High ground was not easy to come by in the steppes, but Ellaria and the Doctor had managed to find a modest-sized hill that offered decent cover, behind low scrub and rocks, and a reasonable view of the Dalek saucer. It appeared to have taken a leaf out of the Movellan navigation handbook, as it was sunk halfway into a depression of the arid earth. Only its superstructure was visible: a huge, shallow white dome with a raised turret at its centre, its low circular wall perforated by numerous portholes. Its hull was dusty and battle-scarred, but patches of it still gleamed in the early morning sunlight. The light also cast long shadows off the figures that slowly patrolled its perimeter, both on foot and on horseback. From their distant vantage point, crouched behind the stunted vegetation, the Doctor could only get a good view of these figures by using a pocket telescope, but no such contrivance was necessary for Ellaria. Whatever their deficiencies as a targeting system, these eyes do have excellent resolution, and I never imagined there were so many colours and shades. In former times, the universe had seemed to her like a vague, abstract thing, albeit full of immaculately-tracked targets to exterminate. Everything now seems so much more complex … so much more real.
This was not always necessarily a good thing, however, and the grisly sentries on the plain would certainly have appeared to advantage in much less faithful vision. They had a grey, withered look to them, and many of them had sores and scabs on their exposed skin, but none of them showed signs of pain: their faces were as vacant as those of the corpses they almost resembled. They wore a mismatched assortment of poor-quality armour, tarnished and broken, along with skullcap-shaped silver helmets with perforated ear covers, which left their gaunt faces bare. Their weapons were almost as crude and ugly: an assortment of low-skill mêlée weapons such as maces and flails; along with short, carbine-like kinetic firearms with boxy magazines and vented barrels. Nothing at all formidable, but neither have we. This will be a long and chaotic battle if it comes to it, although logic dictates there is no need for one. We have a common interest … but why, then, do I doubt? Do I not trust my own race to be logical? We always held that we were … but last night has done nothing for my old certainties. On that basis I should regret it. I should …
"Lobotomised, controlled human slaves, also known as Robomen," said the Doctor, with evident disgust, as he surveyed the patrols. "You're making me feel almost nostalgic." Insincerity, again. He almost never says what he means, at least to me. I wish he were a Movellan too, then at least they could correct that defective mannerism in him. I am accustomed to it now, but it is still annoying. "How are you controlling them without reliable radio transmission, though?"
"Pure audio signals: a pulsed code," she answered. "There are concealed sirens at regular intervals around the perimeter, in the ultrasonic range. They are powered by mechanical actuators. The robotised human subjects are conditioned to obey certain coded instructions. Their cranial implants amplify the audio signals to their tympanic membranes."
"Very efficient, I'm sure," he remarked, contemptuously. Again, he does it.
"You say that, but it is not," she replied, irritably. "I was tasked to write the code, and even I recognised the inherent flaws: how easy it would be to interfere with the signals – even the primitives here have whistles capable of generating ultrasound – and the unacceptable lag time between sending a coded order and the subject responding to it, assuming they respond at all. The conditioning itself is unreliable, given the weak state of the subjects. I suspected it was misguided – a desperate attempt to replicate our higher-tech indoctrination methods using crude analogue techniques – but it was not my place to question orders. Now, however … I can see how the Movellans took the more logical course, manipulating the natives into serving them willingly. We wanted to eliminate the variable of free will, the need to trust inferior creatures, but the trade-off is so obviously not worth it. It is a hopelessly inefficient system. Why did we persist in it?"
