Falling Sideways

by Tom Holt

  ‘Ouch,’ he said, not unreasonably.

  ‘Bastard!’ she explained, kicking him on the left shin. He did what any well-brought-up young man would do in the circumstances, and fell over.

  ‘Bastard!’ she pointed out, kicking him on the right shoulder where he lay. ‘That’s for sneaking about inside my mind, you horrible creep!’

  He looked up at her in amazement. ‘But how did you—?’

  ‘You told me. Just now. While you were in my head.’ Her foot lashed out again, but this time he managed to wriggle out of the way. ‘At least, you didn’t mean to tell me, but you’re so damn’ noisy I couldn’t help overhear­ing. You’re a telepath, and you’ve been putting stuff into my mind. Like the stuff about Daddy not being—’

  ‘Yes, but Daddy isn’t. I mean,’ he added, by now anticipating the speed and direction of her foot and taking the necessary evasive action, ‘Honest John’s a telepath, too, and he put the stuff about you being his daughter into your head. But it’s not true.’

  ‘Why should I believe you?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ David admitted. ‘It’s just true, that’s—’ He stopped short, suddenly realising that he’d instinc­tively nipped back inside her mind. This time, however, in front of the wall there was a large, angry-looking Dobermann on a long, flimsy-looking chain. He left, very quickly.

  ‘You don’t like dogs, either,’ she said smugly. ‘So I imagined one. Just one, because really I’m just an old softie. Next time, it’ll be like Crufts in Hell.’

  ‘Yes, all right,’ he said, cringing. ‘And I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to do that, it just sort of happened.’

  ‘Well, it had bloody well better not just-sort-of-happen again.’ She looked at him for a while, with anger and something else burning in her eyes. ‘But I believe you,’ she said.

  That surprised him more than anything else. ‘You do?’

  She nodded. ‘What you said about no childhood memories and everything,’ she replied. ‘It makes more sense than the alternatives. Which means,’ she added, as much to herself as to him, ‘that this John person’s been playing games with me. With both of us, I guess.’

  ‘That’s right,’ David said. ‘You know, I think it’s been him all along. Just him,’ he added grimly.

  ‘Just him all along what?’

  He stood up. ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s go and ask him.’

  ‘Ask him what, for crying out loud?’

  But — surprise, surprise — John wasn’t there. No sign of him in the workshop, outside the workshop or in the street. ‘He’s gone,’ David said.

  ‘Good Lord, I wonder why,’ she said. ‘Really, you’d almost think he knew we were going to come looking for him with a view to kicking his head in. Like he’s — oh, telepathic, or something.’

  ‘And the van’s gone, too.’

  ‘I don’t think the van’s telepathic as well. More likely, he got into it and drove it away. There, how’s that for an imaginative hypothesis?’

  He turned round and scowled at her. ‘And another thing,’ he said. ‘Will you please stop taking the mickey out of me all the time? It’s starting to get on my nerves. She looked a little uncomfortable. ‘Well,’ she grumbled, ‘at least you’ve got nerves to get on. More than I have, thanks to someone not a million billion light years away, who forgot to—’

  ‘Yes, all right.’ His scowl deepened. ‘All right,’ he said, you were an accident. No, worse than that, you were a mistake. An error of judgement, even. So are thousands and thousands of people. The only difference is, the way you were born.’

  ‘But I wasn’t,’ she said. ‘Born, I mean. Instead I came out of a tank of green glop, like Botticelli with mushy peas. And that—’

  ‘That,’ he interrupted, ‘doesn’t matter at all. You know your trouble? You think of yourself as a clone instead of a person. Which means you can’t take your­self seriously, even when you want to.’

  ‘What do you expect?’ she snapped at him, with a catch in her voice. ‘I’m not a human being, I’m a hi-tech sock puppet. I’m only here because you wanted to make some silly gesture.’

  The last dribble of his patience leaked away and evap­orated. ‘Fine,’ he growled. ‘You’re a puppet, so bloody what? You think you’ve got problems? I’m not even semi-human, I’m a frog. You can’t possibly begin to understand — what the hell are you laughing at?’

