Gharman was not sneaking, just walking casually (yet stealthily) towards the main laboratory. It was early, and he was hoping it would be empty. He unfortunately found both Nyder and Security Liaison there, sitting in front of the video screen.

Gharman paused at the door, watching them. Nyder was sitting with his hands folded primly in his lap; Security Liaison's hands were spread on her thighs. Both of them were regarding the blank screen as though their eyes could fire it to life.

Gharman had no real understanding of art, or being an artist; he had only held a pen to trace out gene maps for the computer scanners, or to write formulas on a board. But something inside of him woke up at that moment, perhaps for the first time. He wanted to capture the way they looked, the way they both seemed to be full of watching. The way that he could tell that Nyder was paying attention to both the screen and the woman, while she was seeing only the screen.

If I only had a camera! Gharman thought to himself. But he wasn't certain that it was the sort of thing a camera could see.

"Where's Davros?" he asked, moving to stand beside them.

Security Liaison answered. "He is in his office, presumably in a state of whiteout, as you would say. He has much to consider."

Gharman cleared his throat, and asked, "May I ask you a personal question?"

Her gaze, and Nyder's, turned coldly up to him. "Ask," she said.

"How old are you?"

She looked back to the screen. "Two-six-seven."

"Two hundred and sixty-seven years old?" Gharman was shocked.

"No, two hundred and sixty-seven days old. Twenty days of forced maturity acceleration in a tank, a day for the neural array to transfer memories, learning, personality. Then testing, patterning, editing, exercising. I was thirty-three days old when I reported for duty at the Bunker. My memories," her eyes seemed to lose their focus for a moment, "they are old. Thousands, tens of thousands of years of memories are all of me and in me."

Nyder's eyes narrowed in thought. "Why are you revealing such valuable information to us?"

She tilted her head, a crease forming between her brows. "I am ordered to give Davros whatever information he demands. He has demanded full knowledge of the Reflectionists. As he is the leader of the Elite, he will of course want that knowledge to be shared." She looked at Gharman. "Won't he?"

Gharman's reply was interrupted by the video screen, as it came alight with a jumble of colours. All three of them stared at it.

"What is that?" asked Gharman, pushing over a chair and seating himself beside Security Liaison, on the opposite side from Nyder.

The colours whirled, and formed themselves into a circular pattern. A wheel-

"That's a personality wheel," snapped Nyder. "Whose?"

"It is an average of all Kaled personalities currently in the Dome, after last night's emergency therapy and attitude adjustments," said Security Liaison, staring intently at the pattern. "It shows considerable improvements over the earlier data - a lot less red for aggression, for starters." She reached out and picked up a cable that coiled in front of her, and touched it to her scalp. The screen flickered, and then showed another colour pattern: brighter, with even less red.

"My interpretation of current data on the Elite," she said. "I have spoken to as many of you as I could tonight, and this is the result."

Gharman leaned forward a little, to look at Nyder: the Security Commander did not seem very impressed. "The Scientific Elite were not chosen for aggressiveness, what do you expect?" he sniffed.

"I expect that this signal should be enough to - ah." The colour shape faded, and was replaced by a picture being transmitted. There was a seated Red Hexagon woman on the screen now, with other female figures standing behind her. The curved wall behind them all was the familiar steel-and-white pattern of the Kaled Dome interior.

The woman on the screen looked at the three Bunker personnel and actually smiled. "Welcome back," she said.

"Likewise," said Security Liaison. "First things first. How are the children?"

"Scared out of their wits, of course. Confused, alienated, the poor things don't even know how to ask for a hug, let alone know how to react when you give them one."

"And the military?"

"Scared out of their wits, of course," she said, this time with a bit of a smile. "Confused, alienated, the poor things don't even know how to ask for -"

Nyder coughed, and the woman on the screen stopped her recital. She asked with a sudden expression of fear, "Where's Davros?"

"He has been given all information that I possess on the Reflectionists and is currently-" Security Liaison's dry recital was interrupted.