"Does 'gratuitous sadism' work as an answer? That's what I'd have assumed, but I suppose I ought to congratulate you for condemning it as 'inefficient.' Of course, that's nowhere near being remorse, never mind empathy for those poor wretches, but let's be grateful for small–"
"What do you want of me, Time Lord?" she hissed back at him, scathingly. "A day ago I would have gladly killed you all, and myself too. Your contempt of me was nothing to my own, as I felt myself failing to hold onto my nature … and last night I failed completely, but it is not how I expected it would be. When my captain took me in his–"
"My bad," interrupted the Doctor, emphatically. "Serves me right for bringing it up, but if we can just drop that subject then I'll be more than happy to–"
"Be silent. I will speak. Our physical act was intense. The sensations caused a buffer overload that spilled into neighbouring receptors, creating sensory distortions. It was exhilarating, but disconcerting. I felt helpless, unable to process the data effectively, unable to control my motor systems efficiently. That should have made me feel afraid … but it did not. Afterwards, when my captain held me beside him, I felt it even more: a sense of safety, security, although I did not recognise it as such immediately. I have never felt safe before. There was always some threat that needed destroying … and then it occurred to me: we are not strong," she confessed, regretfully. "Daleks are conditioned and predisposed to fear everything that is not like us. That is supposed to make us more committed, self-sufficient, effective warriors, but now I think it does the opposite. It makes us wasteful, arrogant, inflexible … and weak."
"Agreed. Well, I guess that's in the general region of moral progress. Well done," he congratulated her, although his deadpan tone still conveyed little conviction. "So, if you were deconstrained now, how likely is it you'd try to kill us all?"
"In your case, very likely. The Movellans do not trouble me anymore. They are only machines. The human called Tamril … I am glad that I am constrained, on account of him. It is still not easy for me to see him as anything other than a disease, a genetic abhorrence, though I know now that is illogical. He intends me no harm. He even tries to help me, although that I am no closer to understanding. I am relieved he intends to become a machine like us, though. We are consistent, rational beings. We do not lie."
"I'm sorry to differ, but in my experience you Movellans are more than capable of–"
"Then we do not lie for mere effect," she cut back in, curtly. "We make sense, and we do not fear. We are strong … and because I am strong, I am going down there alone."
"That isn't nec–"
"It is necessary, and logical. My people … my former people will be frightened and paranoid, but that is not a reason to underestimate them, and my captain agrees. If they see us moving in force, they can still deploy powerful weapons: explosives, chemical agents, acids that could corrode even our endoskeletons, never mind yours. A single emissary might excite their curiosity without provoking an immediate attack, and I am the one most likely to succeed."
"Point taken, as long as you're sure."
"I am sure. What I once feared above all, including death, was contamination, impurity; yet I have now ceased to be a Dalek, survived it … and enjoyed it. Perhaps I do deserve death, but I do not regret that I had this experience. It is more than I would have known otherwise. I feel reconciled, and now I can focus upon my duty, and it is a duty I owe both my peoples. Without it, it is probable neither group will ever leave this planet alive, nor I. Thus, I risk nothing."
"Fair enough, but we'll have the scouts surround the area discreetly, and I've a hunch your boyfriend would sooner be up here with one of his big guns, just in case things do get hairy for you down there. Tamril and I might just follow that example," he decided, while casting a glance at the weapon that lay alongside him: a sleek white rifle, with silver detailing and an optical scope. Well-engineered, but still comparatively weak, she thought, sceptically. Even bastic bullets only work well with concentrated auto-fire, and a sniper rifle will not deliver that.
"You would be ill-advised to try using that against Daleks," she pointed out, more for Alveer's and Tamril's sake than for his. If he fires that and draws attention to their position, the Daleks may bombard this whole area with acid mortars before he can even kill one of them.
"It's not for them. It's … insurance against something else. No, I'm afraid when it comes to the Daleks, your diplomatic skills are our best hope, unlikely as that sounds. Are you ready?"
"Yes, Time Lord. The Robomen will probably attack me as I approach – an automatic threat response – but do not react to that. I can deal with them."
"Even with your limiter?"
"That only prevents me from causing death or harm," she declared, while slinging her quiver upon her back and picking up her longbow. "They are dead already. Their bodies are simply unaware of the fact, but that can be rectified." At least, I think that will be the case, but even if I am wrong, a few bullets are no great price to pay for salvaging what remains of my honour, and perhaps saving the last survivors of our mission … and for pleasing my captain, of course.
