Title: What a Fool Believes

Author: E.A. Week

E-mail: eaweek at hotmail-dot-com

Summary: River Song summons the Eleventh Doctor to the beautiful planet Vareda to celebrate the excavation of an ancient temple. A gruesome attack on the Doctor leads River to believe that someone on Vareda would do anything to keep her discovery buried forever.

Category: Doctor Who. Eleven/ River; Amy/Rory.

Distribution: Feel free to link to this story from another web page, but please drop me at least a brief e-mail and let me know you've done this.

Feedback: Letters of comment are always welcome! Loved it? Hated it? Send me an email and let me know why!

Disclaimer: Copyrights to all characters in this story belong to their respective creators, production companies, and studios. I'm just borrowing them, honest!

The story title is shamelessly stolen from the Doobie Brothers.

Datclaimer: This story is rated M for sex, language, and mild gore.

Continuity (PLEASE read this): This story occurs at some nebulous point after season five, but somewhat outside the continuity of season six, though I touch on some of the same themes and borrow a couple of general ideas. Think of it as a tiny little "bubble" universe, connected to the "main" universe of the sixth season, or a slightly alternate timeline.

Prologue

Water splashed against Rory's ear as he lifted his head to breathe, the sound muffled again when he rotated his upper body back beneath the blue-green surface. Beneath him, light shimmered through the crystalline liquid, refracting into rainbows and casting auroras of glorious color on the tiles far below. He couldn't guess at the depth of the pool, but deep it was, deeper than even most diving tanks Rory had seen.

Swimming here had taken some getting used to, and he still didn't feel entirely comfortable staring so far down, as though he were swimming suspended between two tall buildings. Still, the pleasure was worth conquering some fear. The pool was enormous, the water very clean, never too hot or too cold, and he only had to compete with two other people for space. He especially liked the ornate deck area, the gorgeous rococo pillars, the black-veined pink marble, the spotless tile. With no lane lanes below or flags above, he'd memorized a couple of other landmarks to help time his turn at each wall.

Swimming backstroke, he could gaze up at the surrounding library, the shelves full of books that rose, stack upon stack, to an extraordinary height, terminating in a vaulted ceiling overhead. Rory could look straight up through panes of some glass-like substance, watching constellations of stars wink as the ship whirled through space.

He didn't always enjoy traveling with the Doctor, and there were many times when he'd just as soon be back in Leadworth with Amy, living life one day at a time, but he had to admit that a luxurious swimming pool at the bottom of a vast library exerted its own pull. I can put up with a lot for this, he thought, tucking his body into a somersault and pushing off the wall. He glided underwater and surfaced in an easy freestyle.

As he approached the opposite end of the pool, he spotted a leg dangling into the water: comely kneecap, shapely calf, slender foot, painted toenails. His pulse gave a happy jump, and he picked up the pace, wondering if Amy had sought him out for a game of Poseidon and the Saucy Mermaid.

"Hello!" he said, surfacing with a grin.

Amy withdrew her foot. "Get dressed," she said.

Rory's face fell.

Amy laughed and tweaked the end of his nose. "I'll make it up to you later."

"Promise?" Rory teased, pushing his goggles up to his forehead.

"Promise. Now, c'mon, it's a surprise for you."

"Why… is the Doctor making up for something?"

Amy folded her arms, giving Rory a pointed expression. "So insecure," she started.

Rory pointed up at the skylight, where the stars continued to blur past. "We haven't even materialized yet. What's this surprise all about?"

"It's a present for your birthday."

"Even if we were at home, my birthday wouldn't be until January."

"I just decided it's your birthday, okay? And the Doctor said we can go somewhere fun for you."

"Well, there's a change." Rory hauled himself out of the water and grabbed for a towel. "Dare I ask what he has in mind? Something that maybe doesn't involve mortal peril, for once?"

Amy laughed, "Mortal peril is the Doctor's idea of fun."

(ii)

"Oh, my goodness, Chancellor; I didn't recognize you!" The little functionary looked up from the psychic paper and gazed at the threesome with eyes full of panic.

"Not to worry; I can see you're a busy man—you can't be expected to know everything." The Doctor waved his arm at Amy and Rory in a grand gesture. "These are my esteemed guests: Lady Amelia of the Pond and Sir Rory the Roman."

