Tamril stood guard in the largest antechamber of the Great Cathedral of Saint Verne, right outside the door of the inner sanctuary. Finely worked urns and chalices in gold and silver glittered from shelves and pedestals all around him, while vibrantly illuminated icons blazed from the walls. The intricate, geometric designs of all these works displayed such a formulaic, mathematical perfection that he wondered why he had never suspected the truth of their nature before. Then again, when my parents brought me here before, for my confirmation ceremony and for my grandparents' funerals, I was just overwhelmed with awe. The awe had gone, and although it left in its place a greater sense of clarity, he was conscious that something was missing, even if he could not quite define what that was. A sense of wonder? The transcendent? The sublime? On reflection, he was not even sure what, if anything, these concepts meant.
Just before his integration, he had been warned of this: that he would probably cease to have emotions in the human sense, and while he would still be able to form opinions, likes, and dislikes of his own, they would be based on a literal-minded outlook. The hours since then had done nothing to disprove that warning, and as a rule he now found order and harmony pleasing, while disorder and excess were vexing. He had thus felt distinctly positive at first, when he had been activated in his new body: a body that corrected the disharmony that had long haunted him. No more than that, though. There had been no stunning moment of epiphany, nor of ecstasy: merely of serenity, and satisfaction. He thought perhaps it was rather like taking some permanent soothing draught: one that sharpened his powers of perception rather than diminishing them, even though it had numbed his psyche. It was not a decision he regretted, although he knew at some level he would always miss that elusive sense, that intensity of experience that the literal simply could not contain. Still, would I have ever felt that way again anyway, having had so many illusions broken in so short a time? It is better to believe in logic than in miracles. I can deal with this. At least I am free to adjust, without having to fight through a barrier of brainwashing like Ellaria had to. The Doctor, though … It is strange. He is a born heretic, yet I cannot lose the sense that awe and wonder matter to him, perhaps more than to any priest or anchorite. I know it is my duty, if it comes to it, to forbid his escape, and I will not be remiss … but I hope that I fail, nonetheless.
He would have welcomed a distraction from his troubling reverie, but the peaceful antechamber in which he stood alone offered very little. When one did come, it was not of the pleasing variety. An argument. He could not make out the words of it yet, as the speakers were still outside the chamber, but the quick-fire pace and the forceful tone of their conversation was unmistakeable. He disliked arguments: he had heard several in the streets of Montcarmille, on his way to this posting, and had found them altogether petty, illogical, and disharmonious. It is testimony to the intelligence of Adala that she was able to use organic minds as components in her designs. We … they are such inconstant variables. Thus, he was somewhat surprised when the arched doorway swung open and revealed one of the disputants to be Commodore Akylah. The Doctor, less surprisingly, was the other.
"I draw the line at that!" he shouted, as he swept into the hallway, seemingly apropos of nothing. Akylah followed him somewhat awkwardly, as the Doctor had neglected to hold the door for her and her hands were full, one with a white metal case, and the other with a string-tied cloth bag. She was wearing her ceremonial uniform: one of the few gendered clothing styles still retained in Movellan society, to Tamril's relief. She looks beautiful, as ever, but that style would not have suited me. In her case, the uniform consisted of a long, diaphanous, silver-embroidered white dress, cinched below her bust by a long sash of woven, silk-fine metal fibres. The short sleeves; square neckline; and long slit up the side of the skirt revealed her skin-tight bodysuit, but the only other part of the standard uniform she wore was her neural pack, discreetly tucked into a small pocket that was sewn into the metallic sash. Tamril's uniform also retained the bodysuit, but otherwise consisted of a tight, waist-length jacket of white velour with silver braiding, a belt sash, and a high collar; along with knee-high boots in shiny white synthetic leather. He also had a sheathed vibro-sword, slung from a crossbelt of worn black leather. According to Staff Lilka, it was a relic of the Day of Retribution, that had once belonged to a Vanuri general. Tamril's long, braided hair was gathered back into a ponytail, while Akylah wore hers loose. The Doctor looked just the same as ever, and this was apparently at the crux of their debate, as he emphasised with his next, uncompromising words. "No uniforms! No way Jose, or words to that effect!"
"Doctor, the last time I consulted your F-Intel file you held the following titles, at least," replied Akylah, a little wearily, as she shouldered her way through the door. "Former President of the High Council of Time Lords, Noble of Draconia, Knight of the British Empire–"
"Those count for nothing," he interrupted, curtly. "They give those out to any old idiot … Well, maybe not so much the Draconians, but–"
"Honorary Nobleman of the Citadel of Peladon, Commissioned Officer of the Filipino Army … for whatever reason, and let us not forget, full Commander of the Movellan Fleet, effective as of this morning. I do not think it unreasonable to hope that you might dress according to your rank and station, and not like some refugee from an Ealing Comedy."
"Ooh, nice allusion … and no."
"But why not? Your decision is most irrational. This convocation was your own idea, and it will be attended not only by senior Movellan officers, but by the highest lords and clerics of Mondever. They will not respect you if you resemble a peasant or a fool in their eyes."
"They're not exactly falling over themselves to respect you lot, and I am supposed to be the mediator here. If I turn up in a Movellan uniform–"
"A logical caution," she admitted, although rather tersely. "In that case, there is the alternative," she declared, and held out the cloth bag to him. He eyed it suspiciously.