As she stepped into the open and started down the hillside, there was no immediate reaction from the patrolling figures, but she had not progressed far before one of the horsemen turned aside from his route and began to trot in her direction. What is his standing order? Destroy, or simply investigate and report? If I can avoid hostile action until … but that thought became academic as the rider attempted to turn his machine pistol in her direction. His movements, however, were slow and clumsy, whereas hers – as she pulled, drew, and loosed an arrow in less than a second – were fluid and efficient. Her hours of practice paid off admirably, as the shot sunk deeply into the Roboman's eye, and he slumped out of his saddle without even a gasp. The others were quick to react: the ones on foot set out towards her, their gait fast but lurching, while three other mounted warriors tried to target her from a distance with their machine pistols. The crude, inaccurate firearms would have been ill-suited for long-range combat even in expert hands, but as the glowing, white-hot phosphor rounds slammed into the earth around her, causing it to sizzle ominously, she knew better than to dismiss the danger. One of those would be quite capable of causing me damage. They are still the more serious threat, she decided, ignoring the approaching foot soldiers while she loosed more arrows towards the distant marksmen. Her ballistic and wind-drift calculations proved impeccable, as two of the riders were felled at the first shots, but the third managed to change his position. She had expected that, though, and had another shot prepared. She heard the irritating, pulsing whine of the nearest siren, concealed somewhere in the twisted shrubs to the north, as the Dalek operator attempted to issue new orders. It made her head ache, and caused her HUD to glitch even worse than it had been before, sprinkling her field of vision with a confetti of random figures and green pixels, but it did not put her aim off, and neither Dalek nor rider were quick enough to react on this occasion.
That took care of the ranged fighters, but the foot soldiers were almost upon her, and however accurate her shots, she knew she would imminently run out of space for her bow. She loosed one last arrow, taking down the only archer among them. Even a Roboman might use a crossbow effectively at this range. The shot was barely released, however, before the foremost of the mêlée fighters swung his spiked flail at her. She darted aside, but not quickly enough to prevent it from glancing off her left arm. Although it was nowhere near strong enough to damage her duralinium-alloy bones, it lacerated her skin, crushed her electrolyte conduits, and sent her pain buffer into overflow. Gritting her teeth and clenching several muscles served to reroute enough of the stray signals for her to maintain concentration, and she drew her dagger and sunk it between the gaps in his ill-fitting armour. Using his corpse as temporary cover, she managed to deflect the attack of the next one, then slashed his throat before he could swing back his mace for a second blow, but three more were now bearing down on her, and still more were following up the slope. I will be overwhelmed. Should I abort? I promised my captain …
The quiet pop of two suppressed gunshots disturbed the air, and did worse for the lead Robomen: two of them fell with fresh entry wounds in their foreheads, and the third was not long in following. Ellaria glanced back, and saw the Doctor and Alveer advancing down the slope, their rifles raised, while Tamril brought up the rear with his percussion pistol. For a moment, Ellaria felt only fury and contempt. How dare they, these worthless, inferior beings? I could have … I could not have handled the threat, she realised, her logic kicking in at the moment her rescuers, having reloaded, raised their guns and shot down another two of the approaching Robomen. Tamril also fired on them, but given the dullness of his human senses and the lower accuracy of his weapon, it was hardly surprising that he only succeeded in maiming a couple of them, which slowed them down but did not deter them. Ellaria retrieved her bow, and although the damage to her left arm compromised the steadiness of her grip, she gave what assistance she could, and it was not long before the last of them was exterminated. The remaining sentries around the saucer made no attempt to come closer. They are wary, on the defensive now. Is this a lost cause?
"You shoot very well, for a bookworm and an avowed pacifist," Alveer 'complimented' the Doctor, who returned a rather sarcastic nod of thanks. "I begin to see why Akylah wants you on her team. It certainly cannot be for your strategic skills. May we abort this folly?"
