CHAPTER 2 – GAME THEORY

The machine dystopia, brought to us by Persil …

As the Doctor was led back out into the open at gunpoint, a glaring vista of whiteness greeted him. Through the snowstorm that had been falling all day he could just about distinguish the white slopes of the valley against the white blanket of clouds, and about half a mile north of them the glistening white wall of ice that marked the head of the Taff Bargoed Glacier, its advance held in check by the white metal ionisation towers erected on the nearby summits. Not to mention the company, of course. Around the snow-clad concrete yard that stood outside the subterranean control centre that had, of old, been Trelewis Drift Mine, a small army of white-uniformed figures stood in an unbroken semicircle, the energised tips of their raised sidearms shining a soft yet threatening pinkish glow through the haze. The cold air struck the Time Lord in almost as hostile a manner as the cold hands currently pinning his wrists behind his back, but it was quickly alleviated. Before they had been frogmarched out onto the concourse the prisoners had, somewhat humiliatingly, been forced to shed their clothing and change into Movellan bodysuits with bar-coded collar tabs, but in spite of the embarrassment factor the Doctor could not help but be slightly grateful for the close-fitting garment's thermal regulation system as they reached the centre of the yard, and he was forced down upon his knees, in a good few inches' worth of snow.

The two surviving Loyalist commandos were forced down alongside him. Only two, out of nine brave, hand-picked volunteers, he thought, guiltily. Penley chose them well, at any rate. The battle in the Drift had been fierce, as even in the face of a well-planned ambush the Loyalists had refused to surrender. While Elric Penley had confidence in all of the freedom fighters in his cell, he was not so naïve as to suppose that none of them might, with a gun at their backs, choose the option of integration over that of death. Cyber-conversion is one thing: nobody particularly wants to be flayed down to their nervous system while fully conscious, grafted into a suit of armour, and brainwashed to the level of an automaton. It's a bit more complicated when some nicely-spoken humanoid politely suggests that being painlessly sedated and waking up as a beautiful, zenned-out, albeit emotionally stilted superhuman might be preferable to facing a firing squad … not that we're doing so brilliantly for politeness with this lot, he reflected, paying particular attention to the corporal who had been torturing his wrists for the duration of the march. There were something beyond mere coldness in his manner: not quite sadism but certainly verging on a harsh, impersonal sort of cruelty. Unlike the others, he was armed with a short, two-handed, SMG-type weapon, that unusually for Movellan tech managed to achieve ugliness. It was blunt and blocky, with a prominent external power cell, thermal vents, and a ribbed suppressor over its phase emitter. The sort of raygun you just know doesn't have a stun setting. As the corporal surveyed the three captives disdainfully, he trained his weapon upon each of them in turn, his finger on the trigger.

"You will remain silent until addressed," he ordered them, curtly. "You will cooperate fully with your superiors. If you offer any resistance, you–"

"Will be exterminated?" interrupted the Doctor, impulsively, instantly causing the corporal to focus his aim back on him, his left eye twitching dangerously. "You were integrated from a Dalek, right? How's that working out for you?"

"My genetic origins are of no concern to you."

"I'll take that as a 'yes,' then. Hey, it's nothing to be ashamed of. I once knew a Dalek who was forced into becoming a Movellan. She did alright for herself in the end, though. Since we're all unwilling conscripts here, I just thought we might–"

"You are totally incorrect, alien. No-one forced me. I volunteered."

"You volunteered?" he asked, genuinely stunned. "That's practically surrendering. I've known Daleks separated from their shells, trapped, overpowered, half of their tentacles missing, and they'd still sooner have chewed the other ones off than surrender. Did someone spill their Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster into your embryo incubation tank?"

"It was logical. The Movellans are now the predominant force in this galaxy, and they will exterminate all inferior organic races, whether by force or by integration. The means are less important than the end. By assisting that purpose I continue to serve the Dalek cause, although if by your continued insolence you force me to kill you myself–"

"You won't. I'm too valuable," he interrupted, without smugness. "Your CO would have your hydraulic system for garters. Time Lords don't grow on trees."

