Snow White and the Seven Samurai

by Tom Holt

  It was at that moment that Snow White woke up.

  Possibly it was wave-echoes in the operating matrix, or a freak flash of telepathy, or the effects of the last-thing-at-night cheese sandwich whose pervasive smell had brought the three blind mice here in the first place. Whatever the cause, its effect was that Snow White awoke out of an entirely appropriate dream and demanded, ‘Who’s been standing in my bucket?’ Then she noticed the ex-mouse.

  ‘What the—?’ she began.

  ‘M-m-mouse,’ the ex-mouse gibbered, pointing at the bucket.

  ‘Eeeek!’

  Fortunately there was another chair just beside the bed. With a single chamois-like leap, Snow White hopped on to it, gathered her nightdress tightly around her and whispered, ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘C-c-course I’m sure. I am one.’

  ‘Eeeek?’

  ‘Long story. Look, can you call someone? A big strong man, for instance?’

  ‘I—’ Snow White began; then she swore. ‘Useless bunch of pillocks,’ she went on, ‘I sent them out to do something for me and they aren’t back yet. Look, who are you?’

  Then the significance of the empty bucket hit her. Thanks to her newly augmented mental powers, the ex-mouse-who-shouldn’t-have-come didn’t need to be told. She knew. ‘I’m most dreadfully sorry,’ she said. ‘It was an accident, honest.’

  ‘You stupid cow!’ Snow White screeched. ‘Have you any idea what you’ve done?’

  The ex-mouse nodded. ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘But you see, it’s all right, because I drank some of the water, which makes me a sort of honorary mirror. I can make it all work, you see, and—’

  ‘You can what?’

  ‘I can make it work,’ the ex-mouse repeated. ‘That’s how come I can see. And why I’m a girl instead of a mouse. In fact,’ she added, with a strange edge to her voice, ‘I think I can do anything I like.’

  ‘Oh.’ A substantial degree of her former belligerence faded out of Snow White’s voice. ‘Then why don’t you get rid of the mice?’ she added, reasonably enough.

  ‘They’re my brothers.’

  Snow White considered this. ‘So?’ she said.

  The ex-mouse hadn’t thought of it in those terms before. It was a seductive argument for the only girl in a family of a hundred and six. A whole string of memory-related convincing arguments, some of them dating back to her very earliest recollections, added their weight to the proposition. ‘Well…’ she said hesitantly.

  ‘Not permanently, necessarily,’ Snow White continued. ‘You could always bring them back later.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘Much later, if you decided you wanted to.’

  ‘Hmmm.’

  ‘And it’d teach them a lesson, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘It’d do them good to be taught a lesson,’ the ex-mouse agreed. ‘Sorry, we haven’t been introduced. My name’s Souris, but you can call me Sris for short.’

  ‘Snow White,’ Snow White replied. ‘Go on, then. I dare you.’

  Souris grinned. ‘All right, then. Boo!’

  At once, the two mice in the bottom of the bucket vanished. Where they went to, only a highly trained folklore engineer could say. Possibly they found themselves pulling thorns out of the paws of lions, or drawing a pumpkin coach, or hiding under the bed until Mr Aesop had stopped prowling around and gone off with Uncle Remus for a swift half. The practical effect was that, with the threat they posed safely removed, Snow White was able to jump off her chair, snatch up the three-foot long daïsho that Mr Nikko had left lying about in the potting shed and take a savage swipe at Souris, whose instincts as a persecuted domestic pest only just saved her from spectacular decapitation.

  ‘Come back!’ Snow White screeched, as the ex-mouse bolted through the door and pattered down the stairs. It was, in context, a foolishly optimistic thing to say. The front door of Avenging Dragon Cottage slammed shut behind her, and the darkness covered her tracks.

  ‘Come back!’ Snow White repeated, livid with frustrated rage. ‘Are you a girl or a mouse?’

  Apparently the concept of dual nationality wasn’t one she was familiar with.

  ‘This time,’ said the Baron, ‘try to get it right.’

  Igor nodded, and turned the crank that jump-started the big transverse flywheel. It hiccupped a couple of times, then started to spin.

  ‘Quite apart from everything else,’ the Baron went on, ‘we haven’t got enough components in stock to go around wasting them. You got any idea how hard it is to get quality ankles these days?’

