The Story So Far Cataclysm Urban Decay So Long Legend Reality Bomb Once Upon A Memory Three Night Engagement '70s Cutaway The Millennium People I The Millennium People II Cutting The Threads The Convocation Nova Mondas Denouement I: Sacrifice Denouement II: Paradox Denouement III: Gift

The Millenium People - Part I by Christoph Djaesson Lopez "Leave me be. I have no other place but here and here I shall remain." There, in a garden, on a world called Forum, worked a man who was not of one mind. If one were to watch closely, nothing untoward would be seen. Sun, soil, and simple tools. This is what the Forum Boss Type Person loved to do on his off-hours. Lately, he had begun to spend more and more time away from his administrative duties and delegated extra authority upon the Moderators, those who kept order and stimulated the thought processes of the other Millennium People of the Forum World. Boss Type had awakened that day not so subtly altered. He thought back as he methodically pulled weeds and replaced the slug traps by the lettuce... "...And cobblers to the lot of you!" the Jester of Forum concluded another one of his infamous anecdotes, concerning an unlikely escape from a tentacled zooform and an intake pipe. "But you've never been to Delta Magna II! Furthermore, as far as I know, you've never evidenced skill in engineering as it pertains to mining methane or any other substance," said the Scholar of Forum. "Fa! I'll just nip off and take another Cobbler Reduction tablet while you go memorize a dictionary, eh?" The Forum Jester had big hair. Not merely long or hair full of bounce and body, for he possessed a truly mighty head of hair to rival that of the mythical Samson. Jumpsuit fashion was another of his great fortes. Forum was an idyllic garden world. Being positioned just so in relation to its sun and having the right axial tilt gave the colony worldlet a wonderfully temperate climate. In lieu of having to struggle against the environment, the colonists devoted themselves to perfecting their individual talents. The primary administrator had recently retired leaving her son in the predicament of being the chairman of the board, or Forum Boss Type Person, as he liked to refer to himself. Matriarch, the Forum Mother, preferred to spend her time catching up on her reading, music, and generally enjoying well deserved rest. It sure beat all the managerial duties she'd performed during the colony set up. The project had been envisioned and seen to fruition by her. In residence at Forum was a fellow with deceptively youthful looks. What his name was few were hanging about to repeat, but he'd tell people that he was the Dark Angel. He was tolerated for his utter cheekiness since he was terribly polite to the Matriarch Forum Mother and indeed, he was terribly polite to the Senior Forum Goddess. Everyone was polite to the Senior Forum Goddess. Even the Bloke. The Boss called the Dark Angel "Junior" and surmised that he was either a mercenary or a feisty circus performer specializing in choreographed cat antics. Presently, he was out exploring the colony perimeters with his favourite Manx. In the middle afternoon of another fine day, well all the days were fine enough to border on seriously boring, but nevertheless one fine day, the Boss was puttering in his favourite garden when he chanced to overhear a most singular sound. If one could imagine the vibrations of approximately one thousand and thirty three slightly inebriated musicians playing out of tune harpsichords, then that is what the Boss heard. "What in the...? Who the hell is disturbing my hummingbird aviaries?" he reached for his communicator with the intention of summoning a Moderator. He paused, realizing that this was not quite the type of disturbance to be readily Moderated. "Where'd that extra tool shed come from?". He gingerly approached the unfamiliarly familiar structure. It's door swung open soundlessly. Odd since the next supply dropship wasn't due for another fortnight and no door in the Forum opened soundlessly. A sharp figure of a man stepped out, clad in a sombre Draconian haute couture suit. He appeared to be in early middle age with a salt-and-pepper moustache and goatee. He beckoned to the Boss with a gloved hand and an easy smile. "Hello in the garden!", said the stranger. "If you're the Supply Agent, the Periphery Control Board will be having words with you! You're nearly two weeks early with the tool shipment!" The Boss did not suffer fools or unexplained arrivals gladly. "I'm afraid you've confused me with someone other than myself, sir." The man approached while Boss Type stood, brushing the soil from his trousers. "Well then, who in the Hells might you be then? Look, if you've got a legitimate concern needing to be addressed then I'll be