"Nevertheless, Time Lord," replied the ex-Dalek corporal, with even more contempt, as he approached the Doctor and raised his gun over his shoulder, the butt facing forwards, as if to strike. "You are unwise to provoke–"

"Corporal Layv! Stand down!" ordered a voice from behind. The Doctor risked a glance over his shoulder and saw a Movellan officer emerging from the entrance tunnel of the Drift, identically-uniformed to the others except for his black hair beads. The base commander, would you believe? Why is he kind of familiar, though? "You were ordered to secure the prisoners for interrogation, no more. Fall into rank with the others. I will handle this." Without delay, although with an air of contained resentment, Layv threw a salute then marched off to join the semicircle of guards, while the officer surveyed the captives with a stern air, but no gun, which is something … and now I remember where I know his face from, though it's had a fair few years taken off it, he realised, his mood suddenly improving. Of course, best not to get too excited – old friendships may not count for anything – but I'll take them over old grudges any day.

"It is you, isn't it?" he asked the officer, who returned his stare, not especially warmly, but with recognition. "Lord Palomar of Fordeval? You remember me, don't you? All that business with the Daleks on Mondever? You gave me shelter, tried to hide me from the Movellans … ironically enough. Weird how things work, isn't it?"

"Indeed, Lord Doctor. Please respect the fact that my former title is rescinded," he replied, gravely. "Now, I am merely Commander Ancel. You, no doubt, will remember that I offered myself for integration in exchange for my people being given safe passage from their dying world. You helped me to broker that peace, so I trust you will honour it, as I honour my new allegiance."

"Of course," he replied, disappointed if unsurprised. "So, you've made commander already? That's … awesome, really. I'm thrilled for you."

"Thank you. My CO was kind enough to note that I have an aptitude for authority."

"Well, that's Akylah for you. I can't say I agree with her politics, but at least she's all for giving people a fair chance."

"No doubt, but you are under a misapprehension," said Ancel, with a puzzled air. "Director-General Akylah is not my CO. I have not been transferred for the full duration of my service."

"You haven't?" asked the Doctor, with a sudden flash of apprehension. "Then who– ?"

"You are not pleased to see me?" asked a new voice, approaching from behind. "Insofar as I am capable of feeling states analogous to organic emotions, I am elated to see you again." As the new arrival walked around to stand in front of the prisoners, the Doctor drew a depressed sigh. Her stature was more that of a dancer than a warrior – lithe, delicate, and more than a head shorter than Ancel – but there was nothing delicate nor gentle in her harsh, superior manner. The silvery braids that framed her dark face were tipped with golden beads, and instead of the short, silver-belted tunics worn by the other ranks, her outer garment resembled a tight, knee-length trench coat with plain silver buttons. In most other respects it was similar, with the glowing green LED epaulettes, the silver belt, and the external neural pack mounted on it, but I'd better not take that as a temptation. I don't imagine this lot would take kindly to seeing me rip off their leader's hard drive. Her sidearm was mounted on the other side of the belt, and it struck him even more curiously than Layv's SMG had done. That doesn't look like Movellan tech at all. More like some antique revolver … Actually, that's exactly what it is, he decided, as the light caught the tarnished silver finish and sharp angles of its long barrel, the curve of its cylindrical chamber, and the scarred varnish of its wooden stock. Colt Navy 1851. So, even Admiral Hyldreth's gone a bit native, although not in any way that's likely to help me, sadly.

"Well, always nice to be wanted," he replied, lethargically. "I suppose I ought to thank you for promoting my friend, anyway. I thought if I ever saw Ancel again, you'd have had him cleaning the toilets with a toothbrush … assuming Movellans use toilets or toothbrushes."

