So Vile a Sin (19 page)

It was hard to tell under the mimetic paint job, but Simon thought it looked like a heavily customized Holstek Firefly.
Très
cash heavy and out of his scope; even when he was a spoilt playboy student. He paused for a moment to admire its lines before moving off downhill to kill its owner.

The concrete lump was an eroded, mossy shape, a few metres from the house, hidden by grass and humus. Just enough of it stuck up out of the ground to form an inconvenient and hidden step.

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Simon fell off the edge, twisting his ankle and cursing, and hurtled down a short slope until his embarrassing descent was cut short by the tool shed.

The shed shuddered once, groaned, and disintegrated, showering Simon with bits of rotting wood and small digging tools. Its collapse revealed a surprised-looking woman, who dropped into a martial-arts stance.

Simon spent just half a second lying in the mud with silverfish crawling over him before leaping up and scowling at her.

‘Nice car!’ he yelped, lowering a hand.

‘Thanks. Don’t even try going for the knife in your boot.’ She was around his age, dark, with full lips and electric-blonde hair.

She looked like a sim star. ‘I’ve got a laser pistol in a fast-draw shoulder holster – you’ll never make it.’

‘You wouldn’t get your hand on the butt,’ said Simon, ‘I have a disgel gun built into my right forearm.’

‘But I’m wearing flexible mesh armour under my coat,
and
it’s been treated to be resistant.’

‘Your hands are exposed,’ said Simon, ‘so you
still
wouldn’t be able to get your pistol.’

‘Maybe,’ said the woman, ‘but it wouldn’t do you any good because there’s a troop of heavily armed bodyguards in a military standard AFV less than a klick away – one word from me and they’d be here in less than thirty seconds.’

‘I’ll just have to make sure you don’t say the word then.’

‘They’re monitoring my life signs, so you’d still be dead when they got here.’

‘If they could find me.’

‘These are trained troops.’

‘I wouldn’t put money on it – they’re from up top and I know my way around down here.’

‘Assuming that they just don’t use the AFV’s plasma cannon to sterilize the area.’

‘In that case I’d turn into a bird and fly away before they got here.’

The woman gave him a sharp look. ‘What kind?’

‘What?’

‘What kind of bird?’

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‘An eagle.’

‘Golden, bald or imperial?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Simon. ‘Which one flies fastest?’

‘No idea,’ said the woman. ‘It’s a stupid idea anyway.’

‘Well, yes.’

‘The pollution would kill you,’ said the woman. ‘You’d be better off as a mole or something.’

‘Look,’ said Simon, ‘I presume you’re here about the house.’

‘Well, I was, but a man who can transform himself into a bird is far more interesting.’

‘How did you find it?’

‘NOYB.’

‘Who’s that?’

‘None of your business. My arms are starting to ache.’

‘Mine too. Let’s go and ring the doorbell and see if anyone’s at home.’

‘You walk in front where I can see you.’

‘Can’t we trust one another?’

‘All right,’ she said after a moment. ‘But you still have to walk in front.’

Simon took his eyes off her. When she didn’t immediately try to kill him, he relaxed even further. ‘I think we’re around the back of the house,’ he said. ‘If there’s a doorbell, it’ll be around the front.’

He moved off, watching his feet this time, trying to convince himself she wasn’t eyeing his bhunti and smirking. Or possibly trying to convince himself that she was.

Simon and the woman, whose name was Genevieve, spent ten minutes ripping vines out of wood and plaster before the door was clear enough for a person to pass through it. One particularly stubborn clump of foliage pulled loose to reveal the doorbell.

They looked at each other. Simon shrugged and pressed it.

They listened. Nothing. No one had been home for a very long time, probably centuries. Inside they might find a few clues, a few remnants, the sort of stuff that was recovered on archaeological digs. That was if they didn’t fall through a rotting floor or get their foot stuck in a disintegrating stair.

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Without thinking, Simon pressed the button again. Faint but clearly audible, there was a tinkling sound from somewhere inside the house.

They looked at each other. Genevieve had her hand on the doorknob when someone opened the door.

‘Good afternoon,’ said the old man. The very old man. The oldest man Simon had ever seen. He sat in a plastic wheelchair with wide arms, hovering an inch off the floor, a blanket with a checked design covering his lap and legs.