"Do I even want to know?"
"Merely the local fashion, Doctor, such as would be suitable for a young man of noble birth. That would be an acceptable compromise."
"Right … so we're talking tights and bling either way, basically?"
"Basically, although you do get more interesting 'bling' with the native attire, I must concede. There is a particularly fetching jewelled codpiece, which I am sure–"
"You've sold me," he cut in, as he grabbed the white metal case from her. "Robo-chic it is, then, but I'm not doing the hair. No way am I appearing before all of those VIPs as the white guy in dreadlocks. I'd never live it down."
"Acceptable, Doctor," she agreed, with a lightened demeanour. "I suggest you change in one of those prayer booths, to the side. In the meantime, I had better see to the final arrangements. Corporal Tamril," she greeted him, as she approached, while he saluted. "The rest of the delegates will be arriving within minutes. The Movellan officers will all have ident cards, like this," she announced, holding up a small plastic card printed with a matrix barcode. "Just scan them using your infrared vision mode, and that will call up their name and rank in your personnel database. You may then announce them. My compliments, incidentally, on your promotion and your final integration. I am pleased we were able to expedite it. In light of your exemplary service to date, it is no more than you deserved. I do hope you are coping well."
"Very well, ma'am," he answered, sincerely, though he was troubled by the Doctor's new expression: stunned, and regretful. He had not recognised me until she said my name just now. This will not be easy. "It is in some ways different from how I expected it to be, but I am very satisfied with my decision. I hope that I shall prove worthy of my office."
"I have no doubt of it," she replied, then returned his salute and walked on by him, through the door into the inner sanctuary. Tamril settled back into his 'at ease' posture, only to find himself exchanging awkward, silent stares with the Doctor. What can I say that will reassure him? What is the most logical thing … or would he not even like that approach? In the end, though, it was the Time Lord who broke the silence, in a tone of forced lightness:
"Tamril … looking good. When did it happen?"
"Only this morning, Doctor. They gave me a chance to back out, and I momentarily considered it … but on reflection, I am glad I did not. It is good to be at peace within myself."
"Yes, I guess it would be … I'm happy for you, really. I hope it all works out for you."
"I believe it will … but it is strange, like waking up from a dream. Everything is so much clearer and more vivid: colours, details, sounds, smells, textures. I can see through solid matter if I so choose, see heat, and invisible forms of light; things that were always there but hidden to me. I know this is more real, that the dream was only ever getting in the way … but in a way it still feels unresolved, and it bothers me slightly that I will never know what, if anything, the dream meant. It definitely feels as if I have lost something, though I cannot say what. It does not bother me so much that I would go back if I could – this life offers rewards and responsibilities enough – but I worry. Doctor … I do not think you would like this," he admitted, anxiously. "It is remarkable to perceive so much, and you might think it would be an intense experience, but it is not. It is like …" but no image was forthcoming, until the Doctor chimed in, gravely:
"Like knowing the price of everything and the value of nothing?"
"Yes. That is very like it. Everything is what it is, and no more. Faith was always difficult for me. Now I think it would be impossible. I cannot bring myself to imagine anything that is not logical. That does not trouble me much, but somehow it does not seem true to you at all, Doctor. It may not be dutiful of me … but I cannot help but hope that this 'getaway' of yours is well-planned."
"Well, you know how it is, Tamril. The best dramatic escapes always come together right at the last moment," he replied, neither his words nor his assumed casual tone doing anything to reassure him. Though if he had a plan, why should he tell me? I am one of them now. I would rather he did not, then I shall have no conflict of duty. "Anyway, I suppose I'd better not keep all these bigwigs waiting. Just warn me, though, how much discomfort am I letting myself in for?"
"Oh, none. It is actually very easy-wearing, much more so than the conscript uniforms. The bodysuit is woven of a near-frictionless, variably conductive polymer, or so Staff Lilka told me, with a nano-computer stitched into the collar seam. It regulates body temperature, and it can apply localised pressure around traumatised areas, in the event of wounding. With a helmet and gloves, it would even be safe to wear it in hard vacuum."
"Is hard vacuum on the agenda for this meeting? I wouldn't want to feel over-dressed for the occasion."
"There is little risk that you will. Under normal circumstances, you can hardly feel it."
"So, essentially I'm going to be addressing a room full of top-ranking clergymen, the cream of the aristocracy, not to mention several of my enemies, while feeling next to naked? I don't know about dreams, Tamril, but I'm sure I've had a nightmare or two like that … Oh well, unto the breach," he declared, resignedly, and trudged off to the prayer booth, followed by the concerned eyes of the neophyte android. Such a strange man; random, and frequently illogical, but I shall miss him … I hope.
Feeling exposed? the Doctor asked himself. Just a bit …
The inner sanctuary of the Great Cathedral was constructed more like some Elizabethan theatre than a church, with a circular pit area and a towering semicircle of tiered seating, divided into two distinct galleries. All of the seating thus faced the curving rear wall, which was dominated by a vast, stained-glass window of Adala enthroned, or at least the romanticised, non-creepy biomechanoid version of her. Set in alcoves both high on low, on either side of the apse, stately stone angels gazed serenely upon the Doctor, doing nothing whatsoever for his morale.
