The Time of Change

The Time-Defying Dozen

"You would have hope," my husband tells the General surely, wagging a finger at the Scanner screen. In the back of my mind, I register Androgar—who, for some reason, I definitely do recognize—stepping out of the frame with an awestruck expression, but the Doctor presses on, "And right now, that is exactly what you don't have."

My eyes flick to the stasis cube sitting on our console, and my heart inexplicably skips a beat. It's such a strange weapon. Can we even call it a weapon if it's helping? I haven't the time to battle that out in my head. Instead, I watch the emotions flit across this General's face: confusion, anger, resentment, fear, and finally exhaustion.

"It's delusional!" he shouts, his voice oddly garbled in the Scanner's speakers. "The calculations alone would take hundreds of years!"

Exhilaration and anticipation intermingle chaotically in the pit of my stomach, ice-cold and almost incapacitating, as the Doctor begins to move around hitting buttons and pulling levers. I follow his lead, feeling the TARDIS nudge me toward certain things that need to be done.

"Oh, hundreds and hundreds!" my husband quips as he works.

"But don't worry," I hear the Tenth add. "I started a very long time ago."

"Calling the War Council of Gallifrey!" an elderly-sounding English man says, brisk and no-nonsense. My heart drops to my toes at the sound of the familiar voice filling the room, and I stop dead in my tracks. My head turns back toward the Scanner on my left, and I see the screen splitting into twelve sections with the image of the General in the center.

In the top right corner, the white-haired First Doctor stares purposefully ahead, and though I know he can't see me, I beam at him.

My husband continues from across the console, "You might say I've been doing this all my lives."

"Good luck!" I hear another voice call out. The Second Doctor appears on the screen next to the First.

The Third adds, "Standing by."

"Ready!" the Fourth exclaims, straightening the colorful scarf that Osgood has adopted as her own.

"Commencing calculations," the Eighth declares in a somewhat absent tone. My heart flutters violently at the sight of those icy blue eyes. The way he looks into the screen gives the impression that he can see me, and I can't help but to smile wider.

The Fifth assures, "Soon be there!"

"Across the boundaries that divide one universe from another," says the Seventh.

"Just got to lock on to his coordinates," yelps the Sixth, slapping his console.

"And now," a deep-ish voice adds, causing my blood to run cold altogether, "for my next trick." My eyes flit to his face as it fills the box in the lower left corner, directly beside the Tenth. He has almost no hair, big ears, childlike bright eyes, the happiest smile, and most wonderful laugh. With a warm flourish in my heart, I also remember that he is an absolutely dreadful dancer. The Ninth Doctor—the first face I admitted to loving, the first one to kiss me—grins conspiratorially at his Scanner, then winks like he knows I'm watching. My heart does a somersault, and I let out a quiet laugh.

There's still one empty space. I stare at it quizzically for a moment as my husband moves to stand by my side. I glimpse at him, but he's already looking at me with a soft smile. I sniffle, suddenly aware of the bittersweet tears that have filled my eyes, and slip my hand into his. Those thoughtful blues seem to ask me a very unsure question: Can we really win?

I take a deep breath and give him the most hopeful smile I can muster, praying that all the versions of him know what I've known the whole time. If anyone can do this, it's us.