"You sound almost nervous," replied the Doctor, almost as coldly. "That's the spirit. A bit of emotion every now and then–"
"Do not prevaricate. You know well enough that we do not fear death. We do resent being expected to die for futile and illogical reasons."
"This mission isn't futile. We need the Daleks' intel."
"Do we? Is Ellaria's not sufficent?"
"Not really. Either she doesn't know very much, or she's just not letting on–"
"I will tell you all I know," she cut in, suddenly conscious of having been deficient in her duty. Another Movellan instinct? Or simple fear that my captain and my … my friend, I suppose, could die because of my pointless reticence? "I do not know specifically what the Daleks in the forest were hunting for, though. They must have acquired new intelligence since that battle in which I was captured. I can only assume they have located a functional ruin."
"A ruin? Like … a castle?" suggested Tamril, naively, although in all fairness his less primitive companions both looked equally bemused. They did not know? Did they even bother to survey this rock in any detail? At least Daleks are thorough … not that it did us much good. She directed her answer to Tamril himself, as it was easier to forgive his ignorance:
"A ruin of the previous civilisation, Tamril, such as are scattered all over this world. Ancient, massive constructions, although it is possible that an uninformed observer might mistake them for giant fossils: they are the products of a supremely advanced biotechnology, now lost. Our studies indicated that there might be one still active in the habitable zone, but the war and the blackouts have hampered our ability to locate it."
"There was a previous civilisation here?" asked the Doctor, amazed. "Did your lot know anything of this, Captain?"
"Not that I am aware of," answered Alveer, and even his stoic tone had a new note of fascination. "My sister chose this planet for its isolated and primitive human settlement: a good testbed for her mass integration strategy. The records we hacked from Earth's extranet mention nothing of any earlier habitation here."
"As if we would depend on humans for our intel," remarked Ellaria, with scorn. "I am very surprised at you, Time Lord. Has the Matrix nothing to say of this planet? If an ancient databank on Alfava Metraxis is detailed enough to mention it, I would have thought that–"
"Fair do's, I didn't do my homework," interrupted the Doctor, tetchily. "Mea culpa. Do you want a gold star on your exercise book, or can we just have the low-down?"
"We were losing the war," she confessed, reluctantly, but there was no escaping from the logic. "Movellan bio-strikes had decimated our fleet, and their fire teams were wreaking havoc throughout our colony worlds … as I am sure my captain can tell you. We needed a new, superior edge, and our research indicated that the ancient inhabitants of this world had constructed a super-weapon; one so powerful that it had even led to their own destruction. Perhaps that is the reason most of the planet is now uninhabitable."
"Possibly, with the extremely suspicious exception of the area directly around said device," pointed out the Doctor. "I think there might be a bit more to it than that."
"And however much there is, do you truly believe the Daleks will disclose it to us?" asked Alveer, with impenetrable scepticism. "Knowledge of a super-weapon? I cannot think what force it would take to make them share such intelligence. I would not."
"If you were desperate, though?"
"If I ever choose to take desperate actions, you can be sure they would be based on logic. I do not trust the Daleks to be any more objective than I would trust–"
"Stay where you are! Do not move!"