  There was a crackle and a hiss, and the first fat blue spark flolloped across the points of the auxiliary generator. In the relay fuse bank, something blew. Igor hurried across, found the soot-blackened slide, hauled it out and slammed home a new one.

  ‘Not to mention skin,’ the Baron went on gloomily. ‘Fifty kroner a square metre I had to pay for that last batch, and I’ve seen better stuff on a sausage. Some of these body-snatchers, they’re no better than common thieves. All right, take it up to quarter power and for God’s sake keep an eye on the amps.’

  ‘Sure thing, boss.’

  ‘And put a cloth or something over that, will you?’ the Baron added, jerking a thumb in the direction of the cute little wooden puppet propped up on the workbench. ‘Heaven alone knows what possessed you to bring it in here.’

  ‘I like the little fellow, boss,’ Igor replied. ‘He’s like a sort of mascot.’

  Before the Baron could tell Igor what he thought of that, another bank of fuses blew, and he jumped down from the quarterdeck to replace them. Igor frowned; he could have sworn he’d seen the puppet move, out of the corner of his eye. But that was impossible; after all, the little fellow had given his word he’d stay perfectly still and quiet.

  ‘All right,’ the Baron said, wiping sweat out of his eyes with his sleeve, ‘now we’re getting somewhere. Up the feed by fifteen per cent; and gently, for crying out loud. This is a scientific experiment, not a barbecue.’

  Igor didn’t say anything; not his place. Instead, he eased back the lever, carefully watching the needle climb. Smooth as silk, if he said so himself.

  ‘Now then,’ said the Baron, ‘I think this may be where we went wrong the last time. Instead of routing the main feed through the collimator matrix, I’m going to backfeed via the auxiliaries and then bring it up to three-quarter capacity almost immediately. You got that?’

  ‘Sure thing, boss,’ Igor replied dutifully. Half the time, he felt sure, the Baron was making it up as he went along. Chances were, if you really pressed him, he’d have to admit he wouldn’t know a collimator matrix from half a kilo of bratwurst. Ah well, Igor smiled to himself, just as well one of us knows about these things.

  The low hum of the generator became a growl, and there was a faint shrill edge to it, the first querulous complaint of stressed metal. Igor’s steady hand feathered the damper toggles, compensating for the surge effects while maintaining a constant supply to the main feed. There was a very slight smell of singed flesh, but that was only to be expected.

  ‘On my mark,’ the Baron said, his voice raised above the growing roar of the generator. ‘Up to eighty per cent and hold it steady. And… mark!’

  Igor shook his head. Melodrama, he thought. Ah well. After all, it’s his train set. He slid the lever forward, wondering as he did so how Katchen’s sister’s husband had got on at the chiropodist’s. There was a loud hiss as a whiff of evaporated coolant escaped from the manifold; he shut down the conduit and transferred smoothly to the backup. No worries.

  ‘More power! Igor, more power! Ninety per cent!’

  ‘Sure thing, boss.’ Once, just once, it’d be nice if he said please. He nudged the throttle up another two per cent; okay, so he was the boss, but there’s unquestioning obedience and there’s blowing the gaskets. On the table, a finger quivered.

  ‘More power!’

  Igor allowed him another one per cent, noted that two fingers were at it now, and let his
mind drift back to what he was going to get little Helga for her birthday. Silly kid had set her heart on a porcelain doll, but there was no way he could afford that on a lab technician’s wages. A thought struck him, and he glanced over his shoulder at his little wooden pal, sitting propped up against the Bunsen burners. A lick of paint, some crepe hair, the missus could make a little dress out of off cuts from the curtains she was making for the dowager duchess… True, he’d half decided on giving it to his nephew Piotr, but Piotr was nearly nine and he’d far rather have something useful, like a carpentry set or a Kalashnikov rifle, something that’d be handy for when he came to decide which of the two trades traditionally practised by young men in this part of the mountains he was eventually going to follow.

  ‘More POWER!’

  ‘You got it, boss.’ He slid the lever forward to ninety-seven per cent, and then jumped sideways as the static feedback bit him. Nasty, dangerous contraption it was; still, it was this or go back to working in the slate quarries, and what kind of a life was that?

