Haven't Met You Yet

By Laura Schiller

Based on: Doctor Who

Copyright: BBC

" … and I know someday it'll all turn up.
You'll make me work so we can work to work it out.
Oh, I promise you, kid, I'll give so much more than I get …
I just haven't met you yet."
- Michael Bublé, "Haven't Met You Yet"

"Clara?"

She looked up from her computer. The voice that had startled her came from a small humanoid man standing in front of her. A very small man; crowded as the Longstaff City Spaceport was, she wondered how she hadn't noticed him before. His head was barely level with her chest, and that was saying something. He also had a strong, square-jawed face, bright green eyes, and an air of confidence quite at odds with the shabby leather outfit he wore. He was beaming up at her with unmistakable delight, and only after several seconds did his smile begin to fade.

"Er … have we met?" asked Clara. "How do you know my name?"

"Don't you remember me?"

"I'm sorry, no."

The stranger looked crestfallen. She blushed as she tucked her computer back into her red purse, eyeing him through the curtain of her hair. She watched as he composed himself again, so that when she looked up, his face was quite calm and polite.

"My apologies," he said. "It's just – you reminded me of someone with that name. Must be coincidence. May I … ?" He gestured to the seat next to hers.

"Go ahead."

He sat, dropped his duffel bag on the floor, propped his feet up on the bag and sighed. Together they watched the starships take off and land, leaving bright green energy trails through the night sky. The transparisteel walls of the terminal glowed with reflected lights, and so did the stranger's eyes as he turned to look at her.

"So your name is Clara," he said, with a half-smile and a mysterious look in his green eyes, as if he knew something she didn't. In her younger days, this would have irritated her; even now, she drew herself up with especial dignity as she nodded assent. "Clara who?"

"Owens. Clara Owens."

"Kenny Longstaff," said the stranger, holding out his hand. "But my friends call me Porridge. It's a pleasure to meet you."

Clara managed not to wince, either at the surprising strength of his handshake or at his names. Longstaff was one of the commonest names in the galaxy – the name of the capital city for one, and countless streets, schools and starships – but it also sounded like a rather cruel joke for a man who had nothing 'long' about him anywhere she could see. As for 'Porridge', well … it was hard not to like someone who could carry off a nickname like that with grace.

"Who knows?" Porridge smiled. "Maybe you are the same Clara, and we're meeting out of chronological order. Do you ever travel in time?"

"Now there's a line I've never heard before!" She laughed, confused and charmed in equal measure. If her electronic copy of Andersen's fairy tales had to be interrupted by a stranger chatting her up, at least he was being creative about it.

"It's not a line," said Porridge, smiling back. "I'm really asking. Do you?"

"Sadly not." She sighed, since that particular memory still stung her, even later. "Tried once, but I … changed my mind."

She had met an interesting man that day as well, standing behind her at the Capricorn Travel Agency; a man with a rainbow-striped scarf long enough for four. Her sudden attack of cold feet at the sight of the advertisements for the Starship Titanic had made her chatty, and she'd waxed so enthusiastic about the local sights of Longstaff that the man with the scarf had changed his plans, handed her a jelly baby, and sauntered away. A week later, the morning news channels had been full of the Titanic's spectacular disaster in the year 2008.

To this day, she was thankful to her cold feet for saving that man's life, not to mention her own. That didn't mean she was proud of giving in to her fear.

Hence the solo vacation across the sector, at an age when most people would content themselves with a 3D simulation at the local arcade.

"Is this your first time travelling, then?" asked Porridge.

"Yeah."

She couldn't control the giddy schoolgirl grin spreading across her face, no matter how silly it looked on a woman over forty. She felt like a schoolgirl, about to see the stars up close for the first time in her life.

"I don't get off-planet much either," said Porridge. "My, er … job kept me close to home before I retired."

"Must be an early retirement," she said lightly. He didn't look a day over forty-five.

He chuckled. "Thanks. It is, actually."

"What did you do?"

"Hmm … you might call it maintenance. Cleaning up after other people's messes, mostly."

