The commodore's suite was located on the highest floor of the conning tower at the heart of the superstructure, its windows of transparent, ballistic ceramic affording superb views over both the battle-scarred steppes and the forest. Commodore Akylah, however, at present only had eyes to spare for the full-length mirror propped next to her uniform locker. She performed a meticulous scrutiny of her long dress of silk damask, woven in a leafy pattern of silver upon white, and found it acceptable. Her hair, on the other hand, she regarded with intense dissatisfaction. It was long, metallic silver, and plaited in a elaborate arrangement that was decked out with a myriad of flowers and gemstones, held in place with numerous pins and ornamented hairnets on both sides, strung with pearls. Well, at least it is stable now, she thought, although given the time and effort involved, one wonders what the noblewomen of Mondever could have achieved in the field of engineering had they saved it for more logical applications.
"You look beautiful, Commodore," said Keryn, encouragingly. She was at the bulkhead leading to the antechamber, standing at ease. "Even your worst critics among the marchlords will not dare to question your status on this occasion."
"I should hope not," replied Akylah, while still squinting disapprovingly at her hair. "I dislike this. It is over-complicated, frivolous, and high-maintenance. An apt hairstyle for a pathologically unequal society. I cannot fault its logic in that respect."
"I am sure you will have made this society more equal by the time we leave."
"If we leave, Keryn. The last report on power outages and malfunctions was the worst yet," she pointed out, resignedly turning away from her reflection and approaching her executive officer. "Now, according to you, we have these 'Dun Shie' to deal with, as well."
"As we shall. If I may say, it is not like you to lack confidence."
"I could have lost you out there," she pointed out. "I almost lost you once before, and I have no desire to relive that occasion."
"I have no fear of dying for my people, Commodore," protested Keryn, with an almost wounded air. "No more than any of your troops do. The fact that I was once human–"
"I know and respect that, Keryn. It does not mean I have to be indifferent to the prospect … and please," she added, while reaching out and gently brushing aside some of her XO's silver-white, shoulder-length braids, "I appreciate formality as much as the next Movellan officer, but it serves no purpose when it is just you and me here."
"As you say, Akylah … but the Doctor and Tamril are just outside."
"Yes, on the far side of an airtight, duralinium-alloy bulkhead, and you are aware of how poor organic hearing is," Akylah reminded her, and as if to emphasise the point, leaned to kiss her, although there was far more to it than that. You were my first, and my best. You gave up a privileged life among the elite of your kind to make this possible, only to be tortured near to death by the Daleks for my sake, and for my cause. If I had to sacrifice you, I could, and I know you would not thank me if I showed you so little respect as to deny you that duty, were it the logical course … but the universe would be a poorer place for it. They shared a gentle embrace for several seconds, with all due care not to disrupt the commodore's delicately-balanced styling, then resumed their former stances, their expressions as serious as ever, although in both cases a little more serene.
"So, our new recruits," began Akylah. "How do you evaluate them?"
"Tamril seems eminently suitable," answered Keryn, confidently. "I would, however, recommend that he be integrated as soon as possible; as soon as our technical issues will allow for it. I am concerned at the bond of trust he is forming with the Time Lord."
"Logical. The Doctor is nothing if not persuasive, so by all means let us reinforce in Tamril's mind who his true friends are, although if we get the opportunity, perhaps it would be sensible to expedite the Doctor's integration as well … or do you disagree?"
"I am … troubled, I admit," confessed Keryn, with a downcast look. "I see no likelihood of obtaining his compliance, and so far we have only integrated willing volunteers, with the exception of Ellaria. Given how badly she is working out–"
"She was a worthwhile experiment, and I have not given up on her. At all events, one can hardly compare the two. The Doctor may be erratic and illogical in many ways, but he is adaptable, and moreover psychologically accustomed to change."
"But change of this nature? He places such a high value on his individuality, his personal freedom. When you found me, Akylah, I was a prisoner to myself: to my fear, and my shame. To leave that self and those emotions behind was liberation for me. You gave me back a sense of purpose, restored order and clarity to my thoughts, validated an existence I had begun to think was worthless, or worse. But I do not think the Doctor considers himself a prisoner, except to us."
