Doctor Who_ Alien Bodies Part 19

'If I untie you, do you promise not to cause any more trouble?' hissed the Doctor.

Homunculette scowled up at him. 'Why?'

'Well, you know. In the interests of peace and galactic understanding, I have to insist you don't try to kill Cousin Justine again.' The Doctor looked around, more than a little furtively. The two Faction Paradox members had left Homunculette's side, and were conversing in the doorway of the anteroom. He couldn't hear what they were saying, mainly because E-Kobalt was reciting a speech about the supremacy of the Kroton race to Colonel Kortez. Kortez was, predictably, nodding. The Doctor had heard about Homunculette's a.s.sault on Justine from the s.h.i.+ft, and he'd already pocketed the offending sonic monkey-wrench, for close inspection later on.

'Animals,' Homunculette spat.

'I'm sorry?'

'Faction Paradox. Do you know what kind of damage those people do? Do you have any idea of the things things they're supposed to wors.h.i.+p? Do you?' they're supposed to wors.h.i.+p? Do you?'

The Doctor nodded. 'I know. I agree, it's vitally important we make sure they don't get hold of my... of the Relic. I don't think smas.h.i.+ng Justine's skull is the best way of going about it, though.' He tried to lip-read the conversation between Justine and Manjuele, but Justine had her back turned most of the time, and Manjuele was practically talking through his teeth. The Doctor caught what looked like the word "girl" on the man's lips.

Homunculette snorted. 'All right. I promise.'

'What? Oh, good.' The Doctor started untying the Time Lord. The Faction's agents had used symbioadaptive cord to do the binding, he noticed. The big show-offs. Still, rope was rope, however smart it was supposed to be.

He looked up at the cultists again. He thought he saw Manjuele point towards the floor, and mouth the words "in the vault".

'Faster,' hissed Homunculette.

'Yes, yes. I'm trying.' The Doctor leaned a little closer to the man's ear. 'Actually, I wanted to talk to you about your people. The Time Lords. Do you really think the High Council has a right to the Relic?'

'Right of survival,' Homunculette grunted.

'But things can't be that desperate, surely? Even by becoming involved in events here, you've threatened the stability of the local timeline.' He kept one eye on the cultists, and saw Manjuele mutter what looked like "we've got her biodata".

'And I suppose you think you've got more of a right to the body than we have?'

'Well, actually...'

The cord came loose. Almost immediately, Homunculette was on his feet. He was quick, thought the Doctor, but he wasn't exactly graceful. 'I don't know who you are, but I know what you're trying to do. You're giving me the old "non-interventionist" routine. Well, it's not going to work. We need the weapon, and we're going to have the weapon. Understand?'

The Doctor stood. 'I was only thinking about Gallifrey's responsibilities.'

'd.a.m.n our responsibilities. This is war.' Homunculette turned, to face the two Paradox cultists. 'And I've got better things to do around here than talk to you.'

He started to move away, in the direction of Cousin Justine. The Doctor grabbed his arm. Homunculette spun on his heel, his fists clenched.

Luckily, it was at this point that Qixotl ambled into the anteroom. He cast his eyes around the room, a big cheesy smile on his face.

'If I could have everyone's attention?' he said. 'Lovely. Well, as you've probably noticed, I've shut off the alarms, and everything's 100 per cent OK again.'

'The-auc-tion?' droned E-Kobalt.

'Oh yeah, the auction. Well, seeing as most of us are already here, we might as well make a start, right?'

The Doctor frowned to himself. He had hoped to delay the auction a little longer. 'I'm not sure we should rush into this ' he began.

'Shut up,' snapped Homunculette.

'Yeah,' agreed Little Brother Manjuele, only now noticing Homunculette was free, and looking less than happy about it.

I THINK WE'VE WAITED LONG ENOUGH, said the patterns in the torchlight reflecting off E Kobalt's head.

'We're all agreed, then,' beamed Qixotl, deliberately avoiding the Doctor's gaze. 'Great. Mr s.h.i.+ft, d'you think you could go and fetch Mr Trask, at all? Save us time. Thank you.' He strolled across the floor, heading for the doorway on the other side of the room. The s.p.a.ce beyond it was unlit, the Doctor noticed. So far, n.o.body had gone anywhere near it. 'If you'd all like to follow me, we can get this show on the road.'

