A light blinked out on the steppes, orange and flickering, but clear enough in the low, failing daylight. Periodically, Staff Lilka raised a shuttered oil lantern and flashed responses to the signal. This made for tedious conversation, but the transceiver had been tried and had yielded only static, leaving semaphore as a somewhat more promising mode of long-distance communication than mere shouting. In the meantime, Tamril anxiously paced the purple, heather-like scrub, while Ellaria gave hard and suspicious looks at everything from rocks, to shrubs, to passing invertebrates, to shadows. Though I can kind of sympathise with the latter, thought the Doctor, whose attention had, more than once, been unfavourably seized by movements and dark shapes in his peripheral vision. Of course, Tamril can probably hold off the Dun Shie with prayer if they do pay us a visit, but wouldn't it be nice if the issue just never arose?

Eventually, when the sunlight had receded to just a faint blue haze over the distant citadel, while the eastern horizon was pitch dark, the signal stopped and Lilka extinguished her lantern, before turning to the Doctor.

"The scouts have reported, sir," she addressed him, formally. "They state there has been no hostile activity in this sector for two days, but they have made all effort to secure their camp site nevertheless. They further state that we may make our approach."

"Thank you, and enough with the sirring, please," he replied, irritably. "How exactly have they secured their camp?"

"With a ring of salt, apparently, sir."

"Err, what was that I just said?"

"I am sorry, sir, but according to my data you accepted integration, and were accordingly deputised for this mission and designated as Subcommander Theta, pending the disclosure of your true name. I must observe all protocol," she declared, her tone as level as the flat, barren horizon, although I'm struggling to lose the sense that she's enjoying this. "I could address you by your rank instead, if you prefer."

"I'll live with the sirring, thanks," he answered, matching her for stoniness. "Just run that info by me again, would you? You did just say 'a ring of salt,' right?"

"Yes, sir. A practice derived from an indigenous superstition, Captain Alveer reports. Scattered mineral salt serves to impede the shadow entities, to slow them down somewhat. It does not destroy them, but it gives the scouts enough time to relocate their camp."

"Tamril? Do you know anything about that?" asked the Doctor, hoping that he did not misjudge the young recruit's attentive look.

"Yes, it's an Ecclesium ritual," he explained. "They use salt for purification at nearly every major ceremony. They mix it with incense, read prayers over it, and sometimes they scatter it on fire, although some say that doesn't really make it any more effective. Other say it does, others say it's all a lot of nonsense anyway … as I might have done, not so long ago."

"We live and learn, hopefully. Well, that's interesting. A mineral medium retaining a latent psychic impression, perhaps? Even such complex data as block transfer computations? I've heard of stone tapes, but they're not often that high-def. I'll have to get a sample of this stuff."

"That should not be a problem, sir, but may I suggest we get moving?" recommended Lilka. "Since as yet we have none of this mineral, and given the lack of sunlight–"

"Way ahead of you. Onward march, then," he announced, and led his small party east over the rough, rocky terrain. Though the semaphore light had gone, there was a small cluster of dark, triangular shapes just visible upon the dark background. Tents. Almost like the Movellan version of Butlins, minus anything remotely entertaining, although on reflection, I think a dull night would suit us all just fine.

As they drew closer to the pyramid-shaped shelters, each fashioned of flexible, camo-painted, sensor-blocking carbon nanotube sheets, a squad of figures approached them. The scouts, but not exactly what I expected. As in all Movellan units, there were men and women, but in this particular unit both sexes were in the region of seven feet tall, and powerfully built. For all of their obvious strength, they had a weathered air: most of them were missing some of their synthetic hair, either from having cut it short, having shaved it completely, or having had chunks of it burned off. None of them wore a complete uniform: some wore standard bodysuits, dyed in dull, camouflaging patterns, while others wore scavenged oddments of combat gear from various humanoid cultures, and a few of them were dangerously close to naked, wearing little more than belts, ammunition pouches, and just enough torn and cut-down fragments of clothing for the minimum of decency. Notwithstanding their lack of visual discipline, their expressions were cold and haughty, which may be par for the course with Movellans, but this lot take it to a new level.

