Doctor Who_ Set Piece - Doctor Who_ Set Piece Part 14
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Doctor Who_ Set Piece Part 14

She twisted the rifle out of his hands and smacked the butt into his face, driving three centimetre-long splinters of his nasal bone deep into his frontal lobes.

But the details aren't important.

The littleboy was eating a biscuit. There were less than a dozen left, carefully wrapped in paper and hidden away in a tin in Kadiatu's kitchen. The littleboy nibbled it all around the edges, carefully, picking up any crumbs that fell onto his trousers.

Monsieur Thierry sat beside him on Kadiatu's chaise longue, hat clasped in one hand. He was dressed as simply as he could manage, but the hat gave 88 him away. His trousers might be worn and the sleeve of his shirt conspicuously ripped, but the hat was expensive and in perfect condition.

One of Kadiatu's gens de maison gens de maison brought him a glass of wine, and he held it in his hat-free hand. The grandfather clock's pendulum swung, its deep brought him a glass of wine, and he held it in his hat-free hand. The grandfather clock's pendulum swung, its deep tock tock echoing from the wood panelling. echoing from the wood panelling.

Round and round the littleboy nibbled, red head bobbing, pale eyes watching the grown-ups.

M Thierry was an exceptionally tall man, with unkempt wavy hair, a large mouth, and dark eyes that roamed about the room like an insect's. His arched eyebrows gave him a permanently serious look. At the moment he felt thor-oughly uncomfortable, and well he might, given that this strange woman friend of his had just slaughtered four soldiers in front of his eyes. What exactly did one say in these circumstances?

'Are all women of the future like you?' he ventured, half-jokingly.

'Assuredly not,' said the Doctor.

The odd little foreigner was examining in great detail a glass bowl of flowers on the mantelpiece, one hand stretched out as though to stroke the dewy petals. Fresh roses from Mlle Lethbridge-Stewart's garden. The little man's eyes were closed. A half-full glass of wine stood on the mantelpiece.

The littleboy bit through the centre of his biscuit with a snap snap.

'I'm sorry,' said Kadiatu. She had washed and put on a new dress, the maids silently taking away her bloodied clothes, their lips pressed together with distaste. 'In front of le petit le petit.'

Thierry looked from her to the Doctor and back again, a peculiar half-grin showing the tips of his teeth. She was watching the little man anxiously well, not watching him, but her eyes kept going back to him. It was as though he was the dangerous one.

Thierry patted the child on the head. 'He doesn't seem any the worse for it,'

he said.

The Doctor said, 'Who else knows you're here?'

'M Thierry saw me crash. Er, land.'

'Right in the middle of my apples,' Thierry joked quietly.

He had the strangest feeling that he was attending some sort of trial. He got up, still holding his hat and sauntered over to the birdcage that stood in the corner. 'I take it the Doctor is also from votre siecle votre siecle?'

'You weren't too discreet yourself,' Kadiatu was saying, 'not if Stone Mountain is anything to go by.'

'Who have you told about Kadiatu, M Thierry?' asked the Doctor softly.

The song-bird had died through neglect. It lay in a tiny heap on the bottom of the cage. 'No-one. She is too large a secret to share. I want her all to 89 myself.' He half-smiled again. Was it he or Kadiatu who was being judged? 'I helped her to move her vehicle and to conceal her equipment.'

'Why?'

'I saw a human being in need, and I came to her assistance,' said Thierry.

He patted Kadiatu on the shoulder, paternally. 'What would you do without me, my dear?'

'That's a good question,' said Kadiatu, but Thierry missed her irony. He opened the package he'd brought with him and took out a sheaf of paper.

'Receipts and records for the house, Mademoiselle,' he said. 'I wanted to make sure you had these papers, as well as a few fresh vegetables. Alas, they were commandeered by soldiers at the gates, wanting to be sure I was not a spy from Versailles. I expect they imagined the parsnips were filled with gunpowder.'

Kadiatu took the papers and locked them in her writing desk. 'You took a hell of a risk coming here,' she said, and her eyes were on the little man. 'It's not that I'm not grateful, but the shells, you must look after the boy 'I understand,' said Thierry. 'I'll postpone my next visit until conditions are a little more favourable. Please, if Paris becomes intolerable, you must come and stay with me. I will take good care of you. Good care of you both.'

The Doctor looked across at the littleboy. For a few moments their eyes met.

The little man drew his hand back sharply from the flowers, and absently sucked on the finger pierced by the thorn.

He hadn't meant to go to sleep.

The book slowly slid out of the Doctor's hand. He was lying on Kadiatu's chaise longue, head propped up by an embroidered cushion, trying to read chaise longue, head propped up by an embroidered cushion, trying to read Les Miserables Les Miserables . Outside the sky was golden, shuddering with the sound of cannons. . Outside the sky was golden, shuddering with the sound of cannons.

