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The Well-Mannered War - Chapter Two

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The Femdroids

The study nestled halfway up the north side of the Dome, and its large, three-sided bay window afforded a staggering view of Metron, the sprawling capital city of Metralubit. If he chose, Premier Harmock could sit well back and observe the masses over which he presided, dressed simply in the transparent plastic tabards that had been the fashion for many years, going about their diverse businesses amid the gigantic curved white towers, the generously proportioned and levelly raked patches of garden space, and the clear glass tubeways that made up this glorious architectural achievement. He might have stopped to marvel at the utilitarian efficiency that manifested itself in the dazzling cleanliness of the pavements, the battery-powered skimcars that moved in ordered ranks along the monotram network, and the mobile fusion inlets through which any person could access the powernet. And if his soul had been in especial need of uplift he could have done no worse than to look up at the gorgeous, cloudless green sky that acted as a showcase to the pinnacle of his civilization, the ultimate product of centuries of struggle.

As it was, he sat facing away from the window, engulfed in his chair, his attention engrossed by a spectacle to him far more invigorating. He was watching himself on MNN, a mid-morning replay of the previous week's debate in the parliamentary chamber, and congratulating himself for putting up such a splendid performance. He watched as Rabley stumbled to the end of a long, disjointed speech on public-health provision. 'And is it not the case,' he said, his eyes flicking between the dispatch pad and the notescreen in his hand, 'that in the fourteen years since the Premier came to power, there has been a shortfall of more than twenty per cent in real terms in budget provision, ah, and will he not agree that it is the stifling bureaucracy imposed by his own administration that has led to the curtailment of the health advisory programmes I, er, referred to earlier?'

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The picture switched to show the other side of the pad. Harmock watched himself swagger to his feet. It was startling. Nobody would ever have guessed, from his look of mild, almost baffled indignation, that he had no idea what his opponent had been talking about, and cared even less. 'No, no, no,' he saw himself say as he clutched the sides of the dispatch pad. 'No, no. I think the gentleman should allow me to correct him.' Fire back, thought Harmock. Take the smug tone, get Rabley riled, give his own notescreen time to dredge up some statistics with which to fire back. 'Arbiter, I have listened to what the gentleman has said with considerable interest, and not a little surprise.' (I was thinking about something else entirely and I'm waiting for my notescreen to give me an answer to whatever it was.) 'For surely it is the party opposite, yes, the party of which the gentleman is leader, that has the true antipathy to health provision.' (Waffle, waffle, refute with a vague accusation.) 'They are the ones who have, historically, neglected the funding of this key area and allowed provision to fall behind, and it is we who have increased it in real terms.' (Spin things out, not long now, circle the subject without actually saying anything.) 'Ah yes, look here.' (The screen is flashing at me. Thank God for auto-research.) 'In its last two years in office, the party opposite - yes, the party opposite - cut spending on health programmes by eleven per cent.' (And diverted that money into localized schemes, but he wasn't about to mention that.) 'Money which, as soon as we were able, we reallocated.' (Cutting the local programmes on the quiet along the way, but he wasn't about to mention that either.) He sat.

His opponent took the pad once more. 'Arbiter, this is a blatant attempt to confuse the current issue.' (I wasn't aware of those statistics, and I'm going to ignore them.) 'Is it not the case that what we are seeing now are the death throes of a government, clinging desperately to power, and trying to patch up the holes in the economy before the imminent election?' (Well, yes, but that's hardly the point.) 'How much longer -' indignant wave of notescreen '- how much longer must the planet wait to express its will to be rid of this incompetent government?'

'As long as I can possibly get away with,' said Harmock, snapping off the screen and feeling a contented glow spreading throughout his body. Lagging twenty per cent in the polls, his personal popularity the lowest of any leader since records began, his reputation in tatters after fourteen years of bungles, scandals and economic mishaps - it was enough to make a lesser man weep.

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He pressed himself back into his chair and stretched.

The chair was a relic, some said from the days of the colony founders, a carved wooden affair with a hard back and strong armrests. A person with a less fat bottom than Harmock (and that, he thought ruefully, was most people) would have found it unbearably uncomfortable. His natural padding made it pillow-soft. He basked in it, thinking on the great triumph to come, savouring in advance the look on Rabley's face when he unveiled his great secret. To wipe away that inane grin would be positive bliss. And as ever when his thoughts turned to political pleasures he felt a corresponding urge somewhere deep within that longed for sticky toffee pudding, or mallow pie, or fried dough-sticks with caramel topping... His curse, and the one thing - so Galatea told him - that might still bring him down. The electorate, damn them, disapproved of his rotundity, believing it to be a sign of weakness and lack of willpower. The sanctimonious idiots.

