Doctor Who_ Alien Bodies - Lawrence Miles [44]
CLOUD TEN, it read. THE ORIGINAL CANNABIS CIGARETTE. MANUFACTURED IN BIRMINGHAM, ENGLAND.
‘You sure you don’t want one?’ Kathleen asked.
She wasn’t dead. His companion
there was a hole in her side, but there was a pulse in her heart, the throbbing of engines in the lower levels of her body. Marie was in the guest room, and Homunculette was inside Marie, swimming in the space between her outer self and her inner self, forcing his way into the console room on the other side of the dimensional rupture.
A heartbeat to guide him. The scent of ions in her atmosphere. She was damaged, she wasn’t dead, something in her had shut off the weapons systems in time. A safety protocol. Homunculette felt synthetic air on his face as he dragged himself into the console room. There was hardly any light, only the tiniest of vibrations beneath his feet. Marie’s roundels were glowing, but dimly. Dying. Not dead.
She’d been attacked. There was an assassin, or a potential assassin, right here in the ziggurat. Somebody had violated his companion, probably with a virus of some kind. Somebody had tricked her into activating her defences, letting her weapons systems tear her apart from the inside.
An assassin. And it wasn’t difficult to work out who.
Marie’s mind was in pieces, but there was still power down in her belly, enough for an emergency resuscitation. She’d be repaired. Resurrected. And once her life had been restored, Homunculette told himself, the first thing he had to do was reactivate her weapons systems. There was an assassin, and the assassin would pay. One way or another, the will of the High Council would be done.
***
While, almost a light-year away, a single black spaceship flickered into existence, its scanning mechanisms locking onto a certain specific building on the surface of the Earth. Satisfied, the ship’s pilot returned the vessel to interstitial space, and plotted a course for its final destination.
5
THE CONTINUITY BOMB
Bregman fished the invite card out of her pocket, then tried reading the small print. The light was still blazing off the surface of the card, even here inside the ziggurat. The words at the bottom of the text were blurred, and the letters kept shifting themselves around in front of Bregman’s eyes.
Or rather, her eyes kept shifting themselves around in front of the letters. When the card had been lab-tested in Geneva, the English analysts had reported the text to be in English, the French analysts had reported the text to be in French, the German analysts had reported the text to be in German, and the Swiss analysts had reported the text to be in English, French, and German. All at the same time.
‘Well?’ asked the girl who called herself Sam.
Bregman started squinting. ‘There’s something here about “suitable accomodation will be provided”, but I don’t know if... does that word look like “hospitality” or “hospital” to you?’
‘Er... “hospitality”.’
‘Thank God for that.’ Bregman cast her eyes around the guest room Mr Qixotl had provided for her and the Colonel. As expected, the walls were made of stone and had flaming torches nailed into them, but apart from that the decor was pretty acceptable. There were two beds, both covered in duvets that could have consumed whole armies. A few smaller pieces of furniture were scattered around the room, soft armchairs in soft colours, even a couple of padded footstools.
Sam was checking out the fixtures and fittings as well, but she didn’t look happy. ‘Don’t you think there’s something odd about all this?’ she asked.
‘Uhh. Don’t tell me. “Beneath this layer of apparent comfort lie the psychic tendrils of an alien mind parasite.”’
Sam stared at her. Blankly. ‘What, really?’
‘I was quoting. UNISYC training film. OK, I’ll go along with you. What’s odd about all this?’
‘This stuff.’ Sam experimentally prodded an armchair, but it absolutely refused to turn into a hideous alien shape-shifter and bite her hand off. ‘I mean, it’s cosy, yeah, but what’s the style supposed to be?’
‘Style? I don’t know. No style. It’s just an