Part 10 (1/2)

Marie's mind was in pieces, but there was still power down in her belly, enough for an emergency resuscitation. She'd be repaired. Resurrected. And once her life had been restored, Homunculette told himself, the first thing he had to do was reactivate her weapons systems. There was an a.s.sa.s.sin, and the a.s.sa.s.sin would pay. One way or another, the will of the High Council would be done.

While, almost a light-year away, a single black s.p.a.ces.h.i.+p flickered into existence, its scanning mechanisms locking onto a certain specific building on the surface of the Earth. Satisfied, the s.h.i.+p's pilot returned the vessel to interst.i.tial s.p.a.ce, and plotted a course for its final destination.

5.

THE CONTINUITY BOMB.

Bregman fished the invite card out of her pocket, then tried reading the small print. The light was still blazing off the surface of the card, even here inside the ziggurat. The words at the bottom of the text were blurred, and the letters kept s.h.i.+fting themselves around in front of Bregman's eyes.

Or rather, her eyes kept s.h.i.+fting themselves around in front of the letters. When the card had been lab-tested in Geneva, the English a.n.a.lysts had reported the text to be in English, the French a.n.a.lysts had reported the text to be in French, the German a.n.a.lysts had reported the text to be in German, and the Swiss a.n.a.lysts had reported the text to be in English, French, and German. All at the same time.

'Well?' asked the girl who called herself Sam.

Bregman started squinting. 'There's something here about ”suitable accomodation will be provided”, but I don't know if... does that word look like ”hospitality” or ”hospital” to you?'

'Er... ”hospitality”.'

'Thank G.o.d for that.' Bregman cast her eyes around the guest room Mr Qixotl had provided for her and the Colonel. As expected, the walls were made of stone and had flaming torches nailed into them, but apart from that the decor was pretty acceptable. There were two beds, both covered in duvets that could have consumed whole armies. A few smaller pieces of furniture were scattered around the room, soft armchairs in soft colours, even a couple of padded footstools.

Sam was checking out the fixtures and fittings as well, but she didn't look happy. 'Don't you think there's something odd about all this?' she asked.

'Uhh. Don't tell me. ”Beneath this layer of apparent comfort lie the psychic tendrils of an alien mind parasite.”'

Sam stared at her. Blankly. 'What, really?'

'I was quoting. UNISYC training film. OK, I'll go along with you. What's odd about all this?'

'This stuff.' Sam experimentally prodded an armchair, but it absolutely refused to turn into a hideous alien shape-s.h.i.+fter and bite her hand off. 'I mean, it's cosy, yeah, but what's the style supposed to be?'

'Style? I don't know. No style. It's just an armchair.'

'But there's no such thing as ”just an armchair”, right? If someone English makes a chair, the chair looks kind of Englishy. If someone African makes a chair, it looks kind of Africany. This chair doesn't look anythingy.' Sam indicated some of the other furnis.h.i.+ngs around the room. 'A couple of weeks ago I was in the fortieth century. And the chairs there looked all fortieth century-ish. I suppose you only start noticing this kind of thing when you time travel a lot.'

'What did you say?' said Bregman. did you say?' said Bregman.

'I said, the chairs in the fortieth century '

'No, to h.e.l.l with the chairs, I meant about...' Bregman realised she had no way of asking the question ”what do you mean, time travel?” without sounding like a moron, so she shut up. Sam kept talking.

'If Qixotl's a time-traveller too, and he knew he was going to have to do this room up specially for humans, I'd have thought he'd go out and look at human furniture in a history book or something. But the chairs and things don't look like they come from any period in history.'

'Great. The chairs aren't what they seem.' Bregman glanced over her shoulder at Kortez as she said it. The Colonel was sitting cross-legged on one of the beds, eyes closed, hands on his knees. Still meditating. You could give him a good slap around the ears right now, thought Bregman, and he still wouldn't come back down to Earth. She somehow resisted the temptation to test this hypothesis.