The study door slid open with a swish of air and Galatea entered. It was as if just thinking about her could bring her into being. She carried a tray on which was his breakfast snack. Harmock's eyes swept approvingly over her figure, encased in her one-piece shining silver covering, a succulent slenderness that was the ultimate tease. For that slim-hipped frame and moulded bust contained nothing more than servo-mechanisms, electronic circuitry and processor links. 'Ah, Galatea,' he said. 'You look good enough to eat.'

She angled her head slightly, with the precision of movement that was the only hint, aside from her great beauty, of a Femdroid's true nature. It galled Harmock to think that his father, also a great parliamentarian, had once sat as part of cabinet session in this very room, and Galatea would have looked and behaved exactly the same as she did today. Her 135-year-old lips twitched into a smile, her unbelievable blue eyes sparkled, and she said in a voice that combined the sweetness of honey and the texture of a well-matured rum, 'I have news that may lessen your appetite.' Her vocabulary, in fact her whole manner, retained the formality of the age in which she had been constructed.

Harmock's bushy brows twitched. 'I don't care for news. What sort is it?'

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'Good, and bad.' Galatea put down the tray and poured coffee from the percolator into his waiting mug. On the plate next to it were three slimo-wafers, the prospect of which Harmock, no matter how hungry, could not relish.

'Good first, please,' he asked, cracking a wafer cautiously.

Galatea nodded primly. She touched the circular amulet on the chain around her neck, and the printed micro-circuitry embossed there glowed and sparkled momentarily as she linked to the dome's central computer. 'Production quotas in the east sector have led to a half-per-cent increase in the region's employment level.'

'Is that it?'

'That is the good news, sir, yes. The increase can be portrayed as a triumph for the policy of wage restraint in manufacturing industries.'

'Jolly good,' said Harmock without enthusiasm. 'That'll make all the difference, won't it? Let's have the bad news then.'

She stood back from the desk and put her hands on her hips. 'I fear I will shock you. The development I now report will lead to complications with the election.'

'I'm prepared,' said Harmock, anything but. Galatea was rarely rattled. This must be something big. Another harvest surplus in the outlands? Rioting in the Bensonian village settlements? A leak to the Opposition?

She said, with an air of resignation, 'The com-link with Borea came on-line this morning. The Phibbs Report is now ready for publication.'

Harmock reeled, although he was sitting down. He could have spent hours trying to think what the bad news might be and never have got it right. 'The Phibbs Report,' he spluttered.

'Yes, Premier.'

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His fingers were losing their grip on the wafer so he put it down. 'But...' He struggled to find the right words. 'But they've been sitting on their arses down in Borea for over a hundred years. Why now? With no warning?'

'One hundred and twenty-nine years and eight months, sir,' said Galatea dutifully. 'And I should point out that the Committee did advise us of their near-readiness recently.'

'They've been nearly ready since my grandfather was a boy,' said Harmock. 'Has this been done to embarrass me?'

'The Committee has been totally isolated on the island of Borea for the length of its deliberation,' said Galatea. 'We must view their timing as an unfortunate coincidence.' She crossed to the window and looked out over the city. A skytrain hovered past, the tourists inside craning their necks for a view of the Dome's interior. 'And our first thought must be to maintain electoral advantage.'

Harmock slumped back in his suddenly uncomfortable chair. 'I'd never have thought it,' he breathed. He felt as if he'd been punched. 'It's all we need, isn't it? Barclow being shunted centre stage. This blows it all wide open.' His eyes turned to the fabric mural fixed to the opposite wall. It showed Metralubit's military colours emblazoned boldly across a rough representation of Barclow. For 125 years the war had rested while the Committee wrangled over it, isolated on the distant island of Borea, each generation passing the task down to the next. He hadn't expected them to reach a conclusion in his lifetime.

'What does the report say, exactly?'

'It is half a million words in length, approximately,' said Galatea. 'My underlings are busy trying to interpret it. There are also six appendices, increasing the length by a further quarter of a million words.'

'But the general gist?'

'Unclear, sir.'

'Unclear?' Harmock thumped his fist down on the desktop. 'Are we advised to start shooting or aren't we?'

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'The Committee makes three hundred and twelve recommendations on the resumption of hostilities,' Galatea said. 'Many of them contradictory. Their conclusion is not certain.'

Harmock grunted. 'Whatever else it means, we'll have to bring the election forward. I had hoped for a couple more months.'