On the screen, the woman glared and spoke, and other voices spoke with her, all the women apparently speaking in unison. "You were not tasked to reveal this information by us!"

"No, I was asked to reveal this information by Davros, and I did. It does not matter. Davros already knew."

"What?" said Nyder.

"Commander, why else would Davros suddenly become obsessed with testing his perfect war machines on the Doctor and the Smith? Become obsessed with destroying aliens? Consciously or subconsciously, he knew. I only wish that his reaction had not been so," she sighed, "hostile."

Nyder addressed the screen in the tones of a man who expected to be obeyed. "If you have taken over the Dome, it was not without a fight. How many fatalities have you suffered?"

The woman looked back, nonplussed. "Our fatalities are unimportant, Commander."

"The more appropriate question would be, how many Kaled fatalities?" asked Security Liaison.

"Too many - and they're coming off the battlefield with unbelievable injuries. Medical is at one hundred and nine percentlabour load. We've had to put over six percent of the population into stasis suspension. Wounded and we have no surgeons available, or too insane to be cured by one person's attention."

"Six percent?" Security Liaison winced. "What about missing in action?"

"By rank? We still haven't found Councilmen Mogran or Than. General Ravon made a break for it, the Wastelands patrols haven't spotted him yet."

"Ravon?" asked Nyder, his brows drawing down. "He'll be torn apart by the Mutos as soon as he runs out of ammunition!"

"He is strong. He may survive." The woman looked back to Security Liaison, and started to say something in a rolling language that neither of the Elite recognised.

Security Liaison's face flushed with anger. Mouth twisted, almost snarling, she leaned forward so fast her ribs thudded into the side of the console. "Speak Kaled!" she hissed.

The woman flinched back, impaled on Security Liaison's glare. "I was going to say, you look very unhappy. And that you - no, later. The Council is going to be broadcasting this morning. Now."

Security Liaison touched a button on the console before her. The screen flickered, and then settled on a shot of the Council Chamber. There were six Councilmen present - no, there were five, and a woman.

"There's a woman on the Council?" said Gharman.

"Is that Dynna?" asked Nyder.

"Yes," and then she stopped talking, as the Council began to speak. Nyder recognised Councilman Mah, who had recovered from his death in such a surprising fashion.

"Kaled people, we are joined today in a single purpose: to end the Thousand Years War. Faced by our overwhelming technological superiority, the Thals have offered us valuable biological engineering accomplishments of their own, and asked for a truce. We shall better their truce: we shall have peace."

Councilman Troc took up the speech without a beat. "We are entering a new era of our race, when we will reclaim Skaro as a living planet, heal it of the wounds that our war has inflicted on it. And heal our own wounded."

The woman spoke next, her speech not quite as polished as that of the professional politicians around her. "All Kaled people, men and women, must work together to rebuild our race. We must make ourselves a fit people to survive on a new Skaro."

Another Councilman spoke. "We are joined in our endeavours by the heralds of this new age, the Daughters of Davros. Through his matchless brilliance and prowess, Davros and the Kaled Elite have created in them our comrades, our helpers, our heirs."

Nyder nearly swallowed his tongue.

Councilman Verro took a deep breath before he spoke; he had clearly been wounded at some point, and was propped up in his chair by a familiar-looking female figure. "We, the Kaled Council, have reviewed…and approved the mutual Peace Accords. We shall be signing them…into effect before sunset today."

"Tomorrow," enthused the last Councilman, who looked painfully young for his role, "the sun will rise on something it has not illuminated in a millennium: a Skaro without war. A Skaro at peace. We shall do it, for the people. And without the people, this peace would never have existed. Thank you," he said, and blinked back what looked suspiciously like tears.

The screen went black. "Now what?" asked Gharman of Security Liaison, or maybe of the world in general. Things were getting stranger and stranger.

Security Liaison touched the cable to her head again, and her eyelids fluttered. "The Red Hexagon are to restaff the Bunker and follow the Elite's orders, help them in whatever tasks they choose to do today. In fact, the only out-of-the-ordinary thing I currently have on the agenda is an inventory of storage. The Tek-4 additives to the food supply are to be discontinued, you see."

