Doctor Who_ Transit - Ben Aaronovitch [64]
The tomatoes went into the frying pan. The Doctor stirred for thirty-two seconds and began adding meticulous doses of herbs from the row of earthenware pots on a shelf above the counter.
Unbidden the map of the transit system floated into his mind. A maze of tunnels and stations, branches and loops. The trains shuttled people from point to point, setting off a chaotic array of interactions. It reminded him of something.
All the world is silicon, thought the Doctor, and all the people on it merely packets of information. Doomed to fret their time upon the CPU.
The Doctor picked a strand of tagliatelle from the boiling water and tasted it. Ready in about 53 seconds, he decided.
To a free electron the pathways of an integrated circuit must be as vast as a transit tunnel. The electron doesn't know why it travels, has no inherent potential of its own - the information is contained in its path. Where it goes, not what it is.
Software, thought the Doctor, I'm facing hostile software.
At least it's not in my head this time.
Kadiatu stood at the open window and looked out over the grounds. The daylight was compressed into a narrow band across the horizon. The lawn was an overgrown tangle of competing species, wild flowers in a fierce struggle with the weeds and grass. Fruit trees of various ages were scattered randomly across the lawn. An advance guard parachuted in by the orchards waiting on the hills to the west. Kadiatu imagined the seasons spinning by, the orchard marching down the hill to lay siege to the house. Branches battering at the red brick walls, roots burrowing into the foundations with vegetable patience. The long slow agony of death by tree.
It was called ecological reversion. Kadiatu had studied it in her fourth year at school in the period after history.
The last sunlight cast deep shadows under the trees. Who knew what lived in an English wood these days? They'd reintroduced wolves to northern Europe in the middle of the last century. A domesticated version, carefully modified not to attack humans. It was rumoured that that Wicca Society had cooked up their own revisionist strain, more in line with their belief in an unfettered ecosystem. One that regarded people as fair game. A hotly debated topic was which characteristic would breed true in the general wolf population.
'Blondie?'
'Hmnn?'
'You ever killed anyone?'
'You were there.'
'I mean before.' She almost said before the Doctor arrived.
'Once, in a knife fight.'
'How did you reel afterwards?'
'Glad,' said Blondie. 'I was glad that it wasn't me.'
'Did you reel sorry?'
'I don't know. Angry, upset maybe. I was trying to escape the cops at the time.'
'But you felt something?'
'Yeah well, you got to feel something.'
'Blondie?'
'What?'
'I don't feel anything.'
'Maybe you're still in shock.'
'Yeah maybe.'
The orchards had become a black tangle running up the hill. Kadiatu's mind suddenly populated it with wolves padding down the silent aisles between the trees. Mankiller genes ticking away under their grey fur.
There was the sound of a gong being rung downstairs.
'Suppertime,' said Blondie.
Kadiatu heard the bed creaking as he climbed out and then his breath on her shoulder. He slipped his arms around her waist and she leaned back against him.
'I can feel your stomach rumbling,' he said.
'I think I enjoyed it,' said Kadiatu.
Acturus Station (Stunnel Terminus)
A drone with Dogface's personality met her at the entrance to the station. It was a Kenyan job, an upgraded version of the drones that the Floozies used for routine jobs. Dogface had at least thirty scattered around the transit system. This one had a spray-painted basset face on its nose. The standard joke amongst the controllers was that the drones were more attractive than the real Dogface.
Not that that's much of a challenge, thought Ming.
'You're going to love this,' said the drone. It had a chipped voice worked up from samples of Dogface's own. The speech pattern was derived from years of association with bad company. Ming