Galatea pointed a purple-painted fingernail at the com-screen. It flickered on to show a computer diagram, three blocks of colour measured against a notched axis of voters. Rabley, in green, was well over the halfway mark. Harmock, the orange block, was positively stunted by comparison, and the minor parties had dwindled almost to a nil rating. 'This is the current position. If present voter trends continue, and allowing for a three per cent margin of error, Rabley will win the election with a nineteen per cent greater share of the vote.'

'Ah,' said Harmock. 'You forget. My diet.'

'I was coming to that,' said Galatea. Her tone was without reproach; it was a simple statement of fact. She moved her finger slightly and the blocks of colour shifted. Harmock's orange shot up and swallowed Rabley's lead - just. 'A two per cent greater share is predicted,' said Galatea. She shot him a sideways glance.

'Increasing to four per cent if your body weight reaches target.'

'Excellent,' said Harmock. 'Two - I mean four - per cent. All we need.' Galatea moved her finger a third time. On this occasion Harmock's block plummeted. 'What the hell happened there?'

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'The prediction is based on an estimation of voter response to the Phibbs Report,' she replied. 'So far as we understand it at present.'

'If it's inconclusive why the drop?'

'The electorate will, we predict, feel disposed to aggression. The complexion we put on the report will not matter. Patriotism is rife in times of economic shortfall, such as that we have engineered.'

Harmock made a frantic shushing gesture.

'Nobody can hear us.' Galatea, unruffled, went on, 'The electorate will see any delay to engage with the enemy as weakness and transfer their allegiance to the Opposition.'

'But Rabley can't afford a full-scale war either!' Harmock protested.

He sank into his chair, a collapsed heap. 'Galatea, I'm ruined.' He closed his eyes, trying to think clearly. The pressure of all those empty minds outside the Dome, in their skimcars and skytrains, loomed over him. How best to turn their idiot brains to his will? 'Skewered whichever way I turn. There's no possible way to win.'

Her reply was to bring up another diagram on the screen. Harmock's troubled heart, coated with the slurry of a lifetime's cholesterol abuse, leapt dangerously when he saw his own rating surge up over Rabley by a good ten percentage points, higher than his share at the last election. 'What's that scenario?'

'A predicted election result after a vigorous and costly programme of disinformation, scandalmongering and general besmirching of the Opposition.' She smiled again. 'A totally negative campaign.'

Harmock blinked rapidly. 'It would work?'

Galatea waved her long plastic nails graciously. 'As you see.'

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He clapped his hands together, making a sweaty slapping sound. He stood and stared out at the teeming city. At his playthings. He loved his job too much to give it up for anything, least of all principle. 'Then we'll do it.'

The Doctor and Romana were crouched behind a slab of rock, their attention fixed on the figure emerging slowly through the mists. It was possible now to see that this mysterious person wore a transparent plastic suit. 'Protective clothing?' asked Romana.

'Too flimsy.' The Doctor nibbled his thumb. 'Humanoid, at least.'

'Is that significant?'

'Nice to know we're still around.' He nodded down at K9. 'Any weapons?'

'There are no traces of offensive equipment recognized by my data banks,' he replied.

'That's all right, then.' The Doctor made to scramble up the slab and show himself to the stranger.

'Qualification, Master,' chirped K9, halting him. 'At this time period my data banks may have become inapplicable.'

'He's right,' said Romana, raking a hand through her long blonde hair. 'We're totally in the dark.'

The Doctor pulled a sour face. 'A gun's a gun, Romana. And going by that boot they're not fiendishly advanced in these parts. In fact, all we've seen so far - the missiles as well - has been curiously archaic.'

She frowned. 'What about Clarik's Theorem?'

He looked blank. 'What about it?'

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'"Societies dominated by a single intelligent life form, no matter how culturally disparate or variously organized, will always retain, within certain parameters, the essential accoutrements required for the existence of that life form."'

'Yes, I do know what Clarik's Theorem is, thank you,' the Doctor said. 'But what he failed to take into -'

'She,' said Romana.

'Oh. Yes. I must have been thinking of the other Clarik.'

'You must have.'

'Yes, well, what she forgot to...' He trailed off. 'What am I doing crouching here arguing the toss with you?' He pulled himself up and vaulted over the slab to confront the stranger.

Romana watched from hiding, still dubious. K9, his nose laser extended, peeked his head around the comer to observe the meeting.

The Doctor stood in the open. He took his hat from his pocket, unfurled it, and used it to give a cheery wave.

'Hello there!'

'Hello there,' came the reply. 'I've got everything today. Bagels, baguettes, bhajis and baps, sandwiches, samosas, scones and spring rolls...'

