City of Death

by Douglas Adams

  Scaroth snapped its neck with ease. The slight hesitation had been fatal. The reaction amongst the group was pleasing. They seemed very upset and also afraid. Good. He could use both of these things.

  * * *

  By the evening they had taken him to their cave and started to worship him. This suited Scaroth well as he needed time to think. To think and to dwell on the voices in his head. He was slowly realising that he was not quite as alone as he had first thought, and that, worse, this made his situation really very complicated.

  At first the voices came to him like the names of things forgotten. Then they formed in his head as ideas. It was very hard to explain. He was trying to remember the shape of his ship. Initially, nothing came to him. Nothing at all. Which was . . . which was . . .

  He stalled, searching for words he was lacking to describe a thing he was missing. Two came to him eventually. It was Absurd. It was Frightening. The concepts arrived eager and out-of-breath, as though they had been running from a long way away. Shortly afterwards, the shape of his ship popped into his head, equally breathless. You wouldn’t believe where I’ve come from, the ship seemed to be saying.

  Really? It was absurd, it was frightening. Why was his brain working so slowly? Was it shock? More ideas turned up, all of them absurdly frightening.

  As the tribe watched, their new god started muttering to itself, shaking its terrible head, and wailing. This made the tribe gather together and wonder about whether they’d made the right decision in worshipping it and wouldn’t be better off throwing things at it again.

  The muttering of God subsided. The evening drew in.

  Scaroth was starting to realise that, although his body was complete, although his brain was functioning, his soul was not. If he wanted an idea or a memory, he had to reach out and fetch it. Fetch it through time. At some level, this was, ah, exhilarating. At another it was, hmm, horrifying. As far as he could tell, he was the earliest of himselves. The first fragment. The earliest by a long way. The others . . . eleven of them . . . were scattered through a long corridor of time, each of them only vaguely aware of the situation and of Scaroth. As the years moved on, the links became ever more tenuous, the delays in thoughts reaching back to him ever longer.

  Scaroth was momentarily very pleased there was no one of equivalent intelligence around to talk to, as it would all be so terribly hard to explain. Then he realised how alone he was.

  Scaroth shivered. The cave was very cold. Cold and dark. Why did no one light a fire? He glanced around at the tribe. They looked back at him in awe. And still no one lit a fire. Scaroth finally realised why not. Oh. This was going to take a lot of time.

  * * *

  Scaroth sat in the cave, now illuminated by fire. The tribe stared at him, delighted that they had not killed their new god after all, and waiting for the next revelation.

  It had been a whole day since he had invented something. Surely he would stop muttering to himself soon. Stop muttering and show them something else wonderful. Maybe they should sacrifice something to him? What did he like? Would bison do?

  Scaroth was thinking very hard and talking to the fragments of himself as best as he could. Eventually an analogy formed itself. It was like when he was back in the warp control, at the top of the ship. Hearing other voices reporting back to him, shouted numbers and problems and statuses echoing through the pathways of the ship. A cacophony that had only one thing in common. All of them expected Scaroth to do something.

  He had thought a lot about that. What to do now? An idea started to form. It was absurd and frightening, and would require all of them to unite. From this very first fragment of himself all the way across time to his twelfth fragment. Obviously, this final fragment had the least idea about itself. Because it was so very far away from him. He could imbue it with purpose. That was all. Which was disappointing because that was the one that had the most to do. The final fragment. The one that lived at the very end of time itself. Beyond it was nothing.

  * * *

  It was late in the laboratory and Kerensky felt tired again. The final fragment of Scaroth was drawing like a man possessed. Circuit diagrams, equations and algorithms poured out of him, filling sheets of graph paper, notebooks, and spilling onto napkins. Kerensky stood by him, trying to keep up.

  ‘But . . .’ he offered at intervals.

  The Count ignored him and carried on drawing.

  Kerensky stood and watched, feeling tired and hungry and sorry for himself. Had the Count really meant those threats? Was he really that sort of person? He couldn’t possibly be. It was hard to associate the urbane cruelty of the man he’d known with this strange, snarling figure. Who appeared to be rewriting temporal physics while working his way through a bottle of champagne.

