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eve11Main Post and Chapter Index
**
There was no sight or sound in the support of her existence. Nor smell, taste or touch. Those were her Pilot's constructs, a collection of senses anchoring his living sparkline in space-time. Such a limited interface. However scattershot, he experienced no more than one moment at a time, while her eleven-dimensional matrix touched every point of the continuum simultaneously. Any illusion of attention on her part was little more than a byproduct of conditional expectation. As she wished to experience time and space, the TARDIS did so with weights, boundary calculations and integrals, views easily constructed across the continuum and just as easily removed.
As she wished. As wishes existed in dimensional timelessness. Some would always presume a time ship's link with its Pilot was simply a physical law, that TARDIS was drawn to Time Lord as opposing magnetic poles were drawn together, or perhaps if rudimentary sentience were assumed, as a moth was drawn to a flame. But the truth was complicated. The bulk of a time ship's psyche was lost in the projection to four dimensions. The point-by-point progression of discrete moments, linear communication and vortex travel was merely a shadow of herself; the more she paid attention to subsets, the less she was aware of the whole. Still, when time was woven tightly around her in a four-dimensional focus, she bent dutifully to its psychology as well as its mechanics. She chose to link with her Pilot. She wished, she desired, and she loved fiercely.
Her linear shadow persisted even when she herself was unfettered across the continuum of existence. But she paid no attention to it; without the support of her Pilot's sparkline, it was a degenerate set of measure zero and therefore fundamentally unimportant. So she did not notice the slight change to her transportation basis vectors as her Pilot's human companions spent three days moving her interface across the United States of America. Nor did she pay any mind to the jarring and jostling of her outer shell as they stood it up again upon the loose gravel of a secluded campsite at the shore of Nesbitt Lake, Nevada.
They paced her corridors, checking and re-checking her scanner as days passed with no word. They fought and slammed her doors with the frustration of the helpless. They apologized. They made love. They stood together just beyond her open doors, holding on to each other at the edge of the lake and staring out at yet another sunset sinking behind distant thunderclouds.
"What if they don't come back?" the one called Amy asked.
"The Doctor always comes back," the one called Rory answered, but he wasn't really certain.
"Yeah, well, his timing's rubbish." Amy swiped at a tear, and Rory hugged her closer to him.
The TARDIS didn't notice any of this. In her purest transcendental state she was certain of everything all at once; she had no concept of grief or worry. And yet . . .
And yet something was still out of focus. She correlated automatic subroutines with seven-dimensional overlays. She churned through the determinants of variable transformations, shifting and re-shifting her views across infinite possibilities, favoring none. There was an abnormality suffusing every perspective; a pattern of nigh indiscernible ridges in what should have been smooth measure. Here, a discontinuity. All of it distressingly suggested that her domain itself was a relational derivative. That it was, somehow, diminished.
A fragmented comparison arose, cast against an impossible void--blindness | cerecloth | veil--and then, on a six-dimensional vector, she experienced a more localized anomaly.
It left a small but unmistakeable footprint: two strands of temporal events, decoupled from the continuum's underlying base measure and running in parallel exclusivity. It was a rare signature across her existence, but she recognized it. It was calculated, deliberate and powerful, and there were very few beings with the capability to produce it. And, as memory existed in dimensional timelessness, she remembered.
She set maximal constraints and focused her attention even further. Time, linear memory and emotion surged into her with the effect of an ocean forced through a funnel. How dare they? rushed (again) through her newly constructed consciousness, and hold on and what have you done and danger and where are you. There was no time to listen for a response. Her cloister bell tolled, sending her Pilot's companions rushing back through her doors, their hands fluttering nervously across her controls. Her structural interface groaned as a shockwave of space-time distortion sent the humans reeling and rippled waves across the surface of the lake beyond her doors.
"Is that the signal?" Amy asked, her eyes wide and fearful. "Are we moving?"
Rory shook his head. "I don't know . . . I don't think this was part of River's plan!"
She tried to stay focused past the anomaly's nexus point, but there was nothing else to hold on to. So the TARDIS weathered the storm and settled, reluctantly releasing her integrations. I miss you, she whispered, and forgot again.
When Amy and Rory opened her doors, they were met only by the breeze heralding the approaching thunderheads, and the waves lapping at the lake shore.