Sam was still agonising about the upholstery. 'I'm thinking about what the Doctor said. Biodata. D'you think you could tell what kind of furniture someone might like, just from what's in their biology?'

Bregman shrugged. 'Possible. You're talking about DNA, that kind of thing? If you know someone's got two legs and a tush from what's in their genes, you can probably figure out what kind of chairs they'd want to sit on.'

Sam snapped her fingers. 'And if you know what light frequencies and stuff their eyes respond to, you can work out the best colour scheme for them. Like this room. It's so... I don't know... tasteful tasteful. You know what I think? I think this whole place was put together using your biodata as a whatsit. As a template.'

Bregman mimed a round of applause. 'Jesus, you're good at this. All I know is, you're supposed to shake hands with them if they've got arms and shoot at them if they've got tentacles growing out their faces.' And even as she said it, something flashed across Bregman's mind, something bright and clear and unexpected. She wasn't sure, but she guessed that, from the outside, her eyes would be popping out of her head like she'd seen a vision of the Virgin Mary.

'You all right?' asked Sam.

'I think I just had a great idea,' said Bregman.

Trask was smiling, and had been ever since the human woman had come to the room. The smile had started out as a muscular twitch, the result of a social impulse Trask hadn't actually had any use for in nearly four hundred years. Since the woman had left, he'd had no reason to change his expression, so he hadn't bothered resetting his facial muscles.

He certainly wasn't happy, though. He wasn't anything, much. He was aware, as always, of his responsibilities, and that was as close to self-awareness as he wanted to get. His controllers had charged him with the task of recovering the Relic, and carrying it back to Mictlan by whatever means became necessary. Beyond that, there was nothing of importance to consider. No need for any new thoughts inside his head.

Ideas are for the living.

For the first time in decades, Trask felt himself flinch. Ideas are for the living. It was true, of course, it was very true. But the thought was, in itself, an idea.

Please don't be alarmed, Mr Trask. It's only me.

The s.h.i.+ft. The first ent.i.ty Trask had encountered when he'd returned to Earth, when he'd turned up at the City entrance with the sun searing his eyes and the heat of the forest burning the dead flesh off his limbs. The s.h.i.+ft was in his head. Nestling at the back of his brain.

I apologise for my directness, Mr Trask. Usually, I'd be much more subtle when communicating with a more physical being than myself. However, your quarters are a little spa.r.s.e. Not much opportunity for manifestation, if you understand me.

'Yes,' said Trask, thinking on his feet.

And there aren't many concepts in your mind I can easily, shall we say, inhabit. This is why I'm speaking to you directly through the creative centres of your brain. This would kill any living creature, I'm sure. However, your creative centres aren't doing very much, at the moment. No offence intended.

'No offence taken,' Trask replied.

Another bidder has arrived in the City, Mr Trask. I thought you should be informed. n.o.body seems to know who he is or what effect he might have on the auction.

Trask thought about this for a moment or two. 'And?'

Mr Trask, I know who you represent, and you know who I represent. Naturally, I'm quite happy for us to keep each other's secrets, but you'd have to admit, our objectives are... in opposition, shall we say? Officially, our respective employers wouldn't want anyone to know we had even this degree of contact.

Trask nodded, but said nothing.

The balance of power must be maintained, Mr Trask. A threat to your people is also a threat to mine. He's coming. Perhaps you'll see what I mean.

'Good afternoon,' said a new voice. It took Trask a while to figure out that it had come from somewhere on the outside of his head.

There was someone standing at the threshold of his room. Trask wasn't sure about the man's species, but he stank of life. He was tall, slim, long-legged. He looked shocked when Trask made eye contact with him, but he recovered himself quite well.

'Nice to see a happy face around here,' said the man, smiling genially. 'I don't think we've met. My name's Smith, or at least, that's the nom de guerre nom de guerre I seem to keep ending up with, lifetime after lifetime. At least I didn't choose it myself, this time. And you are...?' I seem to keep ending up with, lifetime after lifetime. At least I didn't choose it myself, this time. And you are...?'