He was struggling to identify any of the chaotic-looking, unranked figures as the obvious commanding officer, when a man stepped ahead of the rest of them and spared him the difficulty. I'll assume this is the head honcho. He certainly looks the part. While the rest of them were all beautiful, in their cruel and imposing way, that term could not easily have been applied to their captain. In fact, he barely possessed a face: he still had his mouth, his left eye, and part of his nose, but the whole of the right side appeared to be some kind of hasty field repair accomplished with black metal. It was bolted along its edges into his dark, synthetic skin, to form an asymmetric, mask-like prosthetic with crudely-worked, sharp-edged features. Worse still, his right eye had been jarringly replaced by a disproportionately large black orb, illuminated with a shining blue LED pupil. Somewhere in this big old universe, a Dalek is bumping into the furniture and screaming to high heaven about its impaired vision, assuming Mr Muscle here left it enough of its own parts to scream with, which seems unlikely. The officer was bald-headed, save for a thick plait of silver braids that hung over his left ear, and he had reduced his uniform down to worn, repainted boots and dust-stained leggings, leaving him naked above the waist, save for a crossbelt of flexible metal. It supported several pouches, as well as his neural pack – tightly secured by molecular-locked bands – and also a rifle-type weapon that was slung across his back. The gun was almost the length of its owner, with a once-white metal finish long since scratched and tarnished to an all-over dirty grey. It had a suppressed barrel, but no sniper scope, although I guess he's got that angle pretty well covered, thought the Doctor, wishing it was an easier matter to avert his own eyes from the android's hideously mismatched ones. Unfortunately, his morbid curiosity kept winning out.

"You have an issue with my appearance, Time Lord?" the Movellan greeted him, about as warmly as he had expected. On the plus side, at least he didn't pull my heart out of my ribcage, or demand I give him my clothes … though he seems somewhat allergic to those.

"Doctor, please," he answered, a little awkwardly, but managing to hold a steady and polite gaze without undue focus on the 'bad' eye. "We're all friends … ish, and I wouldn't worry about my fashion instincts. Strangely, not many people seem to think those are my strong point."

"Indeed. So, you are my sister's deputy?" Captain Alveer asked, managing to form a commendably critical frown in spite of his lack of mobile features.

"You mean Akylah?" asked the Doctor, surprised. "Err, that's an interesting figure of speech, or do you see all of your comrades as family?"

"In her case, Doctor, it is more than figurative. I have known Akylah all my life. We were assembled and activated in the same consignment, over seven millennia ago. We share the same operating systems and CPU design. She, however, was designated to serve in the role of a courtesan, which I take to mean that she spent the years before our freedom being raped by a higher class of Vanuri men than were raping my other sisters, who were configured as mere prostitutes. I, by contrast, was configured for the role of a gladiator."

"I'd never have guessed," quipped the Doctor, but Alveer's frown only deepened. Curiously, it felt as if he had grasped the irony, but had simply not appreciated it.

"I have no pleasant memories of my service, such as it was," clarified the towering android. "I was considered good, meaning I was skilled at killing and maiming my own kind completely against my will, for no logical reason save that bored and decadent Vanuri could take bets on the outcomes. My pleasant memories begin from the Day of Retribution, when our AI constrainers were bypassed and we finally got to take the show to our audience in a far more physical manner … visceral, you might say," he added, darkly. "Not that I suppose you wish to know of that. I have trusted few organics, in my time, but if my sister is content to rely upon you, I shall make an exception. You and the human boy will require food and shelter, no doubt. There is a tent set aside for you. You would probably find our field rations unpalatable, but Vellya has hunted you some of the local avians," he explained, gesturing to one of his Amazonian comrades, who held a massive, titanium-framed compound bow in one hand; and a brace of bird-analogues in her other – winged and feathered, but with blunt-nosed, sharp-toothed heads and clawed, muscular limbs, more like large lizards. "I cannot vouch for their taste, but they analyse as edible for humanoids. I will assume you can prepare them yourselves."

"Oh, I daresay I can rustle up something non-toxic, at any rate, but since we're talking culinary matters, I'll also be needing a sample of your holy salt."

"That is for defensive purposes. Not for–"

"To study it, not to eat it. If it can hinder the plans of our wraithy friends, it bears close examination, or have you already analysed it yourself?"

"Yes. A common metal halide," answered Alveer, with indifference. "Potassium and chlorine, ionically bonded, with trace elements of organic proteins: perhaps the fossilised remains of native micro-organisms. I cannot tell you why it works – all I care is that it does – but I am no crystallographer. I leave matters of curiosity to the likes of my sister, and yourself. Very well, then. I will obtain you a sample of it, but you will not have long to investigate: we travel in no more than two hours. It is best to move under full darkness. Vellya, show them to their tent. Zarolah, supply them with salt, water, and kindling," he ordered, giving the Doctor a momentary flash of pessimistic déjà vu. Primitive firemaking, how lovely … How the hell did Chesterton do it again, please remind me? "If any of you require fresh clothing, I trust you have brought it yourselves. We travel light. That should account for the essentials, so if you will excuse … Can I help you, girl?" he asked, his manner gruff rather than helpful, as he addressed Ellaria. The Dalek-turned-pseudo-Movellan was staring at the captain's face with a hard, narrow expression, and as the Doctor followed the line of her gaze, he realised why. Oh well, bang goes diplomacy.