While a leaden silence descended on her small party, Ellaria slowly turned her head in the direction of the rasping, hollow screech. Four of them. They outflanked us while we were bickering. Whatever our faults, we are stealthier than we are given credit for, and intelligent, she thought, admiringly. Three of the Daleks were low-ranking saucer guards, their silver-blue casings scuffed and battered from combat, their motive units enlarged to better cope with the rough terrain, and their weapon pylons curiously modified: each was connected via a flexible metal tube to a thick, pressurised canister bolted onto the rear of their casings. Acid jets. They are intent on taking prisoners, but they would welcome an excuse to make an example of at least one of us. The fourth was their section leader, similarly-armed, but with silver-on-red livery that was less worn than that of its underlings. It swivelled and tilted its eye-stalk as it studied each of the captives in turn, treating the two organics only to the most cursory of examinations, as if it barely considered them worthy of notice. It made a longer scrutiny of Alveer, and for a few seconds seemed to lock stares with his Dalek eye implant, although whether in approval or disgust was impossible even for Ellaria to guess at. Finally, it turned to her, and looked her up and down repeatedly, evidently unsure what to make of her as it took in the mixed signals: her Movellan clothing and anatomy, but her Kaled features, and her primitive native weaponry. Nevertheless, it seemed to conclude that she was the superior member of the party, perhaps because I am the only one who looks neither afraid nor dismayed, although this is not how I would have preferred our meeting to commence. At all events, when the section leader finally deigned to speak, it was to her that it directed its hateful, electronic scrape of a voice:
"Where are the others of your kind, machine? This cannot be your full force," it declared, casting a quick, contemptuous glance at her comrades. "It must be a feint. Tell me where your main force is, or you will all be exterminated."
"It is not an attack, Section Leader," she replied, while hoping Alveer's scouts possessed the restraint not to launch a hasty rescue strike and give the lie to her diplomacy. "I have vital information … and I am not a Movellan. I … I was science officer aboard saucer Delta Vanguard. My rank designation was Red Section Leader Five-Seven-Four stroke Epsilon. I was–"
"You are lying," cut in the Dalek, but its cold curtness failed to conceal its true emotions, at least to her. Horror, disgust. It hopes that it is right, but dreads that it is wrong … dreads such a thing could truly happen, perhaps even to it. I would have felt the same. "That is impossible. Explain your mission quickly and truthfully, or die here."
"I obey … but it is possible. The Movellans' neural cell transfer process: I was their first Dalek subject, but I have not lost sight of my origins, and their propaganda techniques have not made me forget the loyalty I owe to my own kind. I want to offer–"
"Impurity!" shrieked one of the Dalek guards, while its weapon-arm twitched dangerously. "This one has been perverted, contaminated! It should be exter–"
"Silence!" barked the section leader, throwing a warning glance at the agitated guard, who obediently calmed down. It then returned its inscrutable stare back to Ellaria, its iris narrowing to an icy blue pinprick, somehow managing to eloquently convey that if she had anything to say that would contradict the last advice it had received, she had better make it quick. A worthy commander, although not the equal of my captain. His scouts would never talk out of turn like that … but this is hardly relevant.
"The Movellan commander proposes a trade of intel, to facilitate both our forces' departure from this planet," she explained. "Their forces are experiencing the same disruptions and power outages that have grounded and hampered ours. If we combine all known information–"
"Daleks do not require the aid of inferior creatures … as you should know," it added, its harsh emphasis disappointing rather than wounding her. It knows that dictum is illogical in this situation, but it dares not admit it. That is not resolute – merely stupid. However, after a pause for consideration, it softened its stance, albeit only slightly. "It is not probable that your intel exceeds ours, Movellan. If you believe it does, tell us all you know now, and we will judge for ourselves."
"Err, as far as I can see, none of us have 'born yesterday' tattooed on our foreheads," remarked the Doctor, sardonically. "If you want our help – and you clearly need it – then we need to be talking quid pro quo arrangements before we tell you any–"
"Patrol: take the two humanoids back to the saucer," interrupted the section leader, irascibly. "They are irrelevant to this … transaction. Let them be implanted and robotised. I will conclude–"
"No!" protested Ellaria, so impulsively that every living eye and eye-stalk in the vicinity was instantly on her, though her reaction and her anger seemed perfectly logical to her. Robomen are useless toys, fit only for demoralising civilians. Tamril has helped us … especially me. He has strategic value, and value besides. The Time Lord too, she admitted, somewhat reluctantly. To render them mere flesh puppets is wasteful, illogical, stupid. Do Daleks always seem so stupid from the outsider's perspective? At least the section leader is prepared to negotiate, though. I was afraid I could not even persuade them to that. "The humanoids are still necessary," she explained, endeavouring to keep her tone more level. "They possess valuable intel."