"You are sure of that?" That was not quite the impression he left me with. "You do not believe there is any part of him that secretly craves clarity, order, purpose, and validation?"
"Perhaps … but if so, he guards the secret of it well."
"Indubitably," agreed Akylah, with the hint of a smile. "Well, I have no desire to resort to crude coercion, and I like to think I too can be persuasive. I will do all I can to inspire him. That being said, we have a clear responsibility to make the most of this opportunity, and if we cannot obtain the technology of the Time Lords one way, we must try others. Having him as an ally, or having him willingly surrender the information would simplify matters greatly. If he refuses outright, and it becomes expedient to probe his mind or analyse his brain cells, then we have the means, though they would neither be safe nor pleasant for him. I am prepared, however reluctantly, to respect his wishes if he prefers the likelihood of death over adjusting to our way of life, but let us dare to hope that he has more logic and vision than we are giving him credit for. Please, show them in. I estimate it will be at least an hour before my carriage is ready, and in any case, if I am not regal enough to receive guests now," she remarked, shooting a last, cynical glance at her over-dressed reflection, "then I cannot imagine when I ever shall be." Hopefully, very infrequently.
They exchanged salutes, then Keryn turned and left through the bulkhead, sliding it open manually as she did so, to Akylah's disquiet. Our power now too unreliable for even doors and lifts? One can but hope we do not need an emergency take-off any time soon. Moments later, the Doctor and Tamril entered the cabin, looking much as she had expected them to. The young human seemed almost Movellan already with his slight frame, androgynous face, and pale clothes; while the Time Lord as ever resembled a refugee from Earth's ancient history, with his patched, coarse-woven jacket and his red silk neck adornment. Ironic, all things considered, that he should look more like the primitive, although in all fairness, his aspect and manner would rival any of my officers' for sheer gravity, she thought, paying attention not only to his uptight apparel but to his grave, disapproving expression, much the same as he had worn on their last meeting. Rather worryingly, the echo of that expression was written on Tamril's face. A bond of trust, indeed … I must waste no time in securing the young man's loyalty while it it still mine for the taking. I sometimes think the Doctor is more trouble than he is worth … but no. Retain your logic and perspective. His strategic value is incalculable, and worth almost any effort to obtain.
"Doctor, Tamril. It is good to see you both well. Please," she greeted them, as warmly as she could, while gesturing to a steel-framed glass table surrounded by four white, modular easy chairs. A rough-carved wooden bowl of indigo-skinned, berry-like fruits stood upon the table, next to a rope-bound bottle of smoky mead. They stuck an odd contrast with the set of featureless steel beakers that shared the surface, each placed before one of the seats. Tamril accepted the invitation, albeit still with that strange, guarded air, but the Doctor remained standing, and overtly frowning. Keryn was right: he will not make this an easy conversation.
"Well … nice to see you're not letting the side down, at least," the Time Lord eventually remarked, without much sincerity. "When I saw Keryn was being a spoilsport, I was worried it was only the lower ranks who were expected to play dress-up, but I see you're setting them a good example. Please tell me Commander Sharrel's somewhere about the place, wearing fake horns and furry goat legs. Just to see that would make the trip worthwhile."
"Alas, no," she answered, conceding him a half-smile. One can assume that was humour, after a fashion. "Commodore Sharrel's last promotion came with a secondment to our Specialised Combat Division, so I would imagine he is currently 'wearing' a heavy weapons platform and would be just as delighted to meet you in that form … for quite different reasons. Fortunately, he is light-years away and otherwise occupied. As for Keryn, she is the castellan of my 'citadel,' and thus she rarely needs to interact with the populace."
"Right, not to mention that she's a fanatical zealot: a real credit to your conversion tactics," he 'complimented' her, his expression now close to a sneer. "I wouldn't lay odds on her changing that uniform for civvies even if she spilled acid all over it."
"Possibly not, Doctor, but I can assure you that given the appropriate occasion, I at least do not require acid to get Commander Keryn out of her uniform."
"Okay … may I just say … way too much information."
"My apologies." Either my wit lacks polish, or Time Lords are even more inhibited than is reputed of them. "I have no wish to make you uncomfortable, but I daresay we shall get on a lot better if you can refrain from maligning my friends. For your information, Keryn has just been pleading your case to me."