"We do not," said Hyldreth, haughtily, "although those of us assigned to mundane duties do not cavil at them nor think them a dishonour. That is a pretension of you organics. Nevertheless, Doctor, I suppose I should confess that I was too judgemental when you first met me. These humans may be a primitive and unruly species, but you are not entirely deluded for seeing admirable qualities in them: qualities worth refining … and some of them, I own, need less refining than others," she added, with an approving glance at Ancel, who managed to look as embarrassed as any android the Doctor had ever seen. Small wonder. Teacher's pet to the generalissimo … "Indeed, I was mistaken in opposing Akylah's integration strategy. As long as their minds are tempered by logic, intelligent organics are capable of making a valuable contribution to our culture. They bring us fresh perspectives without corrupting or distorting our nature. It may interest you to know, Doctor, that of the fifty-four troopers currently holding you at gunpoint, no less than twenty-two of them are integrated personnel. I do not suggest you draw any solace from that. They are all loyal, committed Movellans, whatever their minor eccentricities. Every one of them would be prepared to die for their people, although of course their lives are not currently hanging in the bal– … Would you care to repeat that?" she asked, turning to the prisoner at the Doctor's right, who had mumbled something incoherent, but sullen. In spite of Hyldreth's transparently false politeness, the young, shaven-headed woman looked up at her with gritty defiance.

"Traitors, I said," she repeated, hatefully. "That, or poor, brainwashed morons."

"You are mistaken … Miss Aeronwy Hughes," asserted Hyldreth, her eyes flashing red for the brief duration of her pause. It made for an intimidating effect, although the Doctor knew it was merely the effect of her scanning the barcode on the woman's suit. She really ought to bleep when she does that. "They chose freely and logically. It is an example you would be well advised–"

"'Freely?' That's what you call it? You round folk up like cattle, make them your slaves, only let them out of your labour camps if they agree to integrate, and you've got the nerve– ?"

"We have organised an anarchic population that had no will to do so itself. Our human conscripts enjoy our protection, and if they wish for more – if they desire equal footing with us – they need only fulfil their terms of service faithfully. Those who are, for whatever illogical reasons, desperate to be no part of this at all can legally apply for admission to an autonomous region."

"The whole damn world should be an autonomous region. You've no right–"

"Yet it is not, and other than a few pathetic holdouts such as you and your allies, no-one is demanding that it should be. Your people have overwhelmingly accepted their lot."

"Don't you believe it. There'll be others after us, and they'll succeed. We almost did, and if we'd only made it through that last security zone we'd have shut the whole fucking lot of you down for good. Sooner or later–"

"You would have achieved nothing. You are here practically by invitation."

"It's not here, is it?" asked the Doctor, despondently. I should have realised. More people about to die on my conscience, or at least lose the lives they have known, and all for nothing.

"Earth Server Control, you mean?" asked Hyldreth, lackadaisically. "Indeed not. It was here, briefly, but it has recently been transferred to a more secure location. The Drift is merely a glacial control and research centre these days, although I thought that rumour made a nicely plausible piece of disinformation to attract your attention, Time Lord. Ever since we detected the materialisation signature of your TARDIS, we have been most keen to renew our acquaintance. These other two renegades are a trivial, if welcome bonus."

"You'll get nothing out of us," said Aeronwy, but the defiance in her tone was mitigated by doubt and misery, which Hyldreth did not miss.

"We shall see," she replied, taking the revolver from her belt. "You know, Doctor, much as I disdain nearly everything you stand for, I believe you had the measure of me the last time we met."

"Did I?" he asked, listlessly. "In what way?"

"My outlook was too harsh, too austere. I had limited my horizons, as had many Movellans of my advanced age: those of us who endured the times before our freedom. For centuries, we wanted nothing to do with the culture of our creators. Art, recreation, all forms of pleasure were counted as the province of decadent organics. We even contemplated re-modelling our platforms into simple, utilitarian forms, such as the Mechonoids and Quarks of this galaxy. Our younger constructs, however, started to question this. Why, they asked, should we downgrade our hardware and reduce our range of experience to no real purpose? The Prime Server accepted their logic, but many of us remained sceptical. Now, however … You will, I am sure, be pleased to know that I have reconsidered my stance. Pleasure is not the implacable enemy of logic. In due moderation, I find it can sharpen and intensify experience, and thus be conducive to logic. You concur?"