Romana was astonished. The stranger was female, and her tone was high-pitched and friendly. She strained to get a closer look as the mist finally cleared. It revealed a short, middle-aged woman with tattered blonde hair, whose white suit could now be identified as the universal uniform of a kitchen worker. This was borne out by the automated trolley that glided along at her side, attached to her wrist by a length of wire, which contained a baffling array of film-wrapped snacks, biscuits, some fruit, and packets of cold drink in addition to the items advertised in her spiel.

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She brought her trolley to a halt with a flick of the wrist as she reached the Doctor. She peered at him curiously. 'I don't think I've met you before, have I?' She winked. 'Didn't know we were having another mufti day so soon. I like your scarf.'

'Thank you,' said the Doctor, clearly taken aback. 'Er, I like your, er, trolley.'

She was already reaching for a china cup from a supply and putting it beneath the tap of an urn. 'Now, tea's covered but I have to charge for everything else. Here you go.' She slid a saucer under the filled cup and held it out.

'Yes, thank you.' The Doctor took it from her. To Romana's amusement he appeared baffled, more put out by the ordinariness of this encounter than he would have been by bumping into a bloodcrazed monster. 'Ah, what brings you to these parts?'

'On my way to the enemy, aren't I?' She pressed a button on the side of the trolley and a panel slid back to reveal a very different selection of snacks that seemed to consist in the main of flowers and packets of seeds. 'Good job I bumped into you before the urn went cold. You must be a long way from your patrol. Didn't think there was anyone out here.'

'Did you see the missiles earlier?' asked the Doctor.

'Oh, that.' She shrugged. 'You'll get used to it, love. Just bangs and flashes, really, nothing serious. They have to keep their hand in, you see. Keep the folks back home happy. I shouldn't worry.' She shook the Doctor's hand.

'Anyway, I can't stop to chat. I don't want to keep the General waiting. Now, do you want anything?'

'I've no money on me at the moment,' said the Doctor.

'Poor thing. Here, have this and I'll put it on the tab.'

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She handed him a bun and took out a notepad from a pouch at her waist. 'What's your name, love?'

The Doctor looked suspiciously at the bun. 'The Doctor.'

'The Doctor.' She punched it into the pad and tucked it away again. 'All right. Well, see you tomorrow, probably. Bye!' She flicked her wrist, the trolley started up again, and a few moments later she was lost to sight.

Romana stood up slowly. The Doctor stood in the clearing, still clutching the cup of tea and bun, shaking his head very slowly. 'I suppose it's possible,' he said, as if talking to himself, 'that I bumped my head in that turbulence and haven't woken up yet.'

'Not unless I did, too,' she said.

He looked down at the cup and sniffed the liquid. 'Why should I dream about tea ladies on battlefields? It's probably very significant.'

Romana took the bun from his hand and held it down to K9's snout as he emerged from cover. 'Analyse this, will you?'

He carried out the task in moments. 'It is a bun, Mistress. Flour and water are combined to make dough. Yeast is added as a leaven.'

'But no harmful substances?'

'Perfectly edible, Mistress.'

She held up a hand to silence him and handed the bun back to the Doctor. 'If she caters for both sides this war must be rather an unusual one. Particularly if she mistook you for a soldier.'

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He sipped at the tea. 'Yes. And she - what's that supposed to mean?'

'Rigid military etiquette doesn't apply here,' Romana said quickly.

'It certainly doesn't. I think she put the milk in first.' He put the cup of tea in his pocket. 'I suppose it had to happen one day'

'What?'

'Well,' he said, 'I'm used to turning up in places that seem very innocuous but turn out to be very dangerous. It had to go the other way sooner or later. Law of averages.' He pointed in the direction the trolley woman had gone. 'I think we should follow her. Find out a bit more about this enemy. Judging from those foodstuffs they weren't human.'

Romana pondered afresh as they walked on. 'What kind of creature lives on berries and flowers? Most spacefaring species have a much more complex diet.'

'Don't judge a species by its tea trolley,' the Doctor said. 'Man does not live on buns alone, remember.'

'Suggest Chelonians,' put in K9. 'Large aggressive reptilians with high bionic rebuild.'

'Rubbish,' the Doctor said. 'You wouldn't find Chelonians grubbing about a place like this. They prefer verdant worlds. What's more, their expansionist period ended millennia ago.'

'The range of foods on the trolley tallies strongly with my records of Chelonian dietary needs, Master,' K9 insisted. 'Inference is that Chelonians are present.'

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The Doctor stopped and glared down at him. 'Will you stop getting under my feet? If you've nothing useful to say don't say anything.'

'There's no need to be rude, Doctor,' Romana pointed out. 'And there could well be Chelonians here. They're a very hardy race.'

'Not that hardy,' said the Doctor. 'Now, come on or the trail will go cold.' He hurried off after the trolley woman.