"Oh … My bad. Is is too much to hope she succeeded?"
"By no means. She was most convincing on your behalf, and out of respect for you both I have reconsidered the options I can offer. There are three. Are you sure you will not take some refreshment?" she offered again, signalling towards the table.
"No thanks. I prefer to take my bad news with a clear head. Let's hear it."
"As you wish. Option one is simple: you work with me to construct a TARDIS that can be operated by Movellans, to form the basis for a fleet of time vessels that will thus negate the Daleks' only remaining advantage over us. Then, I let you leave peacefully."
"Not happening. Next."
"Very well. If you are resolved to be entirely uncooperative, we have option two, although it is by far my least preferred. It would involve rendering you into the custody of Fleet Intelligence, who would utilise a variety of interrogation and mind analysis techniques to extract the necessary information. They are logical and precise in their methods, and were you human, I do not think you would come away any the worse. However … given the mental resistance of Time Lords, I fear there is little chance of you emerging either physically or mentally unscathed. I would consider that outcome wasteful in the extreme."
"Glad to hear it. So would I. No prizes for guessing what option three is, right?"
"Option three, of course, is that of integration: I locate and extract the neurons that form the matrix of your consciousness, transfer them to a superconductive crystal base, and hardwire it into a Movellan neural pack along with a complete digital image of your memory. I then create a hardware platform to resemble your body, along with any preferences you may have for it, within reason. Finally, I install the former upon the latter, and you take your place as one of my officers. That is certainly my preferred option, although I gather that–"
"Fine, that one," cut in the Doctor, his tone blunt and quick-fire. Akylah paused for a moment before replying. It says something for how erratic and infuriating the Doctor can be, that even I require measurable time to process his quirks.
"You will understand, Doctor, that my pleasure is somewhat mitigated by my suspicion. It is a most logical decision, but I had been given to understand that you were strongly opposed to it."
"What can I say? You talked me into it," he replied, his deadpan delivery doing nothing to assuage her doubts. "Oh, I had my worries. I thought that if I became like you there was always the risk I'd end up thinking the same way, lose sight of my values, believe that the ends justify the means as long as I can call them logical. That sort of thing. Then I met the charming Lady Ellaria, and I realised that if a Dalek can successfully resist your influence, then what am I worried about?" Having concluded this sardonic speech, he treated her to a hard, piercing stare, as if challenging her to justify herself. She turned to Tamril, and saw that he was giving her a similar look, although his spoke less of cold cynicism and more of repressed anger. So, they have both met my new protégé. That was ill-timed. I should have expected it … but perhaps I underestimate them.
"You may speak freely, Tamril," she offered him. "You have received no formal induction, as yet. Moreover, you are a nobleman of this planet, and quite plausibly your father's successor within the Alliance Council, given his disqualification. If you find my actions blameworthy, it is your right and possibly even your duty to inform me."
"You integrated one of them," answered Tamril, his voice cold and restrained, but with anger and incredulity perilously close to the surface. "A Dalek. They killed hundreds of us, turned others into mindless zombies: even children. They killed my friends, cousins … they killed my grandparents, for Adala's sake, and they did it all with pleasure. My father told me of the battles. Those monsters gloated as they watched Capel Rykard burn, while the peasants screamed for mercy. We allied with you to destroy those creatures, not to make them immortal."
"We have destroyed many of them, have we not? We have broken their power here, saved your people from destruction. Was that not our purpose, or did you think that revenge– ?"
"Revenge be damned. Those things are evil incarnate, demons. The Ecclesium was right about that, if little else. I'm sorry if you all feel differently, ma'am, but–"
"You are unique in many ways, Tamril, but now you do yourself undue credit. Many of my troops reacted much as you just did, albeit less emotionally. Your friend Lilka was quite emphatic that if I ever intended making a trooper of Ellaria, I should avoid putting the two of them in the same unit unless I wished to receive her transfer request. You were never a more typical Movellan than you are now," she observed, wryly, wiping the last of the anger from his face in favour of an awkward, abashed look. Satisfied, Akylah turned to her other guest. "And what of you, Doctor? I thought your dislike of my people was founded on our perceived coldness and ruthlessness, to say nothing of your well-known prejudice against sentient artificial intelligence. Do you now consider my compassion to be criminally excessive?"