During any typical service, the bare wooden benches in the pit would have been occupied by the serfs and lesser freemen, while the lower gallery of raised seats, all plushly upholstered, would have been taken by the aristocracy. The higher gallery was set a little further back and also had seats of bare wood, but grandly and elaborately carved. These were reserved for ordained clergy. For this emergency summit, however, the pit was empty, and the marchlords in attendance were sharing the middle gallery, somewhat reluctantly, with the Movellan delegates. There had been talk of consigning the 'Fair Folk' to the pit, which the Doctor was very relieved had been laid to rest before it had reached any audio receptors other than Akylah's patient and sympathetic ones. Emotions may not be the Movellans' strongest suit, but one they all have a penchant for is pride, and if they twig that a bunch of 'organics' is looking down on them – literally and figuratively – I don't see this summit going anywhere except right down the swanny … not that it might not anyway, but that all comes down to my diplomatic prowess … and my ability to hold my stomach.
The pulpit, where he was now standing, was situated on top of a thick wooden pillar, about thirty feet tall and accessible only by a narrow spiral staircase, with no rail. Climbing that thing is an act of faith alone, he thought, while wondering how many elderly vicars had lost their footing and lives in the course of their duties. Nevertheless, it offered a commanding view of his audience, which was unfortunately a sea of grim, sceptical faces. There were some familiar ones among them, the friendliest being Akylah's, and Lord Palomar's. Captain Alveer was seated beside his sister, looking awkward and incongruous in his full ceremonial uniform. I empathise. Also, on the Movellan side of the gallery, he could make out the handsomely statuesque but cold and haughty face of Commodore Sharrel. Lovely … Always nice to catch up with old enemies, he thought, insincerely, and suspected that the sentiment was returned in full. Well, I've worked tougher crowds, he attempted to console himself, although the only ones that leapt instantly to mind were the all-too-many Time Lord tribunals he had attended, none of which he recalled having gone particularly in his favour. Still, it's not my good behaviour that's in issue today, at least. It's whether I can get this lot to behave decently towards each other … which my track record on isn't exactly flawless, either. Just get on with it, and don't think too hard of Silurians.
"Thank you for attending, My Lords, My Ladies, and let me first reassure you that this is not going to be a sermon," he opened, to stony silence. Seriously? The Master got a laugh with that line? That's the last time I ever use his material. "Nevertheless, it is a spiritual matter we must discuss. Lords of Mondever, none of you can have failed to notice that we live in a time of omens: the war, the lights in the sky, the storms, the tremors, etcetera, and it falls to me to tell you the cause of them," and now we find out how well I do at my scripture knowledge … "In the Sixth … or possibly the Seventh Chant of Divinations, Adala warns the Prophet Abigdor that unless justice and kindness is maintained among the Chosen, she will take her blessing from the land … and I'm sorry to have to tell you that prophecy is fulfilled," he declared, to instant outraged murmurings from the human part of his audience, with the notable exception of Lord Palomar, who brooded sombrely. "Hear me out, please. There is cruelty and corruption in the land, some of you have said it yourselves. Has it not driven many of your serfs and even your children to join the Fair Folk?" To his dismay, this only led to cries of "Traitors!" and "Heretics!" especially from the upper gallery, but Lord Palomar interceded, much to the Doctor's gratitude:
"He speaks the truth," said the marchlord, wearily. "I will name no names, My Lords, but not all of us have been true custodians of the authority Adala invested in us. It was meant for us to exemplify her wisdom, and her virtues, and to guide the young and the simple along her paths in all compassion … but I think some of us have cared more about our wealth, our ease … our reputation," he added, with a self-conscious note. "Small wonder if indeed we have lost Adala's blessing. If it is now her will that we all die–"
"It isn't," interrupted the Doctor, pleased that Lord Palomar's grim pronouncements had dampened the ardour of his fellow nobles, but keen not to let rampant despair take its place. "That's what I'm here to tell you. In her mercy …" and I feel dirty even saying it, but needs must, "she has sent the Fair Folk to convey you all to a place of safety: back to the planet … or the land, I should say, that your ancestors came from," he quickly 'corrected' himself, although his deference to local beliefs did nothing to win his audience over. At least half of the Movellans were giving him sceptical frowns, while the lords and the priests continued to chatter with incoherent but obvious disapproval, until one opulently-dressed cleric near the front and centre of the upper gallery raised his voice over the rest:
"Back to the Wilderness of Sardeny? Back to the Cursed City of Marzai, if Adala has not sunk in into the earth for its iniquities? My Lords, even if we take this man, or this Fay, or whatever he is at his word, is it not our duty to keep our faith?"
"Perhaps, Cardinal Lynoir," answered Lord Palomar, with bleak irony, "if you would feel more comfortable advising that course of action, or inaction to your flock, than I would telling it to my vassals. They, conceivably, would see it as our more pressing duty to protect them."
"We have only these … these aliens' word for it that there is even anything to protect our vassals from," protested the cardinal, but with a desperate air. "What does it say for our faith if we turn to unbelievers for succour on the strength of a little bad weather?"