A kitten was asleep on the blanket. The man stroked it with a gnarled hand. He had fine white hair and a billion wrinkles.

Simon realized he was rudely standing there in astonishment.

‘Er,’ he said. ‘Good afternoon.’

‘Do come in,’ said the man. ‘If you’ve come all this way you’ll want a cup of tea. I have some organically grown lapsang souchong which is just ready for use. I grow it myself in the back garden.’

‘Where?’ Simon asked, stupidly. He realized Genevieve was looking past the old man, into the hallway. Which was warm, and dry, a Persian rug covering polished floorboards, tiny real books lining wooden shelves. He could see the pair of them in a mirror at the other end, looking gormless.

‘That would be delightful,’ said Genevieve. ‘You’re very kind.’

‘Not at all,’ said the old man. ‘Doctor Smith. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.’

‘We don’t get many visitors from outside,’ said the Doctor, leading the way into the lounge. ‘Except for the occasional party of Ice Warriors.’

‘Ice Warriors?’ Simon had never heard of them.

‘Martians,’ said the Doctor. ‘They like to fly down every so often and stage a victory parade. Everyone lines up and waves flags and shouts “hurrah” – that sort of thing. Absolutely pointless, of course, but they seem to enjoy it. And technically, they do own the planet.’

The lounge was full of ancient furniture, all of it in perfect repair. There was a mantelpiece with a bronze Buddha and a bowl of apples. The Doctor hovered over to the fireplace, turning 145

so he would face his visitors as they sat on the sofa. A glass of wine stood on a round wooden table beside him.

‘The Martians own Earth?’ said Simon. Genevieve put a hand on his arm as she sat down. After a moment he sat next to her. A cat rubbed itself against his legs, startling him.

The wrinkles around the Doctor’s eyes multiplied as he smiled.

‘I do wish you’d close your mouth, young man. Sitting there with your mouth open makes you look like a fish.’ Simon obliged. ‘Of course the Martians own Earth, we surrendered in 2010, or rather I surrendered on Earth’s behalf. Thoroughly decent chaps, the Ice Warriors, once you get to know them.’

The Doctor picked up his wineglass, sipped once and put it down. ‘We came to a quite amicable agreement, technology transfers, that sort of thing. There was a joint effort to revivify Mars. They went out to conquer the stars and the human race stayed here and had a good time. Worked out rather well, even if I do say so myself.’

‘What about the Empire?’ said Genevieve.

‘The Martians look after all that sort of thing, fighting off the Daleks and the Rutans and organizing all the paperwork. The Earth hasn’t been invaded in centuries.’

‘But it’s ruled by the Martians,’ insisted Genevieve.

‘Oh, human beings and Earth Reptiles take care of their own affairs. Isn’t that right, Takmar?’

Genevieve and Simon spun, but there was no one standing behind the sofa. The Doctor went on, ‘This little world would be far worse off without their expertise. A little ecology, a little technology.’ He nodded to his invisible scaly friend. ‘Some planets set aside areas as nature reserves, but Earth is a nature reserve. Earthlings quietly integrated into its ecology, living and working side by side.’

‘It sounds very restful,’ said Genevieve. She’d obviously decided to humour the old man, hoping he’d drop some useful information into the conversation. ‘Utopian.’

‘I’m very pleased with it,’ said the Doctor.

Simon asked, ‘Don’t you get bored?’

‘The thing about war, young man,’ said the Doctor, ‘is that the initial excitement of being terrified out of your wits while trying 146

to kill other people who are terrified out of their wits eventually wears off. War is not only hell, it’s utterly tedious. There comes a time when it becomes so tedious you look for something else to do with your time. Tea, for example. Come and take a look at the kitchen.’

‘Yes, please,’ said Genevieve.

Simon followed Genevieve as she followed the Doctor into the kitchen. The wheelchair murmured as it moved over carpet and wood. Simon had the annoying impression that she was dealing with the situation better than he was. Maybe she just gave the impression of dealing with it. She reminded him of women from sims about the Court, people who were like ducks – smooth and effortless on the surface, paddling like mad underneath. He thought of the Firefly. Whoever this woman was, penniless ex-student terrorist she wasn’t.

The kitchen was full of gadgets, every centimetre of counter space taken up with streamlined equipment or chuffing, clockwork-and-steam devices. Simon puzzled out the beer brewer and the breadmaker, and an Earth Reptile version of a Tisanesmade, with big buttons for operation by claw.