  Which had arrived on a tray with just the one glass.

  With a flourish and a swagger the Count pushed the papers across to Kerensky.

  Kerensky, finally afforded a proper look, leafed through them. He was prepared for the nonsense scribblings of a drunk madman. What he got was much worse.

  He stared, aghast. The Count shook his head, tutted, and swigged at his champagne.

  Kerensky had another look.

  ‘But . . .’ he said eventually.

  Not at all discouraged, the Count poured himself another glass of champagne, holding it up to the light. He tapped the papers. ‘Now Professor, see the true results of your labours. This is what you will produce for me.’ The Count smiled his most encouraging smile.

  Kerensky picked the papers up listlessly and gazed at them again. They slipped from his fingers.

  ‘Look at it!’ snarled the Count.

  Kerensky flinched.

  The Count tapped the paper courteously.

  Kerensky held the papers once more. The diagrams had failed to rewrite themselves. He made a play of going over them again. Maybe he had missed something. The numbers were nonsense, the equations silly, and the circuit diagrams were so farcical they were practically hiding behind a curtain from the vicar.

  But, put together, they formed something that was pure black comedy.

  The Count helped himself to a plate of pâté, watching him keenly. Kerensky tried to ignore him smearing it thickly onto the soft white discs of baguette. Tried to ignore the crumbs falling across the diagrams. Kerensky tried to concentrate on the papers before him, and find the good in them.

  ‘But Count . . .’ he began, carefully. ‘This is . . . this machine is precisely the reverse of what we . . .’ He faltered, and a final bit of ego flickered one last time. ‘. . . what I have been working on.’

  The Count nodded, accepting this. Magnanimously, he pushed the plate towards Kerensky, who helped himself gratefully to a chunk of pâté.

  While the Professor chewed, the Count leaned forward, smiling at him with the benevolence of a snake. ‘You will agree that the research you have done under my guidance points equally well in either direction.’ To illustrate his point he crossed his arms over. Pâté went one way, champagne sloshed the other.

  ‘Yes, yes it does do that,’ Kerensky agreed reluctantly, finishing the slice of bread and wishing there was more. More was not offered. ‘But to do this means increasing the very effect I was trying to eliminate.’

  ‘Precisely.’ The Count drained his glass and filled it again. He waved back to the papers. Go on. Have another try.

  Kerensky read on. Then stopped. If the numbers had been laughing at each other before, now they were definitely laughing at him.

  ‘But the scale of this is fantastic,’ he expostulated. Fatigue, hunger and confusion shook his voice. ‘What are you trying to do, Count? This is monstrous beyond imagining.’

  ‘Monstrous!’ For some reason, that last phrase clearly tickled the Count. It was the widest smile he’d ever seen. Any wider and surely the face would split open. The Count leaned over Kerensky, so much taller a
nd so much more dominant. He leaned in so close, Nikolai could hear the bubbles popping in the champagne. The Count’s tone was intimate, amiable, coaxing. ‘But you will do it for me, Professor, won’t you?’

  ‘No,’ whispered Kerensky, terrified. ‘A thousand times no.’ A thought struck him. He didn’t want to seem too defiant. ‘But, even if I wanted to, I could not.’

  ‘Oh?’ The Count leaned back, an eyebrow arched. He was not cross. He was amused.

  Kerensky jabbed at the last diagram. ‘Equipment on this scale . . . power on this scale . . . It would cost millions and millions.’ He warmed to his theme. The world had limits. The Count had to understand his place in the scheme of things. ‘Even you, Count, could not afford such things.’

  Scarlioni nodded, clearly taking the point on board. He even shrugged. Ah well, you have me there, he smiled.

  At that moment, Hermann came running down the stairs, holding a parcel wrapped in brown paper. He was waving it around and looked, for once, overcome with joy. Kerensky felt a sinking sensation.

  ‘Sir!’ Hermann bellowed delightedly. He hadn’t made even the tiniest bow. ‘The Mona Lisa is no longer in the Louvre!’ He shook the parcel.