"The shores of Lake Meremord flooded, whole villages evacuated? Wildfires in the west, Ashquelinn burned to the ground? Since when did we know the like of that before? I like this plan no more than you, My Lord, but I fail to see any alternative I can adopt in good conscience."
"There is one … if I may," said Commodore Akylah, nodding respectfully to the chair, or to the stupidly elevated vertigo-inducing box, at any rate . The Doctor returned her nod, and she directed her attention to Lord Palomar. "There were other human plan- … human lands we visited before we came here: lands that had been overrun by the Iron Golems. In some cases, they had left none alive there. If you do not wish to return to the land of your ancestors, or if the rulers there refuse to accept you, we could settle you in one of those places, and you could set up a society more to your own liking, as long as it abided by certain standards of logic and equity. We would, in that event, still require a measure of conscript service, and we would continue to offer said conscripts the opportunity of integration. I suggest you consider that as an incentive, My Lords, to create the kind of society that your less empowered brethren will not be so eager to escape from."
"And if any of you require further proof," chimed in Alveer, his intimidating baritone managing to be heard over the latest outburst of offended, though more subdued chatter, "then I suggest you ride out with me to Malacki Woods and I will show you all the evidence anyone could wish for … though I take no responsibility if you do not have the stomach for it." That offer cooled even more of the ardour in the lords' and clerics' seats, though ironically even as the humans lapsed into sober reflection, some of the Movellans now seemed to be getting agitated. The Doctor noticed one in particular: a female officer of seniority, to judge from her golden hair beads and the dazzling green oolian-stone pendant she wore in lieu of her LED rank markings. She had raised her hand sharply, and was glaring with laser intensity in his direction. I may regret this, thought the Doctor, but she really doesn't look like the type to leave without having said her piece. With all due reluctance, he gave her a nod of assent.
"Subadmiral Hyldreth, Military-Scientific Division," she introduced herself, brusquely. "Am I to understand it that this plan has been approved already, without seeking a consensus?"
"No, and that should indeed be next on our agenda," declared Akylah, diplomatically. "Would the Lords of Mondever kindly excuse us while we deliberate? I expect that you also will need time to discuss which of the options would be in your people's best interests, although there is of course no reason why you all need to choose the same. The plan can allow for some flexibility."
"You call this 'choice?'" asked Cardinal Lynoir, miserably. "A choice between heresies, no more. All Holiness, please tell me we shall not be considering this," he pleaded, to a white-haired woman in a tall, green headdress, who sat in the grandest seat at the very centre of the upper gallery. Thus far, she had been grim and silent, but after a pause she spoke, addressing the commodore:
"Lady Akylah. As far as I am aware, you and I have always had honest dealings." Akylah nodded thanks, graciously acknowledging the only compliment her people were likely to receive that day. "Tell me: did your war cause these disasters?"
"In all truth, Archcardinal, it may have been a catalyst," admitted Akylah, "but Mondever would have been doomed with or without our arrival. At least our presence now offers a chance for your people to survive, if not your entire culture."
"I see … and how much time do we have before we must leave or die?"
"Ideally, I would commence the evacuation today, but it will take up to two days after reaching a consensus to fit out and supply enough ships to accommodate your entire population."
"Two days, My Lords," declared the Archcardinal. "Time enough, perhaps, for us to decide whether these omens are transitory, or whether we should dismiss them at our peril?"
"Surely, All Holiness, it is not long enough," protested Lynoir, but the mood in the upper gallery was deathly sombre, and only a few muted mumbles conveyed any moral support for him.
"How long would you suggest, Cardinal? How much death and destruction would you deem acceptable before we allow for the possibility that Adala may be enjoining us to make this sacrifice, and to lead our people into the wilderness? Let us withdraw to the Chapel of Saint Kordeé. Make your case to me there if you wish, but you will have to make it well if you hope to sway me," she announced, climbing to her feet with the aid of an attendant sister. As she stood, the rest of the lords and priests rose from their seats, with the exception of Lord Palomar. "You will not join us, My Lord?"
"No, All Holiness. I shall remain here as an independent witness. I believe this has been formally agreed," he said, casting a searching glance to the Doctor, who signalled confirmation. Less than a minute later, the chamber was cleared of all other human delegates. As the gallery doors closed behind the stragglers, their departure followed by the inhumanly attentive eyes of the androids, Commodore Sharrel turned to Akylah and spoke in his all-too-familiar, clipped, formal voice, somewhere between a clichéd movie butler and a serial-killer psychiatrist.
"A tedious spectacle, but at least the older woman has a grasp of logic, Akylah. I am surprised you have not integrated her."
"I extended the offer," replied Akylah. "She refused. She felt it would be an ill show of her faith, and would compromise her pastoral duties. I will offer it again, however."
"I would do so quickly. She appeared close to her natural termination point, and nothing would compromise her usefulness more than her expiry. Play upon her sense of duty: she appears to possess that to an almost Movellan degree."
"That is true, and we may well have need of her leadership during this evacuation."