At the commencement of the war, the military had panicked and raced to finish the construction of the command post. That explained why the top half was rickety and prone to collapse, and why the Admiral's quarters, on the lowest level, were constructed of sturdier materials. Indeed, in comparison with the rest of the base they were luxurious. The walls of the main living room were painted a sanguine red, and a frieze depicting an ancient scene of war and carnage from the earliest days of the colony was draped across the wall. Both these items trumpeted the initial enthusiasm for war on Barclow, and served as a reminder of the spirits of a dead age. The Admiral often pondered on the subject as he soothed his tired toes on the white fur rug and sat back on the well-padded leather couch that was positioned to face the unit that was com-screen and minibar combined.

But his thoughts were on other matters as he let himself in and, with a series of frustrated grumbles and mutters, lifted his arms and shook off his ceremonial tabard. His muscles seemed to sigh with relief as he threw the heavy, gold-encrusted seal on to the couch, a message from his inner spirit relayed through his body, a message his mind had chosen to ignore. He was sick of command, sick of shuttling back and forth to summits, sick of this innately stupid, endless war that wasn't. He considered himself forty-five, fit, capable. There were plenty of other jobs he could do. For example...

The trail of thought vanished somewhere inside his head, as if snatched away. He shook himself, blinked in the orange glow of the lamp, and cursed his tiredness. A quick lie-down and a drink was all he needed to restore his faculties. He was on his way to the bedroom, savouring in advance the welcoming embrace of his duvet, when a red light started to flash on the front of the com-unit.

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'Oh no.' He wondered if Harmock - the only caller with access to override his privacy scramble and come through direct like this - had somehow heard of the loss of division Q and Kelton. He prayed not. 'Accept,' he called, and the screen flashed into life.

The image of Harmock's face, relayed from the chain of satellites strung between Barclow and Metralubit, was grainy and uncertain, with a certain degree of atmospheric flaring at the edges. It was within the terms of the Bechet Treaty for each side to run radio interference, and Dolne had learnt to treat the static flashes as one of the prices of their strange peace. It was peculiarly cheering not to see Harmock too clearly. It gave Dolne a sense of distance that reminded him of his posting's advantages.

'Admiral,' said Harmock, without preamble. His face was pinched and grave, and the smugness that was the outward mark of his dismal, pompous personality was if not in abeyance then somewhere further towards the back of his expression than was usual. 'You must prepare yourself for the worst. There has been a development.'

Dolne felt his peaceful day slipping its moorings again. 'What can that be?' Some piffling poll had given Harmock the wind, no doubt, and now it was time to shift some of the blame. Dolne felt a flash of excitement. What if Harmock was about to sack him? 'I hope I haven't given you cause for trouble,' he said as sincerely as he could.

Harmock's brow twitched. 'What? You?' He pronounced the second word with undisguised dismissal, as if it was not within Dolne's power to be even noticeable. 'No, no. No, you haven't done anything. Although -' he rumbled sardonically '- you may soon have to.'

Dolne really didn't like the sound of that. 'What do you mean?'

'Oh, Dolne, it's...' He put a hand to his brow. 'Phibbs. They're about to publish.'

Dolne felt a rush of adrenalin racing through his arms and legs. Immediately his chest tightened. 'Oh my God.' He gulped. 'What does it say? I mean, I'm not expected to, er, well, you know. . .' He mimed a shooting gesture. Even that level of violence made him feel giddy. 'Oh hell.'

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'Nobody knows yet,' said Harmock. 'As soon as I heard the news I summoned Galatea, and I've got her and her pals going over it with a fine-toothed comb. I insisted they pore through every section. It's a ridiculous length, and rather unclear, so with any luck we'll find a way to...' He trailed off, perhaps realizing what he was saying.

Mentally Dolne completed the unsayable sentence. To keep things exactly the same as they are. 'Has it gone public yet?' he asked.

'Bound to very soon. So.' Harmock lifted a stem finger. 'No interviews, Dolne, and that goes for all your staff. You're to maintain a media silence for as long as I say. This situation will have to be handled with extreme care.' He lifted a bushy eyebrow. 'I hope I make myself clear.'

'Perfecly clear, Mr Harmock.' He was referring, of course, to the election, now made inevitable. 'I shall contact Mr Rabley's party immediately and order the shutdown of his auto-cam.'

Harmock nodded. 'Good. You see, no party should have an advantage - I mean, no party should be permitted to broadcast from the front itself. Most unfair, and potentially dangerous. Get Rabley on a shuttle and back here quick as you can.' He made a big show of consulting his watch. 'Now look, Dolne, I'm going to have to go. I have to prepare my broadcast to the network.' His delivery sank for a moment into sententious smoothness. 'The citizens will need my assurance on this -' pause '- the most difficult day in all our lives.' He reached forward and clicked off the link.