Normally he only slept an hour or so in every forty-eight, and wasn't in the habit of dozing off, except when he really needed to conserve his energy, but habit of dozing off, except when he really needed to conserve his energy, but tonight, after supper, his head was fuzzy and his limbs were heavy. Sometimes it tonight, after supper, his head was fuzzy and his limbs were heavy. Sometimes it was pleasant to let things take their own course, not to plan every minute. was pleasant to let things take their own course, not to plan every minute.

Sometimes.

Half-awake, he saw the face of the child-soldier whose head Kadiatu had smashed. The thrill of the kill had been hardwired into her genes long before smashed. The thrill of the kill had been hardwired into her genes long before she'd been born. He imagined himself falling past a giant strand of her DNA, she'd been born. He imagined himself falling past a giant strand of her DNA, wondering if he could change it, rewrite it. Rewrite her. It was because of him wondering if he could change it, rewrite it. Rewrite her. It was because of him she was here, and he could not let her do any more damage. she was here, and he could not let her do any more damage.

The book teetered, just held by his fingertips, as the last wave of weariness overwhelmed him. He muttered something in his sleep about tea. overwhelmed him. He muttered something in his sleep about tea.

90.Like most people, Kadiatu forgot her dreams. But when you have the same dream again and again, the details build up layer after layer until, stirring in your REM sleep atop the heavy covers in the French summer, the deja vu kicks in.

Kadiatu had been here before.

She was aware that she was dreaming, in a disconnected way, as though she were playing a VR game while half-asleep.

It was absolutely silent. No, there was the wind in the bamboo, the tiny bell-sound of a small stream.

She snapped her head around, eyes raking the trees. She would be attacked, she didn't belong here! But there were only trees, and stones, and bushes, placed by human hands in deceptively natural, random patterns. A path led deeper into the garden, dark stepping-stones gently curving away through the yellow gingkos. The air was pure and cool, without the taste of smoke. An autumn sky wheeled overhead, licked by cirrus, full of golden sunlight.

It was too real, too untidy to be media memories, a magazine-and-movie Japan. No, this was someone else's memories, someone else's dream.

She walked along the path, the breeze damp against her cheeks, following the tobiishi tobiishi until they led her to a hut covered in moss. until they led her to a hut covered in moss.

Kadiatu looked around again, sharply, straining to make out some half-heard sound. But there was only the whirring of the cicadas and the trickle of water into a hollowed-out stone beside her. A butterfly landed on the rock, a muted flutter of colour.

Kadiatu picked up the bamboo scoop and poured water over her hands, rinsed out her mouth. The water was shockingly cold, slightly metallic spring water, bubbling up from somewhere inside the garden. As she had done every time, she carefully replaced the bamboo scoop, bent under the doorway, and went inside the wooden hut.

She hesitated, not wanting to disturb the occupant. At first she thought he was kneeling, but then she realised he was sitting Japanese-style, deep in contemplation of the flower arrangement in the tokonoma tokonoma. She'd seen her father do the same, sitting in front of a soothing hologram he'd bought from an artist on Triton.

The room was bare except for the tokonoma tokonoma and a great iron kettle perched over a fire-pit in the middle of the floor, surrounded by straw mats. Behind the flowers the niche was decorated with an equally simple painted scroll. and a great iron kettle perched over a fire-pit in the middle of the floor, surrounded by straw mats. Behind the flowers the niche was decorated with an equally simple painted scroll.

Kadiatu ran her eye down the calligraphy, wondering what it said.

'Empty your cup,' said the Doctor.

Kadiatu was startled. He'd never spoken before, never been aware that she was there before.

'Who are you?' he said, without turning around.

91.'An engineer,' Kadiatu heard herself saying. 'A student.'

'Nan-in received a university professor at his temple,' said the Doctor. 'He poured tea into his guest's cup, and continued pouring until tea ran onto the table and dripped onto the floor. "It's too full!" cried the scholar.'

'Listen,' said Kadiatu. 'Can you hear that?'

'I can't hear anything,' said the Doctor wearily. '"Like this cup," said Nan-in, "you're full of your own opinions. How can I teach you the truth unless you empty your cup?"'

Kadiatu's head turned. It was a woman, her face painted chalk-white, kimono, the full works. The butterfly was perched on the woman's hand, its iridescent wings opening and closing softly. 'Where is your steward?' she asked.

'I'm trying to find her,' said the Doctor. 'I'm trying. But it's taking so long. I need just one more week. One more day. Just one more day.'

The woman took something from the sleeve of her kimono. Kadiatu saw it was an hour-glass. The woman stretched out a delicate hand, put the glass in front of the flowers and the scroll. It was very small.

'You're Death, aren't you?' said Kadiatu.