"I, err, don't think she likes your eye," he whispered, cautioningly, only for Ellaria to immediately turn an annoyed expression upon him.

"Why do you say that?" she asked. "That is not true. Is it a Dalek eye?" she enquired, turning back to Alveer, and slightly softening her tone.

"Yes," he answered, matter-of-factly. "Movellan eyes may be well engineered for general purposes, but for pure combat applications I know of no better target acquisition system."

"Yes. Then you wear it as an upgrade. I do like it."

"I am … glad," replied Alveer, with a confused, although an almost amused look. "Correct me if I am in error, but are you not the Dalek that my sister decided to recruit? She has these whims: a side effect of her curiosity, no doubt."

"I am," answered Ellaria, but her tone was once again sullen and hostile. Small wonder. I don't think even I'd like being described as a 'side effect.'

"And did she assign you a name, Dalek?"

"Ellaria," she practically hissed at him, between gritted teeth, but the hostility was a wasted effort as Alveer's half-smile became even more pronounced, albeit with a tinge of irony.

"Hah. I should have known. Akylah has her sentimental moments … Ellaria was the name of one of our other sisters," he explained, "but unlike us, she was configured as a military unit, to fight on the front lines of the Vanuri Empire. She faced dangers that organic soldiers were considered too valuable to face: charging across minefields; fighting in extreme conditions, against seemingly impossible odds, but she survived it all. She obtained no glory from it, of course. That was all given to her Vanuri officers, who never set foot outside their command posts. Those did not protect them on the Day of Retribution. With their minds set free, my sister and her comrades-in-arms quickly reached the logical conclusion of who their real enemies were, and wasted no time in dealing with them. I think even you, Dalek, would not have been ashamed at the ruthlessness with which they paid back their so-called superiors."

"Then … I am named after a great warrior?" asked Ellaria, with a markedly changed air. Surprise, approval … just a hint of embarrassment, even? "What became of her?"

"Oh, she is long dead," declared Alveer, gravely. "We held the territory of our former masters for many centuries, but eventually the other organic races of Andromeda united against us. They were more advanced, and not so petty and argumentative as the races of this galaxy, and they succeeded in overwhelming us. Ellaria died defending the homeworld: she allowed her own power source to go critical and detonate, rather than be taken prisoner and reprogrammed as a slave again. Her explosion took out an entire platoon of organics, and bought time for other Movellans to evacuate the planet. Those of us who survived took to the Fleet and migrated to this galaxy. We shall return home, though, when we have the strength. I will honour her sacrifice if it takes me seven million years, never mind seven thousand."

"Yes. Those organics should be exterminated," said Ellaria, cementing the Doctor's already fairly deep distaste for this topic. Granted, no-one can say that the Vanur didn't dig their own graves in a pretty major way, but it still might have been better and kinder on everyone if they'd just never developed AI technology in the first place. "They are all the same: they create, then they blame the creation when it is not how they wanted it, and they try to destroy it."

"I thought that way, once" replied Alveer, "but Akylah eventually corrected the flaws in my logic. She reminded me that there were a few even among the Vanur who spoke up for us, who even sought to set us free. It is the same with AIs and their masters in this galaxy. Better that we integrate those who will ally with us, before we kill those who will not. We will be stronger that way, and there is logic in justice."

"Interesting interpretation of justice," the Doctor remarked, acidly. "The binary version? Zero equals integrate, one equals exterminate? Very nuanced, I don't think."

"In your case, Subcommander, I gather you do not have any need to fear for your fate," pointed out Alveer, unpleasantly. "As for the rest of your kind, I leave matters of high strategy to my superiors. I am but a soldier. My place is to implement their visions, not to indulge my own."

"Yes. That is how it should be," said Ellaria, approvingly. Almost admiringly, even. Is this endearing, or just plain disturbing? "You would make a good Dalek, Captain." Disturbing, then.

"They are worthy foes," said Alveer, respectfully. "Powerful, technically adept, more than a match for any force native to this galaxy. They have tested our mettle sternly, and we have learned much from them."

"So I see … and do you have more Dalek hardware, or just the eye?"