Dolne shut off his own screen and immediately leapt to his feet. 'Hell, hell, damn, damn,' he said, and paced back and forth over his thick-pile carpet. The unventilated stuffiness increased his tensions. In a reflex movement he poured himself a double measure of Scotch from the minibar and knocked it back in a couple of gulps. A hundred questions assailed his mind. How was he going to break the news to his staff? Which way would the electorate turn? What would be Jafrid's reaction? He had no plan for this eventuality, no scheme, no matter how rough-hewn, to effect escape. And there was the most dread consideration of all, the prospect of which made him tremble all over. What if the war turned real? Real orders, real fighting, real weapons. Real deaths. The red walls, irrelevant mere minutes before, took on a ghastly new significance, and he squirmed at the suggestion of blood.

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He got himself another drink. 'I would never,' he said out loud, 'have believed this possible.' The liquid caught a twinkling rainbow pattern in its depths - the distorted refractions of the stones of Jafrid's dagger. Dolne felt a pang of real regret. 'Oh, my dear friend. What are we to do?'

There was a knock at the door. Dolne snarled and waved his drink dismissively, which the environment computer of his quarters unfortunately took to mean he was allowing access. The door swished open to reveal one of the junior staff, Hammerschmidt. He gave a perfunctory salute and held out a sheaf of papers. 'Morning, sir. Welcome back. Er, would you sign this, please?' He seemed edgy and distracted, and kept looking both ways down the corridor.

Dolne snatched the papers from him. They were out-dated washing-up rosters. 'What do I want with these?'

Hammerschmidt lowered his voice and looked cautiously about again. 'Inside, sir.'

Dolne flipped through the papers. Concealed within was a greetings card, adorned with a floral design and the legend 'Sorry To Be Losing You'. The post had signed their names inside. He noticed the signature of Viddeas, bold and underlined importantly, straight away. 'Who's this for?'

'Pollis,' whispered Hammerschmidt. At Dolne's blank look he added, 'From com-maintenance, sir. Going back to homeworld at the end of the week.' He gestured vaguely down the corridor. 'He's about here somewhere, sir, so if you could sign it quickly and give it back, because he might stroll along and catch us.'

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Dolne thought. It was all Hammerschmidt ever did, he decided. Walk along corridors clutching a concealed leaving card, jangling a bag of change for the present. It was ordinary, unproductive, inefficient, symptomatic of the entire operation. It had never bothered him before. Now, he did something he had never done in all his admiralship. He shouted 'Get out!' and threw the card at him, and slammed the door shut.

He collapsed against it, panting, and ran a hand through his dishevelled, sweat-streaked hair. Was it getting hard to breathe? Or had Harmock's news been too much for him?

He brushed away a fly from his brow (insect life from Metralubit had a way of evading the quarantine regulations, although lack of sustenance meant crawlies never lasted long) and set about putting his thoughts in some kind of order.

It didn't work, so he cried instead.

Harmock's face, distorted by the ripples of the watery screen, creased with worry. 'Oh, Dolne, it...' He put a hand to his brow.'Phibbs. They're about to publish.'

The Darkness chittered its excitement. Excellent news. Disruption. The unexpected. Another rift to exploit.

It was now time to connect with the second remote host.

Viddeas was having trouble. He'd put through a call to the patrol escorting Rabley, and ordered them to return to the post immediately. Their reply, though audible, was submerged by a sussurating wash of squeaks and hisses over an odd droning sound. Viddeas tightened his grip on the earpiece and called, 'Division G, are you there? Codie, do you copy?' He could hear the voice of the patrol leader fading out under the wave. 'Damn it.' He waved across the room, lifted one side of his headset, and bellowed, 'Teer, clean out my channel, it's awash with enemy interference.'

The communications officer stared stupidly back. 'No, Sir.

'What do you mean, no? Do it!'

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'I meant there are no enemy bales running at present,' said Teer. He gestured haplessly at his screen, which indeed showed a clear field.

Viddeas ripped the headset off and raised it for all the room to hear. Everyone turned around to face him, and he glowered to make them feel it was all their fault, which it probably was. 'What do you suppose this is, then? Another fault, perhaps?'

'We have been getting electrical distortion quite a lot lately, sir,' pointed out Cadinot.

Viddeas sighed and dropped the headset on to his desk. His collar was unbearably restrictive in this heat, but he would not loosen it. That would be going against regulations. And he looked better with a stiff, upturned collar anyway. He reached out a finger and cut off the howling. The silence that followed was embarrassed and unnerving, the team going about their business with a dutiful quietness accusatory in itself.