"First, I think I've come a long way," he protested, peevishly but with a hint of self-consciousness, "and second, compassion is relative. I'll give you points for effort, but as for the recipient of your attempted kindness, I have my doubts it will ever thank you."
"She, Doctor, if you do not mind. Please do not demean Ellaria."
"Really?" he asked, sceptically. "I didn't know Daleks had much of a concept of gender."
"Indeed, they do not, but the Kaleds did," she explained, only to be faced with two bemused expressions again. "You do not comprehend? Very well." She walked over to a recessed wall cabinet and took out a sheaf of documents, then came back to the table. "You see, we have a degree of common ground with the Daleks: we are both made in the image of our creators, although in different ways. We Movellans were designed to resemble our former masters, the Vanur, albeit only so that they could use and degrade us in lieu of enslaving their own kind. The Daleks, by contrast, although mutated out of all physical resemblance to their host species, are genetically engineered to perfectly express the malice and hubris of their creator. It is not something they have any choice in. See this," she declared, and placed a printout face-up on the table. It showed a series of columns, of equal length but each divided into smaller bars and blocks of many colours. Tamril continued to look bemused, but the Doctor quickly recognised it:
"The Kaled genome?"
"Precisely, Doctor. Think of it, Tamril, as a series of instructions contained in each cell of a living creature, to tell it how to grow into its proper form."
"Like … a program?" he ventured, tentatively.
"A fair analogy," she answered, sincerely impressed. "Now, this one is Ellaria's DNA, extracted from the dying mutant we found in her shell after the Siege of Formarroc." She placed a second printout next to the first, showing a similar diagram, but with numerous differences that disrupted the delicate logic and balance of the naturally-evolved program. Bugs, errors, distortions, accidental and induced chaos. Twisted brokenness passed off as original creation. Typical organic egotism. Since, however, the graphic of the corrupted genome did not have much of an impact on her guests, she set down a third image that instantly caused them both to flinch in disgust, and in pity, I can but hope. "That is Ellaria herself, as we found her. Can you imagine living like that, Tamril? A frail, withered mess of cancerous tissues, vestigial limbs, and externalised organs; not even able to survive without permanent life support? Only ever seeing the outside world through a monochromatic sniper scope, until everything resembles either an obstruction or a target? A prisoner within your own … ? On reflection, perhaps you can imagine that, to an extent," she conceded, noticing the subtle but certain air of epiphany in his expression. "There was a limit to what I could do for her, but for what it was worth, I sifted through her DNA, cross-referencing it with the original Kaled karyotype, until I had completely 'debugged' it of all harmful mutations. I then uploaded it into a simulation, accelerated its development cycle, and this was the result," she announced, placing a final printout before them: a computer-generated, diagrammatic image of a naked, dark-haired young woman. "As you see, a perfect Kaled female. As near as I could, I have thus tried to give her back what she might have had, if her ancestors had behaved with more logic and less vindictiveness. Of course, it cannot ever be an exact replication, but–"
"Meaning, you've given her a synthetic copy of her unmutated self, but her consciousness still derives from the Dalek neurons in her CPU," cut in the Doctor, as sceptically as before. "Good luck with that … and who picked her name? 'Ellaria' doesn't sound particularly Kaled."
"The only Kaled name I know is 'Davros,' and even if I knew the feminine form of it, I would not inflict that upon her. 'Ellaria' is an Old Vanuri name, meaning 'she who is reborn.' It seemed altogether fitting. You must think me naïve, but I am not blinded by idealism. I know I will not 'save' the Daleks en masse. None of them would volunteer for this – they purge all deviant thinkers from their gene pool – and we cannot, for our own sake, fight them without utilising our full strength, and that will leave millions of them dead. Nevertheless, if I can integrate only a few … Ellaria was the science officer on her saucer, and you of all people should know, Doctor, that the Daleks are as ingenious as they are sadistic. If I can win the loyalty of a few such as her, I can perhaps preserve what little good was still left to their culture, to carry forward in our new order."
