Doctor Who_ Alien Bodies - Lawrence Miles [5]
‘Oh God,’ she croaked. ‘Oh, God.’
Geneva Neutral Province, 19:29 (Eurotime)
The Doctor folded his hands, narrowed his eyes, furrowed his brow, leaned back in his chair, unfolded his hands, frowned, smiled, cocked his head, drummed his fingers on the desktop, opened his mouth to ask a question, thought better of it, closed his mouth, frowned again, scratched the back of his head, and went “mmmm”.
‘Remind me,’ he finally said. ‘How does the horsey thing move?’
Across the board, General Tchike lit up another cigarette. ‘The knight, Doctor, moves two squares forward and one to the side. Your move.’
‘Two forward and one to the side? Is that it?’
‘That’s it,’ grumbled Tchike, coughing the words out of his gut, the way only a pure-blood eastern European could.
‘It can’t move along its own existential timeline?’
The General shook his head, his jowls quivering behind the nicotine clouds. ‘Doctor, we agreed. Only the bishops are time-active. The rooks have minimal hyperspacial capability, and the queen can make bargains with the Higher Powers of Creation to move around corners. The knights go two forward and one to the side. Still your move.’
The Doctor nodded, his curls bouncing up and down just above his eyeline. Quite distracting, that. One of this body’s more obvious design flaws. ‘So simple, and yet so... we couldn’t play something a little more complicated, could we? I’m sorry, I’m finding it a bit hard to concentrate at the moment.’
The General rumbled the rudest word in the Russian language. ‘We agreed. Each time we play, the rules become only a little more complex. Your idea, Doctor. You said we would understand each other better if we created the rules together.’
The Doctor sighed. Extravagantly. ‘It’s this new neurosystem of mine. Ever since the change... my last life was so good at chess, it takes a while to remember...’ He wiggled his fingers over the board for a few moments, teasing the expectant pieces, then finally grasped one of his knights and shunted it into the battlezone.
The General grunted, and reached out for a bishop. He lifted it into the palm of his hand, signifying that it was moving into another timeframe. ‘You realise why I wanted to see you here?’
‘We had an appointment to play, I thought.’
‘Other than that.’
‘Ah.’ The Doctor thought about it for a moment. ‘Well, I presume you’re going to try to execute me.’
General Tchike dropped the bishop into the top drawer of his desk, and let a great plume of grey smoke out of his lungs.
‘Perceptive,’ he said.
The Doctor shrugged. ‘Oh, you know. After a few hundred years of experience, you can tell when somebody wants to kill you. Call it instinct. My move?’
The General tapped some ash from the end of his cigarette onto the floor of his office. Probably just keeping the cleaners on their toes, the Doctor decided. The office was large, soulless, and expensive-looking, in that order; every available surface decorated with UNISYC insignia. The desk was the only major furnishing, leaving a vast expanse of plush carpet between the door and the tinted window (bulletproof, naturally) that took up the whole of the far wall. The desk was set in front of the glass, Tchike seated with his back to the Geneva skyline.
‘You got in my way,’ Tchike explained. ‘Nothing personal, I know. You habitually get in people’s way. It’s in your job description. I understand.’
‘Quite. And what do the pawns do?’
‘They just go forwards. Listen to me, Doctor. The first time we met. Saskatoon. 2054. When you were still wearing that other body of yours, the little baggy one. You remember?’
‘I remember!’ Even the Doctor was surprised at how excited he sounded. The memory had got lost somewhere in “the change”, and getting it back was like being given an unexpected present. ‘We fought the Montana Republican