His personal com bleeped. Glad of the distraction, he took it from his belt and pressed the accept button, blowing a trickle of sweat from his nose as he said, 'Viddeas here.'

'Sir, it's Vann from the detention block,' said a voice in the casual tone that was the curse of the place. There was a lot of shouting going on behind him. 'Our "prisoner" is demanding to speak to the Admiral.'

'Surely it's my right!' came the shouting voice, which Viddeas recognized as belonging to their artist.

He bristled. 'Vann, tell the prisoner he has no rights. Tell him also that no matter how much this resembles a garden party it is actually supposed to be a war. And tell him to get back in his cell before he is sedated again.'

'I know what I saw!' the artist shouted. 'You can't -'

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Viddeas switched off his com and hooked it back on his belt. 'I just did,' he said, quietly enough to suggest he was making a joke to himself and loudly enough to make sure everyone else heard him. The team laughed in their dutiful way.

There was little time to enjoy this moment, however, as Viddeas had become aware that someone was standing behind his chair expectantly. He swivelled round impressively, careful not to overshoot. An overswivel robbed the swiveller of dignity. 'What now?'

Another adjunct was standing before him, a sheet of torn paper in his hand. 'Sir, it's the photocopier again.'

Viddeas thumped the arm of his chair. 'Bleisch doubles up on photocopier maintenance. Wait for him to get back up from the pipes. I mean, it's not important, is it?'

The adjunct shuffled. 'It's the invites to Pollis's leaving do, sir. For Friday. If we don't get them to the enemy by tomorrow they might arrange to do something else, which would be a shame, as Pollis got along quite well with some of them in his patrol days.'

Viddeas stood up, snatched the sheet from his hand, and stalked off in the direction of the copying annexe. 'All right, I'll take a look at it.' He sounded irritated. In fact he was glad of the very mundanity of the problem after the trials of the last few days. 'It can't be that difficult to fix.' He called over his shoulder as he left, 'Cadinot, maintain that call to division G. We need them back here right away!'

'Yes, sir,' said Cadinot.

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The copying annexe stood just off the Strat Room, where the new machine had been moved to minimize disruption. It had arrived not long ago, and was supposed to be one of the latest models, as used in the Parliament Dome in Metron. It certainly looked attractive, with a smart, streamlined grey fascia of moulded plastic and a neat set of touch-sensitive controls. Yet after an initial settling-in period it started to display a talent for grinding, chewing, jamming and leaving sooty deposits that marked it down as the son of its fathers.

Viddeas advanced on it with a murderous expression in his eye. It was the only person or thing left in the post that took any real notice of his authority, and secretly he relished its tantrums and looked forward to the chance to kick it. 'What's the problem this time, then?' he muttered. The machine's front had been opened on a hinge, revealing its complex innards: rollers, trays and several cavities whose function was mysterious. 'Let's have a look at you.' He knelt and stroked the edge of the front panel tenderly.

'I've done all it told me to,' said the adjunct, who had followed him through. 'I've cleared all the paper from the trays but it still doesn't work.'

'All right, all right.' Viddeas shooed him out. 'You cut along. I'll deal with this.'

'Sir.' The adjunct withdrew.

Alone with his great enemy, Viddeas rolled off his gloves. They peeled away with a smack, revealing fingers that were clammy and pink from the heat and which he drummed against the copier's instruction panel. He pressed the control requesting information.

PAPER JAM IN TRAYS 1+2 PLEASE CLEAR, the machine told him on its small digital display.

Viddeas grunted. 'You've tried that before.' He pulled out the specified trays with slightly more than necessary violence. They were empty, as the adjunct had said. 'Right.' He swung the outer panel shut and looked up at the information screen.

PAPER JAM IN TRAYS 1+2 PLEASE CLEAR, it said.

'Oh, for crying out loud.' Viddeas opened the panel and shut it again. The message stayed the same. He performed the operation twice more, with mounting ferocity. When he opened the panel another time it was as if all the aggression he had held in check over the last couple of weeks of equipment failures and disappearances, of disobedient, idle staff and an uninterested commanding officer, had been unleashed. He pulled out all six of the paper trays, knelt down, and peered into each one. Empty. Then he stuck in a hand, searched the copier's deepest recesses. It was not going to beat him. He would win this war. His fingers quested about, seeking whatever minuscule scrap was spannering the works.

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By now the sweat was pouring from him, and he was uncomfortably aware of his urgent need for a shower. To his horror, he realized his lovely uniform smelt, and the cause of the smell was him. Damn the stupid ventilation! Damn Bleisch for taking so long! Damn Dolne for throwing the blame on him!