"Right this way, right this way!" Bowing and bobbing, the functionary led the time-travelers through a set of heavy velvet curtains and down a flight of steps. Amy realized they were in some kind of raised balcony full of comfortable seats, with a spectacular view out over an enormous amphitheater.

"No way!" Rory breathed.

"Suits your fancy, does it?" the Doctor grinned.

"It's—it's—where are we, exactly?" Rory asked.

After the functionary had seated them and left, the Doctor said, "The Pan-Galactic Olympics of 4524."

Amy stared down. "Is that a pool? It makes even the TARDIS pool look like the Leadworth duck pond."

"We're in the Cressini Asteroid Natatorium," the Doctor said.

"But—" Rory was spellbound. "How long is it?"

"Four hundred meters," the Doctor said. "For this race, anyway."

"Which event?" Rory asked eagerly.

"The men's 400 IM," the Doctor said.

"What did you mean, 'for this race?'" Rory asked.

"The length of the pool can be changed for the length of the event," the Doctor explained.

"Unbelievable," Rory said. "You mean thousands of years in the future they're still fussing with movable bulkheads?"

"No, the actual walls of the pool move. You should see it when it's set up for the three thousand—"

Amy interrupted, "So where are we, VIP seating?" She looked around the balcony, where here and there, a few well-dressed people sat. They looked like visiting dignitaries, mostly plump and middle-aged. The number of empty seats took Amy by surprise.

"Royal box," the Doctor said, sounding smug.

Amy preened, settling herself more comfortably in the big chair. Rory leaned forward, staring down at the pool, at the officials, at the spectators, crammed by the thousands in their seats. He looked up—and up—and asked the Doctor, "How many people does this place hold, anyway?"

"Three million," the Doctor said.

"Shut up!" Amy said, also staring around. "That many?"

"It's the biggest stadium in this quadrant," the Doctor said. "Now, you should've been here for the Intergalactic Cup of 2372—the Federation of—"

"Shh," Rory said. "They're starting."

A row of tall, muscular men was walking out onto the pool deck, led by officials wearing brightly-colored robes.

"Full-body suits are illegal," Rory said, squinting down at the athletes.

"Not now, they're not," the Doctor said.

"What are those made of?"

"A mixture of latex and polyurethane, sprayed directly onto the body in liquid form," the Doctor said. "Dries in a second, and they're good to go."

"What about after the race?" asked Amy. "Do they wear those things all day?"

"No, it just peels right off," the Doctor told her. "A completely new suit for each race, and the material gets melted down and re-used the next day.

"Ouch," Rory said.

"Well, that's one way to get a waxing," Amy joked.

"No, they all wax before the meet even starts," the Doctor said. "Everyone crops their hair, even the women."

"What kind of goggles are those?" asked Rory

"Eyepieces," the Doctor provided. "They fit right into the eye socket."

"Swimming's gone high-tech," Rory snorted.

"Oh, you should see it in another thousand years or so," the Doctor said. "This is nothing."

"There's ten finalists?" Rory counted.

"Thirty, actually," the Doctor said. "This is the third heat of the finals."

Rory scanned the sleek, black-clad men, observing that not one stood less than six and a half feet tall, all broad-shouldered, lean in the waist, very powerful. He could hear Amy's breath shifting a little.

"So, who's the favorite for gold?" asked Amy, wrapping her fingers around Rory's arm.

"Titanium," the Doctor corrected. "Second place is platinum. Gold is third place, silver is fourth, and bronze is fifth."

"Five medals?" asked Amy.

"Trophies, actually. And that bloke right in the middle, in lane five, is the favorite. He's representing Earth—Alistair Jones-Hennessy, a descendant of an old Earth friend of mine, Jo Grant—Jo Jones after she was married."

The men were climbing up onto the staring blocks. In mid-air, over the pool, there suddenly appeared a vast blue hologram with the athlete's names, home planets, and their times from the preliminary round.

Rory said, "Those times can't be real."

"Just watch," the Doctor smiled.

The men crouched into their racing starts. Amy saw that they had placed one foot into a kind of backstop, pushing against it with some pressure.

There was a high-pitched bleep, and the ten swimmers rocketed off the blocks as if they'd been fired from ten cannons.

"No way!" Rory yelled over the cheering crowd.

"Spring-loaded backstop," the Doctor said, laughing at Rory's expression.

