Doctor Who_ Halflife - Mark Michalowski [35]
‘Sticks and stones, Calamee. Sticks and stones.’ The Doctor’s face was impassive.
Calamee leaned across the table and fixed him with a stare. ‘Really? OK –
what planet are you from? Simple question, simple answer.’
‘Earth,’ answered the Doctor with barely a pause.
Calamee stared at him. ‘You,’ she said slowly, ‘are such a liar.’
‘I am not!’ He was comically indignant, and started to feign interest in the insects that flickered around them in the light of the bar’s lamps.
‘Oh come on – you can’t kid a kidder! When you’re sixteen with the archety-pal dysfunctional family, you learn to spot a lie at a hundred paces with a 61
balaclava over its head. You’re no more from Earth than I am. What are you hiding, eh? Why don’t you trust me? Is it because of the Palace Guard? D’you think I’m working for them? One of those clever plans to get you to confess to a plan to bring down the government?’
The Doctor gazed around, watching the unsteady progress of a large fly as it wobbled about his head.
‘No,’ he said distractedly. ‘If they had half the guile that a plan like that needed, they wouldn’t need a plan like that.’
He waved his fingers at the insect, trying to flick it away. Nessus began a slow climb on to his shoulder, the mokey’s eyes fixed steadily on the buzzing creature.
‘Sod off!’ he said sharply, dislodging Nessus – and then looked back at Calamee. ‘The fly, I meant.’ He grinned awkwardly.
‘I know what you meant,’ she said, her patience draining away. ‘Answer the question – where are you from?’
The Doctor grimaced, clearly unsure which was the greater irritant – the fly, or the spider sat opposite him.
‘I’m from Ceres Alpha,’ he said. ‘I’m from Tapalane, from Nakti, from E-Aspa’i, from the Mazuma Matriarchy, from Shuac and from the Land of Oz!’
With an audible snap, the Doctor’s hand shot out and his fingers pinched around the fly. Its buzzing ceased instantly and it dropped into the Doctor’s bowl where it lay on its back, wriggling its legs.
‘Waiter,’ muttered the Doctor to no one in particular, his mood having changed instantly, ‘there’s a fly in my. . . hang on. . . ’ He grabbed a spoon and delicately extracted the rapidly expiring insect, raising it to within inches of his left eye. He shook his head. ‘What d’you make of this?’
He thrust the spoon under her nose so sharply that Calamee jerked her head away, but brought it back slowly, a dubious frown on her face. She peered at the now-still little animal, lying in a pool of chocolate custard.
‘It’s dead?’
‘No, no. No, it’s not dead.’ He pulled the spoon away from her as though he suddenly didn’t trust her, and delicately lifted it from the soup by its tiny little legs. ‘That’s to say, it was never alive.’
‘Uh?’
He dabbed it on the tablecloth, leaving little spatters of brown, before wiggling it in the air, drying it off.
‘This fly is a beautifully manufactured replica,’ he said brightly, as if it were the most wonderful thing in the world. ‘This fly, Calamee, is a robot!’
‘Yeah, right,’ said Calamee, trying not to look too interested: she knew the routine – she said ‘Wow! Really?’ and went in for a closer look and he pushed it up her nose.
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But the Doctor just tossed it on to the table as if suddenly bored with it and began patting his pockets experimentally.
‘What you looking for? Your Boy’s Guide to Spotting Robot Pests?’
‘This has been a very trying day, Calamee,’ he said, managing to sound absent and stern at the same time. ‘Captured and interrogated. Twice. My head feels like a jumbo tin of Quality Street at Christmas when Auntie Ivy’s convinced there’s a purple one left at the bottom. And then that appears – a robot surveillance camera demonstrating a level of technology that I’m pretty sure Espero doesn’t possess. Or didn’t possess.’ He started to check the inside pockets of his jacket.
‘What? What are you looking for? Anti robot surveillance devices? Cans of fly spray? What? ’
‘Where are they?’ he said absently, more to himself than to her. ‘I’m sure I had a packet on me.’ He stopped mid-pat and stared