pleased to get you a Moderator. I've work to attend to, if you don't mind." He hated when his reveries in the gardens were disturbed. It was not to be construed that Forum's Boss Type Person was muddle headed. He was simply and heavily interested in his peace of mind and jealously protective of his free time. The stranger made an odd gesture just then. The gall of these offworlders! thought the Boss. "I am the Master and you will attend to my wishes." An incredibly uncomfortable vibration swept through the immediate environs where the two men stood. The Master lost his goggle-eyed stance of concentration and looked as if he had been caught with the proverbial farmer's daughter. The Boss quickly ducked under and behind the Master, slapping him on the top of the head. "I've heard quite enough out of you already! We don't subscribe to the notion of masters here on Forum." He pressed the call button on his datacom. "Moderators are already on the way." Then he too felt the sickening susurration of ambient reality as it recoiled against paradox. What was it about paradox that the natural universe found seemingly so... unsanctified? As far as the Boss knew, he awoke the next morning in the colony's clinic. A Moderation Unit had responded to his summons. Finding him alone and unconscious, they brought him in for observation. "Where's the offworlder?" he asked. "To whom are you referring?" asked the Scholar who was also one of the key Moderators in the colony. "There was a man there with some unreasonable request. I felt out of sorts. Just a bit. There was..." A painful jolt resounded in his mind. There was someone in there. Sensations of dislocation resounded and... "Actually, I think I spent too much time in the sun. There was no one other than myself present. Thank you for tending to me. I am able to resume my duties," he finished in an altogether different tone. "Please yourself. You've only to call if there's anything, as you know." The Scholar was sometimes redundant in his position, but this was understood by his friends. Unseen by the Boss, however, he made certain notations on his personal digital assistant which was secured to his belt behind his back. "Indeed. I will return to my office now. Inform all Moderators that I am not to be disturbed until further notice." With that, the Boss strode from the building. "I wonder what's the matter with him? That's definitely not right. 'I am not to be disturbed.' and all." The Senior Forum Goddess had entered. "Watch what you say and where and when. You're not the only one with a constant digital recording going on, you know." "Why do they call you Goddess, anyway?" the Scholar asked with a wry grin. "You would certainly like to find out, wouldn't you?" She cuffed him playfully about the ear. "But you're not going to!" With that she ventured off on whatever it was she attended to in those seemingly endless Forum days that lingered in memory. In a cottage somewhere near the middle of a village, two voices had a peculiar exchange within the same mind. "Who are you?" tremulously queried the baritone. "I have already explained. I am the Master," replied the bass. "You haven't explained a damned thing, my 'friend'! Start over and do it now!" One didn't readily invade a god's mind and play the game of fast and loose condescension. "You're trapped in my mind and you can't get out, is that it? You can't figure out how it happened and you're afraid. Am I right?" screamed the consciousness of the Boss of Forum. "No!" The Master, for one of the first times, had truly lost his composure, his cool, and his confidence. "It must be some rare form of temporal and spatial paradox. It can be rectified, but you must obey my instructions if you wish to preserve your world!" He was improvising and had no idea if his statement was true. "Ah. I see. Now we're getting somewhere. Again I say, we of the Forum do not subscribe to the concept of masters and unless you desire extreme umbrage, I suggest you give me a name to refer you to as." "Very well." The words were spoken in pained tones. "You may call me Koschei, for that was my original name." This pleased the Boss, for he became quiescent all of a sudden. The Master took the opportunity to regain dominance over the body which the two had unexpectedly become tenants of. The Boss's appearance was lean and youthful. In a way, he very nearly resembled a young version of the man he first met in the garden before the psionic anomaly occurred. It would take a stretch of one's imagination, yet the resemblance could be made out. Just about. Koschei ambled leisurely about the cottage. He thumbed through the Boss's vintage collection of audio recordings stamped in vinyl discs. "Ah. He has some taste. It would seem we have some simpatico after all!" He selected