I dropped my seating
card sheepishly on the plate in front of my seat, against the back wall. 
The card was the usual slip of folded-over cardboard, with my name written
in loopy feminine handwriting on the outer side. The plates and glasses
and cutlery were all fancy, upscale. The groom had come into money when a
routine assignment in Paris years before had led him to rediscover the
Mona Lisa. All by himself.
 Yeah, sure.
 There were ten of us at the table. There was a younger couple with a
pair of overly blonde children. They didn't say much. Then there was a
tall Brit named John who introduced himself as a "patron of the arts", and
he described the floral arrangement centerpiece as "exquisite, simply
exquisite". I figured him for a disgruntled, unemployed hotel caterer or
something. His date was a wavy-haired blonde bombshell named Eva. 
College girl, way too young to be hooked up with this clown.
 Then there was some tall guy whose seating card read simply, "Doctor." 
Curly brown hair and lots of it. Beaky nose, big eyes. Another of
Duggan's detective friends, though I'd never heard of him before. His
date was blonde too, and her seating card also had just the one name,
"Romana." Movie star, obviously. The Times Square type, I guessed.
 The nine of us studiously avoided eye contact as the soups and salads
were served. The two kids were given child-sized portions of fruit
cocktail, which looked a lot more edible than the stuff I'd been given. 
The Doctor guy shared my distaste for the salad. Claimed that he'd given
up eating all plants after a run-in with a lunatic horticulturalist a few
seasons back. The tenth place at the table was empty, so that made three
salads which didn't get touched.
 "I hope Duggan didn't blow too much on the catering," I offered by way
of conversation, eyeing the empty salads. No-one answered, so I got up and
ducked outside for a quick smoke. Thought I saw the Doctor lead the art
patron's date for a quick foxtrot on the floor, and nearly headed back to
lead *his* date out for a number, but my cigarette was burning a hole in
my pocket. And it wasn't even lit yet.
 I made my way back inside after the last course had been deposited and
removed from my empty place. The guests were all well-fed and drunk and
embarrassing themselves on the dance floor. A conga-line of small
children ducked and wove across the floor, bumping into kneecaps and
generally falling over in a giggling heap. The art patron with the bad
comb-over and his date were dancing to some Big Band number. The Doctor
guy and the movie chick were swinging next to them. He was in a rented
tux left over from the '70s, and she was in a white gown that shimmered in
the ballroom lights and caught my eye. I'd have to steal a dance with her
at some point. Well, her and the other blonde at the table, of course. 
Then some kids bumped into my kneecap, so I sat back down at the table.
 The younger couple at the table -- she was a college professor, I think
-- sat and argued about debtor/creditor relations in the
post-Revolutionary War frontier. I knew something about this from a more
modern standpoint. The scum racked up debts, and I tracked 'em down for
their creditors. Big guys whose last names ended in vowels.
 The seven-piece orchestra (all attired in white tuxes, very fancy)
segued from Big Band into Disco, and the two other couples at our table
sat back down, just in time for dessert, too. Creamy pudding in a hard
chocolate shell. Now this -- this I could eat.
 "Of course, the War of 1812 had its roots in the post-Revolutionary War
constitutional crisis in the states," the college professor said. "I'm
sure you all remember the Articles of Confederation. A very fine concept
on paper -- remember, this was the age of the so-called `classic'
liberalism. You know what I mean, weak central government, states' rights,
that sort of thing."
 "Ah, yes!" exclaimed the Doctor. "Some nonsense or other about the
colonies refusing to pay back their pre-War debts to the crown." He had a
Brit accent, I noticed. Duggan was British too, but most of his friends
here were American. And besides, Duggan had lost his accents years before
his wedding tonight to that American woman.
 "What, you don't think that's fair?", asked Romana. "It only makes
sense from a capitalist socio-economic standpoint. The whole point of the
American Revolution was to escape British control, and that included
creditors. It was all about the new landed aristocracy looking to preserve
their property rights in the new world. So paying back the debts would've
been just silly, I think."
