The rest of his apt if predictable quotation was drowned out by the noise of the explosion.

Chapter 5

‘Again.’

The face in the mirror flickered, resetting itself to the position it had been in a few seconds earlier. ‘You, O Snow White, are the fairest of them all.’

‘I thought that’s what you said,’ Snow White replied. ‘Still,’ she went on, ‘it does no harm to check these things. Who the hell are you, anyway?’

‘Bad command or file name,’ replied her reflection austerely. ‘Please retry.’

Although her reflection stayed poker-faced, Snow White herself grinned like a thirsty dog. ‘Dear God,’ she said joyfully, ‘don’t say I’ve managed to hack into that bitch’s system. That’d be cool. You there, identify yourself.’

A minuscule flicker of disapproval moved a muscle in the reflection’s jaw. ‘Currently running Mirrors 3.1, incorporating Magic for Mirrors and SpellPerfect 7. Warning: this program is protected by international copyright. Any unauthorised reproduction or transmission of this program may render you liable—’

‘Enough.’ Snow White took a deep breath and let it go gradually. Never in her wildest dreams had she ever imagined herself in a position like this; the Wicked Queen’s legendary Mirrors system literally at her fingertips, enabling her to control the whole virtual-make-believe construct that made up the world she lived in. Wow, she said gleefully to herself, cyberpunk comes to Avenging Dragon Cottage. With a grin on one of her faces and a po-faced stare on the other, she leaned back in her chair and wondered what she was going to do next.

Where to start? Ask a silly question.

‘Right, you,’ she said briskly. ‘First, I want you to open me a numbered account at the Credit Suisse and pay in — let me see, deutschmarks or US dollars? Let’s make it dollars for now. Fifty million dollars, please. Next—’

‘Bad command or file name. Please retry.’

Anger creased Snow White’s lovely (fairest of them all) face. ‘You what?’ she snapped. ‘Don’t mess with me, dream-boat. One: fifty million dollars. Two—’

‘Bad command—’

‘Shut your face.’ Or should that be, shut my mouth? Irrelevant. All that mattered was that she was in command here and the mirror had to do what she told it to. ‘Why can’t I have the money?’

‘Requested operation out of character. Path not found. Retry or Cancel?’

‘Bugger.’ Hadn’t thought of that. In order to be able to use the wicked queen’s system, she had to become the wicked queen… Interesting dilemma for someone who really only wanted the money, rather than the power, the glory, and her head on the stamps. And if you’re going to be a wicked queen, having your head on the stamps isn’t necessarily a good idea. The citizens end up not knowing which side to spit on.

Not that that, in itself, was enough to deter her; but there was something to think about here, clearly. ‘Pause,’ she said; the image of herself in the mirror faded and was replaced by the usual eye-bending mobile geometric shapes. She stood up and walked to the window.

Below, in the garden, Mr Miroku, Mr Hiroshige and Mr Nikko were standing watching young Mr Akira weeding the turnip patch. Snow White frowned; there was something about the set-up here that she couldn’t fathom, and it bothered her. If only she could remember how she’d come to be here in the first place.

‘That’s right.’ Mr Miroku’s voice, carried up to her by the breeze. ‘Now you’ve got it. Be the hoe.’

If I’m going to be a wicked queen, Snow White mused, stands to reason I’ll need some trusty henchmen. Fat lot of good it’d be being a queen and having to do my own henching. Would these guys be up to the job? They prance around in armour with whacking great swords, so presumably they’re qualified in that respect. It’s just that they’re so.

She shook her head, sat down at the dressing table and gave the mirror a tap with her fingertip. The reflection reappeared.

‘Mirror,’ she commanded, ‘who am I?’

‘You, Snow White, are the fairest of them all.’

Snow White nodded. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Now we’ve sorted that out. Am I right in thinking that I’m now the wicked queen?’

‘Identity confirmed. Access available to all systems.’

Yes!

‘In that case,’ Snow White continued, ‘what’s become of the bi— I mean, who’s Snow White?’

‘Bad command or file—’

‘All right, yes.’ Snow White looked up and rested the point of her chin on the knuckle of her forefinger. She didn’t need to ask the question. She knew. ‘Never mind all that,’ she said. ‘How do we get this show on the road?’

The reflection didn’t lighten up exactly; it still glowered at her like the proprietor of an expensive restaurant from whom she’d just ordered egg and chips. But there was a slight thaw, as if the mirror was acknowledging that there was now a possibility that they’d be able to work together.

‘Running DOS.’

‘Whatever.’

Because if Mirrors was now back on line, by rights it ought to reconfigure all the buggered-up settings. Snow White would once again have seven dwarves, instead of seven Japanese master swordsmen. Since she was no longer Snow White but the wicked queen, that didn’t affect her. Whoever was now Snow White would be the one with the dwarves. Find the dwarves and you’ll find Snow White. Provided, of course, that she felt the need; after all, why bother? True, it would be in character for her in her new persona to send her seven henchmen to bring her Snow White’s head on a sharpened pole, but that wasn’t her personal style. So long as the kid didn’t mess with her, she had no quarrel with a fellow professional. This forest’s big enough for the both of us.

‘Mirror,’ she commanded, ‘locate Snow White.’

‘Ba—’

‘Mirror,’ she warned.

‘Locating.’

Ah. That was good. She’d got the mirror frightened of her. Essential first step in the control of technology is the establishing of a state of permanent mutual distrust.

‘Snow White currently located at Three Bears Cottage, The Forest.’

‘Thank you. Show me the location of Three Bears Cottage.’

The usual clicks and crinkles; then the reflection more or less leered at her.

‘Three Bears Cottage no longer exists.’

‘Who’s been sitting in my chair?’ asked Baby Bear, holding up a fragment of chair leg.

‘You know,’ replied her father, poking around in the rubble, ‘right now, I figure that’s the least of our problems.’

Baby Bear nodded, her snout wet with tears. Of the quaint, cosy little cottage in the woods, all that was left was a heap of scattered masonry and a few charred timbers. It did rather put a squashed chair and molested porridge into perspective.

‘Who the hell do you think it was?’ Mummy Bear asked, retrieving a miraculously unbroken sauceboat from under a fallen roof timber. Daddy Bear shrugged.

‘All sorts of people it could have been,’ he said. ‘Pixie Liberation Organisation. Gnome Rule activists. Does it matter which particular bunch of nutters? Come on, let’s see if we can salvage enough linen to rig up a tent.’

Mummy Bear sighed. ‘You read about it,’ she said, ‘but somehow you never think it’ll happen to you. Oh God, my mum’s teapot.’ She held up a chipped handle, sniffed and dropped it. ‘Never mind,’ she said bravely. ‘It’s all just things. Nobody got hurt, that’s all that matters.’

The three bears poked about a little more. ‘Good Lord,’ cried Daddy Bear, brandishing a blue cup with a rather wobbly picture painted on it. ‘My coronation mug. That’s something, I suppose. My Uncle Paddy gave me that when I was just a cub.’

Mummy Bear clicked her tongue. ‘Might have guessed that’d come through unscathed,’ she replied. ‘Fifteen years I’ve been trying to get that thing to meet with an accident. It must be made of cast iron.’