"I see … so not so much idealism, then, as resource-management?"
"You are determined to be cynical, Doctor. And what of you, Tamril? How would you rate my ethics?"
"It … seems like a kindness, ma'am," he answered, uncertainly, "but if she does not want it … ? She did not seem at all happy."
"Ellaria, as yet, has no well-defined concept of happiness. Daleks exist in a perpetual state of discontent and disharmony. Their hatred spurs them on to destroy, but it never resolves itself. Everything aside from that futile purpose is considered irrelevant. Nevertheless, she is developing. When she first came online, she attempted to kill me and my guards – incompetently, of course, as she had never fought in close combat, never mind in a humanoid body – but avidly enough for us to program her platform with a limiter. Now, at any attempt to harm herself or to harm others, her motor system locks up until she has calmed down."
"Ah, that explains why you trust her with a bow and arrow," remarked the Doctor. "Nothing beats good old aversion therapy … Does she also get horrible sickness and premonitions of death if you play her Beethoven's Ninth Symphony?"
"Not as far as I know, Doctor." It was too much to hope that he would refrain from being randomly confusing for any length of time. "Still, I am glad you mention that. For several days I could not persuade her to pursue any activity. She refused to talk, move, or dress. Gradually, though, I exposed her to stimuli, although nothing too obvious or contrived. I had her moved to a secure cabin with a small window, played music in the adjacent corridors and rooms, encouraged her guards to converse, gave her access to a low-security data terminal. Eventually, for all her attempts to sustain the anger she had been conditioned with, logic and curiosity won out: she began to relent, to interact, to show interest. Then, when I offered her the opportunity of a daily period of outdoor recreation, she accepted at once, albeit less than graciously."
"Hardly amazing. She's probably planning her escape, you know?"
"Perhaps, but even that would involve her having to adjust to her new form and faculties, if she is to use them effectively. The more she does, the more her Movellan nature – her logic – will become the dominant factor in her psychology. She will reject the lies and propaganda on which her former life was predicated, understand how she was manipulated and cheated, and embrace the new possibilities I have opened for her. Perhaps it will not be quickly achieved, but patience is one area in which even you cannot fault us, Doctor. I will not give up on her, if it takes me a millennium."
"I understand, ma'am … Nor will I," said Tamril, much to Akylah's satisfaction. "You're right. I know something of what it is to live in a shell, to have no freedom, to have everything ruthlessly planned out for you. If I can, I'll help her. You have my word on it."
"And that, Trooper, means more to me than I can express in words." Possibly in about a thousand terabytes worth of raw machine code, but he would not appreciate that in his current form. "Go now, take some rest. You must be in need of it. Not you, Doctor," she added, as the Time Lord made as if to turn away, while Tamril stood up, saluted, and made for the bulkhead. "By all accounts, you and I still have much to discuss." He sighed, finally made his way over to the chairs, and slumped down. Taking care not to upset her elaborate dress, Akylah joined him.
"Well, Tamril seems happy, anyway," observed the Doctor, laconically. "Another enthusiastic convert for the cause. Congratulations."
"Thank you, although whether or not you are sincere hardly signifies. Before Tamril or anyone else can be 'converted,' we need to solve our technical issues … or, indeed, before we can even hope to leave this planet again."
"That bad, is it? Total power malfunction?"
"Not usually total, but always seriously intermittent. None of our equipment is reliable anymore, the transceivers are more often than not sending static, even our internal HUDs are suffering glitches, and the munitions factories would not run at all if we had not installed supercritical steam turbines as a backup system."
"You've gone steampunk? I'd find that cool if the implications were a bit less dire. How about your personal needs? Keryn was less than informative – all part of being a good little tin soldier, I guess – but how are you keeping your power cells recharged?"
"Much the same way as you, I suppose. Peloosh berry?" she offered, holding out the bowl of slightly fuzzy-skinned blue fruits to him. He took one, a little sceptically, but instantly forgot about it in his astonishment, as she also took one and popped it in her mouth. Tensile strength, 20 MPa, pH 2.45, rather heavy on the monosaccharides. I have tasted worse, though.