 "What?", the Doctor asked. Then he leaned back in his chair, took
another swig of wine, and propped one boot up on the table. "Well, you
might have a point," he conceded. "I remember the time my
great-grandfather --"
 The girl cut him off and whispered harshly. "Doctor, I really don't
think this is either the time or the place to --"
 "Nonsense!"
 "I warned you to stay away from the local wines!" The girl was nearly
in tears, or at least her nose was turning a rather cute shade of red. 
And it wrinkled up, like a chipmunk. I stared at her nose thoughtfully and
took a swig from my champagne glass.
 "I'm a grown-up Time Lord and I'll drink a grown-up drink," he said. 
Whatever that meant (so at that point it became obvious the girl was
right). "Besides, I'm filtering the story through the wine, so I won't
spill anything. Not even my glass!" he finished. He set the glass back
down on the table -- the fancy linen tablecloth was stained red in several
spots -- and wiped his nose and mouth with the back of his hand. "Now
then, where was I?"
 "Doctor, did your great-grandfather have anything to do with the
Revolution?" the college professor asked. He gave her a bug-eyed stare, so
she shrank back into her seat a little bit. "Well, I mean, you are from
London, the bride told me. I was wondering if maybe you had any family
history."
 "What? `Any family history'?" he repeated loudly. "Well, maybe just a
little. My great grandfather, for example, fought in a war similar to the
one you're describing. Well, not the revolution per se -- by the time he
arrived, the Revolution was long over." The Doctor's voice reduced to a
more pensive note, and he was obviously a trained storyteller. So we all
listened to him for a while.
 My great-grandfather -- well, I call him my great-grandfather but
that's just a term of art, you understand, simply a convenience -- was
what you might term an itinerant wanderer. An exile, cut off from his own
time. Cut off and lost, so to speak. He wasn't even sure where his home
was, anymore.
 He traveled with two cousins -- well, I call them cousins, but that's
just another term of art, of course. Their names were Steven and Vicki,
but history doesn't remember them quite as well as it did my grandfather. 
Understand here that for purposes of narration, I have to extrapolate
personalities for them, not remembering them -- er, knowing, that is to
say -- all too clearly myself. But they're not integral to the story.
 This was all far in the future, of course, for that's where my
great-grandfather -- let's call him "Doctor" too, again for the
convenience of narration, don't nudge my elbow Romana, it's quite rude --
that's where the Doctor necessarily spent most of his time. Didn't know
how to get home, you see.
 So anyway, all this post-Revolution entanglement occured in the
Verrazano system. Verrazano 4. They'd just waged a long war against
their former colonial masters, a brutish humanoid race from the Hudson
Galaxy. I won't bore you with the details of the war, but the settlers
here managed to win, even with inferior spacecraft, mostly due to the
indomitable settlers.
 Now the important thing was, as you mentioned before, Professor, the
existence of pre-War debts. I'd like to be able to tell you as an
emissary from the future that galactic commerce was a thing of the past. 
But of course you'd all know that I was lying to you, and I'm just not
very good at that sort of thing, am I, Romana?
 Now again, remember that the space fleet on Verrazano 4 was hopelessly
out of date. Their machines looked like most of the spacecraft that the
Doctor, this first Doctor, experienced. Walls of tin, old-fashioned
machinery, computers with lots of LEDs -- you remember all those pretty
lights -- and not much voice-interactive or psychological software. So it
was an easy matter for the Hudson Overlords to establish military bases on
the frontier of the planet's sole inhabited continent.
 Now the fort was mostly covert -- too far out from Verrazano
civilation, you see. But the threat it posed was just as real. It served
a two-fold purpose. One, to defend the as-yet unclaimed areas of the
planet from further encroachment by the revolutionary traitors. The
colonists. And two.. what was two... [he paused for a swig of wine, and
then wiped his hand across his mouth again. Probably thought the napkin
was too fancy to soil, or something. Anyway I was too busy looking back
and forth from Romana to Eva to Romana again, so I can't remember what the
second point was. Something about war if the Verrazano-nites wouldn't pay
up.]