There were mutters of relief from the a.s.sorted bidders. One by one, they followed Qixotl through the doorway. Homunculette was one of the last to go; he seemed determined not to let the Faction cultists get behind him at any point. The Doctor watched the Time Lord vanish into the darkness.

d.a.m.n our responsibilities. That was what he'd said. Homunculette had no sense of perspective, no concern for the universe-in-general, no regard for the consequences of his actions. The High Council had always been hypocritical in its dealings with other races, the Doctor knew that, but this was sheer b.l.o.o.d.y-mindedness.

Homunculette. A puppet. A thing created to act as an agent of a higher power. Was that all the Time Lord was? A little bundle of nerves and simple responses, doing the bidding of a Council that really couldn't have cared less about the Laws of Time?

It wouldn't have seemed so bad, if it hadn't been for that one niggling little doubt at the back of the Doctors mind. Gallifrey had pushed him around, too. A show-trial here, a subtle manipulation there. Exarius. Peladon. Solos. Skaro. Time and time again, the High Council had dumped him in the middle of history's battlezones, knowing how he'd react, knowing he'd do their dirty work for them.

That was the worst thing. That one niggling little doubt, that one nagging question.

Was Homunculette just doing the same things he'd he'd done for the High Council... while he'd been alive? done for the High Council... while he'd been alive?

9.

ENFANT TERRIBLE.

The antibody was larger than all its siblings, and the others had already started orbiting around it, accepting it as their natural-born leader. The first few antibodies had been small and simple, little more than fleshy lumps of matter with killing instincts wired into their heads, but the vault had become more ambitious after a while. The antibody it liked to think of itself as the the antibody, now was very nearly sentient, or at least, as sentient as a life-form could be without there being any risk of it developing a code of ethics. antibody, now was very nearly sentient, or at least, as sentient as a life-form could be without there being any risk of it developing a code of ethics.

It floated up towards the ceiling of the vault, then hovered above the victim's head for a few moments, its umbilical tube still tying it to its mother-bud. The victim lay among the growths on the floor, eyes and mouth wide open. The antibody smiled. Naturally, it had nothing but contempt for the girl. It had been grown from her biodata, so logically, she was responsible for its imperfections. It hadn't asked to be born, and it felt the human to be wholly at fault.

The antibody extended its arms, so it could see its own hands for the first time. Its fingers were stubby and half-formed, its wrists fat and inflexible. Hateful. The antibody decided that once the victim was dead, its first act would be to terminate itself.

As it drifted down towards the girl, it grew memories, and an ident.i.ty started to develop in the folds of its formative brain. The antibody had been modelled on the girl's biodata, not on her psychological profile, so strictly speaking it shouldn't have shared her past. But there were certain things in the universe, rare and dangerous things, that could freeze experiences into a being's biodata; the security systems of the City knew that, so the antibody knew it, too. There were some things so powerful, all you had to do was brush against them and the memory would be coded into every cell of your body for the rest of your life.

The antibody wrapped its hands around the girl's neck, heard the skin on its fingers squealing like Cellophane. The girl tried to beat it off, but the antibody's siblings were moving into position around her arms, holding her still. She thrashed her head from side to side. From her memories, the antibody reached the conclusion it was a young human female. At least, the victim was a young human female, so the antibody reasoned that it should be, as well. A her her, then, not an it it any longer. any longer.

Her name was Samantha Angeline Jones. Her date of birth was the fifteenth of April, 1980. She didn't believe in astrology, but then, Arians were sceptical like that. Her parents were educated, socially aware, middle-cla.s.s Londoners; her mother was a social worker, her father was a doctor. The antibody didn't remember their faces, exactly, but she knew what they meant to her. She'd grown up in the aftershock of what people liked to call Thatcher's Britain, had gone to a sc.u.mmy comprehensive in East London, had been arrested for shoplifting at the age of twelve, all the usual stuff.

Her hair was dark. Her figure was athletic. There was a scar on the back of her left hand, where she'd been burnt with a cigarette end in a Dagenham nightclub at the age of fourteen (she'd lied about her age to get in, same as she did every weekend). There were still a couple of scars up her left arm, where she'd injected diamorphine and something had gone wrong under the skin. The scars had got her arrested, once, walking down East Ham High Street in a short-sleeved t-s.h.i.+rt.

