Doctor Who_ Interference_ Book One - Lawrence Miles [138]
The Mothers and Fathers sat only in the House of Commons. The House of Lords was reserved for other things, things the Faction’s agents couldn’t ever risk mentioning by name. But the House of Commons was home to the six hundred and thirty individuals who’d proved themselves most worthy of the Grandfather’s attentions, those who’d risen through the ranks of the family to become the matriarchs and patriarchs of their own Faction bloodlines. Many were human, or things that had started out as human. Their clothes were mostly black, or black and red, and at least half of them insisted on wearing their ceremonial masks during sessions of Parliament, so from the centre of the great hall you could see nearly four hundred skulls staring down at you from their designated positions. Skulls of Time Lords, skulls of great batlike things, skulls of creatures that were important only in the mythologies of the people who wore them. And when the Godmother of the House announced the news from Dust, and described the data the Faction had received from the ‘bugs’ on the Remote ship, there wasn’t a single individual in the building who stayed quiet. If the Parliament had been an entirely human one, the speaker would have called for order at that point, but in the Eleven‐Day Empire the speaker’s chair was always left empty, awaiting the return of Grandfather Paradox himself.
There was no debate in this chamber. There was no opposition. When the Godmother proposed sending one of the Faction’s six surviving warships to Dust in the thirty‐eighth century, representatives on both sides of the house began to murmur their approval. There was only one course of action that could possibly be followed.
Faction Paradox was about to become directly involved. In force.
* * *
FOREMAN’S WORLD:
EVENING ON THE FIRST DAY
‘I think I know what the Time Lords’ problem is,’ said I.M. Foreman.
They were back on the hilltop where they’d left the universe‐in‐a‐bottle, looking down into the valley below. The Doctor had been casting nervous glances towards the woodland all afternoon, checking to make sure his TARDIS was still there, but now the night had swallowed up everything between the bottom of the hill and the horizon. The only light was that from the bottle, the constellations of microstars that were huddling together under the glass. It had been enough light to eat by, anyway.
She’d wanted the Doctor to try the local cuisine, such as it was, but he hadn’t seemed too comfortable with the idea. I.M. Foreman guessed it was because he was still wondering what had happened to the other people on Foreman’s World. He’d probably been expecting her to offer him baby paté on toast. Actually, she’d just been thinking of some kind of salad, but even so the Doctor had insisted on getting dinner from the TARDIS.
The remains of the meal were sitting on the grass between them now. The Doctor was mopping up thick orange pasta sauce with a piece of bread, or at least with a lump of matter from the TARDIS food machine that was pretending to be bread. The machine seemed to be quite a good cook, although in this body I.M. Foreman was having trouble digesting some of the material. They’d broken off from the story of what had happened on Dust, when it had become clear that the presence of food made the narrative incredibly messy as well as incredibly complicated. The first half of the story had ended on a cliff‐hanger.
I.M. Foreman started to wonder whether this was the only galaxy‐lit dinner the Doctor had ever enjoyed, or whether he did this sort of thing all the time.
‘The Time Lords’ problem,’ mused the