The planet turns.

Above, the bio-mechanised exodus ship, Dawning Victory, met with the refugee vessel, Járnviðr. Dawning Victory was a spheroid with battle juggernauts orbiting it, sleek and other-worldly in design; Járnviðr was tubular, bulky and far bigger than the sphere, however it had significantly less power. The commanders of each vessel engaged the usual language-trading software, both were a little out of date, but both worked fine. However, Járnviðr completed their translations an hour before Dawning Victory, this could only mean they had superior technology. This conclusion was also unfortunately reached at the moment the scans reported back that Dawning Victory had enough firepower to cut a hole through Járnviðr.

A TARDIS in spatial flight, phased out of time to check what the situation was. The readings on the databanks shifted as time became unstable around a fixed point. The Doctor pressed the intercom on the console. 'Could Clara Oswin Oswald report to the main console room, please.'

He waited a moment, thinking about what he would do, ringed fingers steepled over his mouth. Clara's voice came over the speaker: 'Stop calling me Oswin, I don't call you Doctor Disco.'

'Yes, you do. You at me Doctor Disco on the phone,' he interrupted.

'Then change your Twitter name—what did you want?'

'Protocol Picnic.'

Clara held her finger on the coms button so the Doctor couldn't speak over her moment to think of a reply. '… Do you want me to make a picnic or is there a serious situation you want to solve with a picnic?'

'Both. There's a food dispensary somewhere, it'll make a picnic if you want—but you need to make the tea. Even the TARDIS struggles to make something as good as tea.'

'Why don't you make the tea? I'm not your tea lady.'

'Fair point. I'm going to land the TARDIS, can you set the table and chairs? We're going to negotiate a peace treaty. Where and how they sit will be important.'

Clara thought about the kind of sandwiches the Doctor would make. This new one seemed competent enough to make them, and not just jam sandwiches.

'Are we saving the day with a picnic?' she asked.

'Depends how good the sandwiches are.'

'Then best leave it to me,' said Clara.

The Doctor landed the TARDIS and began to get the blankets out when he pressed the intercom again, 'Doctor to Clara Osw-ald, Doctor to Clara Oswald, urgent report, what type of food are you making? Should this be a cream tea instead of a picnic? Or afternoon tea? They're both flora-based species, I'd advise against anything with lettuce, so no garden salad. Cucumber sandwiches should be acceptable.'

'I've already made scones and got… some type of jam,' there came a popping sound and sniffing from the intercom, 'it smells like raspberry and lemon, but there's no label.'

'Oh that's… Yes.'

Clara wondered if she should have opened it. She checked the other jams in the cupboard, she could see normal jams and honey, but more also more alien ones that couldn't entirely be translated by the TARDIS.

'Afternoon tea. Mini sausage rolls. Also, define by species, Cheem: C-H-E-E-M. Make it luxury.' Clara did so. She found they were tree-like people, tall and made of wood, noble creatures. Using a real-time database, it explained they were refugees, used to nutrient water and synthetic light. Their only luxury food would be glucose-infused nutrient water. Clara decided to make it denser, like a crème caramel rather than an austere soup.

'And the same for Mushkonons: M-U-S-H-K-O-N-O-N-S.' A semi-shared mental network of moss that was currently in exodus from a larger body of consciousness. They too fed off nutrient water and sunlight, however, they had the luxury of being able to turn the insects they collect into chemicals, absorbed into roots—therefore candied insects.

The Doctor set up the afternoon tea, Edwardian chairs and table, covered with a doily cloth. Of course, the finest of imperial porcelain (from the 67th century) with a Countdown teapot (stolen, probably). A gazebo canopy was pulled from a cluttered room, and the hallucinogenic lipstick stain scrubbed out.

The scene was set in a forest glade of short, soft and fragrant grass. Sparse trees provided extra shade and colour as they blossomed in blues and yellows. The sun had yet to rise and the sky was only lightening from the deep dark of night.

'We're just missing a badminton net.'

'Why?'

'Posh,' said Clara with a confident shrug.

'I don't know if the Mushk Republic can play badminton. They don't have hands.' The Doctor grumbled with an accented gravitas as he tried not to laugh.