  ‘It’s working!’ The Baron was pointing at the Thing on the table, while sheets and snakes of blue fire shimmered and ebbed and surged; just, Igor thought, like when you light the brandy on the Christmas pud. ‘I’ve done it, Igor! I’ve created a life!’ He raised his head in triumph, caught sight of the little wooden puppet, frowned, and added, ‘A proper one.’

  Create a life? You’d be better off getting one. ‘Well done, boss!’ Igor replied. ‘Will you be wanting the rest of the power now?’

  ‘What? Oh Christ, yes. Everything you’ve got, quickly.’

  Gingerly, Igor prodded the lever home and jumped back quickly; and at once the shape on the table sat up with a click, pulling the electrodes out of its skin. Well, well, Igor thought, so he’s actually done it after all, he’s created a life. Big deal. Me and Mrs Igor have created seven, and our way was more fun and didn’t cost us a fortune in electricity bills. That reminded him: better shut down the power. Even at off-peak rates (you’ve never wondered why the Baron always insisted on conducting his experiments at dead of night? Now you know) all this was costing the boss a fortune; enough to reduce the chances of a staff Christmas bonus to virtually nil.

  The Thing on the table groaned, as well it might. Its eyes closed, then opened again. It yawned, and took a deep breath. Hope the glue holds, Igor muttered to himself, absently swatting at a passing fly. I told him epoxy resin‘d be better, but he wouldn’t listen. But there was no tearing sound or hiss of escaping air, so that was all right.

  ‘My creation!’ the Baron crooned, holding out his arms towards the Thing. ‘My Adam! My life’s work.’

  The fly, having circled the Thing’s head, landed on its nose. ‘Ha-a-a-,’ it said, and then ‘SHOOO!’ There was a noise like a sheet being torn in half, and the Thing flopped back down on to the table with a bump and lay perfectly still. The Baron stared at it.

  ‘Bugger,’ he said.

  Once again, Igor got a curiously itchy feeling in the back of his neck that prompted him to turn round and look at the little wooden puppet. It winked at him.

  Igor smothered a grin. Wonder how he does it, he muttered to himself, as the Baron fussed round with glue, brown paper and string. Bloody glad he’s on my side, he added. At least I hope he’s on my side.

  ‘All right,’ the Baron said wearily. ‘Let’s try again.’

  Somehow, the second go lacked the feeling of awe and wonder there had been the first time around. Understandable, in a way; thousands watched in awe as Louis Bleriot flew the Channel for the first time, whereas now thousands sit around in airport terminals snarling about delays in air traffic control. Oh sure enough, there were crackles and hisses and lots of flashy blue fire; but it was playing to a sleepy Wednesday afternoon matinee rather than a first night. So, when the repaired Thing sat up this time, the Baron just grunted and started checking its seams for stress damage.

  ‘Hello,’ it said.

  That got the Baron’s attention sure enough. ‘Hell’s teeth, it can talk,’ he said. ‘It’s not supposed to be able to do that. I formatted its brain. Damn thing should be clean as a whistle.’

  ‘Hello.’

  The Baron shook his head sadly and reached for a screwdriver. Before he could make contact, however, the Thing’s hand shot out and grabbed him by the wrist, making him squeal with pain.

  ‘Hello,’ it said.

  Igor jumped up to go to the Baron’s assistance, but somehow the lab stool he was sitting on managed to topple, dumping him painfully on his backside. Once again, he felt the urge to look round at his little wooden pal.

  Its eyes were shut. Lights out. Nobody at home.

  And the Thing turned its head and winked at him.

  ‘Hi,’ it said, ‘my name is Carl. Mind if I use your mirror?’

  Chapter 11

  Somewhere in the darkness, a rat scuttled.

  ‘Ah,’ said the Beast, relieved. ‘I was just starting to think I was lost.’

  Sis shuddered. It was dark down here; not Hollywood-dark, which is an environment where people are deemed not to be able to see even though the heat from the rows of sodium lamps behind the camera is enough to peel the skin off your nose, but dark as three feet down a long bag. Add the scuttling of offstage rats, and the result was something she didn’t much care for. ‘Are we nearly there yet?’ she quavered.