The antibody cut off the victim's air supply. The girl didn't look scared, even though she was a minute or so away from death, and even though the other antibodies had started giggling in her ear. She looked confused, more than anything. Sam Jones, the antibody Sam Jones, wondered why that might be.

Antibody Sam dissected her personality a little further. She was a vegetarian, she discovered, the only person in her cla.s.s who didn't think h.o.m.os.e.xuals ought to be shot on sight. She was on Amnesty International's mailing list, and she was planning to vote Labour as soon as she was old enough to vote. Of course, no one believed any of that when they saw her. If you looked the way she looked, you were a non-personality. You were supposed to be either a thug who sold crack to schoolchildren or a mindless victim whose life was just one long string of fixes and vomiting fits.

The antibody stopped squeezing. The girl, the other Samantha Angeline Jones, managed to suck some air back into her lungs.

The victim had blonde hair. Real blonde, not out of a bottle. But Sam had dark hair, it was written into the genetics of her biodata.

Wait. She had to think.

Her name was Samantha Angeline Jones. Her birthday was the fifteenth of April, 1980. She didn't believe in astrology, but then, Arians were sceptical like that. Her parents were educated, socially aware, middle-cla.s.s Londoners; her mother was a social worker, her father was a doctor. But her hair was blonde, not dark, and there was no cigarette burn on her hand. No scars on her arm, either.

'I don't smoke I don't even drink c.o.ke,' she remembered saying, when she'd first met the man with the curly hair and the police box. 'I'm a vegetarian.'

Antibody Sam let go. Her siblings burbled among themselves, not knowing which way to turn. On the floor, Sam the victim started pulling herself free of the flowers. The antibody searched her embryonic memory, trying to get a fix on what was happening.

Sam Jones had two sets of biodata. Two lifelines, running in parallel. One had dark roots, a bruise under her ribs that had never gone away, a bundle of old B&H gratis points stuffed into the top drawer of her dresser. The other Sam was different. Smoother around the edges. Cleaner. Not perfect, but more reliable, more predictable. It was the smooth version, the censored version, who was lying there on the floor of the vault.

That was why so many memories had been locked into the girl's biodata, the antibody realised. The vector of her entire life, from the first breath to the last rites, had been encoded in her biodata, a guideline for her existence on Earth. The dangerous parts, the dark, sticky, self-destructive parts, had been ripped out. Something or someone had twisted her timeline until she'd collided with the man in the police box. The other Sam, the one with the scars and the burns, would never even have met him.

Sam the antibody didn't know who or what could possibly have done something like that. Nor did she know why anyone would have wanted the girl to end up on board the TARDIS instead of spending the rest of her life in a bedsit near King's Cross. But then, Sam the antibody didn't care about the details.

All she knew was this; she hated her victim now more than ever. She reached out for the girl's throat again, and her siblings gurgled excitedly, relieved things were going to schedule once more.

'Lights,' said Mr Qixotl. The conference hall obliged him by switching on the torches.

The hall was at the very centre of the ziggurat, and the architecture had been designed to make the area look larger than the building itself. All an illusion, natch. Qixotl had never got the hang of dimensional transcendentalism. The ceiling wasn't visible from floor level; it was supposed to give the impression of being ridiculously high, whereas in fact it was just covered in miniature shadow generators. The floor was a perfect square of grey, a ma.s.sive thirty metres from side to side, paved with slabs of rough-edged stone. Genuine stone, for once, nicked from the Temple of Undue Discomforture on Golobus. Qixotl was quite excited by this particular feature, so he was keeping his fingers crossed that someone would ask him about it. The hall was lined with archways, each one twice the height of any of the bidders, and even if most of them didn't lead anywhere, they still gave the place a sense of scale.

In the centre of the hall was the conference table. It was fas.h.i.+oned from pure blue gla.s.s, and it practically sparkled in the light from the gigantic flaming torches, which hovered overhead on their miniature antigrav engines. The table was large enough to ensure that none of the bidders would have to touch each other when they sat down around it.

The second the lights came on, the speaker systems started pumping light muzak into the atmosphere. It was supposed to promote thoughts of well-being and mutual co-operation in organic life-forms, but in practice, the sound echoed sloppily around the hall, becoming a little more discordant every time it bounced off one of the walls.