'It was a joke.'

'Aren't jokes supposed to be funny?'

'Shut up.' Clara playfully slapped the Doctor on the shoulder.

Above, in the darkness, lights flashes and shifted, the faint outline of both ships could be seen if Clara focused. The Doctor could see it all, beyond in the darkness were to the colossi rearing up.

The Doctor buttoned his coat and fixed his white collar. He returned to the console and desperately tapped buttons and flicked switches in hope someone would take his offer for a picnic seriously.

Commodore Ha Pag was sat above her stratocrats in the prime chamber. As they, in the subordinate ranking class, maintained order among the divisions, she was in digital conference with the Chief Communications Officer and division captains. Each had their own square of screen, barring the CCO who shared it with his captain. And although they did not appear, the sublunaries were there too, watching from their dark chmaber. She could feel them too, their nutrients in her xylem, the monthly administering of their ideals. She wondered if they were in her thoughts too, if the visionaries could see the small blasphemies. She suspected they knew she was too useful to timber.

'It's in our language—or at least, a more complex and basic adaption of our language. As if it was put through an AI language processor. The only way I can understand it is as if they have taken our current level of language and flattened it to make it more understandable, less poetry more mathematical. Forgive me visionaries and superiors, but it is as if a pre-industrial human was speaking to a colony-cascaded post-Earth human.'

'Bold statement officer,' said his direct captain. 'Commodore, I did advise him not to use that analogy.'

'This is survival Captain Oak, we have learned not to be precious.'

Although Commodore Ha Pag could feel the disquiet of the sublunaries at the use of a human-oriented reference.

'What does the message say exactly?' asked the commodore.

Before Captain Oak could convey his understanding, the CCO began speaking.

'That's the problem it translates differently based on my programs. The most basic reading is: "Ritual-leisure sustenance ritual-leisure sport-game possibility enable engage wellness-calm collective strato-autocrat." A more complex translation could be: "Picnic for peace talks between you both, I will there will be residing." I think picnic over communal meal because of the reference to the ritual-leisure sport-game and that was common on—is common on planets with the space and environment to host such things.' The CCO feigned an innocence to make them appear less forceful in their particular type of translation.

'It was then followed by coordinates and a biological… debrief of the… host? and their/his companion,' added Captain Oak. 'She is a human, but a temporally displaced one. Our codes do not account for it, and in the lower ranks and I know amongst the philosophers this quandary is settled as blameless.' This last word was said with a tone that conveyed Captain Oak did not particularly agree with it. And by the CCO's expression, he did agree with it.

Commodore Ha Pag read the information and thought, partly waiting for the sublunaries to announce their will. It was like heliotropism, the slight and subtle shift. But they did not wish to comment. But perhaps this was a flawed and material concept of them. They were xylem and phloem, for they removed their barks, stripping them like human's shaving—or perhaps as sinners washing. Their influence may take decades and not merely comments, but reshaping how she, and all the subordinates, thinks. It was their slow working that made it so they did revolt and not just wait for humans to die out while they grew old.

'When?' asked Commodore Ha Pag,

(I remind you these were Cheem who only recently left Earth and human domination, they still tried to think and act like the humans who tried to act and think like machines. This conversation and these thoughts took place over hours rather than the days and eventually years their descendents would commune in.)

'Whenever we both agree. I assume that means the Mushk Republic as well.'

'Was it broadcast or sent directly to you?'

'Indirect broadcast. Anyone searching for it would find it.'

'It does show respect for the meritocracy of our principles,' added a Captain Joshua.

There was a rustle of agreement among the captains.

'Captain Sebbet, what do we know of Mushkoons? Beyond their biological make-up. I am aware they are moss and something of a hive-mind. Especially this Mushk Republic. How much of that is a flaw of translation.'

Captain Oak was quick enough to mute the intercom while the CCO relayed the minor outrage at this accusation.

Captain Sebbet in the forward chamber requested the diplomatic files from their subordinates. Using cross-references from the various databanks they had scavenged or been gifted, the researches relayed a comprehensive outline.

Captain Sebbet relayed the relevant information.

Quietly the sublunaries began the combat protocols in the survival chamber.