  She pressed her lips together tightly, but it didn’t help. She giggled again. ‘You,’ she said.

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes, you. You just said you’re a—’

  ‘Frog.’ He folded his arms. ‘Come on, then,’ he said. ‘Frog jokes, let’s get them over with. All right, then, I’ll start. Waiter, have you got frogs’ legs? No, monsieur, I always walk like this. There was an Englishman, a Lithuanian and a frog, and the Lithuanian said—’

  She was laughing even more, though presumably not at the joke. (Defective memory, yes; feeble-minded, no.) ‘I wasn’t laughing about that,’ she said, ‘it was some­thing else.’

  ‘Was it really? Such as?’

  ‘I was just wondering,’ she told him, ‘if you’re really a frog, what’d happen when I did this.’ And she kissed him.

  It wasn’t one of your great kisses. Hardly surprising, when you think about it, since all she knew about the subject was what had filtered through from the residual memories of a four-hundred-year-old strand of hair. But as far as David was concerned, it was good enough for jazz.

  ‘And now, you see,’ she was saying, grinning like an idiot, ‘you’re supposed to turn into something. You know, like in the fairy story?’

  He looked at her. ‘You’re strange,’ he said, ‘did you know that?’

  She shrugged. ‘Hardly surprising, really,’ she said. ‘So what did the Lithuanian say?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You said there was an Englishman, a Lithuanian and a frog, and the Lithuanian was about to say something. So what was it?’

  ‘I can’t remember,’ David admitted. ‘You still haven’t told me why you did that.’

  She grinned. ‘To shut you up, primarily,’ she said. ‘You talk an awful lot, you know, and you were starting to get all stuffy and boring. And because you said you’re a frog. Gives us something in common, you see.’

  That one jumped right out at him like a stepped-on rake lurking in the grass. ‘It what?’

  ‘Oh, come on,’ she said scornfully. ‘That green goo in the cloning tanks. You do know what it is, don’t you?’

  ‘Well,’ he admitted, ‘no.’

  ‘You idiot,’ she said fondly — yes, genuine affection there, though he was almost too preoccupied to notice. ‘It’s frogspawn.’

  It was one of those infuriating moments when every­thing feels like it ought to make sense, but it doesn’t, quite. ‘Frogspawn,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, you know. Where baby frogs come from. Or were you under the impression that the stork brings them? Because if that’s what you were thinking, I’ve got to tell you, that’s not the reason why storks are so unpop­ular among the frog community—’

  He frowned, having noticed something unusual. ‘You’re babbling,’ he said.

  ‘I am not.’

  ‘Yes, you are. All this stuff about frogs and storks. People only babble when they’re embarrassed about something. What are you ?‘

  ‘Three guesses,’ she snapped irritably, and kissed him again. ‘Although,’ she went on, disentangling herself, ‘why I’m doing this, I really haven’t got a clue. I guess I must like you or something.’

  ‘It’d certainly fit the available data.’

  ‘Maybe,’ she replied, ‘but it’s pretty unlikely, all the same. I mean, look at you.’

  ‘I’d rather not,’ David replied, looking at her instead. She scowled at him. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘we’ve got to be sensible about this. Because, you see, chances are we’re only feeling this strange, inexplicable mutual attraction because somebody’s manipulated us into it, the same way the
y’ve been manipulating us both all along.’

  ‘Good for them,’ David replied. ‘I definitely prefer this kind of being manipulated to the getting-framed-for-murder sort. And on balance I’d say it’s probably got the edge over the being-held-hostage-by-deranged-clones variety as well.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s still not right.’ Her scowl deepened, and she turned away. ‘We can’t let them get away with it, you know.’

  ‘Really? I mean, after they’ve been to all this trouble.’ He took a step closer; she stayed where she was. ‘And for all we know, maybe the whole point behind all the being manipulated was to bring us together. In which case—’

  ‘No,’ she said firmly, ‘not until we’ve sorted this out. Sorry, but it’s really starting to bug me.’