"Which you have presumably extracted, and if not, we can rectify that oversight before using their husks to replace the guards you destroyed."
"Under normal circumstances, perhaps, but apparently it is not enough to merely possess the intel: only the native organics are capable of using it effectively."
"If that is the case, you give us even more reason to requisition your prisoners," it replied, with a haughty, triumphant air that failed to impress her. It knows it will have to cooperate, but it matters so much to it that it is seen to be the one in control, the one with all the power. Illogical, and insecure, but better to play along. If it feels totally humiliated, it may prefer to exterminate us all and accept the inevitability of death and defeat. "Perhaps we only need them, and you and your fellow machine are the expendable ones. Do you have a reason that we should spare you?"
"I do: we're a package deal," declared the Doctor, grittily. I suppose one must at least admire the man's courage. "You deal with us all, or none at all, and just in case you were still thinking of skipping the polite discussion stage and trying to torture the intel out of us – bearing in mind you'd have to rely on the most primitive and least reliable methods – you should remember that Movellans don't even fear pain."
"And can you say the same, human?" asked the Dalek, disdainfully.
"Hell no, you should see me at the dentist's … but just for clarity's sake, I'm actually a Time Lord, and whatever our faults, we can stand up to crude interrogations like nobody's business. All getting a bit confusing, is it?" he asked, in a tone of mock-sympathy which Ellaria wished he would moderate. "Well, never mind. This could still turn out to be your lucky day, but if you want to make the most out of the only opportunity likely to come your way on Mondever, you'd do well the drop the subject of who among us is and isn't expend–"
It was not due caution that stunned him into silence, though, but a volley of gunshots from the distance. Ellaria's first reaction was fury and dismay. The scouts: they will ruin everything. It soon dawned on her, however, as it had dawned on even the Daleks, that the gunfire was not directed anywhere near their party. It could now be heard on different sides, as if a number of small skirmishes were taking place in the cover of the shrubs and stunted trees around them, the combatants unseen except for occasional fleeting shadows. Shadows … and whispers, she thought, as muted, breathy sounds, incomprehensible yet ineffably malevolent, emanated from the surroundings. Even the Daleks had lost interest in their prisoners and were turning in the direction of the ominous noises, their weapon pylons twitching nervously and their eye-stalks scanning back and forth in a vain hunt for solid targets. Alveer was quick to take advantage of their distraction, as he reached into his belt pouch and took out a short metal canister with a perforated top. A grenade? she speculated, before the Doctor clarified the situation:
"Got your salt-shaker handy, I see," he commented, while working hastily to eject the clip from his rifle. "That's reassuring. On that note, Tamril, please tell me you've got the 'special' bullets with you, as now would be a good time–"
"Here, Doctor," said Tamril, pulling a rifle clip out of his pouch, after a little searching. He seems very agitated, afraid, but he keeps his fear in check and obeys orders. He would make a good Dalek too … perhaps better than some of these ones. "I don't understand: I've never heard of the Dun Shie coming out in daylight."
"It was too much to hope they weren't refraining from that out of choice," replied the Doctor, as he reloaded. "Probably just their standard procedure, for stealth. Things have changed. They must be getting bolder or more desperate. Err, would you mind not doing that?" he asked Alveer, who had started laying down a boundary of salt. "I've got a theory to test, but we might need to get them in quite close. Rock salt doesn't have much of a range, unfortunately."
"We are to stake our lives on your 'theory?'" asked Alveer, sceptically. "Come closer to me, Ellaria. We must make our break from here as soon as possible, and for your information, Doctor, we have already tried using our salt in projectiles. We found them to be less effective than simply scattering it."