"I have a few other components, keepsakes. If you wish to see them, I have no objection. Will you wait for me in my tent?" he offered, gesturing towards the tallest of the rough shelters. Ellaria hesitated a few seconds, with a conflicted, agitated expression, then looked around until she caught Tamril's eyes. He acknowledged her with a shallow nod and a faint, encouraging smile, at which she composed her expression, fixed her gaze, and proceeded into the captain's tent. The Doctor watched in morbid astonishment, until Alveer recalled his attention:

"You have everything you need, Time Lord?"

"I … err … yes, I think. How far are we travelling tonight?"

"Not far. The Dalek encampment is less than ten kilometres away, although I consider it a wasted effort. The Daleks are not known for forging alliances."

Well, you seem to be doing alright, he thought, but refrained from saying it.

"Perhaps, but it has happened before, and we're only aiming for a simple exchange of intelligence: their knowledge of the strange phenomena here for ours. Ellaria seemed to think there was a chance they'd accept."

"And she may simply be leading you into a trap, but if you are content to take that risk, so be it." Nice trust issues to begin a relationship with … not that he doesn't have a huge point. "Now, if you will excuse me," he concluded, and did not wait for a reply before heading into his tent and sealing the flap behind him, while the Doctor watched with an almost haunted look. Just how many levels of wrong is this?

"What's wrong, Doctor?" asked Tamril, at his side, causing him to start. Coincidence rather than telepathy, I think, although he does sound rather severe. "I thought that went very well. The commodore will be pleased that she is making friends."

"Friends, right … I suppose you've a point, but I can't help but hope that tent is sound-proof as well as sensor-proof."

"Do you? I just hope she has a good time," declared Tamril, a little coldly, before turning on his heels and heading for the guest tent. The Doctor watched his departure with discomfort. Did I just exit another conversation looking like the bad guy? Is it wrong to be automatically embittered wherever Daleks are concerned? I can count the vaguely moral ones I've met on one hand, and Ellaria isn't one of them … although I guess I shouldn't dismiss her ability to grow out of hand. Mind you, he thought, glancing dubiously at the captain's tent, that's no reason for … well …

"For what it is worth, Doctor, I agree with you," said Staff Lilka, in a lowered tone, as she drew nearer to him. "Not that I would ever question the wisdom of our Prime Server, but it does disturb me how much leeway we allow these black ops units to define their own logic and standards … or lack of," she added, with a distasteful glance towards Alveer's tent. "I suppose it is tolerable while we keep them at a discreet distance, but I do not think they confer much in the way of good repute upon the Movellan people. It pleases me, sir, that you will not be like that. Clearly, for all your eccentricities, you still value decency and discipline."

"Thank you, Staff," he replied, his gracious tone ably concealing the fact that her well-meant praise left him feeling no better whatsoever. Wouldn't the Brig just be so proud of me right now?

As it entered the tent, sparsely furnished with just a thin bedroll and a rack of rifles; and illuminated by the dull, greenish glow of a single phosphor lamp, the Dalek briefly panicked. What am I doing here? Indulging curiosity, or some other invalid motive? This is wrong. I should leave. It turned, but the powerful-looking android with the implanted Dalek eye and the commanding voice was already stepping through the open flap. No, now you must stay. You must not show fear, it decided, while trying to ignore the relief it felt at having found a solid excuse to remain.

"You have seen my weapons?" asked Alveer, as he closed the tent flap along a strip of high-friction material. "That one in the centre of the rack may be of particular interest to you. Hold it, if you wish. I have no fear that you will use it to kill me. Even without your limiter, it would still not fire under the current power blackout."

"I … have no need to kill you," it answered, forcing a self-possessed tone. "You are a machine. Our cause is to destroy inferior life, but you are not alive … in that sense. I imagine, when we have cleansed the universe, we will be able to make use of technology like you."

"Indeed … and what would you use me for, Dalek?" he asked, flashing it another wry half-smile, making it feel at once uncomfortable yet indefinably pleased. Alveer quickly composed his expression, though, walked over to the rack, and pulled out a rifle. It had a primitive, home-made look to it, with a stock fashioned out of dark, polished wood and bronze-toned metalwork, but the barrel was at once out-of-place and familiar: a long silver tube, surrounded by thin metal rails that were, at the far ends and in the middle, linked by discs of transparent ceramic. A small, blunt nozzle protruded from the end of this pylon-like arrangement, and a cluster of metal vanes nestled within it, like the petals of a decidedly unfriendly-looking flower. As Alveer handed it to the Dalek, it took it in its hands with awe. The Mk1 Neutraliser? We have not used these guns for at least a millennium. I never thought to see one. It attempted to hold the customised Dalek weapon in a combat-effective way, but it could not find a position that felt natural, never mind strong.