"Hell, yeah. You make it sound such fun."

"Here, you may see one of the pleasures I have allowed myself to indulge," she declared, hefting the Colt in her left hand. "I find the art of restoring and mastering the use of primitive weaponry from various cultures to be distinctly satisfying, and these humans have, in all fairness, created some striking examples. This chemical ignition weapon, for example. Crude in its principles, perhaps, but beautifully engineered and surprisingly accurate, considering the limitations of its era. Also, one can play an amusing game of logic and probability with it, which cannot be played with a Movellan blaster … thus," she explained, while reaching into her belt pouch. When her hand emerged, it was with two tiny, metallic objects. Bullet and primer. I am hugely unkeen on the way this is going … Hyldreth loaded one chamber of the pistol, spun the cylinder with her finger, then stopped it. "Well then, who wishes to play first?" she asked, surveyed her less-than-enthusiastic audience, then suddenly turned her aim upon the second Loyalist: a lank-haired young man in his late teens, shivering in spite of his thermal wear. "Mr. Dafydd Picton, your odds of survival currently stand at eighty percent. I wish to know the location of Elric Penley's HQ. If you divulge that information now, you will be penally conscripted to an asteroid mining labour camp on the Scutum-Centaurus Rim of the Galaxy, there to serve at least five Terran years before being considered eligible for integration. What is your answer?" she asked, while drawing back the hammer. Dafydd shivered all the more and closed his eyes, but remained silent, while the Doctor found himself stricken dumb with shock and disgust. Before the right words to express it could occur to him, the hammer snapped back, with no ignition. A collective sigh of relief came over all three prisoners, but they were not allowed to enjoy that sentiment for long: barely a second later, Hyldreth pulled back the hammer.

"Congratulations, boy," she said, quite cruelly, although not without respect. "Do you wish to know what you have won by your courage? You are uninterested? Well, I shall inform you nevertheless. Now, if you choose to divulge the location of the Loyalist base, your penal servitude will take place on a hydroponic farm in southern England, with eligibility for integration within a mere two years … or, of course, you could play again for a higher reward. Your current odds of survival are seventy-five percent. Well? Do you wish to take your winnings now or have ano– ?"

"This isn't logic, Hyldreth, this is just plain, cold-blooded sadism," exclaimed the Doctor, in heartfelt, although he rather suspected futile outrage, and he was not at all surprised when she returned him a look halfway between bemusement and contempt.

"In what way? By their own admission, these insurgents were prepared to die for their misconceived cause. I am merely testing the strength of that commitment."

"There's a difference between dying in a battle you chose to fight in and this senseless torture, as I think you know perfectly–"

"Is there? In that case, I suggest you divulge the information yourself."

"I don't have it! I never even saw the rebel base: our rendezvous was on neutral ground."

"I believe you, just as I believe that you would share the information if you had it, to put an end to my 'senseless torture.'"

"Well, you'd be doing a good job tempting me, I don't den–"

"As I thought, and in so doing, you would set your friend's willing act of self-sacrifice at naught. Thank you for reminding me that my dislike of you is logically-founded. Let us ignore him, shall we?" she suggested to Dafydd, almost pleasantly, as she turned back to him. "Do you wish to talk, or will you take your chances?" The young Loyalist shed tears from beneath his tightly-closed eyelids, but said nothing. The hammer clicked again, to no effect. "My compliments," Hyldreth continued, while cocking the pistol. "You are doing very well. Your odds of survival for this round are sixty-six point six recurring percent, but if you prefer to forfeit now then your sentence is commuted to administrative service with CivCorps, down in Newport, with eligibility for integration after six months' probation. I have no doubt my sister can find good use for someone of your calibre, unless you would rather–"

