Doctor Who_ So Vile A Sin Part 19

'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 pa.s.s 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.

144.

Without thinking, Simon pressed the b.u.t.ton 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 doork.n.o.b 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 gla.s.s 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 winegla.s.s, 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 h.e.l.l, 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 s.p.a.ce 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 b.u.t.tons 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 gla.s.s 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.

147.

'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 gla.s.ses 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 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?' 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.

'That's right. I think it was the right decision. Of course, I also decided to go gallivanting about to every planet in existence, toppling evil empires and returning lost balloons to small children. Most of the decisions I could have made I did make somewhere.'

'So you don't exist in our world?' said Simon.

'Nor you in mine,' said the Doctor. 'No offence, of course, the timestreams are big enough for everyone. Think of me as a set of hypothetical situations.'

149.

'If you insist,' said Simon.

'One of you stays,' said Genevieve, 'one of you goes.'

'Hundreds if not thousands of each,' said the Doctor. 'Some of me are killed in a prison cell by the Earth Reptiles and left to rot things weren't so friendly then. Some of me have gone on to destroy whole worlds always in a good cause, of course and others don't face anything more traumatic than a bad aphid infestation. Some of me aren't me at all; at least one of me is a ruthless dictator with my picture up everywhere. In a sense we're all just third-generation copies of the original.'

'The original Doctor?' said Simon. He was starting to get the feeling he got when he cram-viewed too many study sims in a row, carried away on a wave of input.

'Time, as you say, has a way of changing our plans,' the Doctor was saying. 'Choosing the future Time wanted would have meant opening up the past. A real Pandora's Box, crammed to the hinges with dark and fantastic secrets. I was curious, of course. But in time, as the knowledge filtered through, I would be changed. Changed in ways I couldn't predict. I did know one thing.' His ancient eyes were serious. 'Whatever I would have become, I would have called it evil.'

There was a few moments' silence. Simon asked, 'You said you'd been here for a thousand years.'

'Next Thursday,' beamed the Doctor.

'How? You can't be human.'

'After a thousand years of looking after this planet, I'd say I'm as human as I'm going to get. You could say I've gone native.'

A shaft of late-afternoon light shone through the window for a moment, the last before the sun disappeared behind the distant city. Simon had a strange urge to go to the window and see if the city was still there, if they'd been drawn inexplicably into the Doctor's fantasy world like children into fairyland.

For a moment he could have sworn he saw an alien, an honest-to-G.o.d BEM with green skin and five arms and five legs, its ceiling-high anemone shape caught in the beam of sunlight. He glanced at Genevieve. She had seen it too she was staring at the suddenly empty spot in the lounge, staring out of the window.

From the garden came the sound of children laughing.

150.

It was dark by the time they finished dinner. The Doctor had done all the cooking himself, with the a.s.sistance of the kitchen machines. And probably with help from more of his invisible friends: organic vegetables, herbs from the garden, and a home-made wine that tasted like punch. In the head.

Simon still felt a bit foggy, the wine's aftertaste like fuzz in his mouth. The Doctor had hovered upstairs and shown them the guest bedrooms, fresh sheets on the beds, towels neatly folded on the end. Simon's room came equipped with a couple of cats, who were obligingly warming up the antique bra.s.s bed, purring.

Simon sat on the edge of the bed, careful not to disturb the fat, sleek animals. The room was oddly shaped, right at the very top of the house, tucked away under the sloping roof.

There was a triangular mirror hung on the wall. Simon looked at himself in it, wondering what Genevieve saw. He kept his sandy hair cut short. He had the usual tan and the usual slight fold to the eyelids. The fact that he looked so ordinary was a definite plus for a terrorist. Worked for Mr Jamey.

A window faced on to the garden, pitch-black. Simon wondered what was out there. The lights of the overcity, hidden by the Reserve's thick forests? Or Doctor Smith's world, populated by peace-loving humans and their friendly reptile friends? If he walked out of the door and headed away from the house, what would he see?

Nothing he didn't have a torch. He hadn't meant to stay until dark. He certainly hadn't meant to spend the night.

He reached out a hand and fingered the peeling wallpaper, wondering if Mr Jamey knew about the place. Of course he knew about it. He'd said something about intercepting another investigator's Centcomp research requests.

The nondescript man (how can you describe someone as nondescript? but it was just the right word for Mr Jamey) had warned him that his resistance cell had been broken. He'd just dropped it into the conversation, right there at the dance club, while Simon was handing over the stolen software from a particularly unimportant Imperial cleaning robot. Telepaths, Mr 151 Jamey had said over the roar of the music, probably. And something about Simon needing to see a Doctor.

Genevieve slammed the door behind him. Simon leapt off the bed as though it had been electrified, narrowly missed banging his head on the low ceiling, and glared at her.

She was naked under a white bath towel, her hair wet and falling in ringlets to her shoulders. There were beads of water on her arms and the slopes of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. He was struck by sudden memory: Sibongile on the night before the day she died, light from the candles she'd placed around her dorm room reflected in her eyes. Simon looked away, towards the window again.