'There is a family resemblance,' said the woman. 'I am Time, and this is my champion.'

'He's mine.'

There was another woman. Kadiatu found herself shrinking back, instinctively. It's starting to get crowded in here. It's starting to get crowded in here.

The newcomer (or had she been there all along?) knelt on the floor on a low wooden stool, idly flicking the air with a feather-duster. She was white, absolutely white, a silhouette, a piece of the rice-paper that the artist forgot to paint.

The Doctor turned his head, and Kadiatu saw the spectacular bruise on his left cheek. 'You see?' said the White Lady. Her voice was like swallowing glass. 'He wears my favour.'

There were other figures too, crowding into the tea room. Or perhaps they were only wall-hangings, or holograms in single neon colours: Blue Aztec, silver Sumerian. A glaring Egyptian with the head of some animal Kadiatu didn't recognize, a camel with square ears, or a long-snouted greyhound. Different cultures and times crammed into the one place, all the gods who had lived inside the Doctor's head.

Kadiatu imagined his dreams leaking through the cracks she had made in time, forwards, backwards, sideways. Who heard him, who dreamed his dreams? Did he only exist because so many people dreamed about him? Did they exist because they dreamed of him?

92.None of these gods had been invited to the tea-party but then, neither had she. She'd left the door open for them when she'd come trespassing in his garden.

So she shut up, tried to stay inconspicuous. At least, as inconspicuous as a six and a half foot tall black woman can be in a small chashitsu chashitsu. She didn't want the White Lady to notice her.

The Lady ran a smooth white finger along the Doctor's scar. He tried hard not to react. 'I came here to get away from it all,' he said.

'You can't get away from me,' said the White Lady. 'Like a moth to the flame you're always returning.'

Kadiatu tilted her head, trying to make out the sound outside the hut.

'Do you remember the first time we met?' the Lady was saying. 'High on a rocky hillside, and you running out of the house, into the cold air.'

'I remember. I remember watching the outsiders in the valley, with their bows and arrows . . . '

Time put her hand on his shoulder, her butterfly flittering and landing in his hair. He smiled at the feathery touch. 'I remember the flutterwing. I thought it was some sort of meteorological phenomenon; it took up half the sky. It was gorgeous . . . '

'And then?'

'I did not know whether I was then a man dreaming I was a butterfly, or whether I am now a butterfly dreaming I am a man,' breathed the Doctor. 'Or was it a frog?'

'Don't avoid the question,' said the White Lady.

'Don't mind me, I'm playing for Time.'

'Playing to win?'

'She heals all wounds.'

'Wounds all heels?'

'Can't you hear it?' said Kadiatu. 'Someone's screaming.'

The white Lady lifted her head to listen. 'That's my song. I hear the scream, even when you make no sound.'

Kadiatu looked at the hour-glass, but the sand weighed heavily on the bottom. There was no Time left. The hut was empty but for the three of them.

'Scream,' said the White Lady.

She pressed a perfect hand against the Doctor's left collarbone. He met her eyeless eyes and grabbed at her wrist, trying to wrench her palm away.

She was irresistibly pushing him back onto the matting, her fingers digging through the cloth of his jacket. The butterfly was crushed against the matting.

'Why won't you scream?'

He moaned through clenched teeth as something green erupted from above his collarbone. Young leaves shot up between the Lady's white fingers. A 93 single, blood-red flower unfurled itself in her grip, its petals pulsing in time with his hearts.

'WHAT DO I HAVE TO DO TO MAKE YOU SCREAM?'

Kadiatu did not want to throw up on the nice straw mats, so she bolted out of the tea-room, fingers dragging at her midriff.

She ran through a hideous green, organic chamber. A group of uniformed men and women were kicking something on the floor, something curled into a protective shape, arms thrown over its head.

She fled into a room full of surgeons, masked and gowned, one stabbing a massive scalpel into the shoulder of a draped figure on a table. The other figures carried garden implements. A nurse filled a syringe with fertiliser.

Kadiatu ran, throwing her arms over her head. She didn't remember any of this.

She found herself stumbling over a worn hillside covered in scree, gasping as she looked up into the orange sky and saw the giant insect pitch and yaw, a long arrow shaft embedded in its body, rainbow wings twisting as it glided to earth. Someone cried out, a young voice in this ancient place, but it wasn't pain.

She found herself in a vast chamber, the walls and floor grown in pieces in a vat, cryogenic tubes embedded like neon in the walls.

'What was the point?' snarled Meijer. 'What was the crukking point?' He tightened his grip. 'We processed a four-year-old this morning. Subject fifty-one. We'll make her her number fifty-two.' number fifty-two.'

With a movement that was almost graceful, Meijer twisted the arm he was holding one more notch. There was a crack crack.

The Doctor screamed.