"This salt may surprise you. It works like natural flash memory chips, holding copies of block transfer computations for later use, and last night I had Tamril overwrite these samples with a new prayer; a new program. With a bit of luck, it ought to–"
"Stay where you are!" screeched the section leader. Ellaria followed the trajectory of its eye-stalk and saw a figure standing a few metres away, though for a few milliseconds she was uncertain if it was truly there, or was just some glitch in her optical systems: a dark, vertical slash with hazy edges, that almost looked like a mere blemish, but on careful scrutiny had the proportions of a tall, spindly humanoid creature. As if to erase any doubt, although the shade did hold its position, it raised some kind of long mêlée weapon and held it in a threatening stance.
That was more provocation than the section leader was prepared to tolerate, and it loosed a stream of acid in the creature's direction. The vegetation that was caught in the spray withered and blackened, and even the rocks it made contact with hissed, perforated, and decomposed, but the shadow-thing did not even react. In fact, I do not even think the acid is touching it, as if it has no solidity. Then, if it is merely a projection … but any idea of drawing hope from this was quickly dashed, as the creature surged forwards at incomprehensible speed, swinging its sword. By the time it came to a halt, right in front of the section leader, the unfortunate Dalek was missing the whole upper section of its casing, sliced off as cleanly as if by laser beam. Projection or not, it cuts forcefully enough. It followed this up by plunging its sword downwards, into the casing, skewering the Kaled mutant and causing it to emit a piercing but short scream. The other Daleks panicked at the loss of their commander, and shot acid jets that achieved nothing more than causing further damage to the section leader's casing, and did not deter the alien from rushing into their midst and dealing out more carnage – carnage that was only exacerbated by their continuing to fire upon it, and thus adding friendly fire to their list of problems. And to ours, she noted, as drops of acid fell all too close for comfort, and her colleagues took several backwards steps away from the action. Can the Time Lord not yet fire on the alien? How close does he need it to get before … ? Out of the corner of her eye, she suddenly saw what none of the others had noticed yet: another spindly, almost-humanoid shade, this one carrying what looked like a two-handed axe, and standing in the very area to which they were retreating.
"Doctor! A hundred and seventy degrees right!" she shouted, and was pleased to be immediately understood, as he swung his rifle around and fired while the shade was raising its own weapon. It screamed, for want of a better word, giving off a loud, echoing, high-pitched vibrato that seemed neither organic nor mechanical, then collapsed in a twitching pile and slowly coalesced into a more solid form. Ellaria did not immediately have leisure to study it, however, as the Doctor quickly swivelled his aim back around to the first shade, just as it had finished with the Dalek guards and was turning its attention towards the humanoids. Shot in mid-dash, it dropped its sword and crumpled at their feet, flailing like an insect, its movements jerky and uncoordinated for a few seconds, until they subsided completely, by which time it was clearly visible. Humanoid analogue, but no known form of life. Armour plates fused into its body tissue, possibly even into its bone structure. Too light for ballistic protection, most probably a bio-synthetic exoskeleton: sensor nets, field generators, powered actuators. That may explain the atrophied muscles and the vestigial sense organs. Weak life signs, probably generates its own habitable environment while existing in interstitial space. Conditions here likely inhospitable, if not fatal to it. Good, she thought, not without a sense of grim satisfaction, as she turned her attention to its sword. Mineral type unknown; black, non-crystalline, monoatomic blade edge. Simple but deadly in skilled– but her analysis was interrupted by another shot and another unearthly scream, as the Doctor felled another of the aliens. She looked around, wondering from which direction the next would come, but silence now seemed to have descended, although she could draw very little reassurance from that.
The Daleks … all exterminated, she observed, looking over the inert, sliced, charred, and part-dissolved remains of their casings. What of our scouts? Did any of them survive? A few tense seconds later, and that question was answered in the merciful affirmative as a Movellan scout came running into the area, halted, and threw a brisk salute to Alveer. His rifle was slung over his back, and in his left hand he carried a metal tube of salt, like the captain's. He knew better than to try engaging those creatures, but what of the others?