The Doctor tapped the arm of his wheelchair. A small control panel unfolded outward, and he used it to adjust the height of the chair until he could comfortably reach the Tisanesmade. He opened an old glass jar and shovelled fresh leaves into a hatch in the side of the machine. The kitten, its sleep disturbed, yawned pinkly and hopped down.

‘Yes,’ he continued, ‘the human race eventually got bored with killing, and got on with the sorts of things it’s much better at.

Cooking, for example.’

‘Cooking?’ prompted Genevieve. The Tisanesmade was making odd noises, as though bits had been added to its insides and hadn’t quite meshed.

‘Oh yes. People from all over the galaxy visit Earth for the cuisine. That and the fresh air and interesting native lifestyle.’

‘So we’re a backwater, then?’ said Simon. ‘A dot on the map where people come for their holidays.’

‘Ecotourism,’ said Genevieve.

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‘A far more rewarding occupation than going about blowing up other people’s planets, don’t you agree?’ The Tisanesmade made a chuffing noise as though it was about to explode, then pinged.

The Doctor lifted a panel. Inside were three steaming cups of organic tea, a little jug of synthetic cream and a bowl of sugar lumps. ‘From fresh leaves to brewed tea in under three minutes.

Go right ahead.’

Simon put three lumps of sugar into his tea and took a hesitant sip. It was superb. He gave Genevieve a small smile, and she reached into the machine for her cup.

‘There,’ said the Doctor. ‘Not bad for someone who doesn’t exist, eh?’

He winked at Simon, who almost dropped his cup.

Simon and Genevieve had a few moments together while the Doctor was pottering around in the kitchen. They sat next to each other at a long table set with crystal glasses and real china plates.

‘There must be a drudgebot around somewhere,’ said Simon.

‘Maybe the Earth Reptile set the table,’ said Genevieve. Simon gave her a peculiar look. ‘Don’t you think a bot would seem out of place here?’ She looked around at the antique furniture, the oil paintings, the worn paper covering on the walls. ‘I’ll bet this room isn’t even bugged.’

‘What about all the machinery in the kitchen?’ said Simon.

‘Did you notice how the kitchen was completely different to the other rooms?’ said Genevieve. ‘It looked modern. Plenty of plastic and technology. But these rooms… The world he’s describing is a high-tech, low-impact society. Clean and efficient.

I’ll wager they recycle everything, and not because they have to.’

‘You’re talking about it as though it’s real,’ Simon pointed out.

‘To him it obviously is. He’s not quite what I expected… but then, he doesn’t exist, does he?’

‘He’s not what I expected, either.’

They looked at each other, considering whether to swap a few hints about their respective missions. The Doctor chose that moment to hover back in.

‘You were both looking for me,’ he said, ‘but what was it you were really after, eh?’ He hovered up to the table. ‘I’ve often 148

asked myself that. But I think I’m used to Utopia after a millennium.’ He gave one of his crinkly smiles. ‘You’re probably wondering whether I’m the real thing or just some madman pottering about an ancient house in the middle of nowhere.

Whether I really am the Doctor. Well, I’m not.’

‘You’re not?’ said Simon.

‘I’m not the Doctor. I’m
a
Doctor. An alternative, you might say. You’re both young, you have many possible futures, if you see what I mean. Did you imagine you’d be where you are now, doing what you’re doing now, a year ago? Five years ago?’

‘No,’ said Simon.

‘I suppose not,’ said Genevieve. ‘Time has a way of changing our plans.’

‘Exactly. Exactly right. Let me put it another way. If you wanted to change the world, would you try to save the whole world, rush about everywhere trying to take care of all the problems that desperately needed attention? Or would you choose just one place and put all of your energy into looking after it?’

‘It’s a good question,’ said Genevieve. ‘Spread your good deeds as far as you can, or concentrate on creating one…

Utopia?’

‘Exactly.’ The Doctor took her hand, perfect skin and nails held lightly in his leathery fingers. ‘Exactly, young lady. It was time to make a decision. I hadn’t had the choice for a long time, you see. I was trapped here. All I wanted to do was get away, but, you see, what I really wanted back was my freedom. The freedom to choose whether to stay or to go. When I had that choice, I chose to stay.’

‘Stay here on Earth?’ said Genevieve.