"Why discontinue the Tek-4?" asked Gharman.

"Well, obviously it isn't necessary anymore." Security Liaison paused and took in their blank faces. She continued more slowly, "The war is over, agreed? So we can start recycling the stored supplies, get rid of the last traces of the stuff. Or do you like your current social structure so much?"

"What does Tek-4 have to do with our social structure?"

She pressed her palm to her forehead in a gesture of exasperation. "Look. Tek-4. What is it?"

"It's a standard preservative."

"And?" she asked, making an encouraging gesture.

"What do you mean, and? It's in everything, the universal preservative, I don't see why you are planning to discontinue its use." Gharman was sounding a bit stressed; Nyder was following the conversation with his usual blank expression that could mean anything.

"Excuse me," she sighed, "but why do you think there are ten Kaled males born for every female?"

"It's a natural genetic reaction of our species to the extreme environmental stress of the war." Then Gharman paused, and his eyes widened. He whispered, "It's not natural."

"Of course it's not natural! It's the most unnatural thing imaginable! How is the Kaled race, any race, supposed to survive with so few females? How would such a gene evolve and be carried to future generations?"

Gharman's head drooped, and he stared at the floor. He whispered as though to himself, "It's the Tek-4? But we've been using it for centuries!"

"Since the start of the war," she sniffed. "It served a lot of functions in one. Increasing aggression, disrupting natural family patterns, giving the Kaled soldiers in the field something infinitely worth guarding. Oh, the bright little Kaled who came up with that trick is long dead and safer that way." Security Liaison snarled for a moment, soundlessly. "Along with deep anti-Thal conditioning, to prevent your soldiers from defecting to the side with all the females, it makes for a very pretty war." The word 'pretty' was a curse in her mouth.

"Why were the Elite never informed of the properties of Tek-4?" snapped Nyder.

"Why should you be? It's information for lowly Food Preparation, not the Elite." Security Liaison stuck her nose in the air, and then followed it by rising to her feet. She looked down at them. "There will be new Security personnel arriving at the main entrance momentarily, along with the Red Hexagon. May I go to meet them, sir?" she asked Nyder.

"You may accompany me to the main entrance," said Nyder, rising as well. The two of them walked out of the main laboratory. Gharman was left behind, alone. There was not even a Security guard, or a Dalek, in attendance.

Gharman went not to his personal computer terminal, but to the main terminal in the centre of the room. As he started punching buttons, an alarum sounded; he punched another button to silence it. He continued with his work, biting his lip with concentration. This was his best chance.

# # #

At the main entrance, a new metal door had replaced the temporary barrier to the outside. Construction noises outside suggested that the damaged tunnel was being repaired. The door scraped open, and three men in the taut black uniforms of the Elite entered.

Nyder looked them over: they certainly seemed adequate physical specimens. But there was something strange about their eyes, something intense and yet calm, relaxed.

The first man spoke. "Three Elite guards, reporting for duty. We have passed all Fitness to Serve tests and were on the current rotation schedule to be transferred to the Bunker. By your command, we will take up our new duties now. Here are our transfer orders and personnel files."

The man held out his orders, in a thin folder. There was a moment of exquisitely uncomfortable silence.

"Then perhaps you could present your transfer orders and personnel files to Security Commander Nyder, who is in charge of all Security matters in the Bunker. And who is standing directly to my left," Security Liaison said, in a throttled tone.

The three men turned their attention to Nyder; the folder that had been extended to Security Liaison was offered to him. He took it, coolly. Inside he was burning with fury. The three Security guards had automatically assumed that the woman present was in charge, rather than himself. It was an insult that would not be forgotten.

He flicked through the folder quickly, then handed it back. "You will go to the second level and report to Mett, he is currently standing duty for Captain Tane who is in sickbay. A Dalek will escort you." The men marched out, their footsteps in uncanny unison, with the Dalek trailing them obediently.