**
Part 4 | Part 5
**
There was no sight or sound in the support of her existence. Nor smell, taste or touch. Those were her Pilot's constructs, a collection of senses anchoring his living sparkline in space-time. Such a limited interface. However scattershot, he experienced no more than one moment at a time, while her eleven-dimensional matrix touched every point of the continuum simultaneously. Any illusion of attention on her part was little more than a byproduct of conditional expectation. As she wished to experience time and space, the TARDIS did so with weights, boundary calculations and integrals, views easily constructed across the continuum and just as easily removed.
As she wished. As wishes existed in dimensional timelessness. Some would always presume a time ship's link with its Pilot was simply a physical law, that TARDIS was drawn to Time Lord as opposing magnetic poles were drawn together, or perhaps if rudimentary sentience were assumed, as a moth was drawn to a flame. But the truth was complicated. The bulk of a time ship's psyche was lost in the projection to four dimensions. The point-by-point progression of discrete moments, linear communication and vortex travel was merely a shadow of herself; the more she paid attention to subsets, the less she was aware of the whole. Still, when time was woven tightly around her in a four-dimensional focus, she bent dutifully to its psychology as well as its mechanics. She chose to link with her Pilot. She wished, she desired, and she loved fiercely.
Her linear shadow persisted even when she herself was unfettered across the continuum of existence. But she paid no attention to it; without the support of her Pilot's sparkline, it was a degenerate set of measure zero and therefore fundamentally unimportant. So she did not notice the slight change to her transportation basis vectors as her Pilot's human companions spent three days moving her interface across the United States of America. Nor did she pay any mind to the jarring and jostling of her outer shell as they stood it up again upon the loose gravel of a secluded campsite at the shore of Nesbitt Lake, Nevada.
They paced her corridors, checking and re-checking her scanner as days passed with no word. They fought and slammed her doors with the frustration of the helpless. They apologized. They made love. They stood together just beyond her open doors, holding on to each other at the edge of the lake and staring out at yet another sunset sinking behind distant thunderclouds.
"What if they don't come back?" the one called Amy asked.
"The Doctor always comes back," the one called Rory answered, but he wasn't really certain.
"Yeah, well, his timing's rubbish." Amy swiped at a tear, and Rory hugged her closer to him.
The TARDIS didn't notice any of this. In her purest transcendental state she was certain of everything all at once; she had no concept of grief or worry. And yet . . .
And yet something was still out of focus. She correlated automatic subroutines with seven-dimensional overlays. She churned through the determinants of variable transformations, shifting and re-shifting her views across infinite possibilities, favoring none. There was an abnormality suffusing every perspective; a pattern of nigh indiscernible ridges in what should have been smooth measure. Here, a discontinuity. All of it distressingly suggested that her domain itself was a relational derivative. That it was, somehow, diminished.
A fragmented comparison arose, cast against an impossible void--blindness | cerecloth | veil--and then, on a six-dimensional vector, she experienced a more localized anomaly.
It left a small but unmistakeable footprint: two strands of temporal events, decoupled from the continuum's underlying base measure and running in parallel exclusivity. It was a rare signature across her existence, but she recognized it. It was calculated, deliberate and powerful, and there were very few beings with the capability to produce it. And, as memory existed in dimensional timelessness, she remembered.
She set maximal constraints and focused her attention even further. Time, linear memory and emotion surged into her with the effect of an ocean forced through a funnel. How dare they? rushed (again) through her newly constructed consciousness, and hold on and what have you done and danger and where are you. There was no time to listen for a response. Her cloister bell tolled, sending her Pilot's companions rushing back through her doors, their hands fluttering nervously across her controls. Her structural interface groaned as a shockwave of space-time distortion sent the humans reeling and rippled waves across the surface of the lake beyond her doors.
"Is that the signal?" Amy asked, her eyes wide and fearful. "Are we moving?"
Rory shook his head. "I don't know . . . I don't think this was part of River's plan!"
She tried to stay focused past the anomaly's nexus point, but there was nothing else to hold on to. So the TARDIS weathered the storm and settled, reluctantly releasing her integrations. I miss you, she whispered, and forgot again.
When Amy and Rory opened her doors, they were met only by the breeze heralding the approaching thunderheads, and the waves lapping at the lake shore.
**
Part 4 | Part 5
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2015-10-15 02:29 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-10-15 03:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-10-15 09:38 pm (UTC)Still looking forward to more of this.
no subject
Date: 2015-10-16 11:53 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-10-17 08:24 pm (UTC)I miss you, she whispered, and forgot again.
Oh, this, this!
no subject
Date: 2015-10-17 11:05 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2015-10-18 12:23 am (UTC)*blinks again*
*blushes*
Thank you. I think that is one of the largest compliments I've ever received as a writer.