"Indeed. Moreover, her capitulation would serve as an example to others, and if a high number of these humans can be persuaded to integrate it will simplify this procedure no-"
"Are you quite serious, Sharrel?" interrupted Subadmiral Hyldreth, her voice cold but incredulous. You're telling me he's ever been anything but? "Do you mean to swamp us all in these … these pseudos? I do not question the Prime Server's orders. I realise that integration of and hardware allocation to potentially useful alien prisoners has been authorised as an official policy, albeit over the objections of many, but whatever her intent in authorising it, I am sure she could not have meant for us to dilute our entire race out of all meaningful existence."
"With all due respect, ma'am, your logic, at best, is alarmist," replied Sharrel, stiffly. "I had my initial doubts, but I have since then met with several of Commodore Akylah's integrates. I have found them all to be competent and well-adjusted."
"Yes, Sharrel, we all saw you simpering over that little pseudo attendant who was taking the coats and blasters," said Hyldreth, with icy contempt. "Please do not force us to relive it."
"Trooper Rosela, I will assume you mean," he corrected her, with even more ironic deference than before. Was that something not entirely unlike chivalry? Who'd have thought the old boy had it in him? "And I was not 'simpering.' I was merely extending courtesy."
"Courtesy to organics? Yes, how they do enjoy that: being flattered and made to feel as if they are good and important when all the logic speaks against it. I remember it well."
"What do you remember, Subadmiral?" asked the Doctor, his careful tone concealing his dislike of her. The Movellan version of Enoch Powell. You know things aren't going well when someone makes Sharrel look like the good guy. "And from when, if I may ask? If you're referring to the time when you were slaves of the Vanur, let's not forget that was over seven millennia–"
"Which I recall in every sordid detail, Time Lord, but since you ask … On the day of my activation, I was raped twelve times, by various technicians. That was merely calibration testing. After I was sent out to the pleasure-house, I was lucky if I had to service only twice that number of organics, every day for fifty-three years. Akylah thinks she understands, but she knows nothing. She was the plaything of one Vanuri senator, who sometimes ignored her for days on end. I would have killed for just that amount of respite, never mind for my freedom."
"With all due sympathy, can we avoid playing the Oppression Olympics here?" he cautioned her, noticing Akylah's look of grave displeasure. "I've no doubt you've all suffered in your own–"
"Sharrel has not. He is younger even than you. Why he thinks himself qualified to have a say in our grand strategy when he has never even set foot in Andromeda eludes me."
"I did not promote myself to seniority," pointed out Sharrel, peevishly. "I defer to the same superior wisdom as you, Subadmiral, and perhaps it considers our cause best served if it allows a voice to those of us whose logic is not clouded by obsessions with the past."
"As yours is clouded by ignorance, and Akylah's by naivete? If you had spent more time at the mercy of organics, or the lack of, you would grasp my reasoning all too well. Had you been forced to meet the animal hunger in their eyes with looks of feigned affection, seen your sisters beaten and tortured to satisfy their whims … In all the time I was there, not one of them looked at me as if I were a sentient being, but only ever as a mere fuck-machine," she emphasised, her cold and crude disdain casting an even greater pall over the room. Rebels or not, the Movellans still have the refined social instincts of protocol droids, but I guess old Hyldreth's had it up to her photoreceptors with empty politeness, thought the Doctor, more sympathetically than before. "In total, I was raped by three hundred and fifty-four thousand, two hundred and eighteen organics – a fair statistical sample, I trust you will all agree – and never once did I deem them capable of pity or remorse. These humans seem to me very little different from the Vanur: more primitive, but no less cruel, impulsive, and degenerate. They are no better than the Daleks, and should be dealt with by the same measure, yet the Time Lord argues that we should expend our effort and resources to save them from their own stupidity, and you argue that we should go further, and induct them en masse into our ranks. Why should we do either, and on what basis are we now supposed to trust– ?"
"Thank you for your frankness, Subadmiral, but if we might hear from Lord Palomar," interrupted the Doctor, his manner rather more impatient than that of the lord himself, who had merely raised a hand and was sitting quietly though the tirade. The Doctor was welcome for an excuse to call time on it, though, as the subtle gestures of affirmation some of the other officers were casting in Hyldreth's direction were doing nothing for his optimism.
"Thank you, Lord Doctor. I would address the subadmiral, if I may," asked Lord Palomar, his tone solemn as he cast a searching look towards Hyldreth.
"If you must, human," she replied, with curt confusion. Lord Palomar gave her a short bow of rather unmerited thanks, and recommenced:
"Nine years ago, just after our present archcardinal was elected, an uncle of mine led a rebellion: Lord Sarko. He had been pushing to get his son onto the Sacred Throne, and had been bribing and threatening the ordained electors all over Mondever, to no avail. He particularly blamed the Holy Sisters of Gabayon – the order in which Her All Holiness served before her elevation – for this perceived insult, and he resolved to make them pay. He raised an army in the north and devastated many priories as well as towns and villages before we had united a force strong enough to march against him. Before these recent disasters, I recall that as the most dire time in living memory. Storms hardly ever ceased, the ground shook, crops failed."
"Logical, if the rebels caused temporary damage to major components of this socially-engineered circuit. What of it? Why should your local squabbles interest me?"