"What's wrong with them?" said Nyder.

"They are just feeling very, how to say it? In tune with one another?"

"They have joined in focus with one another and with the rest of the Kaled people," said a mingling of Red Hexagon voices apparently out of thin air.

The Commander looked around, but there was no sign of any Red Hexagon women present - except for Security Liaison of course, who was keeping her mouth conspicuously shut. "Please tell me that you have not mastered invisibility in your spare time," said Nyder in a frustrated tone.

"They're under the floor, sir," Security Liaison said. "And in the walls as well, I imagine."

"We are returning to the Bunker," said the voices again. There were dragging and shuffling noises from the floor and walls, as though people moved behind them, dragged things through the hidden tunnels.

So," Security Liaison said. "Now you return. After leaving the Elite here, abandoned and alone, with only one of us to watch over them, try to offer them comfort. On this night, the one night more important than any other to the destiny of their race. Are they worth so little that you would abandon them here, with only me as a guide?" She paced back and forth a few steps, staring at the floor. Then she screamed, fists clenched at her sides, "How could you do this to them!" Her voice was thick with fury and contempt.

"Do you think we hold you and your abilities in such low regard?"

"I am an organ bank," Security Liaison said bitterly. "A collection of spare parts for Davros. And a typist in my spare time. That is all."

The eerie mingled voices answered. "You are Red Hexagon, and a Daughter of Davros, and a Reflectionist. You are the Security Liaison. You are strong, you are keen, deeply intuitive, swift to judge and to act, capable of great cruelty or overwhelming kindness. We made you, and we made you well. We love you, Security Liaison. More than you love yourself."

# # #

"Gharman, what are you doing?"

Gharman spun and fell back from the main terminal, and one of the Red Hexagon - First Laboratory Assistant he thought, that would be Firla - stepped forward and tapped at a few buttons. Then she looked at Gharman, and raised one eyebrow.

"Why are you trying to delete the primary records of the Dalek research program?"

"We've got to destroy them," Gharman said urgently. "If the war is over, the knowledge must be destroyed, wiped out. There can be no Daleks on a world without war. The Daleks are war."

"The Daleks are a new species, which you helped create. Don't you think they will want to remember their earliest beginnings?" She smiled in a way that Gharman couldn't quite analyse. "Unfortunately your efforts are to no avail. All of the Bunker data has been backed up off-site. If you had gotten down to the first level, you would have seen our notes to this effect.

Gharman slumped in sudden awareness of his failure. Firla went on, as though to herself. "It's inefficient, the way you have to plod through this system using only your eyes and fingers. You could access the computer directly, I believe. If I could stretch your brain-"

"Stretch?"

She ignored the interruption. "If I could connect cloned cells to your own neural tissue and grow them along some channel in your skull, say out to your cheekbone, a single neural implant would not cause damage to your brain." She touched her own cheek. "You would be able to receive information directly from the computer. Transfer of data mind to mind would require - training. Lots of training."

More of the Scientific Elite were coming into the main laboratory - probably because they couldn't think of what else to do. But with no orders from Davros, no commands, they tended to stand and talk rather than sit and work. The video of the broadcast from the Kaled Council was run over and over again, and they discussed it excitedly. Kavell was talking with Gharman when a hand touched his arm, and he turned to see Selaa again.

His face lit up at the sight of her, with happiness and with confusion. "I was worried, I heard that you died," he said, his eyes suddenly suspiciously damp. "But I'd seen you alive when you brought the Armistice news, so…"

"It's all right," she said. "I'm really back now."

"You mean you did die?"

"I believe that Security Liaison has let slip that we are Reflectionists." Actually it seemed that Security Liaison had done something more along the lines of spilling her guts. "Kavell, what died was a million millionth part of me - and every memory that was unique to that personality has been copied and transferred into this one. I remember that you hate the breakfasts here, that you are the best in the Bunker at electron microscope dissections, that you can't spell the word glutinous to save your life. Kavell, I am Selaa. Your Selaa."