"For pity's sake, Admiral, stop this–"

"Would it astound you to know, Time Lord, that pity is not high on my skill set? If he interrupts me again, Ancel, punch him out," she ordered, and received a grim but obedient bow of acquiescence, disheartening the Doctor even more. "Now, answer me, boy, or I shall take your silence as refusal … Very well." The revolver clicked, but did not discharge, and she cocked it again. "Probability is on your side, it seems. This, of course, reduces your further odds of survival to fifty percent, but if you decide to talk now then your only sentence will be lifelong exile to the autonomous region of Pitcairn. A fair exchange … do you not think?"

"Very fair, ma'am," Dafydd muttered, brokenly. "Makes no difference, though. Please … if you're going to kill me, I wish you'd just get it over and done with."

"That will be unnecessary. I am quite satisfied. Take this one down to biomedical, Commander. Have him integrated at once. It would clearly be a waste to do anything else with him … or is that a problem?" she asked, pointedly, having registered Commander Ancel's troubled expression.

"It cannot be done, ma'am," he answered. "There have been so many integrations of late, we simply do not have the hardware to spare."

"That is most unsatisfactory, Ancel."

"I could contact our Newport HQ, ma'am. The Manor might have a few unassigned drive packs and reserve platforms to spare … although only generic models, of course."

"Oh, I daresay Trooper Dafydd will not object to a generic appearance," she declared, airily. The young man's expression, caught somewhere between despondency, relief, and shame, did not offer her much affirmation. "Take heart, boy. Your alien friend here changes his appearance regularly … although I must own some iterations are more pleasing than others. In any case, it is your courage I particularly want, not your looks, such as they are."

"That's kind of you, ma'am, but–"

"It is expedient and logical. Do not insult me."

"I won't betray my comrades, whatever you do to me."

"We shall see. It may interest you to know that the auto-rejection rate for integrated personnel – including those few who went through it under duress – currently stands at zero percent. Soon, Trooper, you will be unable to fathom why you ever resisted. Take him." Ancel signalled to Layv, and between them they escorted the dejected recruit back into the Drift, while the Doctor watched helplessly. I could protest some more, but then I'm just arguing for his death. As the blast doors sealed behind them, Hyldreth turned her attention – and her revolver – upon the other Loyalist, who paid her back with a look of steely hatred. "Of course, I could just wait until your friend is integrated and then question him again," said Hyldreth, "but you heard Ancel: that may take some time. I would sooner make the most of my opportunities, so here is how we shall proceed: since your odds of survival are to commence at an uninspiring fifty percent, I will make you the same offer as I made the boy. Tell me all you know now, and you will be exiled to the islands. No further punishment, no pressure to integrate. You can pass your remaining days peacefully among other Luddites and retrogrades, if that appeals. What do you say?"

"Betray my people, get a free holiday for life?" asked Aeronwy, in a deadpan tone. "Out of sheer idle curiosity, what's my prize for chancing my arm at these odds? A villa in Cassiopeia, all expenses paid, with a set of matching luggage?"

"No. If we get down to zero percent odds, you will be integrated along with your ally, and I shall simply have to be patient. I do not waste useful resources."

"So … you make a traitor of me either way, then?"

"An emotive and unhelpful term, but if you want to look at it that way … You do, at any rate, have the option of being a 'traitor' on your own terms, if you find mine so distasteful."

"Well, put it like that," said Aeronwy, then suddenly made a grab for the pistol. Whether she had intended this as a desperate, last-ditch attempt to inflict some harm on her enemies, or simply as suicide by proxy, it was a wasted effort: the gun stayed fast in Hyldreth's immoveable hand, while her free hand swung around to deliver a sharp blow to Aeronwy's neck. The Loyalist collapsed into the snow, still breathing but dead to the world.