an album and set onto the turntable platter and settled back to enjoy the soothing, yet exciting sounds of a Janet Jackson versus Orbital side-project. PRESENT DAY "Doctor, look! It's Colonel Sanders!" cried Brad DeMars. "What are you on about now, Bradley?" asked the hefty space/time traveller known as the Doctor. "Him." Brad stated boldly. He pointed at the TARDIS view screen which was displaying the bemused and kindly face of an old man with neatly combed white hair and beard. "Doctor, attend to my message," said the inscrutable old face. Apparently the fellow was sitting in a wicker chair wherever he was transmitting from and enjoying a tumbler full of... something. Possibly a tasty something, but Brad couldn't eyeball it for what it was. While the Doctor and his young, unwilling protégé gawked at the intrusion, the old stranger winked and vanished from the screen. "Hi, Brad! Good to see you again, Doctor!" Whoever this was, he had manifested quite unexpectedly within the console room in the same wicker chair and still clutching a glass tumbler full of a rich amber and tasty looking beverage. "Do you know why I look like Colonel Sanders, Brad DeMars?" he asked. "N-n-no, sir. I'm not aware of... huh? How'd you know I thought you looked like...?" The beleaguered synthesizer player stammered. "Because, Brad, the Colonel was venerable and inscrutable. Venerable because he had a long white beard and inscrutable because he went to the grave without ever, ever revealing the secret of the eleven herbs and spices that went into his infamous recipe for fried chicken. That's why, Brad DeMars." It was now the Doctor's turn for questions. Instinctively, he grabbed his old fur coat from the rack, as if he expected to have to rush out and go parachuting any second and that coat would have to serve as said parachute. "You said, 'Good to see you again, Doctor', didn't you? My dear fellow, forgive me but I cannot recall our having met before. Are you... a Time Lord?" The interloper in the guise of the founder of the famous American fast food fried chicken franchise smiled a kindly, grandfatherly smile. "No. That's mighty funny you should say that, though. No, Doctor. We have met before, or rather, you will meet me in your future. To say anymore would be telling and you will understand intrinsically and on a cellular level that only harm would result from further disclosure of those circumstances. I am the White Guardian." An expression related to grief creased the Guardian's features momentarily before a displaced American interrupted him again. "White Guardian? What the hell kind of title is that?! White and Black? That’s bullshit politically correctness, simplistic pabulum puking pap! What is there, a race war in space?" The Doctor interjected sharply. "Bradley! Stop this instant! You don't understand a single thing you speak of. This 'man' is one of the most powerful beings in this Universe and..." "I am Order. I am the spontaneous island of stability and geometric law that emerged from the Originating Chaos." The White Guardian loomed ever larger in Brad's mind's eye. His eyes seeming to encompass nebulae and brightly pulsing quasars. "But more importantly, sonny boy, I have a goddamned job to do that only this Gallifreyan can do for me!" By now the paragon of cosmic order was screaming and foaming at the mouth. Kind of like one of those college teachers doing the Socratic thing? Brad's inner student observed. "Now, if you don't mind?" The White Guardian's adopted Southern drawl was grating on the Doctor's nerves, yet he found himself growing thirstier by the nanosecond. "I'd like to get on with my message to you. Doctor?" He proffered the suddenly full tumbler to the Doctor. "Oh, why yes, please. Thank you." He quaffed the thick amber liquid in a few gulps for he was even thirstier. When he lowered the glass, the room contained only himself and Brad. He shut his eyes tightly while his complexion shifted several shades towards the red side of the spectrum. "Doc? Are you all right? Come on, let me help you." Brad made it over to his girthy benefactor's side, prepared to start the Heimlich manoeuvre. "And where did that old goat go?" "Poor Brad. Don't you see? The drink was the message." The Doctor appeared completely hale and hearty now, more than ever, in fact. "I feel you, man. Let's hit it!" Brad quipped in relief. The Time Lord began to orchestrate the console controls with a passionate aplomb. "Very well. Get ready to disembark at the Forum Colony." "You mean we're not going to a bar?" asked the crestfallen Brad. "Indeed not, Bradley. The message tells us to go to Forum. It was the will of the White Guardian, so that is where we shall go." The Bloke had already been aware of the fact that a non-Millennium Person was seeking