  What? thought Kerensky and sat down heavily.

  ‘Excellent, Hermann, excellent,’ the Count purred. He shot the stunned Professor a little smirk of triumph. ‘See? There’s always a way.’

  The normally staid butler was almost quivering with excitement. ‘The moment the news breaks, sir, each of our seven buyers will be ready.’

  The Count slapped the Professor heartily on the back. He raised his glass of champagne to Hermann. ‘To the fools!’ he toasted. ‘The poor simple fools.’

  Hermann bowed.

  ‘How much money will that bring us in, Hermann?’ The Count gestured in a Tell-the-Professor way.

  Hermann made much of pretending to calculate the sum. ‘About a hundred million dollars, Excellency.’

  The Count nodded at Kerensky. See? his triumphant smile said.

  The processor in Kerensky’s brain was working overtime. He stared miserably at the plans for the Kerensky Accelerator. There was no excuse for not building it now. Because everything he’d refused to believe about the Count was true. He was a criminal, he was ruthless, he wasn’t working for the good of humanity at all. He was a monster. He glumly looked at Hermann and the Count. What had they been doing all this time?

  Hermann had handed the painting over to the Count, who tore the wrappings apart with Christmas-morning vigour. He held it aloft, shaking it with triumph.

  Being this close to the most famous painting in the world should have had some joyous effect on Kerensky. But he had seen it several times before. The painting smiled at him quietly, little caring that she had just struck him dumb with horror.

  Seven Mona Lisas. How had the Count known about the other six Mona Lisas? They clearly weren’t a surprise to him. Or Hermann. Kerensky sneaked another glance at the plans for the Count’s device. He felt a pain in his stomach that for once wasn’t hunger.

  He looked up. The Count was smiling at him. ‘Continue with your work, Professor,’ he beamed amiably. ‘And enjoy it. Or you will die.’

  13

  THE FATHER OF INVENTION

  Thumbscrews are strange things. They work on pretty much the same principle as the flower press, which is a delightful invention capable of preserving flowers. A thumbscrew is nowhere near as jolly. It is a large adjustable vice which slowly squeezes, crushes and flattens whatever is placed inside it. To make sure of its agony, the bit that does the squeezing and the crushing and the flattening has a lot of pins in it, just to help out. Like most torture implements, these thumbscrews came in a solid shade of black. That hadn’t prevented this particular set from picking up a few stains along the way.

  The Doctor stared at the thumbscrews fastened to his hands and winced.

  ‘Already?’ Captain Tancredi clucked. ‘I haven’t even started yet.’

  ‘I know. It’s just that your hands are cold.’ The Doctor looked up at the guard in mute appeal. The guard pushed the rapier firmly into its familiar place at the Doctor’s neck. A notch was now forming.

  The Captain stepped back from fastening the thumbscrews. The Doctor was sat at a table. Leonardo’s Medusa had been painted at this table. Wonderful positive things had happened here. And soon the Doctor would forever remember it as the reason he found tying his shoelaces bothersome.

  The Captain was all smiles now. Whereas Count Scarlioni had a whole range of smiles, the Captain had just the one. It was cruel.

  There was an air of distinct menace about this situation. The Doctor knew it all too well. Bad things were about to happen. Probably to him. It was going to get distinctly unpleasant and, at best, he’d end up craving a change of shirt. The real knack was remembering to sound insouciant. It was easy enough under mild duress, but it took effort to scream insouciantly.

  The thing he hated about medieval torture devices was that they were so definite. Mind probes and so on you could edge away from, getting on with composing Argolin haikus while your body obliged with the yelling. The grander methods of torture normally had that kind of flaw. The Doctor lived to hear a slightly annoyed rasp of ‘Increase the power!’ It normally meant that he was winning, more or less. They’d brought out the biggest bit of their arsenal of agony and he was off and away finding synonyms for ‘sand’ and ‘sunset’. How terribly embarrassing for his tormentors.

