Doctor Who_ Halflife - Mark Michalowski [22]
When white offworlders visit and never come back, it reminds us of our past, back on Earth.’
‘I noticed the statue,’ said the Doctor. ‘Outside. I take it they’re all like that.’
Roberto nodded. ‘You’ve no idea how much damage the myth that the Holy Family were white has done to us, to our self-esteem, Doctor. For centuries, brown people – black, I believe they called themselves then – lived in the shadow of a white God. No matter how much they prayed, how penitent or good they were, being white was something they could never be. That kind of patronage does damage.’ He clenched his fist and pressed it against his chest.
‘Here. I hope things are different out there now.’
‘The more things change,’ said the Doctor, ‘the more they stay the same.
Humanity may be one of my favourite species, but I’m not blind to the havoc they can wreak, the injustices they visit on themselves. And on others. They’re one of the most adaptable, versatile, adventurous species in the galaxy, but they’ve never lost their inability to learn from their mistakes.’
Roberto grunted. ‘How can we know where we’re going, when we don’t 39
know where we’ve come from?’ he murmured.
The Doctor felt a cool breeze spiral down from the purple sky, pricking his skin. ‘But we all need a fresh start, sometimes,’ he said distantly. ‘We can’t live in the past forever.’
‘It would be nice,’ Roberto said, ‘if we could just start living in the present.’
The courtyard was a confusing, noisy mass of people, equipment and machinery. Spotlights were coming on around the square as night fell. Two men on a long-arm crane hung banners bearing the Imperial crest from the top of the girders above the stage, while a woman, down below, waved them into position. Shouting would have got her nowhere. A group of dancers were practising in a corner, prancing around each other, trying not to trip over the poles and stacks of chairs that littered the place. Javill found it all incredibly tedious.
At the very least, he thought as he watched from a balcony above, Father should have taken this opportunity to announce that he was standing down.
One hundred and twenty years old, and still he insisted on clinging on to the Imperatorship, as though he didn’t trust Mother to do the job properly.
The fact that he insisted on celebrating his birthday in such an outdated way spoke volumes – a sad old man, clinging to the past instead of embracing the future. Javill was under no illusion that the Imperial Family had any real influence. Even parliament hardly consulted Father any more. Legislation slipped by without even receiving the Imperial approval. Novelty mugs and commemorative plates. That’s all they were. And this farrago of a birthday would do nothing to change that. Mother was right: Saiarossa needed a breath of fresh air, an injection of new blood to revive the Imperatorship. The Imperatr ix ship.
‘History in the making,’ said a deep voice behind him and he jumped.
‘Apologies, Your Highness.’
It was the offworlder – the one who called himself Mr Trove; the one who, in less than two days, had managed to ingratiate himself with Father and who had barely spoken two words to Mother. Javill drew himself up. Trove was tall and distinguished, alabaster-pale skin with a quiff of blond hair, immaculately coiffured. He wore a sharp and plain suit of dark green, fashionable and asymmetrically cut. Javill had disliked him the moment he’d seen him – partly because he was an offworlder, partly because he exuded a quiet confidence that Javill found unsettling, but mainly because, like most of the Saiarossans, he seemed to be labouring under the misapprehension that it was Father who wielded the power around here.
Javill nodded curtly, and turned back to the scene in the courtyard. The men with the crane were adjusting the lighting over the stage.
40
‘Your father is a man of tradition and history, isn’t he?’ mused Trove. Javill grunted, but didn’t turn around. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Trove move