Doctor Who_ Alien Bodies - Lawrence Miles [65]
‘You didn’t,’ he said.
Mr Qixotl tried to look apologetic.
7
SURPRISED?
Cousin Justine knew her arms were in the wrong position before she even saw the wrench swinging back towards her face. In her own time, on her own planet, even the word “physical” had been considered slightly obscene, but the training on Dronid had erased the old stigma. She wasn’t ashamed of her body any more. She knew the subtle equations that governed close-quarter combat, knew how to move with the opponent as well as against him.
So she knew there was no way on Earth she could stop the wrench before it smashed into the side of her skull. In the half-second she judged she had left before the impact, Justine told the Grandfather what was happening, and respectfully asked him to prepare a place for her at the family table. Naturally, the Grandfather didn’t deign to reply.
The wrench jerked in Homunculette’s hand. The rhythm was broken. The flow of the combat changed in an instant.
Justine rearranged her limbs without a moment’s hesitation, readying herself for a counter-strike. Little Brother Manjuele was standing behind Homunculette, gripping the Time Lord’s wrist with both hands. Justine hadn’t noticed the Little Brother come into the room; he hadn’t been part of the flow until now, he hadn’t even been a consideration. Homunculette didn’t seem to notice Manjuele was there. His eyes were still fixed on Cousin Justine, as if he couldn’t understand why the wrench wasn’t connecting with her head.
Justine punched him in the throat. Homunculette gagged, then dropped the weapon. Justine lashed out again, barrel-punching his neck. Homunculette didn’t look hurt when he dropped to the ground. Irritated, but not hurt.
‘Thank you, Little Brother,’ Justine said, once she’d caught her breath.
Manjuele gave her a quick salute, and a grin broke out across his face. Justine tried not to think of it as a nasty grin. In her own time, before the Faction had found her, she would have considered Manjuele to be the lowest form of human life, a creature that had never even stood a chance of getting close to the Grace of God. One of the criminal classes, and worse than that, a foreigner. Living proof that Mr Darwin was nearer to the truth than Justine’s elders had wanted to admit.
The Faction had reconditioned her, of course. They’d taught her that all beings were as one in the eyes of the Grandfather, that the real haves were those who’d found the Spirits, and the real haven’ts were those who still believed in the deceits of the Time Lords. But every now and then, a little piece of England would find its way into her thoughts, and she’d wonder what her family – her first family, her old family, her genetic family – would have said about the Little Brother. She’d tried dressing him up like a gentleman, but that was the only concession she’d made to her past.
‘I can’t get up,’ said Trask.
Justine turned. Trask was lying on his side near the doorway of the anteroom, his limbs perfectly stiff. He’d fallen like a skittle, though he didn’t seem upset.
Manjuele sniggered. Justine shot him a warning glance.
‘Dead joints,’ Trask told them. ‘Not flexible.’
The Doctor hopped up the last few steps of the stairway, and found the gloom of the ziggurat giving way to the (frankly miserable) daylight of the rainforest. The roof of the building was smooth and flat, a square of off-yellow stone sixty feet or so along each side. Qixotl had done his best to turn the area into a pleasant little garden, compensating for the lack of soil by planting the flowers in bubbles of hydroponic liquid, which floated around the place on tiny antigrav cushions. The bubbles were very well behaved, never floating above eye level or wandering over the edge of the roof.
There was also a large puddle of liquid in the middle of the garden, where the black spaceship had touched down and squashed all the bubbles