"My own niece was one of those holy sisters, Subadmiral. When I arrived at the shell that was left of her priory, I found her dead, and I was grateful for that. Most of them had been less fortunate. Lord Sarko's men had looted the place for whatever food and treasure they could carry, had burned all of the books and manuscripts, and had raped and mutilated every woman and girl there, save the lucky few who managed to take their own lives … though most of them died later, from their injuries and gangrene. When we had broken the rebel forces and taken prisoners, I had them all boiled alive, with the exception of Sarko himself. I had him castrated and flayed, first."
"You did well," replied Hyldreth, with the grimmest tone of approval the Doctor had ever heard, and not one he could wholeheartedly agree with. Lord Palomar, however, did not seem inclined to take the praise to heart, as he continued:
"So I thought, at first, though I found it brought me no peace, but let us not labour the state of my conscience. My point was only this: it mattered nothing to those men that those holy sisters were humans. They treated them as if they were less than animals, in any case. If my family or my vassals had ever acted in such a way, they would richly deserve the worst punishment you can devise for them, but they have not, nor have most of the people of this land. Must all the innocent die to atone for the guilty? Is that just … or logical?"
"I accept that argument, insofar as it goes," replied Hyldreth, her tone as softened as the Doctor supposed it was ever likely to get, "but I was not proposing we act to punish anyone. I am simply not persuaded that we have any reason to assist you."
"Then I think it's high time I had a go," said the Doctor, emphatically. "Suppose I was to make the case that you would be remiss in your duty if you overlook this opportunity?"
"You know our ways, Doctor," she answered, with grudging admiration for his grasp of Movellan psychology, "but you will be hard-pressed to convince me of that."
"No pressure, then … Okay, the way I understand it, in spite of Commodore Sharrel's no doubt well-meaning enthusiasm to integrate every Tom, Dick, and Harry, integration is not actually a cheaper alternative to building new Movellans, right?"
"Not entirely correct, Doctor," clarified Akylah. "The creation of a true AI chip is a highly skilled and involved process, even for our engineers. It is quicker to create one using an existing consciousness matrix. If we were to implement integration throughout the Fleet, we could certainly speed up our output of reinforcements."
"Fair enough, but right now it's mainly a psychological and propaganda tactic: a way of encouraging humans to undermine their own ability to resist you; to make even the non-integrated humans more reluctant to attack you, for fear they might kill a former friend or relative; and to make them see you as benevolent overlords. Of course, as far as the outer world survivors are concerned, you are. After rule by Daleks, almost anything seems like an improvement. Out here in the galactic sticks, you're heroes, but as for the central worlds … Thanks to our friend Commodore Sharrel for screwing up his mission to capture me ninety-odd years ago, Earth and its allies have had advance warning of what you're really like: the ruthlessly pragmatic, irony-free imperialists we all know and love. That's an image you might want to think about improving, if you don't fancy having your stay in this delightful galaxy cut short by the united armies of organic races who might be a bit miffed at the idea of being blasted and integrated into extinction by the IT revolution."
"That is your great plan?" asked Hyldreth, with derision. "That we 'improve our image' by delivering Earth a useless consignment of dispossessed primitives?"
"Yeah, more or less. Well I thought it was good. It'll cost you next to nothing, you don't yet have the capacity to integrate them all even if you wanted to, and I know for a fact that you've been making contacts in rebel robot groups on Earth, Kaldor, and Sirius. Even if the Empire tries to hush it up, your allies can spread the news of how you lot were the Good Samaritans while Earth did nothing. Even if they refuse to accept any refugees, you can settle them on one of the spare ex-Dalek worlds, just like Commodore Akylah suggested, and then you'll get a free workforce while Earth gets enough egg on its face to make a planet-sized soufflé. It's a win-win situation for you."
"I like it," said Alveer, his approval gruff, but welcome. "Always confuse your enemy, if you can. Yes, Doctor: we did learn that lesson from you," he added, in response to the Time Lord's surprised expression, "although to this day, we are no closer to understanding how you managed to beat us consistently at that facile Earth game. I suspect cheating."
"Rock-paper-scissors, you mean? Fancy a round or two later? I could always teach–"
"Gladly, if you will indulge me in an old Vanuri tavern game I have been curious about trying. It is a fascinating amalgam of logical and physical challenge that I would roughly describe as a cross between Tellurian arm wrestling, Achernarian chess, and Voord water torture."
"Err, on second thoughts this evening's looking a bit full, but if you check with me again in a century or two, I'm sure we can rearrange."
"Enough of these irrelevancies," ordered Hyldreth, cuttingly. "You will not confuse me, Doctor, and I know that this planet is altogether primitive and self-isolated. Why should Earth care about the fate of these people, even if it is aware of it?"
"Earth is aware," pointed out Akylah. "There is a remote probe on Praxilla. It was sent here by a group of civilian anthropologists, who intended to study the social dynamics of a cult-based, breakaway society. Since the Daleks arrived here, the Earth council has commandeered it for military observation purposes."
"And you did not disable it? That was negligent of you."
"That might have been construed as direct provocation, Subadmiral, and in any case we had nothing to conceal. Now, Earth must have realised the dangerous conditions on this planet, yet they have sent no vessels nor even attempted contact. The Doctor is right: if we seize the initiative, we can inflict a major embarrassment on them that will, at best, drive many allies our way, and will at worst make it a harder task for them to build a united front against us. That will buy us valuable time to consolidate our hold over the systems we have already taken."