The men surfaced and began the butterfly leg of the race, an incredibly fast stroke, keeping their bodies flat to the surface of the water. Rory's mind boggled.

"How do they turn if there's no walls?" he yelled.

"Wait and see!"

Rory didn't have to wait long. The men finished their last stroke of fly and suddenly dolphin-dived, vanishing beneath the waves. Rory saw ten quick black underwater streaks, then the swimmers surfaced on their backs, arms whirling as they began their backstroke.

"There's marks on the bottom of the pool to tell them when to change strokes," the Doctor said.

Disgruntled, Rory folded his arms. "All that time I wasted practicing IM transition turns!"

Amy laughed, giddy and breathless from the sheer speed of the race. "The coach of Rory's swim club in Leadworth was a real taskmaster," she told the Doctor.

"He was an ogre," Rory said, shouting to be heard above the din of the crowd. "He used to make us do extra butterfly sets if we snuck an extra breath going into or out of our turns."

The athletes were approaching a line of flags strung up over the pool, and as they passed under it, they all dived backwards beneath the water, turned onto their stomachs, and when they surfaced again, they were swimming a fast, aggressive breaststroke.

"They're dolphin-kicking," Rory complained.

"It's legal for this stroke now," the Doctor said. "About two thousand years ago, the federations decided breaststroke was too slow and boring, so they changed the kick." He leaned forward and said, "This is where Alistair will win it," he said. "He's a brilliant breaststroker."

Indeed, the Earth swimmer was already extending his lead on the other nine men, darting forward with his upper body, a hummingbird-like motion that was incongruous to see on such a tall, powerful man. Each lunge forward was propelled by the undulations of an incredibly powerful dolphin kick. And before Rory knew what had happened, Alistair finished his last stroke with another dive underwater, and he surfaced several meters later in a fast, flat freestyle. By now, the crowd was screaming.

"He's winning, he's winning!" Amy shrieked.

Rory watched the Earth swimmer complete the last hundred meters of the race, only lifting his face for air every eight or ten strokes. Incredible; do they give them oxygen before the race starts? Rory wondered. And then Alistair finished, making a spectacular lunge into the wall.

Rory stared at the digital time clock and yelled, "Three twenty-eight oh-four? That's sick!"

Amy was on her feet with everyone else, jumping up and down and screaming, clapping her hands. "Yeahhh!" she was yelling. "Yaaay, Earth-boy!"

The Doctor was laughing at his companions' vastly different reactions: Amy thrilled, Rory awed and miffed.

"What's the world record at home?" Amy asked Rory when she calmed down, laughing and grabbing his arm.

"When we left, it was four oh-three eighty-four," Rory said, shaking his head. "I guess Michael Phelps can eat his heart out."

"Here come the results," Amy said. The blue hologram screen had appeared again, confirming that Alistair Jones-Hennessy had won the race with a new galactic record. Rory scanned down the results, humbled by the times and fascinated by the array of planets represented. Down on the deck, the other swimmers were congratulating Alistair.

"So, are only humans allowed to compete?" Rory asked the Doctor.

The Doctor started to answer, then fell silent. Amy and Rory saw he was staring at the blue hologram. The screen continued to hover in the air, but it had gone blank and was blinking with some kind of static.

"What's wrong with it?" asked Amy. Most people weren't paying attention, still too excited by the race results to really notice the big screen.

"It shouldn't be doing that," the Doctor murmured, and a moment later, the screen flashed to sudden life again.

Amy let out a peal of laughter. The Doctor heaved a loud sigh, and muttered under his breath, "What does she want this time?"

"What's all that about?" Rory asked Amy. "Is that a message for someone?"

"Yeah, it's for himself," Amy said, tilting her head in the Doctor's direction. "It's a summons from the missus."

The big blue hologram screen now displayed, in enormous letters, the words

HELLO SWEETIE

and beneath them, a set of coordinates.

"Am I missing something?" Rory asked, still baffled.

The Doctor was already heading for the exit. Amy told her husband, "It's River's way of saying 'Mrs. Peel, we're needed.' Only Mr. Peel, I guess. Dr. Peel?"

"Come along, Ponds," the Doctor said, somehow managing to sound grumpy and put-upon, but also excited, twitching with eagerness to be away. "God only knows the trouble she's in this time."

To be continued…