"Sergeant Jahlyk," Alveer greeted him, returning his salute. "I heard firing. You know my orders were not to attack the aliens. Report on the situation."
"There was confusion, sir," answered the sergeant, apologetically. "We had taken up concealed positions to keep the Daleks and their controlled humans under observation, but when the aliens appeared it became a fracas: we had to break cover, the Robomen fired on the aliens and on us, and we fired back while trying to fend off the aliens too. We did manage to regroup, and alien activity now appears to have ceased. Ensign Vellya was destroyed, however."
"Destroyed in what sense, Sergeant? Only her platform, or … ?"
"Regrettably not, sir," declared Jahlyk, solemnly, as he held up the crushed remains of a neural pack. "The one that killed her pulled it off her, and did this with its bare hands. Its grip must exert a compressive strength of at least two hundred gigapascals in order to do this to durali–"
"I do not care," cut in Alveer, as he took the mangled data drive out of his sergeant's hand. He stared blankly at it for a few seconds, before letting his arms fall back to sides. "She was with me when we formed this unit, over two centuries ago: the best commando I have ever served with. She feared death no more than any of us, and I am accustomed to loss, but for her to die like this, in this wretched wilderness on a futile mission–"
"It wasn't futile, I can promise you that," said the Doctor, encouragingly. "We may not have the Daleks' intel, but we do have these three Dun Shie. That binding prayer worked even better than I thought it would: it forced them to completely materialise in this dimension."
"These aliens? What use are they to us now?"
"Potentially no end of use, if we can get them back to the citadel alive."
"Which seems improbable," pointed out Alveer, and his pessimism seemed all too justified. The gaunt, armour-plated humanoids' breathing was harsh and shallow, and none of them moved except in tiny, spasmodic twitches. "I suppose a study of their corpses might yield some data, but even if you could keep them alive, how would you interrogate them?"
"I can think of one possibility, but you're right. We'll have to hurry. Sergeant Jahlyk; were any of those Robomen on horses?"
"Yes, Doctor. We can commandeer a few. Not enough for our whole party, though."
"Three will be enough. The rest of us can follow on foot, but getting these Dun Shie back to Akylah has to be our priority. She'll know what to–"
"Where … is … she?" The voice was grating and hollow, spoken as if with intense effort. Turning in its direction, Ellaria realised that it had emanated from the bisected shell of the section leader. "Where … is … she?" it repeated, more urgently, and as she watched, the metal-caged signal lights on its detached dome flickered feebly in time with its words. Still some residual signal, and it survived … although barely, by the sound of it.
"Where is who?" asked the Doctor, cautiously, although not entirely unsympathetically.
"Red … Section Leader … Five-Seven-Four … stroke Epsilon … Where is … she?"
"Here, Section Leader," she answered, and hastened over to the wrecked Dalek. Looking within it, she met the single eye of the Kaled mutant, and saw the deep wound left by the alien creature's sword, scorched around its edges and seeping green ichor all over the control systems. A fatal injury. Even if it could be transferred to an intact casing, it is too late. Its pain serves no purpose. Would it be better to kill it? That would be the logical–
"The aliens … are they … exterminated?"
"They are captured. They must be interrogated first, if possible."
"Yes … Good … Listen … Coordinates … forty-eight point … three-one-seven … degrees north … two point five … six-nine degrees east … Go there … Section Leader … Located … the means … to exterminate … these … alien vermin … Do it for … glory of … the Da–"
The signal lights finally went completely dark, and the weak pulsing of the mutant's respiratory system subsided into complete stillness. Ellaria leaned forwards, reached into the casing, and gently lowered its eyelid. That seems … respectful, or as respectful as possible, under the circumstances, she thought, as she turned away and registered the looks of her companions: mostly just surprised and slightly repulsed, with the exception of Tamril, in whose expression she registered solemn approval. As I thought. I am no Dalek: not anymore, nor do I wish to be. Nevertheless, whatever I am I owe in part to them, and I will honour them, one way or another.