# # #

Fourth Laboratory Assistant, called Fola, was looking for Ronson, who had not been seen this morning. When she tapped on the door of his quarters and announced herself, the door opened, and she walked in and faced the noose.

It was hanging just inside the doorway; Ronson was sitting in the bed, looking rather rumpled. He clearly had not slept.

"I hope this is not for me," she said, eyeing the noose.

"No, it's mine," said Ronson.

She looked at him with sadness. "Have you talked to anybody about this?"

"Yes, Security Liaison came in while I was putting it up. I had it hung from one of the ventilation slats, and she said that wasn't nearly strong enough. She got a length of steel cable and fastened it to a support beam, and said that would be enough to hang anyone. And then," Ronson blotted at his wet eyes, "then she said it was all right."

Fola went pale. "She said it was all right for you to commit suicide!"

"No, no!" Ronson waved his hands and tried to explain. "She said it was all right to feel like this, that it was understandable. That she understood. Wanting to die now that the war was over, feeling that I had done too much to ever forgive myself. And she said that she thought I was in a unique position, because of my training and intelligence. I had the skills to undo what I had done, to do something with my life that would make up for those - the other things that I have done." Ronson stared down at his bare feet. "And I wanted to tell her something, in return you see. But she refused."

"Was it a secret?" Ronson nodded. "Something that you kept secret from Davros?" Another nod.

Fola sat on the bed beside Ronson. "I am sorry, but Security Liaison is under the influence and authority of Davros, more than any of us. And he has a very overwhelming personality. It is possible that he could force her to give up things told to her in confidence." She waited, and then gently took one of Ronson's hands. "Would you like to tell me?"

He made no motion, but he started to speak.

"It's about J29A. The first Red Hexagon, the first Reflectionist to appear in the Bunker, yes?"

"She was the first Reflectionist on Skaro. The first of all of us. You could think of her as our mother."

Ronson swallowed; for him the word 'mother' was more of a technical term than an emotional one, but he still knew what it meant. "She died, and Davros assigned me to cut her open, for the autopsy specialist. And when I removed the top of the cranium, the skullcap, I saw something, what I now know were her neural implants. They were - moving inside the skull, tiny strands of metal too fine to see, but then they allshrivelled away into nothing, vanished." Ronson paused. "Just like the circuits for the matter disintegrator," he realised aloud. "And I did not tell Davros what I had seen. I did not tell anyone!"

She pressed his hand. "It is a good secret, Ronson. I will keep it if you like, but the secret of our arrival is already out. I will not be shamed if you speak of this to others."

"And please, please tell me that you didn't feel it!"

"Feel what?" she asked, puzzled.

"The autopsy, that you didn't feel me cutting you!" Ronson's stomach was churning at the thought.

Fola turned and stared deep into his eyes. "Scientist Ronson, we did do a post-mortem data retrieval from J29A, which included the last experiences she had before she died. But after she died - no. There was no current flowing through her nerves. She did not feel you cut her."

Ronson shivered, and ran his free hand over his stubbly chin. "I should get up. Get cleaned up, go see what everything's going to be like from now on."

"I think that you will enjoy it," Fola smiled, as she rose. At the door she paused as Ronson spoke.

"Who did kill - J29A?"

"It was Commander Nyder, actually. The memory was quite vividly recorded." She looked back at Ronson. "As was her memory, her absolute conviction, that she forgave him."

The door closed on Ronson's uncomprehending expression. Outside Fola leaned her head against the metal wall for a moment.

"Poor men," she said softly. "Poor, poor men." Then she pulled a length of M-class cable from its slot, and found it dead. With a scowl she removed a second strand, better hidden: there were countless strands of new M-class cable strung through the Bunker on the q.t. by the Red Hexagon. She sent her message: the Bunker needed Healers as well as Assistants. And soon.

# # #

The door to the Doctor's cell opened, and he quickly got to his feet. It was a Dalek at the open door, that ordered, "You and your companions will come." Behind the creature, Sarah Jane and Harry waited, frightened.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

"Davros."