  Oh, for crying out loud, David thought. But what he said was, ‘Right. In that case, let’s start by finding Honest John.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ she said. She didn’t seem keen. ‘Did he say where he was going?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well, that pretty well blows that idea out of the water, then. Unless you were thinking of roaming around the streets of wherever this is on the off chance of catching sight of him.’

  I love you with all my heart, he thought, but at times you can be so annoying... ‘All right, then,’ he said, ‘so what do you suggest?’

  ‘I don’t know, do I?’ She clicked her tongue. ‘You’re the one who wants to go charging off on a quest. That’s typ­ical male behaviour, that is, always trying to find solutions to things, like the whole of life’s some kind of intelligence test. I suppose that’s why men are so difficult to talk to.’

  He decided he didn’t want to go anywhere near that one. Instead: ‘How do you know it’s frogspawn?’ he asked.

  ‘Frogspawn?’

  ‘In the tanks.’

  She shot him a look you could’ve made yoghurt with. ‘Here’s me,’ she said, ‘practically throwing myself at you, and all you want to talk about is bloody frogspawn. Oh, thank you very much.’

  He froze. ‘I’m very sorry,’ he said.

  ‘Well, don’t be,’ she snapped. ‘I don’t want you to be sorry, that isn’t going to help. I want to know what’s going on.

  ‘Maybe we could help.’

  Both of them spun round like the Position Open notice on a post office counter, just as you finally grind your way to the front of the queue. Standing in the doorway was someone who looked exactly like Honest John. Behind him, they could just see a whole lot of other people who looked identical, apart from a few very minor variations in shoe type.

  ‘It’s you, isn’t it?’ David said, realising as the words passed the gate of his teeth that even by his standards, that was a stunningly unhelpful thing to say, in the cir­cumstances. But the man in the doorway seemed to catch his drift, because he said, ‘Yes, it’s me. Us.’

  David tried to get between them and the girl without breaking eye contact. He succeeded in treading on her foot. ‘What do you want?’ he growled.

  ‘John asked us to drop by,’ the man said. ‘Can we come in?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ The man shrugged. ‘I suppose I can explain just as well standing out here in the road as indoors. I mean, it’s no skin off my nose if the specta­cle of a dozen identical men queuing up outside a lock-up workshop attracts a huge crowd of curious bystanders.’

  ‘I don’t believe John asked you to come here,’ David maintained.

  ‘Well, of course you don’t.’ The man smiled in a singu­larly patronising and offensive way. ‘You believe we’re the bad guys. Naturally. It’s what you were meant to believe.’

  ‘Meant to believe?’

  The man nodded. ‘To be precise, what John wanted you to believe. So of course, being a dutiful son, you believe it.’

  That one hit him in the solar plexus. It was a while before he’d recovered enough to ask, ‘How the hell do you know—?’

  ‘Oh, we’ve known all along, silly,’ the man replied. (And, yes, contrary to all expectations and probabili­ties, he managed to sound even more annoying than he had the last time he said anything. An amazing natural gift, wasted on a mere henchman-grade clone. With a facility for nasal intrusion like that, at the very least he should’ve been chairing University Challenge.) ‘Look,’ he went on, ‘not wanting to harp on about it, but standing in line like this, we’re obstructing the highway, and it’s only a matter of time before some twat calls the police. Can we come in now, please?’

  There didn’t seem to be much point refusing. If they meant harm, with odds of six to one in their favour, there wasn’t any real chance of keeping them out. ‘All right,’ David said. ‘But no—’

  ‘Funny business, I know.’ The man stepped aside, and a short column of identical versions of himself trooped in. ‘Weird, really. I mean, I thought your species like comedy even if they’re not too smart at it sometimes. But it’s all right, we promise to behave. And if you do catch us telling jokes or doing extracts from Molière and Congreve, you can jolly well throw us all out again. Can’t say fairer than that, now, can I?’

  So they came in; and a truly bizarre sight they proved to be, too. It was like watching a bunch of Elvis imper­sonators lining up for an audition, except that none of them looked like Elvis. When they were all crowded inside, making the workshop feel like the Bakerloo Line hall of mirrors, their spokesclone (who was sitting on the edge of a bench, wedged in between two carbon copies of himself) cleared his throat, and said: ‘Now then, would you like me to explain?’

