Doctor Who_ Alien Bodies - Lawrence Miles [58]
‘Don’t touch me,’ Kathleen said.
More skittering.
‘I got lost, OK? Please. I’m sorry. I really, really don’t want to be here.’
The breathing stopped. Sam guessed the mask had come off.
‘I don’t want to be here!’ Kathleen yelled.
Against Sam’s back, the skulls hummed a little more loudly. As if they knew the ship was about to be fed.
The Doctor dragged Mr Qixotl along the corridor, his fingers twisted around the man’s ear lobe. Qixotl’s legs were a little on the short side, so he practically had to skip down the tunnel to keep up with the Doctor. As he bounced from leg to leg, he made the occasional grunt of protest, but so far he hadn’t bothered resisting.
‘Now ugh let’s try and be nng reasonable about this, OK?’ Qixotl gurgled, as the Doctor hauled him around the next corner. ‘I can see you’re ooh upset, but, y’know, there’s ahg no need to get nasty rrp.’
‘Nasty?’ The Doctor let go of the ear, then watched as Qixotl lost his balance, bounced off the wall, and fell onto his backside. ‘You’re selling off my own mortal remains, and you don’t want me to get nasty?’
Qixotl rubbed the bruised parts of his anatomy, but didn’t get up. ‘Business is business,’ he muttered.
The Doctor tried to remember the last time he’d been angry. Really, really angry. He couldn’t. He’d been indignant, yes. And he’d often been a little snappish, since he’d acquired this body; the same way you could get a little snappish when you bought a new pair of shoes and found they didn’t quite fit properly. But this was the first time he’d been angry angry in quite a while. Really, he was surprised how easy it seemed. Losing his temper seemed a much simpler process than it had done, say, half a decade ago. Another quirk of his new personality, he guessed. It was three-and-a-half years old, but he still hadn’t looked in all the corners. So much in his head, these days, it could take him centuries to sort it all out.
He took a deep breath. ‘Why, Qixotl?’ he said. ‘Why?’
The man shrugged. ‘It’s a valuable piece of biomass. Listen, if it’s any consolation, there was a rigorous screening programme, right? Lots of races only wanted your stiff... I mean, your, er, earthly remnants... so they could gloat a bit. Everyone wants your head on a stick. I only invited the ones who had, y’know, a special use for it.’
It wasn’t much of a consolation, really. The Doctor was starting to feel like a can of dog food. ‘Then it’s true, what you told me before? The Time Lords want to use me as a weapon of some kind?’
‘Oh, yeah. They’re desperate. Now some of the Celestis are going over to the other side, the war’s going to hell in a handbasket –’
‘Shh! Shh!’ The Doctor closed his eyes and put his hands over his ears. ‘I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to know anything about the future.’
But then, knowing about the future was inevitable, wasn’t it? To some degree, anyway. They were talking about his body. Which meant his future was already here, lying in a coffin-box, somewhere in the ziggurat.
So. This was it. His wake. A bunch of back-stabbing fourdimensional parasites, all trying to get their hands on whatever was left of his flesh and blood. He remembered that time on Necros, when he’d stumbled across his own tombstone. It had been a fake, of course, an elaborate practical joke, but it had set him thinking. Wondering whose face he’d be wearing when he was lowered into the ground. Wondering whether he’d make it to the end of the twelfth regeneration.
He could look, if he wanted.
Oh, good grief, no.
He opened his eyes. ‘Are you sure it’s me?’ he asked.
Down on the floor, Qixotl nodded. ‘Yup. Listen, if it helps, you’re not going to snuff it until after –’
‘Qixotl!’
‘Sorry.’
‘What I mean is, are you sure it isn’t a forgery? A clone? A simulacrum?’
‘You think I couldn’t spot a clone, with all the biotech I’ve got around here? Anyhow, a clone wouldn’t have the bits of biodata you’ve picked up over the years, it’d only have the inbuilt genetic stuff. Otherwise, I’d be selling a copy to everyone here. Sorry, Doc.