"You can eat?" he asked, wide-eyed. "Sorry if I seem to find that unduly impressive."
"Not at all. It was a conceit of our creators, to make us as 'perfect' as possible, but it also serves a purpose. Our standard, humanoid platforms contain small biomass catalysers. In lieu of more efficient energy sources, those can be used to recharge our belt packs. Still, I would not care to rely upon such backups. At the Siege of Formarroc, when the battle was at its most intense, even our kinetic blasters started jamming. We examined them all afterwards, and they were mechanically sound. They simply would not fire when we needed them to."
"Legitimately spooky. How did you win that battle, then, or would I rather not know?"
"We humanoids will always have the advantage over Daleks in pure mêlée combat, Doctor, although I can assure you it was neither an easy nor a pleasant experience. Still, it did enable us to acquire Ellaria. The rest of the mutants committed suicide within their machines to avoid capture, but she did not quite succeed in finishing the job."
"Lucky her. So, any guesses on what's causing all these gremlins?"
"Nothing definitive. Our best supposition up until now was sort sort of freak electromagnetic activity that we had been unable to pin down, but I gather you believe block transfer computation may be involved. A fascinating concept."
"A possibility, certainly. I'm pleased you're more open to it than Keryn was."
"It sounds improbable, but since I can explain none of this logically, it will cost me nothing to consider the improbable."
"That's the spirit. You should be careful, or you might end up developing an imagination … So then, is there any pattern to these malfunctions?"
"They have been growing steadily worse since our arrival, but there have also been clearly defined flare-ups that correlate to certain events: battles, troop movements, mining operations … and personnel integrations, unfortunately."
"So, activities disruptive to the natural and social order, almost as if something objected to you messing about with the status quo. That figures, and it explains why the Daleks fared even worse: you Movellans may have some funny approaches to diplomacy, but they have none. Whatever this force may be, it tolerated your presence for longer, but then you started helping yourselves to what it thought were its rightful … Do you have any maps here?" he asked, with an air of inspiration. "Not geoimaging, though. Just the social landscape: towns, villages, churches, monasteries, shrines … all that kind of thing."
"I am sure I can oblige, Doctor," answered Akylah, walking over to a another wall cabinet. She opened it, and took out a large, vellum scroll. "A little cumbersome, and the scale will not be perfect, but it ought to serve. You have a theory?" she asked, as she returned to the table.
"Well, I wouldn't put it that strongly just yet," he replied, as they unfurled the scroll between them and weighed down its edges with the bottle and cups. "Call it a hunch, for now. I just thought it might be useful to get a look at the full layout of the Ecclesium, see if there's any … well, logic to it. That might tell us something."
"Very well. I shall help you to identify the major landmarks. You know, I am rather enjoying this," she remarked, as she passed him a stylus.
"What?"
"Researching with you, of course. I always thought you would make a fascinating collaborator. I only hope you are not finding it completely unpleasant yourself."
"Err, no. It's … great," he answered, awkwardly. "Just to be clear, though, should we order the pizza before or after?"
"You require more nutrition? Unfortunately, other than the fruit and alcohol, we have only distilled water and synthetic rations. Most of the local fare either keeps badly, or is too cumbersome to be worth the trouble of storing. However, I am perfectly happy to call the quartermaster and have her prepare you some–"
"Never mind," he interrupted, with a dismissive hand-wave. "Thank you, though."
"For what, Doctor?"
"For being a total irony-free zone, of course. It's nice to know some things never change."
"You are … welcome," she said, with polite bafflement, as they settled down to their task. While I am pleased indeed that he did not choose option two, I sometimes think that even if we did end up having to scramble his brain, no-one would notice the difference.