to subvert the collectivity. He had been occupied in the act of subverting the modesty rote of one of the subordinate Millennium People working under his directive when he knew the information. "For the love of... One had better alert the rest while I bust a..." The rest of the thought remained sub vocally unfinished as he extended a portion of his consciousness towards the Scholar, the Goddesses, and... the Nakedman. "Eh?" The Nakedman poked his head up from behind the protective screen of a hedge. He was larking about again. The luxurious climate of Forum provided temperate conditions enough so that clothing in a social context was unnecessary. Thus he was... the Nakedman. He never stayed in one location for very long. From one hedge to the next, and from one location of potential surprise to another, the Nakedman lurked. He often preferred to serve the Millennial Collective as a sort of ranger or point-man. Several Millennium People believed him to be in cahoots with the Jester. The tendency he had to pop up out of nowhere and scare the wits out of passersby was notorious. More than one offworlder was heard to remark something along the lines of: "I swear it, Duty Officer! Dudley Moore reared up out of the bushes with nothing but his birthday suit on. It scared the living bejeezus out of my gramma." Cultural differences aside, the Bloke had transmitted his suspicions to the Nakedman, the Scholar, the Goddesses (of which there were in fact several that were never seen together), Junior, the Jester, the Matriarch, and incidentally through the means of resonance-several un-Titled Millennium People lacking Collectivity Clearance. Although no specific information was available, these notable individuals knew as if they were the Bloke himself that someone or something was afoot attempting to get one on over them all. "Sod that. I say we shut down the orbital nav beacons, kick out the offworlders, find the intruder, and put the cats out for the night, like. You know what I mean?" thought the Bloke to the rest. The Senior Forum Goddess shut the lights out in her bungalow, over on the opposite hemisphere, to make her own conclusions while somewhere else, the Matriarch was busy laughing at the Forum Jester. He, in fact, had just burnt the tea. Twice. He was entertaining the Primary Mover of Consciousness, aka the Forum Mother, and had made a glaring error with the corporeal machinery used to boil water and prepare tea. Falling backwards at velocity, as result of the electrical current, he smacked the table off its unsturdy legs, smashed the crockery, and made a mess of his big hair. The Matriarch had a belly laugh ready for him when he reformatted his organics and got back up off the cottage floor. He laughed, too, of course. He laughed until he stopped. "Ooo. Er. That's not right. Is it, Ma'am?" said the redoubtable Jester. "Not at all. If I know my boy, he'll have some words about this when it's said and done." The Forum Mother was referring, of course, to her 'son', who was in fact, the Forum Boss Type person. Although this community was not human, per se, they had opted to experience some humanoid type familial and emotive response settings. "Oh, and J? Would you be so kind as to fetch me the foot massager?" she asked. "Of course, Matriarch." "I told you not to call me that!" The gestalt mind of an entity that humans would have called a god had set itself into motion. Peculiar thing that it was, it long ago had split itself up into one hundred twenty two partitions in the guise of humanoid colonists. It even had went so far as to encourage the impression and proceeded to set up trade and communication with other beings travelling to and fro in what was then known as the Earth Empire. "There you are!" hissed a masculine voice bubbling in its own venom. "I'll take you when I choose, now!" The Master was crouched in a peculiar posture at the control console of his TARDIS. "I failed to kill you outright in England. I will kill you for all time on Forum," he stated to himself. This being called the Master was subtly different from the Master conjoined to Boss Type. Younger, leaner, hungrier; he glared up at the scanning screen with luminescent yellow eyes that the other did not bear. "I will have ceased to be... this. I do it for... his future and my past." The Master's voice, which had been almost purring, had dropped down to a sussurating register. The lean and thirsting Time Lord had actually sounded mournful for a rare moment. Up he sprang and jammed down a lever. A smooth and synthetic sound of stolen Gallifreyan artifice presaged the materialization of his TARDIS onto the surface of another hunting ground. How long had he hunted for his retribution? No living creature had the organs to repeat that information at the time.