  ‘We should be,’ replied the Beast. ‘That rat’s the first hint of the big cellar full of rats bit that comes up just before we stumble through into the castle. Follow me.’

  ‘Big cellar full of rats?’ Sis echoed. ‘You are joking, aren’t you? Because if you think I’m going anywhere near a cellar full of rats…’

  ‘Nothing to be afraid of,’ the wicked queen interrupted briskly. ‘They’re just doing their job, same as the rest of us. Just think of them as — oh, I don’t know, what about decor? Or atmosphere. Like raffia-covered Chianti bottles in an Italian restaurant. They’re there to tell you where you are and when the adventure’s likely to begin.’

  ‘I see. Wouldn’t a simple signpost do just as well?’

  ‘Wouldn’t be able to see a signpost in the dark. But everybody can understand the significance of a carpet-of-squirming-rodents noise. It’s a convention, like the stylised pictures of men and women on lavatory doors.’

  ‘I don’t like rats,’ Sis replied sullenly.

  ‘Good. You aren’t meant to. A secret gateway that leads directly into the very heart of the castle isn’t meant to be fun. It’s all about brooding menace and all your secret phobias suddenly brought to the — Hello, what’s this?’

  ‘You tell me.’

  ‘I’m not sure. But it feels oddly like carpet.’

  ‘Carpet?’

  ‘Carpet,’ the queen confirmed. ‘Quite definitely. Hey you, Beast, what’s all this in aid of?’

  ‘Don’t look at me,’ the Beast replied. ‘Not that you would if you had any sense and the lights were on, but…’

  ‘Don’t drift off-topic. Why’s this tunnel carpeted, like something out of The Hobbit? Have we come the wrong way?’

  Because of its unique collection of hideous physical deformities, you could hear the Beast shrug its shoulders. ‘No hobbits in these parts,’ it said. ‘Used to be one or two who had weekend tunnels down here; you know, caved-in old mineshafts they buy up and have all done out in stripped pine and Habitat—

  ‘You mean Hobbitat, surely,’ Sis muttered.

  ‘—But they soon got fed up and moved away. Said the TV reception was hell and they couldn’t find anybody that delivered pizzas. Nobody here these days but us storybook types.’

  The queen knelt down and groped with her fingertips. ‘Not just carpet,’ she said. ‘Thick, deep, good quality carpet. Might even be Axemonster.’

  ‘Shouldn’t that be Axminster?’

  ‘You don’t want to know. Well, if this is what passes for all your secret phobias suddenly made real in this neck of the woods, I can’t say I’m impressed. Un
less it’s all sort of post-modern secret phobias stuff; you know, the carpet clashes unbearably with the wallpaper, and the curtains don’t go with the loose covers…’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ the Beast said. ‘Not even with the subdued lighting effects. It wasn’t a bit like this when I was last here. Or at least,’ it added, ‘I can’t quite recall—’

  ‘Enough said,’ sighed the queen wearily. ‘It’s just another cock-up in the system. Instead of thickly carpeted with rats, it’s thickly carpeted by rats. Any minute now—’

  ‘Halt! Who goes there?’

  (‘Told you,’ muttered the queen.)

  Suddenly the tunnel was filled with blinding light. Up ahead they could see a figure, clearly identifiable by the shape of its ears as rat, despite the fact that the savage back-lighting reduced it to a silhouette. ‘Beast?’ it said. ‘Is that you?’

  ‘Oh, so he knows you, then,’ breathed Sis, with an edge to her voice you could have shaved with.

  ‘At least you don’t sound quite so frightened any more,’ the Beast replied.

  ‘What’s there to be frightened of?’ Sis said. ‘That’s not a rat. That’s just Mickey Mouse’s disreputable younger brother. I’m only afraid of real rats, not unemployed actors in costume.’

  ‘Excuse me,’ said the wicked queen firmly, ‘but are we going the right way for Beauty’s castle?’

  The rat nodded. ‘Follow your nose up the tunnel,’ it said. ‘You can’t miss it. Only, would you mind awfully wiping your feet before you go any further? In fact, if you could just wait there, I’ll put down some newspaper.’

  It bustled away, leaving the queen to admit that an obsessively house-proud rat made quite a good secret phobia. When it came back and had finished putting down pages from last week’s colour supplements, it gave the queen a long, hard look.