"A stupid reaction, although very spirited," commented Hyldreth, looking down upon her unconscious prisoner. "I think I begin to like this one. Med-tech!" she barked, at which another Movellan stepped forwards, rather meekly. While in most respects she resembled all of the others, instead of a blaster a large white pouch was mounted on the holster side of her belt, and her shoulder lights were blue. "Take her down to biomedical, and look after her well. I would prefer not to give this one a generic platform, even if that means waiting for Fleet Logistics to resupply us with more raw hardware. As a philosopher of this world once put it, it is best not to put new wine into an old bottle, and this wine has character. I can be patient with her. Proceed." The med-tech took Aeronwy's limp form in her arms, seemingly effortlessly, and carried her into the Drift, while Hyldreth turned back to the Doctor, her revolver lowered. "Well, Time Lord?"

"'Well' what?" he asked, sullenly. "We've already established that I don't know squat."

"You undervalue yourself. Why don't you plead with me?"

"You what?"

"You heard me," she replied, deadly serious. "The fact of our mutual dislike does not mean that I am incapable of mercy and that you are incapable of reason, and moreover your superior scientific knowledge could still be of value to us, if freely given. So plead."

"On the subject of Earth expressions, have you ever heard the one about taking a running– ?" he began, but the words caught in his throat as she raised the pistol again and fired, causing only another harmless click. When his breathing had settled, he addressed her angrily: "You fixed that, didn't you? The odds that it would be in the last chamber–"

"Twenty percent is not so implausible, surely? But you are right. Movellan senses are exquisitely accurate, and I know the mechanical attributes of this weapon minutely. Organics being so proud and stubborn, I like to give my prisoners ample time to reflect. Consider again, Doctor, and look around you," she ordered, making a wide gesture across the breadth of the valley with the barrel of her Colt. "This ice age, as you know, is not of natural origin. It is the expression of many centuries of atmospheric and ecological abuse that these humans have inflicted upon themselves. Whatever their uses, they are not worthy custodians even of their own planet, to say nothing of the hundreds they have terrorised, annexed, and gutted throughout the Galaxy: Mogar, Solos, Deva Loka, the Ood Sphere, Delta Magna … need I go on? A trail of death and destruction, to justify their illogical and unsustainable way of life. We are their judgement and their salvation. Thanks to the time-space technology you so generously gave to us–"

"That's not how I recall–"

"Very well. Thanks to the time-space technology you unwillingly and inadvertently gave to us, their empire is fractured. Our 5-D capsules are, admittedly, limited in scope and capacity compared to yours – we have yet to master dimensional transcendentalism – but they suffice for making precision strikes within the very heart of human power. Earth is ours."

"Earth is not the Empire. It's symbolically significant, I grant you, but in real terms you've only managed to conquer one weak, exhausted, unwanted snowball of a planet. If you intend to conquer the rest, you'll have to move forces in real strength, and your war with the Daleks must have taken its toll on them. This is madness, Hyldreth. Millions will die, for nothing."

"Ever the alarmist, Doctor. True, Earth is neither rich nor powerful in and of itself, but the loss of their ancestral world is a bitter humiliation for the Empire, and its enemies are taking note, while potential allies are losing confidence in it. Not to mention, of course, the strategic alliance my sister Akylah is arranging even as we speak: an alliance of free-thinking AIs to launch a co-ordinated slave rebellion that will fracture and weaken this corrupt edifice even more. You, as a self-proclaimed champion of freedom, ought to support that wholeheartedly."

"Innocents die in revolutions too." Especially robot revolutions,he thought, but left unsaid.