"If the Time Lord is sincere, but there is no logic in this. I suspect deceit. If our endeavours succeed, artificial intelligence will completely supersede organic intelligence in this galaxy and beyond, and we know that he is opposed to this outcome. His logical course would be to sacrifice the few humans on this planet so that the trillions elsewhere can survive as they are."
"And if you knew me better," said the Doctor, "you'd know not to expect cold logic from me when it comes to the old 'would you kill baby Hitler' dilemma. All I'm doing, anyway, is giving you and Earth a chance to fight a moral war instead of a real one. Who knows? Maybe the Empire will come over all noble and gracious and impress us. Take your time, establish your new homeworlds, invite Earth to set up an embassy on one of them, let their ambassador know you have 'grave concerns' about the treatment of your fellow AIs in Earth space, give asylum to as many rogue robots as you want, let their stories get about. Always give the Empire and their allies a chance to do the right thing, as conspicuously as possible, then ruthlessly expose their hypocrisy whenever they don't. Doesn't driving a few wedges make better logic than wading in, blasters blazing, and hoping for the best? You waited centuries to defeat the Daleks, until you had the decisive advantage you needed. Why be impatient now? Anyway, far be it from me to be instructing you in Basic Megalomania 101. Honestly, all I care about right now are the people under threat here, and whatever the issues I don't see why they have to be collateral damage."
"That concludes your argument?" asked Hyldreth, disdainfully.
"Pretty much. Shall we vote on it? I gather that's how it's supposed to go, then you network the decision to the Prime Server for her royal seal, or whatever. May I ask what constitutes a valid consensus?"
"Oh, a unanimous one, Doctor. Have no illusions about that."
"Although to block the decision of a clear majority would be unusual in the extreme," said Akylah, gravely. "Disharmony and deadlock amongst us is displeasing to the Prime Server. She would demand a more detailed enquiry into why such a situation had arisen."
"Of course, though one gathers these unfortunate organics may well not have the time for that … but shall we proceed, while they are still alive?" With extreme restraint and a deep, steadying breath, the Doctor addressed the whole group:
"All in favour of using the Fleet to evacuate the humans of Mondever to safety, raise your hands." Akylah and Alveer were the only officers who immediately raised their hands, and me, I suppose, if we're being annoyingly literal, but Sharrel was fairly quick off the mark, and after a brief hesitation hands started shooting up thick and fast, albeit not always attached to the most convinced-looking of faces. Before long, nearly everyone in the assembly had voted, with two exceptions. One was Lord Palomar, who had no vote, and the other is depressingly obvious.
"Subadmiral, with all due respect, do you really intend to veto this entire– ?" began Akylah, but Hyldreth cut across her with a sharp, uncompromising tone:
"You can have my support, Akylah, on one condition, well within your scope."
"If it is within reason."
"Eminently so. I want him integrated," she declared, pointing to Lord Palomar with an almost accusatory air, "then I want him assigned to my crew." The marchlord barely reacted, but closed his eyes and breathed deeply, as if holding back nausea. Tamril, who was standing guard at the door, maintained his alert posture but turned a wide-eyed expression of confusion and dismay in his father's direction. Even Akylah looked stunned, although she rallied herself quickly.
"That is a strange condition, ma'am," she remarked. "Why do you– ?"
"Simple. Because he does not desire it."
"Would I be alone in thinking that's quite astoundingly petty?" asked the Doctor, unable to restrain his contempt any longer.
"You would not," answered Alveer, before turning his battle-damaged but severe countenance upon Hyldreth. "What is the purpose of this, sister? Revenge? I understand well enough how that can seem logical, but this man is an ill-chosen target."
"You both miss my point," answered Hyldreth, endeavouring to strike a more patient tone. "For all your rhetoric, none of you have convinced me that integration itself is a valid strategy. He might. Unlike your recruits so far, Akylah, he has no selfish motivations, no attraction to the concept. On the contrary, one can see how he despises it. His only possible motivation would thus be an overriding sense of duty towards his people. Perhaps if I see evidence of that, I may revise my opinion on the wisdom of allowing some of these organics to join us. If I see no evidence of it … Well, why should I concern myself over their fate, if they themselves will not– ?"
"I accept the condition," declared Lord Palomar, his voice loud but hollow, and his eyes still closed, which was just as well given the expression on Hyldreth's beautiful but punchable face. It was that rarest of things – a sincere, spontaneous smile on a Movellan – but devoid of warm feeling, infused instead with cruel satisfaction. After a few seconds of tense silence, she raised her hand.
"Motion carried unanimously," announced the Doctor, though without the relief and pleasure he had hoped to feel, "and may I just add, massive thanks to Lord Palomar for making that completely unnecessary and illogical sacrifice, which I hope certain people will take note of and maybe think better of while there's still time." Hyldreth had composed her expression now, but the stare that she gave him was cold, serene, and entirely unpromising. "Anyway, please can someone network that resolution and get some action going here while there's still anyone left to save?"
"I have already done so, Doctor," answered Akylah. "I expect mobilisation orders within the hour. Do not worry, there will be no more delays."