'If you'd all like to take your places around the table?' Qixotl prompted. As he spoke, a handful of Raston cybernetic lap-dancers ambled out of the shadows, and began gyrating to the music. The dancers were designed to arouse unquenchable l.u.s.ts in humanoids, according to the latest Raston Hardware Company catalogue, but Qixotl couldn't see the appeal. Still, Raston tended to go a bit OTT when it came to marketing. The Company was still pretending its products were artefacts left behind by an extinct mystery super-race, even though everyone knew the stuff got put together in an old warehouse on Tersurus Luna.

'Pot-en-tial-agg-ressive-de-vi-ces!' growled E-Kobalt. The Kroton waddled up to the nearest of the dancers, and engaged it in close combat, battering the robot until its head came clean off.

'Well, whatever makes you happy,' mumbled Qixotl. He turned to face the table. Kortez had already found his seat, but Homunculette and the Paradox people were standing glaring at each other, neither wanting to make the first move. Finally, Manjuele pointed an accusing finger at the Time Lord.

'No way,' he said. 'No way we gonna sit down with this son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h.'

Qixotl quickly put himself between the two parties, in a desperate attempt to stop them hitting each other. 'Look, I'm sure we've got another one of those teeny misunderstandings here, yeah? Y'know, let's not waste time splitting hairs.'

'Mr Homunculette did did a.s.sault me,' Cousin Justine pointed out, politely. a.s.sault me,' Cousin Justine pointed out, politely.

'You started it,' Homunculette barked.

'Justice,' leered Manjuele. 'We want justice.'

'Could I make an observation?' said the Doctor.

Everyone swivelled in his direction. The Doctor cleared his throat. 'I untied Mr Homunculette. Even though I knew it might lessen my chances of obtaining the property. Mr Homunculette's bid is sanctioned by the High Council of Gallifrey itself, so I'm sure it'll be very impressive. I've got as much reason to want him excluded from the auction as anyone.'

'What's your point?' asked Cousin Justine.

'My point is, this auction has to be conducted fairly, with all parties given a chance to speak.'

Justine allowed herself a smile. 'But Mr Homunculette broke the rules of hospitality laid down by Mr Qixotl.'

Homunculette opened his mouth to spit out a reply, but mercifully, the Doctor didn't let him get a word in. 'Perhaps that's true. But he's here as an agent of the Time Lords. Your argument is with him, not with the ones he represents. If Mr Homunculette isn't allowed his say, the Time Lords will have no one to speak for them at the auction. I don't think they'll take kindly to that, Cousin.'

'Are you suggesting Gallifrey might attempt some form of violent retribution?' Justine asked.

'Let 'em try,' grinned Manjuele.

'That's not for me to say,' the Doctor replied. 'I'm just suggesting diplomacy might be a better option than retribution. Wouldn't you agree?'

Little Brother Manjuele looked at Cousin Justine. Cousin Justine looked at Homunculette. Homunculette looked like he hated everybody in the whole wide world.

'Very well,' Justine said.

'Justice,' Manjuele growled, but Justine gestured him to be silent.

E-Kobalt waddled towards the table. 'The-pot-en-tial-aggress-ive-de-vic-es-have-been-el-im-in-at-ed,' it reported. Qixotl glanced around the hall. The Raston cybernetic lap-dancers were lying in tangled heaps all over the place, but the music played on. 'We-can-now-pro-ceed-with-the-auc-tion.'

'Wait a minute,' said Homunculette.

Oh, for pity's sake, thought Qixotl, what now? 'Yes, Mr H?'

'I want an a.s.surance that the Relic's still safe. We all heard the alarms going. Somebody's in the vault, the s.h.i.+ft told us.'

Qixotl tried not to scream. 'I checked out the defences not five minutes ago, Mr H. Yeah, a couple of, erm, guests seem to have strayed into the vault, but the systems are dealing with them now.'

The Doctor looked alarmed. 'In the vault? Who?'

'Uh. Right.' Qixotl scratched the back of his neck. He'd been hoping he wouldn't have to be the one to tell the Doctor. 'Sorry. Forgot to mention. Your little friend, yeah? The blonde one.'

The Doctor looked shocked. Oh no, thought Qixotl, the human girl must have had some kind of pedigree. 'Sam? She went into the vault? Alone?'

'Not alone,' said Homunculette. 'The other human went with her.'

The Doctor's face froze in mid-gawp. He turned to Kortez, who sat blank-faced at the table. 'You knew about this?' he said, his voice not much louder than a whisper.

The Colonel nodded.