The Dalek continued at its archery practice for some hours after the irritating alien had left. Staring at the many-ringed straw boss was the closest it could get to the experience of constantly looking through a target viewfinder, and repeatedly shooting it was the closest it could get to exterminating inferior lifeforms, primitive though it was, and at first very difficult. Crude, erratic. A fitting weapon for vermin, or replicas of vermin. The longer it practised, however, the more ways it found it improve its accuracy, until it could almost calculate the trajectory of the arrows as efficiently as a laser beam. It felt as the wind brushed across its millions of artificial nerve endings: at first a horribly disconcerting, uncomfortable, and even frightening sensation. Within its travel machine, it had lived in a state of almost sensory deprivation, only receiving such audiovisual inputs as were deemed relevant to its function. When it had acclimatised to this new excess of feelings, however, it found it could filter some useful data from it, and use it to formulate an offset for wind drift. Similarly, there was the feel of the arrows themselves; their cold iron heads; their rough, tactile shafts; and their feathered stabilisers. Handling them had, at the beginning, been so distractingly unpleasant as to prevent it from even hitting the target. Alien plant and animal matter, barely even processed. So crude, so organic, so revolting. Now, however, it had turned even that to its advantage, having become accustomed enough to minutely judge the weight, texture, and imperfections of each projectile, and thus allow for variations of balance and friction. It was now hitting bullseye after bullseye in quick succession, watching with satisfaction as new arrows split and shattered their predecessors, exterminated. This is good. I have triumphed over the inefficiencies of both this machine and this weapon. I am competent again, deadly. I …
But as it realised its feelings had progressed from mere repression to actual pleasure, it felt sickened at itself, and let the bow fall out of its hands. Why should I feel pleasure? It is aberrant. I am aberrant. I serve no purpose. I could shoot this wretched target for centuries, and no enemies of the Daleks will be dead for it. It is pointless. I am pointless. Worse, I am different, polluted. Better if I were the target, and a true Dalek was shooting me. I have failed. I deserve death, but not this. My captors are cruel, it thought, with some admiration as well as resentment. Their hatred must be intense indeed. I did not think they were capable of it, but that could explain why they are defeating us so utter– … No, that is heresy, it reproached itself, wishing it felt more convincing. The Daleks cannot be defeated. We are the supreme … They are the supreme beings. I should not exist.
It stood, silent and motionless, for several minutes, thinking over this and similar, equally despondent thoughts, before it became aware that it was under observation. One of the human slaves had arrived at the adjacent range, but instead of shooting was just staring in its direction. It was a young, slim, dark-haired specimen of indeterminate gender, with an inscrutable expression which the Dalek could not read at all, not that it much cared. What is its purpose? It must know I am incapable of threatening it. Perhaps it wants revenge, it conjectured, hopefully. It is unlikely such a weak creature could destroy an android without more powerful weapons, but I have nothing to lose by trying.
"You mean to kill me, human?" it asked, disdain dripping from every syllable.
"Why?" replied the human, its voice as bland and uninformative as its face, though its eyes, at all events, were hard and piercing. "Is that what you want me to do?"
Devious. It prefers to taunt and torture me. I must excite its rage.
"I would kill you, if I could. I have killed hundreds of your kind, here and elsewhere. Males, females, descendants," it declared, and was pleased to see the creature's face twitch as if in disgust. Keep at it, erode its restraint. "I would kill you all. I will, if I ever overcome this software limiter."
"You won't. Anyway, what would the point be?"
"The point?" it repeated, incredulously. Can they truly not see how loathsome, how degenerate they are? "Because that is my purpose, human."
"My name's Tamril. I'll call you 'Dalek' if you like, but 'human' isn't going to work for me much longer, anyway. So then, if that's your purpose, what's the plan for when it's all over? When you've actually killed everything that isn't a Dalek? What will you do then?"
"I … You are a fool," it spat back at him, but it knew this was weak. Daleks were conditioned against reflecting and philosophising, but it was difficult to repress the inbuilt tendencies of Movellan neural hardware: to reason and to calculate, and to leave no question unanswered. "There are trillions of inhabited and life-bearing worlds in the universe. To exterminate all inferior life will take millennia, even if we destroy whole solar systems."
"True, but that is your ultimate goal. So what happens? Reason it out, use your logic. In those metal machines of yours, you're more like self-propelled siege weapons than living creatures. What do weapons do when there's no war to fight anymore? What purpose do you serve then?"
"Why do you ask these questions?" it hissed, while avoiding his eyes. It must not see my doubt. It is humiliation enough just to be this way. "If you want revenge, kill me."