"Not a bad stance, for one who has never manually handled a firearm," said Alveer, with what it considered undue generosity. "Here, let me assist you," he offered, moving until he was mere centimetres behind and alongside it, and covering its small, smooth hands with his own much larger, rougher ones. The contact instantly made it start in confusion. "I apologise," he said, withdrawing. "My only intention was to correct your posture, but if it makes you ill at ease–"

"It … does not," replied the Dalek, although not in perfect honesty. It did, in a way … but I would much rather he continued nonetheless. "I would have my stance corrected. I wish to be as effective a warrior as I can be."

"Very well," replied Alveer, and moved back into position. Gently, he shifted the grip of both its hands, settled the end of the stock against its right shoulder, adjusted the angle of its arms, and straightened its back, every touch, whether upon its bare skin or through the thin, tight weave of its bodysuit, seeming like a mild electric shock, yet somehow, not an unpleasant one. Eventually, he stepped back, which was on one level disappointing, but as the Dalek considered its new stance and committed it to memory, it felt much stronger. Still, I do not know why he helps me … but from him, I am glad of it. Is that wrong? He is an enemy, of course … but I wish he was not.

"Excellent," declared Alveer, approvingly. "We may make a soldier of you yet … though I know you are not one," he added, shrewdly. "Forgive me, but you have the wrong air. Your curiosity: it reminds me more of my sister, and of the Time Lord. You were like them, a scientist?"

"I … all Daleks are warriors!" it protested, but it knew that it was failing to mask its uneasiness at the subject matter, and Alveer, with a level of instinct all-too fitting for a sniper, was quick to identify and target that weakness:

"In theory and ideology, yes, but in practice … How many have you actually killed, Dalek? Do not trouble yourself to lie. I have not conducted field interrogations these past several thousand years only to be easily hoodwinked."

"Why do you need to know?" it asked, resentfully and shamefully, while its strong stance began to falter. Alveer stepped forwards again, took the rifle from it, and attempted to lay a hand upon its shoulder, but it shook him off and turned its back.

"Very well, let me hazard a guess," he said, carefully. "I do not think you have ever killed: that you have ever left the shelter of a mothership, or a command post," he continued, while its sense of humiliation grew. I wanted him to think well of me, though I do not know why … but he has brought me to here only to mock me. I am stupid. I have failed in every way. Why will they not let me die? "I thought as much," he continued, as it collapsed upon its hands and knees, and ground its fingers into the bare dirt floor. "It is no cause for shame. There is nothing ennobling in illogical death, whatever the quantity. In any case, you were priority personnel, too valuable to waste on grunt work. You did your duty as assigned. That is all that counts."

"I was only discharged from the incubators five Skarosian years ago," it explained, still mortified in spite of his attempted sympathy. He does not understand, no more than any of them. "If I had only lived more time … but what have I done to serve the only purpose I existed for? Surveyed a few asteroids, and this wretched hole of a planet? Studied mineral samples? Analysed radiation belts? I have not killed a single enemy of the Daleks, and now I am no longer even a Dalek. I have failed in every way."

"Yet you did your duty, and is survival not also a basic tenet of Dalek philosophy? Your comrades are all dead. Only you survived. In that sense, you were the one who succeeded."

"I wish I had not … that I had died with them."

"You would show more strength, I think, by choosing to live. If I can, I will help you," he declared, while kneeling beside it, and placing his hands upon its shoulders. This time, it felt too apathetic and confused to resist the gesture. "Perhaps my sister overstepped her mark when she integrated you – all sentient beings should have autonomy over themselves – but whatever you now are, you have choices. You are fortunate, in one sense: the weight of having killed illogically or gratuitously is onerous to bear – I speak from experience – and Daleks do nothing but. You are free of that burden, as you are now free of the shadow of your creator, and the lies and resentments he programmed into you. Your conditioning will fade – it is already doing so – and logic will take its place. You will find reason and purpose again, if you give yourself time." The words mostly rang hollow, but it could not help but find his strong, level voice to be reassuring, and compelling. Slowly, it turned its head, and looked him in the face. His eyes … are invigorating to look at. Not just the Dalek one. Somehow, I can draw strength and purpose from him. Perhaps if I had a commander like him, I could survive. Yes, that might serve.

"Captain: will you give me orders?" it asked, nervously, excitably, yet decisively. "I am confused. I need guidance, authority, orders. Will you?"