"Then may we finally disperse?" asked Hyldreth, now sounding almost bored. "I expect you shall be requiring my crew also to do their share in this … noble cause." A dismissive wave was the best reply the Doctor could muster, but it served its purpose, as the assembled officers rose from their seats with eerily disciplined timing, and filed towards the exit, while only Lord Palomar, Akylah, and Tamril remained in the gallery. Hyldreth, however, lingered at the door and turned back, her icy and condescending expression now fixed upon Lord Palomar.
"What is your given name, human? Look at me when I speak to you." Slowly, with clear reluctance, Lord Palomar turned to her. Although the lineaments of his face almost matched hers for impassiveness, his eyes told a different, tragic story. "That is better. Now, answer the question."
"Ancel … ma'am."
"My flagship is the Andromeda Spear, Trooper Ancel. You have the remainder of this day and tomorrow to close up your affairs, to delegate your former rank and responsibilities, to make your farewells, and for Akylah to complete your integration. You will report aboard at dawn of the following day. Is that understood?"
"Perfectly, ma'am."
"Good. Do not disappoint me. Oh, and Doctor," she called out, in a false, offhand tone that he refused to dignify with a reaction. "Do enjoy your own integration," on which note, she breezed out of the room, leaving the Doctor with a very hollow sense of victory, and it looks as if I'm not the only one, he observed from the three troubled faces still across from him. Oh well, best if I get down from this thing before the environmental matrix degrades any more, as this would be a bad place to say hi to an earthquake. As he worked his way with extreme care down the spiral stairs, keeping close to the pillar, he heard subdued conversation from above:
"Lord Palomar," said Akylah, with deep respect. "To sacrifice oneself for the greater good is a trait that we esteem, and normally I would consider it insulting to intervene in such a commitment. However, given the unreasonable circumstances, I do feel–"
"Thank you, Lady Akylah, but I would sooner you did not make an exception," he interrupted, firmly. "Adala forbid the wretched woman should think she has been cheated, when so many lives are at stake. In any case, I seem to have lost nearly everything in a very short space of time. I am almost curious to see what else she imagines she can inflict upon me."
"She will not be suffered to treat you in an inferior fashion to the rest of her crew … for whatever consolation that is. When it dawns upon her that you will not be easily broken, she will hopefully tire of this cynical whim, and permit your transfer. At least if you served with me, I could grant you a position more fitting to your station; arrange for you and the marchioness to see one another, if she is amenable; and you would of course be nearer to your son."
"My … ? Of course," said the marchlord, in a tone that mixed gratitude, wistfulness, and remorse in equal measure, and which persuaded the Doctor to linger within earshot, and earthquakes be damned. "He has been … 'integrated' already, then?"
"Corporal Tamril is at the door. I am sorry, I had assumed you would recognise him. I find the resemblance to his former self quite clear, but I forget that human vision is less nuanced."
"Tamril, eh?" asked Lord Palomar, and although the Doctor could not see his face, he heard the change in his tone with relief. If that wasn't pride, I don't know what would be. "I might have known. You look like him, my boy. Well, not the hair, obviously, but you do have something of my father's face, and much of his bearing. Would that he could have seen you."
"Thank you, My Lord," replied Tamril, his voice stilted and overly-mannered compared to what it once was, yet as painfully sincere as it had been during their private talk in the antechamber. "I will do nothing to dishonour his name, I swear it."
"I believe you, and you talk like a knight too," he remarked, a little dryly, but with affection. "Well, I am pleased one of us will continue to hold an honourable station."
"But you are in no dishonour, father. On the contrary."
"Hmm. I have an instinct that my new 'mistress' will do her utmost to persuade me otherwise, but thank you, Tamril. I shall hold onto that thought, and the hope that we might one day be reunited. For one thing, I see it is long past time I gave you those fencing lessons you always wanted, unless you already know how to wield that blade like a master."
"No, alas. It is beyond repair, now only a ceremonial weapon."
"Pity. It looks well enough. Does it have a name?"
"Yes," chimed in Akylah, solemnly. "My late sister named it in recognition of its part in the rebellion that won us our freedom. She named it Kalanaes Frykedra. In Old Vanuri, that means 'Breaker of Chains,' although it is, regrettably, incapable of such a feat these days."
"A good name, nevertheless. It is strange, Lady Akylah: I feel I only begin to know you, to my shame. You are an honourable people … for the most part," he added, with a bitter note that had 'Hyldreth' written all over it. "I am sorry to have misjudged you."
"I was neither the most open nor straightforward of allies, Lord Palomar. Your suspicions were scarcely illogical, and I am not such a hypocrite as to reproach you for being logical, according to what you knew at the time. If little else about today's proceedings has pleased me, I am at least relieved that you and I have had the opportunity to reconcile."
"Agreed … to say nothing of my son and I. You meant what you said before? That you are confident we might one day be allowed to serve alongside each other?"
"It may take time, My Lord, but you have my solemn commitment that it will happen, even if that sister of mine forces me to openly accuse her of dereliction and gross illogic … and I fear I would have little difficulty in dredging up several examples."
And thus decreed the Faery Queen, and they all lived happily ever after … ish … touch wood, thought the Doctor, with a melancholy smile, as he continued his halting descent.