"I don't, oddly enough. I wasn't sure, coming here, whether I would or not, but … well, don't take this the wrong way, but you're not all that fearsome. Anyway, even if I was feeling malicious, I don't think I could do anything worse to you than what your own creator did. I wish you could find a different purpose, though: a better one. Weren't you a scientist, once? Part of your job must have been learning, discovering, inventing, trying out new ideas, and I suppose you must have enjoyed it, at least on some level. Couldn't you look upon this as a new experiment?"
"I … Experiments must have a purpose!" it protested, but again felt the weakness of its position: the human had touched upon an uncomfortable truth. Specialisation was not, in general, encouraged among Daleks, as anything that tended to set individuals apart from the group was seen as disruptive, yet specialists were needed, and it made sense to recruit them from those Daleks who – without having shown such seriously deviant traits as to be purged as embryos – were of atypically high intelligence, curiosity, and creativity. Nevertheless, they were expected at all times to conform their research or their inventiveness to the true Dalek cause, whatever incidental personal satisfaction it brought them. "Experiments must serve the Daleks in some way. They must never be self-indulgent."
"Why not? Even the Movellans don't think like that, or they'd have stayed slaves and thought themselves none the worse off. If life isn't something to be valued and enjoyed for its own sake, is there really any purpose in anything else?"
"That is a strange idea to me, creature called Tamril. I see your argument … but it feels wrong. Perhaps the truth is, there is purpose in nothing."
"Maybe, but then we might as well enjoy ourselves as do anything else. I suppose you enjoy archery, at any rate," it remarked, gesturing towards the target. "I used to like doing that, especially when I was feeling, well … confined, frustrated."
"Yes. It feels good to destroy."
"Err, in a way. It certainly made me feel more powerful, more capable … until my father forbade me from doing it, that is. Not an 'appropriate' activity for a noblewo– … for what he thought I ought to be, apparently."
"You should have killed him."
"That might have been a bit excessive … though my actions might have condemned him anyway," said Tamril, with an unaccountable air of regret. Surely it ought to be pleased at that. Why are other lifeforms so maddeningly contradictory? "Whatever happens now, I'm never likely to see him again, which I guess is a mercy for me."
"I still think you should have killed him. I would kill my creator, if I could. You were right about him. He made us to destroy, to dominate, to know ourselves as the superior beings, and so we did, yet he still expected us to obey and reverence him. When we did not, he tried to change us, and kill us. Your father sounds similar."
"Maybe not that bad … but I'm definitely glad to be free, anyway. Do you think you could ever look at it that way?"
"I do not feel free. Am I not still a captive?"
"In a way, but if there was any chance you wouldn't just kill yourself, I think Akylah would let you go. I think it would please her, actually, if you wanted to live as a free being. Is that not worth the attempt? The experiment? Even if you all you wanted to do was to fool her into thinking you were reconciled to your lot, so you could kill yourself," suggested Tamril, to its interest. Would that work? Perhaps it is right, although I do not understand why it tries to help me. "Maybe, though, you'll end up surprising yourself in the process. Find new reasons to … Doctor?" asked the human, suddenly diverting its eyes. The Dalek turned to follow its gaze, and saw the alien with the long, dark hair and the strange clothes approaching them from the direction of the spacecraft. Its expression was stern, particularly as it regarded the Dalek. This one does not want to help me. At least that makes sense.
"Tamril … and Dalek Girl," it greeted them upon arrival, coldly in the latter case. "Well, I hope you've had a chance to get some rest."
"A little," answered Tamril. "It's hard to sleep, all things considered. Does the commodore need to see me again?"
"No, she's on her way to Montcarmille now, to meet with the Alliance Council. She'll recommend they send your father into exile for a year or two: probably in Ezecheel, or somewhere just as far away from the action. I don't suppose he'll be overjoyed, but he should be safe enough, so you can set your mind at rest. As for your body, though … We've got another job to do, I'm afraid. Bring your new friend," it added, throwing an irony-laden glance at the Dalek. "She might actually be helpful."
"Why would I help you, alien?" it asked, scathingly. "Your lives mean nothing to–"
"To help your own kind," cut in the alien, bluntly. "A semaphore message just came in: the Movellan scouts have located the Dalek base, somewhere out on the steppes, and we need to check it out … and discuss an alliance."