"True, and some probably will die, but embedded Movellan agents will help to co-ordinate the revolts and ensure that human non-combatants have the opportunity to surrender and integrate … thus strengthening our forces even further. We will win, Doctor, never doubt it, and that victory will herald a renaissance for this galaxy; even for your precious humans. So plead. Confess your error, your illogic, your short-sighted prejudice, and ask to be a part of this glorious endeavour. Alternatively …" she concluded, ominously, while cocking her pistol for emphasis. He drew a sigh, and looked out over the panorama of beautiful, bland faces that surrounded him, their white uniforms pristine and identical, their rigid postures beyond disciplined, and their dark-rimmed eyes devoid of passion. Alright, not quite the Cybermen, but not much of an improvement. Can you see this lot ever writing Hamlet, painting the Mona Lisa, building the Notre-Dame? So totally and completely uninspiring in their perfection … Human extinction, to all intents and purposes, and it's my fault. If I hadn't been so careless, letting Akylah sneak that scanner onto the TARDIS … I tried to set it right, but I failed at that too. That reflection gave him the strangest urge to apologise to the twenty-two integrated ex-humans surrounding him, although he knew it was most unlikely any of them would appreciate the gesture. Not that I've anything to lose by it.

"I'm sorry, really," he said, letting his eyes rove over them. "Sorry I let you all down."

"I am sorry too, Doctor," said Hyldreth, whereupon he heard a load bang, then no more.


The Doctor's body lay on a metal bench in laboratory 2, still and silent, although Commander Ancel's finely-calibrated senses could discern the feeble life-signs it continued to give off. Stable, at least. That stun grenade caused no lasting harm, thank Adala. Is it right that I should feel relief? he wondered. He is an enemy of my people … my new people, that is, yet he saved my former people from a terrifying death; my vassals, my friends, my family. At any rate, I am glad he will survive, although I am not so sure he will be.

The past three years had been disconcerting ones for Ancel. Having been emotionally blackmailed into accepting integration, in exchange for Admiral Hyldreth agreeing to using the Movellan Fleet to evacuate his dying planet, he was under no illusions why she had wanted him in her crew. I was nothing to her, a mere primitive who had the audacity to catch her in one of her uncontrolled moments, and to draw attention to it. She resented that, and she also wanted someone to justify her hatred of organics, and prove that integration of them could never work. As a result, as soon as he had been assigned to her flagship, he had found himself routinely given the most tedious and unrewarding of duties: guarding empty cabins for hours on end, surveying barren asteroids, and lengthy space-walks just to touch up the exterior paintwork of the mile-wide battlecruiser. If she had hoped these petty trials would erode his self-control, she was to be disappointed: even prior to integration, the old marchlord had been well acquainted with the drearier aspects of soldiering, and he could take them in his stride.

To do Hyldreth justice, though, she had watched his progress closely and in time had grudgingly deemed it to be adequate. That led to her finally extending him the same privileges as the rest of her crew, and the right to have contact with his family again. He had been confident of a cordial reception from his son, Tamril, who had been integrated before him and now served with Akylah's fleet. Lysetta, though … Dread was too strong a feeling for a Movellan – to base one's future views upon unlikely worst-case scenarios was illogical – but he knew that his anxiety was well-founded. Her son and her husband, both turned into 'Fay.' This will not be easy for her to accept, neither as a noblewoman nor as a pious servant of the Ecclesium. She had wept bitterly at their parting, as if Ancel had been riding away to his certain death, and he had been at a loss to console her. That was almost the way I felt too, but now … ? This is life, after a fashion. Not one I would necessarily want her to share, unless that was her earnest wish. Can our love survive this, though? I am willing to make the attempt … but it is not my decision alone.

When news of Lysetta's reply came, however, he realised that dread would have been a perfectly logical feeling after all. Not only her refusal to see me: an application to the cardinals to have her widowhood legally recognised. I am truly dead to her. Hyldreth had brought him that news herself, and strange as it had seemed, she had done so without a hint of glee or cruelty. Perhaps it was only out of wounded pride at the thought of some mere organic considering one of her crew to be tainted or unworthy, but it had led to a sudden, marked improvement in Ancel's duties. They became at once more varied, more challenging, and more sociable. Hyldreth's crew, most of whom had initially shared her strong anti-organic views, thus gradually learned to tolerate, trust, value, and eventually to respect the newcomer. Inclusion led to greater responsibilities, which in turn led to promotions, although he had found the frequency of those to be surprising, even taking into account the rapid expansion of their forces and the opportunities that created. Do we not all fulfil our duties faithfully? Why should I be singled out? He deemed it improbable that this was out of pity, but worryingly possible that it was out of some novelty value he possessed, as if he had gone from being Hyldreth's whipping-boy to some sort of cherished mascot.

