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Authors: Ben Aaronovitch
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spirited attempt to disembowel her.
Been in the wars, Mama. Got the scars to prove it.
Scrawny, she thought, feeling over the sharp points of her pelvis. Mama always said I was too scrawny. Holding me up to some idealized reflection of the perfect Xhosa maiden. A figure made up entirely of curves that walked gracefully across a veldt long gone to the Undertown and urban decay. It really pained you that I didn't fit. This ugly, scrawny kid with her too long legs and frizzy hair. It must have hurt you to know that I'd come out of your womb, hurt almost as much as that premature birth out in the badlands. Out where the medical facilities were basic and rescue twenty minutes too late.
I ruined you coming into the world and you never forgave me for that. Ruined you beyond the skill of any reconstructive surgery. You with your stupid obsession with the past, your sunshine emulator and your twice yearly trip to the bepple clinic to get your skin darkened. You'd have beppled me from-birth, twisted my DNA to suit your own aesthetic if Grandma and Father hadn't stopped you. You looked at me and you saw something different, but when I looked in the mirror I saw only myself. And you wondered why I ran away to look for the truth.
Truth, justice and the Terranian way of life.
You must be laughing at me now, now that the truth has found me out.
And the dumbest thing of all is that I wanted that heritage too. Wanted the ochre-coloured cloaks that hung on the walls, the ancient strings of multicoloured beads, the cow-hair necklace to ward off evil spirits. I dreamed of being a worthy daughter of the Xhosa, the Angry Man. I found things, Mama, that you never dreamed of, the stories of Nomgqause, Mandela and Mbete. People who fought for the things I thought I was fighting for.
I had to go forward, Mama; if I'd looked back I'd have seen the chain of small compromises and moral lapses that was dragging me down with its weight. Had to keep thinking that I was making some kind of difference, however small. That where I passed things were, if not better, then at least not as bad as they were before.
I should have just stayed with you on Io, Mama. Inherited the Baroncy. Then I could have held a big reception on my ascension, invited all your aristo friends, the Pontiff Seculares, the heads of the big corporations and the entire upper tier of the Overcity. They'd have come to pay their respects to the new Baroness Io. I could have poisoned the lot of them. Something nasty and biological in the punch, a nightmare recombining cocktail that ate away their flesh so that it fell from their bones and slopped all over the deep pile carpet.
It would have done more to clean up the world than everything I've done in twenty-five years on the streets . . .
Someone was watching her.
Roz spun round, the water dragged at her thighs and she almost fell over.
The Doctor was standing on the dunes with his back to her, next to where she'd piled her armour. His stance was so theatrically courteous that she could read the artifice in his back – a gentleman preserving the proprieties in front of a lady.
'Molo ntombazana ,' called the Doctor.
'Molo mhlekazi ,' replied Roz, surprised that she could remember the correct response in Xhosa.
'So formal?' said the Doctor. 'Surely we're friends?'
Roz waded back to the beach and started putting on her clothes. 'The only other title I could think of was utat'omkhulu .'
'Grandfather,' the Doctor chuckled. 'I haven't been called that in a long time.'
'And I haven't been called a young woman for at least twenty years.' The undertunic felt sticky as she pulled it over her wet skin. 'And I haven't spoken Xhosa since I left home.'
'Does it feel strange?'
'Very,' said Roz. 'You can turn round now; I'm decent.' She pushed at the pile of armour with her foot. Wearing it suddenly seemed such a childish idea.
'Leave it,' said the Doctor. 'No one will take it.'
'What if the tide comes in?'
The Doctor used the heel of his
Been in the wars, Mama. Got the scars to prove it.
Scrawny, she thought, feeling over the sharp points of her pelvis. Mama always said I was too scrawny. Holding me up to some idealized reflection of the perfect Xhosa maiden. A figure made up entirely of curves that walked gracefully across a veldt long gone to the Undertown and urban decay. It really pained you that I didn't fit. This ugly, scrawny kid with her too long legs and frizzy hair. It must have hurt you to know that I'd come out of your womb, hurt almost as much as that premature birth out in the badlands. Out where the medical facilities were basic and rescue twenty minutes too late.
I ruined you coming into the world and you never forgave me for that. Ruined you beyond the skill of any reconstructive surgery. You with your stupid obsession with the past, your sunshine emulator and your twice yearly trip to the bepple clinic to get your skin darkened. You'd have beppled me from-birth, twisted my DNA to suit your own aesthetic if Grandma and Father hadn't stopped you. You looked at me and you saw something different, but when I looked in the mirror I saw only myself. And you wondered why I ran away to look for the truth.
Truth, justice and the Terranian way of life.
You must be laughing at me now, now that the truth has found me out.
And the dumbest thing of all is that I wanted that heritage too. Wanted the ochre-coloured cloaks that hung on the walls, the ancient strings of multicoloured beads, the cow-hair necklace to ward off evil spirits. I dreamed of being a worthy daughter of the Xhosa, the Angry Man. I found things, Mama, that you never dreamed of, the stories of Nomgqause, Mandela and Mbete. People who fought for the things I thought I was fighting for.
I had to go forward, Mama; if I'd looked back I'd have seen the chain of small compromises and moral lapses that was dragging me down with its weight. Had to keep thinking that I was making some kind of difference, however small. That where I passed things were, if not better, then at least not as bad as they were before.
I should have just stayed with you on Io, Mama. Inherited the Baroncy. Then I could have held a big reception on my ascension, invited all your aristo friends, the Pontiff Seculares, the heads of the big corporations and the entire upper tier of the Overcity. They'd have come to pay their respects to the new Baroness Io. I could have poisoned the lot of them. Something nasty and biological in the punch, a nightmare recombining cocktail that ate away their flesh so that it fell from their bones and slopped all over the deep pile carpet.
It would have done more to clean up the world than everything I've done in twenty-five years on the streets . . .
Someone was watching her.
Roz spun round, the water dragged at her thighs and she almost fell over.
The Doctor was standing on the dunes with his back to her, next to where she'd piled her armour. His stance was so theatrically courteous that she could read the artifice in his back – a gentleman preserving the proprieties in front of a lady.
'Molo ntombazana ,' called the Doctor.
'Molo mhlekazi ,' replied Roz, surprised that she could remember the correct response in Xhosa.
'So formal?' said the Doctor. 'Surely we're friends?'
Roz waded back to the beach and started putting on her clothes. 'The only other title I could think of was utat'omkhulu .'
'Grandfather,' the Doctor chuckled. 'I haven't been called that in a long time.'
'And I haven't been called a young woman for at least twenty years.' The undertunic felt sticky as she pulled it over her wet skin. 'And I haven't spoken Xhosa since I left home.'
'Does it feel strange?'
'Very,' said Roz. 'You can turn round now; I'm decent.' She pushed at the pile of armour with her foot. Wearing it suddenly seemed such a childish idea.
'Leave it,' said the Doctor. 'No one will take it.'
'What if the tide comes in?'
The Doctor used the heel of his
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