Doctor Who_ Christmas on a Rational Planet - Lawrence Miles [82]
The woman dropped her shawl, revealing a body of broken springs and rusted cogs. 11:58, almost 11:59. ‘This is your world,’ the clock said.
‘My world? But...’
‘You pulled this scene out of the darkness. Only you can get rid of it. All it needs is a change in perspective.’
‘Perspective?’ Christopher was being strapped into the chair with leather restraints, something rubber forced into his mouth. ‘Wait. Wait, I think I understand.’
Duquesne closed her eyes, but the sound of the crowd refused to go away. She concentrated. Tried to think of something else. Somewhere else.
When she opened her eyes, the place of execution was still there, and wires were being attached to Christopher’s head. On the far side of the scaffold, a queue of two million other potential victims was forming, the two million who were about to die of that rare and contagious disease called Napoleon.
‘There’s one thing you should understand, Marielle,’ said the clock. ‘This isn’t my doing, and I don’t find it any more entertaining than you do. Unfortunately, I can’t stop it. My realm, but your world.’
‘Please, Mademoiselle!’
‘You were the one who demanded stability and logic. You wanted Reason. This is the end product of that Reason. Spilt blood and staged executions. Lights, camera, history. I don’t have any power in this version of the world. Humanity makes its own Hells.’
Something was raised above Christopher’s head, something sharp and sparkling and metallic. ‘What can I do?’ Duquesne was saying. ‘What can I do?’
‘Are you a woman of Reason?’ enquired the clock, its hands ticking towards noon.
‘Yes!’
‘Do you have the Sight?’
‘No!’ Duquesne shook her head, feeling tears of panic fly away from her eyes. ‘I told you. I am an agent of the Directory. I am not a superstitious peasant. I just –’
The metal thing reached its zenith above Christopher’s neck. He began to scream.
‘Yes?’ said the clock. Thirty seconds to midnight.
Silence fell across the crowd.
‘I have seen Tibetan monks move pebbles with their minds,’ said Duquesne, a sudden hush in her voice. ‘I have seen the witches of Europe summon the Goat of Mendes itself.’
The executioners paused.
have seen the works of the Beautiful Shining Daughters of Hysteria, and received no explanation for them. I have visited the ageless creatures the Vatican keeps in its Crow Gallery, and heard the mad things speak of matters that follow no logic.’
The monsters turned to face her.
‘I have been told that there are rational explanations for all of these things. I have never been told what they are.’
Christopher looked up, mud-coloured tears of fury running down his face. ‘I have been pushed from one country to another, from one world to the next. I have been told to be reasonable. I have been told to be rational. I have never been given a choice of the world I should live in.’
Duquesne faced the clock. ‘I do not know what to believe in. And this is not my world. It is the world that was forced on me by men who spoke of "revolutions" and "rationalizations"
and "renewals".’
The clock nodded. The hands reached the top of its dial.
‘Yes,’ Duquesne admitted. ‘Yes. I have the Sight.’
A roar from the crowd, so small and far away that Duquesne could have laughed, and suddenly there was no longer a place of execution, because there was no longer any reason for one. Monsters screamed, howled, demanded equality and fraternity, then vanished amongst the dunes.
Christopher Cwej started blubbering stupidly as Paris withered and died in front of them.
The clock let out a sigh, a sigh that seemed to fill the whole of history. The tension that held its face together was gone, and what was left of its countenance fell to pieces. The last of the springs snapped, the clockwork came apart, and Duquesne found herself looking at the form within, the thing that had been imprisoned inside the machine for as long as the sentient universe could remember.
The thing – the intelligence – looked out at her. Looked out without eyes. And Marielle Duquesne