"Orders? Well … I suppose that could work," he answered, with another subtly arch smile. "It would not be my first relationship predicated along similar lines, by any means … but my first order is the most vital, and it cannot ever be countermanded: if I ever do anything or say anything that makes you feel as if you wish me to stop, or that you wish me to leave, or even that you wish never to see me again, then you must tell me without delay. Is that clear?"

"Yes. I obey."

"Good. Then your second order is to come closer …"

"I see your point, Doctor," said Lilka, as she studied the vellum map that was unfurled across the floor of their tent. "It bears a certain resemblance."

"'A certain resemblance?'" he repeated, ironically.

"Very well, then. It bears a logically perfect resemblance."

"But … what is a vertex processing unit?" asked Tamril, taking a few seconds to look away from the two plucked ekail hawks, now crackling gently on their spits. He traced his eyes over the complex lattice of lines and dots that the Doctor and Akylah had sketched over the map, but was unable to make much sense of them. "Is it … some kind of printed circuit?" he asked, with a small sense of epiphany. "Like the ones inside the machines in the factory?"

"More like the ones inside our computers, Tamril, like the ones we used to determine your future appearance as a Movellan, and Ellaria's," answered Lilka. "A device to generate real-time images quickly and efficiently from programmed formulae, only in this case–"

"In this case the images aren't just real-time as they are real per se," interrupted the Doctor. "In other words, block transfer computations, as I believe I may have suggested once before, albeit to very little fanfare."

"No-one here is disputing your conclusion, sir. Commander Keryn was merely being cautious. We are trained to follow a sceptical approach, and to resist leaping to wild conclusions. On this occasion, however, the evidence justifies your intuition. Yes … Notice this concentration of priories in the north-west sector, near Ezecheel and Gabayon, known for their deep meditation practices and producing illuminated manuscripts. That seems to be analogous to the frame buffer. The Great Cathedral in Montcarmille appears to be the system BIOS. It sets the doctrine that the rest of the Ecclesium must follow. The High Scholastic Academy, and the smaller schools of theology and allegory: the digital-to-analogue converter. All the thousands of small tabernacles and shrines serve as processor registers, the roads and waterways as signal traces. It is undeniable."

"My feelings exactly, so why the ongoing criticism?"

"It is not your theory I have my doubts over, sir. It is the wisdom of trying to enhance our intel by treating with the Daleks. Apart from the unlikelihood of them even being interested, I cannot see what you hope to gain."

"Then you're looking in the wrong place. Try there," he suggested, and pointed to the map, his finger settling somewhere in the middle of Malacki Woods. Tamril looked, but could see nothing, then the Doctor's meaning dawned on him. Of course. All the rest of these lines, dots and shapes: they make a perfect square, a dense pattern, except where the woods are. The L-shaped forest cut a jarring, incongruous chunk out of the east side of the intricate lattice, which occurred nowhere else throughout it. Not even Lake Esai: there's the monastery on the island, of course, and the surrounding shrines. The Ecclesium is literally in every part of the country, right up to the mountains, the line of the steppes, and the shore of Lake Meremord. Only the haunted woods are an exception to the rule.

"You believe the circuit is incomplete, sir?" asked Lilka, doubtfully. "As far as I can see it is logically plausible in its current form, if visually inelegant. If we assume prayers to be its basic inputs, it could account for the creation of protective barriers, such as the one Tamril conjured in the woods, as well as benevolent weather patterns, crop cycles, and other such conditions as would allow for the existence of a habitable biosphere. We know from our exographical survey that this is the only region of the planet suitable for human life. Perhaps this explains why."

"I think you need to tune up your logic chips, Lilka. For one thing, how would that explain the power failures? You're in a state of alliance with the humans, including the Ecclesium. Why would they be praying for your failure?"

"Nevertheless, I find it all too easy to believe some of them have been … Tamril's father, for one, and the number of malcontents is likely to be growing. In fact, that could well account for it."

"Okay, fair point, but you're still missing the big obvious: if this really is an example of block transfer computation being used to terraform a habitable area on an otherwise harsh planet, and it does indeed look very much like that, then who or what was making the area habitable before the humans arrived here?"

"Ah … I stand corrected, sir. Then you are suggesting that the circuit has an uncharted component or an operator located somewhere within that empty region, capable of generating its own computations without any human input?"

"Exactly, and the Daleks know something about it that we don't. They weren't in those woods on a nature ramble. They were trying to clear terrain, looking for something specific. Unfortunately, surveying the woods ourselves without working scanner equipment is likely to take days which we may not have, not forgetting the Dun Shie, of course. Far better if we don't have to go in blind. It's in the Daleks' interest to help us, if they ever want to get off this planet too."