A janitor, eh? Part of her was a little disappointed, since his well-worn coat and aviator hat suggested a rather more adventurous way of living. But she could picture him if she tried: walking down the hallways of some shiny office building with a supply cart hovering beside him; buried waist-deep in the engine of a cleaning android; steadily ignored by sleek-suited businesspeople and ignoring them right back. No wonder he needed a holiday.

He must've been a proud janitor, she decided. One who'd call you out for tracking mud over a clean floor, no matter how important you were. She liked that.

"I'm a home tutor," she replied. "Well, I used to be. But now my student's off to university and I've got some money saved up, I decided to treat myself. At least until I find another job."

"Good for you. A home tutor, eh? I didn't think anyone still did that." Despite his words, Porridge looked impressed

"My employers are old-fashioned. They didn't want to trust their little girl to an android or a hologram, and I can't blame them."

She braced herself for criticism – Emma Takorian, her student, would have rolled her eyes and called her a fussy old lady – but Porridge nodded to her with sober respect.

"Neither do I. Technology's a blessing, but there are limits to how far we should let it control our lives, don't you think? Or we might as well have surrendered to the Cybermen a thousand years ago."

Hearing about the Cyber War had given her nightmares ever since she was a child. This was why, among other things, she used an antiquated tablet computer instead of having one implanted in her brain like the younger generation. Emma teased her about it often enough, but she refused to budge.

"There's one modern invention I wouldn't trade for anything, though," she said.

"What's that?"

"Last call for boarding," a cool female voice echoed through the sound system, as if on cue. "The 1900 flight from Longstaff to Midnight leaves in fifteen minutes. Please proceed to the departure gates."

"Warp engines," Clara and Porridge chorused, catching each other's eye and laughing like old friends.

Everywhere around them, fellow passengers began gathering luggage, throwing away snack wrappers, herding children away from the antigrav playpen in the corner and lining up in front of the gate. A little boy with blue headspikes ran past them, tripping over Clara's purse on the floor; his father (judging by the same spikes) caught him by the shoulder and spun him around.

"Watch where you're going, sport," he said, bowing to Clara and Porridge. "Sorry, ma'am, sir. He's just overexcited."

"That's okay," said Clara. "So am I."

She went down on her knees and began stuffing her belongings back into her purse, thankful to her lucky stars that most of her things were in her in-flight suitcase. Computer, makeup, bathroom articles, tickets, wallet –

Her hand collided with Porridge's. Somehow during the commotion, he must have climbed down off his seat to help her. "Sorry," he said, handing her a stray shilling.

"Thanks."

She took the coin, intending to drop it back into her wallet, but something about the engraving caught her attention. It was an old shilling from the previous emperor's reign, and she had always liked the strong, spare profile of that man's face. Now she glanced from the coin back to Porridge, and back to the coin again. Déjà vu made her head spin like a carousel ride.

He looked away. His profile matched the coin.

"You said you were in maintenance!"

She blushed, horrified by the way that had come out.

"Well … yes," said Ludens Nimrod Kendrick Cord Longstaff the Forty-First, with a regretful and most un-imperial shrug. "Most of the time, that's what being a leader is like. I'm well shot of it. My nephew's doing a fine job without me."

"I – I'm sorry … I didn't mean … "

Should she bow? Curtsey? Was she still supposed to call him "Majesty", or did that only apply to the current emperor?

Glancing at his face again, however, her apprehensions melted away. He looked grimly resigned, like an escaped prisoner about to be dragged back in handcuffs. This explained the fib, the aliases, the leather, the aviator hat. She couldn't begin to imagine what his life must have been like, but she could imagine why he needed to leave it behind.

On impulse, she decided to follow her heart instead of her manners. It would prove to be one of the happiest decisions of her life.

"Well … Mr. Longstaff," she said, rather breathlessly, as she put away her wallet and got back to her feet. "I've got to admit, I'm glad you're retired."

His green eyes brightened hopefully at the common title, which put him on the same level as her own. "And why is that?"

"Because," she said, "When we get to Midnight, that means I could buy you a drink without attracting reporters. Theoretically, that is. If you wanted to."

It was his turn to blush, giving her the same warm smile she had seen in that very first moment.

"Theoretically, Ms. Owens," he said, "I'd be honored."

She took his hand to pull him to his feet, and did not let go.