  But thumbscrews? It never failed to amaze him that tiny bits of your body, boring, slightly silly bits could be used to cause so much pain. It was a deliberate act of humiliation. ‘We are going to hurt a part of you that you don’t think about at all.’ And then, of course, you’re going to have to learn to do without it.

  Poor old thumbs. That little bit of evolution that allowed tools to be made, swords and ploughshares to be hefted and now meant that he’d spend the rest of this life finding jam jars tricksy. Ah well, best get on with it. The Doctor winced again.

  ‘So sensitive?’ cooed the Captain. ‘I think we’re in for a little treat.’

  ‘All this is totally unnecessary, you know.’ On balance, the Doctor preferred the Count to the Captain. There seemed more of a chance for a natter and a cup of tea.

  ‘You make it necessary, Doctor,’ chided Captain Tancredi, winking at the guard. ‘You will not tell me the truth.’

  The guard smirked as the Captain bent over the thumbscrews. The guard liked this bit. The screaming was fun. The results were always extraordinary. But put you off a nice lump of sausage for a fortnight.

  The thumbscrews began to turn. First the one on the left.

  ‘Ah!’ the Doctor exclaimed. ‘Well, do you know, I’ve changed my mind.’ He looked bashful. ‘If there’s one thing I can’t bear it’s being tortured by someone with cold hands.’ He leant back in his chair candidly. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Excellent, Doctor,’ smiled the Captain as he gave the thumbscrews the tiniest, most playful of tweaks. ‘I want to know how you travel in time.’

  ‘Simple.’ The Doctor tried shrugging, which, when you’re wearing thumbscrews is next-to-impossible. ‘I’m a Time Lord.’

  Captain Tancredi did something remarkable at this point. There were a whole range of reactions to being told you’re sitting in the same room as a Time Lord. The most simple one was ‘What’s a Time Lord?’ but the Doctor also got a fair few hisses of ‘Ah, the Ancient Enemy!’, some rather embarrassing attempts at worship, and letters of complaint from historians.

  When the Doctor told Captain Tancredi he was a Time Lord, the Captain simply responded, ‘And the girl?’

  The Doctor was alarmed by this sudden turn in the conversation. A time-jumping wobbler like Scaroth, he could deal with. The Doctor, despite all appearances, knew what he was doing. But Romana was barely more than a Time Tot. Oh yes, ve
ry clever, snappy dresser, rather chic, great company if you were sharing a cell, but still just a little wet around the ears. He’d never tell her to her face, of course. Because he was rather afraid that she’d then do something impossibly clever just to spite him. But still, there was just the tiniest chance that Romana would fall into the clutches of this pan-temporal popinjay back in 1979. And then the Count could do two abominable things to her. He could threaten her, or, worse, he’d charm her. Romana’s great weakness was charm. After all, that’s why she stuck around with him.

  Aware that the Doctor’s thoughts had wandered away, the Captain gave the thumbscrews another gentle tap. ‘The girl. The truth, Doctor?’

  ‘What girl?’

  That really wouldn’t wash any more. The Count grasped both screws and looked the Doctor right in the eye. ‘Time is running out, Doctor.’

  ‘What are you talking about? This is only 1505, you know.’

  The Doctor had overdone the flippancy. The Captain got ready to give the thumbscrews a vicious twist.

  Finally, thought the guard. The juicy bit.

  ‘All right, all right!’ the Doctor got in quickly. ‘I’ll tell you.’ Must stall for time. Must find a way to get out of this. Must not drop Romana in it. Ah. Genuine curiosity. Works wonders. ‘One thing I’d like to know first. How do you communicate across time with the other splinters of yourself?’

  ‘Doctor,’ scowled the Captain. ‘I am asking the questions.’

  Yes, admitted the Doctor to himself. But it’s a good question, isn’t it?

  * * *

  The Count strode through the Château laughing. He was in a genuinely good mood. He could feel things moving inside his mind. Long-lost pieces of jigsaw clicking into place. He’d done it. The challenge he’d been set long ago, so long ago, finally neared completion. He saw that now. It really was just a matter of dotting the ‘i’s and crossing the ‘t’s.