 The Doctor wasn't in control of his own spacecraft, and without a
reliable navigation system, he couldn't have any idea as to where he was,
or what conflict he'd just stumbled upon. Or what this private little war
meant for his own history, and for that of mine and my other, shall we
say, family members...
 "Look, Doctor, I am not arguing with you!" The astronaut slammed the
stuffed panda against the console in disgust. "It's just that I want to
know more about this Monk. What was he doing in... what was it, Vicki?"
 "1066," the girl replied sweetly.
 "Yes, 1066, Doctor," said Steven. "Look, please don't take this the
wrong way, but if I'm going to spend my time travelling with you, I want
to make sure that your own people aren't gonna come after you one at a
time with personal vendettas."
 "How dare you, sir!" The Doctor's face flushed purple. "I rescue you
from the burning cities of Mechanus, and then rescue you from the Norman
Invasion, and you take an insolent tone with me. How dare he!" The
Doctor paced off to the other side of the console room, shaking his head.
 Vicki pulled Steven aside. "I told you, Steven, it won't do any of us
any good if you insist on arguing with him!"
 "Look, Vicki, I'm only trying to be reasonable. Can't you see where
I'm coming from? I mean, the Doctor's people are dangerous. Are you even
sure we can trust *him*?"
 Vicki laughed, not quite the reaction Steven hoped for, judging from
the way his eyebrows arched. It was cute when he did that, of course. 
"Well, now I know you're being unreasonable. Of course we can trust the
Doctor!"
 "I'm glad at least *you* think so, child!" said the Doctor. He smiled
beatifically at her, and then scowled at the new companion. "And at any
rate, we seem to have landed, so let's let bygones by bygones, hmm?" With
that, he opened the doors and left the room.
 "Well, that was a rather conveniently quick capitulation, Vicki. Am I
right, d'you think?"
 She wasn't able to answer that.
 The TARDIS was tucked inside a moat. The walls of the fortress were
made of imposing blocks, which looked manufactured rather than natural. 
The bridge was made of either metal or high-grade empire-age plastic,
Steven thought. The bridge extended across the moat, several yards wide,
casting its shadow over the swath of land where the TARDIS had seen fit to
put down. The sand was cold underneath the shade.
 Vicki, he saw now, had climbed halfway up the face of the edifice. The
blocks may well have been manufactured, but they were as rough and craggy
as the old stone fortress which doubled as his barracks during Space Fleet
training in Florida State. You could climb up this wall, with the bridge
only a few feet overhead, and then swing yourself onto the bridge and duck
into the fort. Old school games.
 "For goodness' sake, do be careful, child!" The Doctor locked the door
of the TARDIS and stood by Steven's side, peering up at the teenager.
 "Y'know, I only hope this fort is deserted," said Steven. "It would be
just like Vicki to stumble into a troop of guards armed to the teeth with
--"
 Vicki screamed overhead.
 They were now about 30 feet from the TARDIS. On the wrong side of the
fortress wall, in a dungeon. The Doctor had been in several dungeons,
most notably in Revolutionary France, and decided that the intervening
thousand years hadn't improved galactic dungeon design. This room was
brightly lit and the soldiers were less shabby, not peasants at all. But
their intent was the same.
 Lt. Giardello peered down at him with a barely-hidden smirk on his
face. "So you're trying to tell me that your grand-niece just happened to
be climbing onto the bridge over my military encampment, with no hostile
intent whatsoever." A statement, not a question. The Doctor liked that in
Giardello -- no psychological trickery here. No hot and cold games,
though it'd have been fun to practice out his own wit here. Instead, he
opted for the straight answer.
 "Well, young Vicki thought it was a fine afternoon for a little stroll
around the grounds, and young Steven over there and I were all too happy
to indulge her."
 Giardello clucked his tongue. "Just happened to be strolling around,
you say?"
 "But of course, my good man!"
 The lieutenant slammed a fist against the smooth ebony surface of the
table. Well, so much for the straightforward interview. Time to fight
fire with fire.