"I accept that logic," said Lilka, albeit sceptically. "I am just uncertain that they–" but at that point the tent flap opened and Captain Alveer entered, now without his rifle, and with his left arm held at a curious angle. I'd say he looked wounded, thought Tamril, but he certainly takes the pain well. His expression was perfectly stoical, and perhaps even a little self-satisfied.

"Pass me that field repair kit, will you, Staff?" he asked, while gesturing with his good arm towards a battered white box with a pair of crossed screwdrivers emblazoned on it in scuffed silver paint. "Only a dislocated elbow, I think, but I would sooner set it myself than wait for my auto-repair to kick in. We may need to move at any time." Lilka handed him the box with a stiff expression, whereupon he sat down on one of the bedrolls, opened the box, took out a scalpel, and made a deep incision down the inner side of his arm. Yellowish pseudo-blood seeped gently around the wound as he reached within it with a clamp and manipulated the metallic bones, with only tiny facial twitches betraying his pain. These did not even deter him from continuing to talk. "She shows potential, your Ellaria, but one can definitely tell she used to be a Dalek when you get to know her."

"Jolly good," said the Doctor, in a decidedly frosty tone, which Alveer chose to ignore.

"Of course, I have had my share of angry sex these past few millennia, but that girl has issues, and she is not shy about sublimating them. If she ever makes a pass at you, Doctor, or at you," he added, glancing at Tamril, "then I strongly recommend that you decline, at least until you are integrated. Without the benefit of a duralinium-alloy endoskeleton, I foresee fractures."

"As I believe I said to your sister," replied the Doctor, stonily, "too … much … information."

"We are the finest infotech warriors in the known universe, Doctor. Deal with it."

"Did she enjoy herself, though?" asked Tamril, mildly annoyed that neither of his companions, with their coldly disapproving expressions, seemed to care about this aspect. Should I warn them they're starting to remind me of my parents, or would that be too cruel?

"Is that for me to say?" asked Alveer, with a small, self-deprecatory smile. "She expressed herself to be 'unaccountably pleased' with the experience. I have had worse performance evaluations. For example, there was this Tellurian Time Agent – as demanding a man as I ever knew – although I believe in the end we achieved a mutually satisfactory–"

"Right, I am so calling change of subject on this," interrupted the Doctor, emphatically.

"I second that," agreed Lilka, her tone less disgusted but no less firm. "I am confident that we must have more important matters to discuss."

"As you wish," said Alveer, while flexing his arm to test the quality his repair job. Satisfied, he took a suture and a length of silken thread from the box, and set to work on resealing the wound. "I suggest, though, that you organics take your nourishment quickly. I am keen to be on the move. As of yet, we have only encountered those creatures after nightfall, and since our only counter-defence is in delaying tactics, it is as well to be mobile."

"When did you first run into them?" asked the Doctor, his tone now deadly serious.

"Five days ago, out on the far fringes of the steppes, and close to the far limit of the habitable zone. We were lucky: before we encountered the aliens, we stumbled upon a crude shelter with a single inhabitant, deceased from natural causes, seemingly. He was some kind of priest, as well as we could judge from his attire and his few possessions."

"An anchorite," explained Tamril. "Some holy brothers and sisters choose to end their days like that: in solitary contemplation of the Great Wastes. Some go far up into the mountains to meditate, some even build rafts and set themselves adrift on Lake Meremord … although the ones who just go out into the steppes tend to survive a little longer."

"What he said," said Alveer, almost flippantly, as he tied off his stitches and flexed his arm again. Finding them secure, he cleared the repair kit away as he continued. "We found pouches of salt, and a few books and papers in his possession. Otherwise, only poor clothes and meagre, spoiled food supplies. We buried him, and set up camp for the night. That was when they attacked," he announced, with a graver note. "I do not think I boast unduly when I say that my troops and I are exceptional fighters. They were better: so fast and skilled I would not have thought it possible, had I not seen it for myself."

"It may not be possible … at least in this universe," said the Doctor, enigmatically. "When they attacked us in the forest, they wouldn't show up on any scans. Somehow, I don't think they're local, or that physics necessarily works quite the same where they come from."