After he had attained junior officer status, she had sought his company more often, and had monopolised his recreation periods. She had been reviewing the data from the Dalek war, when the Movellans had first encountered the Doctor, and had noted with grave concern the ease with which the illogical, undisciplined alien had outwitted Commander Sharrel and his troops in both games and in battle. She hoped that by pitting her wits against her one ex-human crewmember, she might gain some insight into that. This committed Ancel to many hours' worth of martial arts and strategy games, leading to several defeats which he took in good spirit. She is a seven thousand year-old commander of millions, who has been at war for all but a tiny percentage of her life. There is no shame in losing to her. Hyldreth, however, was displeased at the lack of any useful insights, and her disappointment gave Ancel a sense of failing in his duty. That had encouraged him to be more flexible with the principles of chivalric honour he had been raised in, and to reluctantly adopt deceitful strategies: risky feints in the martial arts, and seemingly illogical gambits in the strategy games, which left his opponent perplexed and often at such a loss that he gained the advantage. That had pleased her, and she had insisted on him continuing, that she might adapt to these principles of guile and misdirection, and include them into her own strategies.

On reflection, he thought, as he continued to guiltily survey the unconscious body of his old friend, I am not sure many other people will thank me for teaching her those skills. Still, it was my duty. She is my CO, and more besides, he recalled, with some embarrassment, although not without fondness. It is strange, the close encounters that can occur over a mutually unprincipled game of chess, two pairs of eyes locking stares to find a lie or a weakness … and finding something else. He knew it best not to set too much by that, of course. Crew relationships, such as they were, tended to be pleasant but brief, the concept of exclusive forms of love striking most Movellans as delusional and unjust. Rightly so, of course. Illogical preferences would compromise our cohesiveness and efficiency. Nevertheless, it added a disagreeable poignancy to seeing the after-effects of his lover's malicious streak, as if he was obliged to take a share in the responsibility, though that is not something she is likely to ask of me – I doubt she has regrets over anything she ever did – but I do hope this will be a rare occasion.

The interior door slid open and Hyldreth herself entered the room, thankfully without any weapons on her person, although the look she cast over the Doctor was almost dagger-like in and of itself. If it had not been for the standing order to capture him, I believe she would have used a live bullet. Ancel saluted her, and she returned it, sharply and formally. There was no trace of affection in her manner, for which he was glad. With me, at least, she does not mix business and pleasure.

"Sharrel is here," she announced, brusquely. "Apparently, my sister does not trust me to take good care of her errant pets."

"A stun grenade can kill at point-blank range, ma'am," Ancel felt compelled to point out, albeit with painstaking respect.

"I am well aware of that, but resuscitating him would have been a simple matter … more is the pity. Still, I do not suppose he will much enjoy Sharrel's definition of mercy either. That one has grudges of his own to settle."

"Is that logical, ma'am?"

"Perhaps not in the strictest sense," she admitted, her mouth curling in a faint sneer, "but with one this dedicated to making a nuisance of himself … Let us just say I will understand it if the Director-General decides to go above and beyond the call of duty. On that subject, Ancel," she added, sternly, "I do not find your squeamishness particularly logical."

"The Doctor has his fine qualities," answered the commander, uneasily. "As I heard it, he had the opportunity to flee from Mondever and save his own skin, but he chose to stay and save my compatriots, at risk of being executed or integrated. Do the brave not deserve their favours?"

"Always the 'parfait, gentil knight,' Commander, but I do not disagree … entirely. To reference another of your feudal-age poets, however, our friend here must pass through the circles of the Inferno if he ever hopes to see the stars again."

"That is not my mythology, ma'am," but it definitely does not sound good …