 "How did you three get past the perimeter. This is a secure establishment!"
 "We, er, crash-landed in the moat of your fortress. No harm done, I
assure you."
 "So you weren't out for a stroll. Very good," Giardello said. He
flashed his half-smile again. "The truth can will set you free, Doctor."
 "Speaking of which, young man, if you can return us to our, er,
shuttlecraft, we can leave your establishment to its security, and spare
you the paperwork."
 Giardello snapped his fingers, and two of the soldiers grabbed Steven
by the arms. Steven sputtered in protest. Two other soldiers -- one of
them a woman, the Doctor noted with surprise -- grabbed hold of Vicki with
equal gentleness, and his charges were led from the room.
 "I'm sending them back to the coast," the Lieutenant explained. 
"Technically we're not allowed to set up an encampment there -- it's
against the terms of the Treaty of Stellar Paris II we signed at the end
of the war -- but my men are remarkably efficient in such matters."
 The Doctor perched his reading glasses on the end of his nose, and
stroked the satin tape which held them around his neck. "By revealing
such confidential information to me, dear sir, you're attempting to do
either one of two things."
 "And those would be?" The officer appeared to be enjoying himself
nearly as much as the Doctor was.
 "You're either about to sentence me to death, and hence feel you can
trust me with such valued information..." The Doctor paused to examine his
fingers in satisfaction.
 "Yes?" prompted Giardello.
 "Or, you're offering me classified information because you somehow
believe I can be of some assistance to you in your mission of intrigue and
espionage." Done examining his fingers, the Doctor beamed up at
Giardello.
 Giardello grinned. His teeth were stark-white and even. "Alas,
Doctor, I've been somewhat disingenuous with you. The options you present
me are *fundamentally* correct," he said, pausing to savor the words. 
"But somehow, I don't think you know where you are. So our C.O., who is
known to you, I believe, shall fill in the blanks."
 The door to the room slid open with a pneumatic whir, and thus it
didn't slam. But the heavy footsteps of the officer who entered the room,
belied the gentle manner in which the door had opened.
 Both the Doctor and Giardello turned to face the newcomer. He was a
tall lanky man with a deceptively young face, dressed in the navy blue of
the Hudson Overlords corps. The catch is here that the old man
*recognized* the newcomer.
 I set my wine glass down on the table, and stood up to stretch my
legs. Certainly not much of a story. The band was running out of disco
numbers to play, which meant that the reception would be over soon, and
I'd have to dance with *somebody* in order to slip them my phone number.
Let this Doctor character bore the other academics with lectures on
socio-economics and so on. I'm an American, and we zitzed you guys in
that war. No point contriving a cautionary lecture now, old hoss.
 "It's you!" The Doctor stood up and spluttered.
 "It is, old friend. I recognized you as soon as the Mean Free Path
Tracker detected your Ship approaching."
 "Yes, I must confess that the Captain briefed me about you in full,"
said Giardello. "The interrogation was fun while it lasted though, you
must admit".
 Elia, the Captain, grinned down at the Doctor from behind his own beaky
nose. "On behalf of the Overlords of the Hudson Galaxy, Doctor, due to
your appearance on this planet, the former colony of your home, I hereby
denounce you as a traitor. I'm here to offer you one last choice to
redeem yourself in the eyes of your would-be peers."
 "And that would be?"
 "I either take you home to Hudson One to stand trial for your act of
desertion in stealing a Ship, to wit, a Type Forty Capsule from its
construction port in the Hudson Temporal Docks, and leaving your home
rather than fight in the colonial uprising here on Verrazano 4..."
 "Or?"
 "Or I conscript you back into our army, so that you and your young
friends may fight in the looming war to reclaim Verrazano."
 "Doctor," Romana said. She nudged him with her elbow.
 "You found me. I escaped and you still found me. How dare you, sir!"
 "Welcome back, Doctor," said Elia. "Now, what's your choice to be? 
Fight, or be sentenced to death?"
TO BE CONTINUED