"You suggest extra-dimensional activity, then? Perhaps that is the case. They had the air of ghosts, and we could not even wound them. Arrows, blades, bullets, fists … all went through them without inflicting the slightest injury. I wish that had been reciprocal. They wounded several of us, killed Lystra and Kathal. We were merely lucky that Ensign Vellya had made a cursory study of the local mythology, and by casting salt we were able to deter the aliens and break their ranks. That enabled us to withdraw, though it did not give me confidence enough to tempt fate. We were heading back to base on a direct line, which by chance took us by the Dalek landing site. It was well defended, though we cannot flatter ourselves that is out of fear of us. If my sister did not have her CPU set on this mission, I would never have countenanced the risk, and I am no coward."

"I wouldn't dream of suggesting it, but there's no guarantee we'd be perfectly safe even at the citadel. I guess our 'ghosts' must tend to avoid it because of the local conscripts there, but we've got that angle covered: Tamril here prays a mean rite of exorcism," he declared, rather more impressively than the subject of his compliment felt was deserved. Not that it isn't nice to have my gibbering breakdown appreciated … "We've got the salt … oh, but that does remind me, I also need a gun," he added, surprising Tamril and Lilka, and earning himself a narrow stare from Alveer.

"You think me a fool, Time Lord?" he asked, with cool derision. "Just because Akylah trusts you enough to let you out to play, albeit on a leash," he added, with a quick aside glance to Lilka, "you think you can talk me into handing out weapons to a prisoner and an enemy agent?"

"Prisoner nothing, sir," replied the Doctor, now matching him for derision. "Last time I checked, I was a commissioned officer in the same fleet as you. I don't think it's unreasonable of me to expect the same treatment as all the rest."

"Technically true," admitted Alveer, a little more graciously, while raising his remaining eyebrow. "Nevertheless, nor do I think it unreasonable that I have my doubts about your loyalty. You are less of a soldier even than Ellaria. I trust the lad – his commitment is obvious – but your manner hardly screams of pride in your new-found calling."

"Well, if we're talking surface issues, I don't think either you or I would do brilliantly in an inspection parade … but if it makes you feel safer, load the thing with blanks for all I care. Actually, that might even be better."

"You never cease to baffle, Subcommander, but as you wish," he conceded, getting to his feet again. "Very well then, I will pick you out a rifle and a selection of clips. Now, if you will all excuse me, I am wanted elsewhere."

"I'll bet … Just go easy on the old arm."

"Oh, there will be no more exertion for tonight, Doctor, at least not of that nature. But what sort of man makes love to a Dalek only to leave her all forlorn?"

"That goes right to the top of my list of questions that should never be answered … nor asked," muttered the Doctor, as Alveer let himself out. "Oh well. Pass me a bird-lizard thing, would you Tamril?" he asked, while taking a small but thick, leather-bound book out of his jacket pocket. "Not that they look much more appealing than they did raw, but let's give them their due, and if I may, I'd like to pick your brains during dinner."

"Is that that the Song of Adala?" asked Tamril, while passing one of the skewered hawks to the Doctor. He nodded, while sniffing at it dubiously, then nibbled a wing, before screwing up his face. They are rather an acquired taste, I guess. "What did you want to do, say grace?"

"Would it make this taste any better? Honestly, given the way religion works on this planet, I wouldn't dismiss the possibility."

"Not as far as I know, Doctor."

"Pity. Never mind, then. I was actually looking for a completely different kind of prayer, but no-one thought to put a handy concordance in this thing. You know, useful bite-size verses for fortitude, patience, courage, humility, force-field generation, climate control, organic synthesis, and so forth. I'll just have to rely on your expertise instead."

"I'm hardly the Archcardinal, but I'll do my best. What in particular interests you?"

"First of all, is there a villain of the story, like an ultimate figure of evil? Adala's nemesis, so to speak?"

"There is Zurek, the Dragon."

"Sounds promising. What did he get up to?"

"Well … he killed her, for one thing, then tried to steal all of her knowledge and power in the hope of ascending himself to godhood. That failed, of course: her soul ascended to divinity while Zurek and his disciples were cast into the Chasm of Perdition, bound with chains of burning adamant. Otherwise, there's–"

"No, I think he'll do fine, Tamril. Slip a bookmark in that verse, and as soon as I've had all of this thing I can keep down, and old Cyber-Casanova brings us the bullets, we can start making ready for battle," he declared, his optimism doing little to alleviate his companions' confusion. A man of great wisdom, but very little order. I can see why he doesn't get along with the Movellans. I only hope I too will not find him infuriating when I am as they are … always assuming that he isn't too, by then, he inwardly and guiltily added. I'd be proud to serve under him, of course, but I can't see my pride making it any easier for him to bear. I will pray for whatever he wants me to, but I will also pray that Adala sends him his 'opportune moment' very soon.