  The girl nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But I expect I’ll be disappointed.’

  ‘Really? Why?’ replied the spokesclone, a born straight man.

  ‘Because all you’re going to do is tell us a whole load more lies,’ the girl said. ‘Come on, I’m not stupid, even if he is. Last time I saw you lot, you had me tied up in the back of a van.’

  ‘True,’ the clone conceded. ‘But that was a necessary part of the process, as you’ll see as soon as I start explaining. That’s if you’ll let me start, that is.’

  David sighed. ‘Oh, go on,’ he said. ‘We might as well hear him out. Not like we’ve got anything better to do,’ he added, with a slight edge to his voice.

  Either she didn’t take the point or she ignored it. ‘And another thing,’ she said. ‘Talk about your coincidences. There’s me saying I want an explanation, and the words hardly out of my mouth when you pop up to provide one. Coincidence?’

  ‘Certainly not. More like superb timing. But then, this whole operation’s worked like the proverbial well-oiled machine, though I say so myself as shouldn’t. Look,’ the clone went on, ‘if you want us all to go away, you just say the word; we’re only here for your benefit, after all. And if we push off now, we could all be home in time for the motor racing on Grandstand.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ David said firmly. ‘You say what you’ve got to say, and we’ll form our own opinions. How about that?’

  ‘I’m impressed,’ the clone said. ‘But that’s the differ­ence between you two, no offence intended; you’re a frog, she isn’t. Now then—’

  David jumped up, inadvertently elbowing a clone in the face as he did so. ‘How did you know that?’ he said. ‘And is it really true?’

  ‘To the second question, yes. To the first question, shut up and listen, and you might just find out.’ The clone sighed. ‘You’ve changed in the last few days,’ he said. ‘It was a damn sight easier getting a word in edge-ways the last time we did this. But now you’re all self-confident and cocky — as it should be, of course, but makes my job harder.’ He smiled. ‘Now, then. Are we all sitting comfortably? Well, tough, because I’m beginning anyway.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  In the beginning (said the spokesclone) the world was without form and...

  You want the short version. Okay, then: shit happens. Does that answer all your questions? Thought not. Now, if you’ll shut your face and let me tell this my way, we migh
t actually get somewhere. Thank you.

  In the beginning, the world was without form and void. Worse still, it was just sitting in its orbit doing nothing except growing a bit of coal here and there: a bit like a human being first thing in the morning, really. Certainly, it wasn’t making any money for anybody.

  Then we came along. By we, of course, I mean some­one who looks just like me — my brother, if you like —and you. Don’t suppose you remember, you were only, what, three thousand, six hundred and eight at the time, barely out of nappies.

  What do you mean, which one of you? Him, of course. My son, or should that be nephew? Look, this is going to get pretty convoluted in a minute or so, unless we fix this pronouns thing straight off the bat. Just assume that I’m him, all right? Which I am, of course, in many respects.

  We were sent here — well, you know all that, I think, they told you when you went to Homeworld just now, I can see it in your head. The colonisation project was one of those good-idea-at-the-time things that miraculously crop up just before general elections. A bit like mush­rooms, really; in fact, quite a lot like mushrooms, if you care to consider precisely what they crop up out of.

  Well, the project failed, as I think you already know, and all the colonists packed up and came home, leaving the domesticated humans we’d brought with us to inherit the Earth, and welcome to it. And, as you also already know, you and I sneaked back here a few hun­dred thousand years later to do highly unethical and profoundly illegal god impersonations with a view to kidding the monkey people into providing for us in our old age.

  Now, what they didn’t tell you was the real reason why the project went pear-shaped. I expect they fobbed you off with a load of old socks about the water being salt or the glaciers being too slow or the sea being the wrong colour to go with the curtains. Forget all that — I mean, it’s true enough, but nothing our people couldn’t fix in an afternoon. No, it was something far worse than that; something we’d never even heard of before, which of course is why it didn’t show up on our preliminary surveys, because it’d have been like asking a blind man to scan for paisley.