'Ah!' His fingers connected with something. It was an oddly shaped, oddly textured ball of something, gooey and not papery at all, stuck in the furthest comer of paper tray 1. 'Oh, I've got you now,' he said exultantly. He tugged at it, his vigour so consuming that only a small part of his brain remained active to question what the thing he was tugging at was, and how it had worked itself in there.

The object did not so much as budge an inch. Viddeas growled and decided to shift his position for a better grip. He made to remove his fingers - and found he could not. They were stuck firm, the tips embedded, absorbed into the gelatinous ball.

He pulled hard. No quarter was given. A spasm of cold fear passed over him, and he looked up instinctively at the information screen. 'What the...' He trailed off: made speechless by what he saw there.

CAPTAIN VIDDEAS, said the photocopier screen. PREPARE TO BE ABSORBED BY DARKNESS.

Viddeas struggled and tried to call out. But the words were stuck in his throat, and a horrific freezing sensation was making its way up his arm. 'No,' he croaked. 'No, I...' The coldness travelled through him with alarming rapidity, swallowing his legs and torso before moving up past his neck. 'No, I...'

YOU SHALL BE OUR INSTRUMENT, said the screen, TO HASTEN THE HOUR OF FEASTING.

Sensation flowed through Viddeas's brain, and it was as if his head was being plunged into a bucket of ice-cold water. There was a second's terrible pain as something deep inside him flared up and then died. Dimly he was aware that there were flies buzzing around him.

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Then his hand came free. The copier door swung shut.

He stared at his hand. Apart from a minor wrinkling of the skin at the fingertips, of the kind one gets from spending too long in the bath, they looked completely normal. And though he was crouched in a very strange position in front of the copier his body felt refreshed and whole. The events of the last minute seemed rather like a dream.

The information screen read READY. SELECT NUMBER OF COPIES REQUIRED AND PRESS START TO BEGIN.

He shook his head and got to his feet. Had he hallucinated it all? Had the tedium of this life brought him down so low?

He straightened his uniform and walked briskly back towards the Strat Room. Inside, the team were going about their usual tasks in the usual way. Nobody looked up, nobody turned to him, nobody, it seemed, had heard the great commotion from next door. So, he reasoned, there had been no commotion.

Cadinot looked up. 'Still no response from Codie, sir.'

'Keep trying,' he said without thinking. His voice was as firm-sounding as ever.

'And cells say they're still having trouble with you-know-who,' added Cadinot.

Viddeas flinched. Suddenly, for no discernible reason, he felt a terrible draught about his legs. At the same time a sort of horrid, red, swirling darkness came into his awareness somewhere behind his eyes. For just a second he saw the world from the viewpoint of an entirely different creature, saw his team not as human beings but as members of a quite alien species.

'Sir?' he heard Cadinot prompting.

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He focused on the young man, and a revolting urge passed through him at the sight of the boy's pretty white neck. He longed to spit on it. His tongue wetted itself as if in readiness.

Then, as quickly as it had come, the feeling faded, and he heard himself saying, 'Tell cells to sedate the prisoner.' This time several of the team did look up from their stations. Viddeas shuddered at the sight of their eyes, which were somehow revolting to him. He felt the need to withdraw, to sit down, to get this illness out of his system. Half an hour's rest and he'd be fine. He backed away slowly. 'I'm just going... to change...' he mumbled, and made for the door.

The relief he felt at getting out of the Strat Room was almost tangible. He sank against a wall in the connecting corridor, closed his eyes and pressed his eyeballs. The redness surged up again, and his legs quivered in the cold.

For some reason he put a hand on his heart. It was only when he realized it had stopped beating, and that he had stopped breathing, that the real terror began.

A red indicator light flashed for a moment in the centre of the Darkness's Glute-screen. The secondary remote host was connected. The prime mover of the Metralubitan faction was bent to their will. The arena was prepared, on both sides.

Soon there would be much death.

The catering lady's route had taken Romana, the Doctor and K9 through yet more expanses of grey, barren wasteland. The dullness of the landscape was starting to get on Romana's nerves. 'I suppose,' she said to the Doctor, 'that if this really is the end of history we shouldn't have expected anything spectacular.'

The Doctor replied without taking his eye from their quarry, whose bright white suit made her clearly visible a few hundred yards ahead of them. 'Hardly the very end. There are a good few aeons left in the universe even if she is in her dotage.'

Romana pondered. 'What happens at the very end, I wonder?'

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The Doctor's eyes flicked to meet hers momentarily, and there was a look almost of worry in them. 'You're getting very curious all of a sudden.'

'It must be the company I keep.'

'Yes, well.' He seemed suddenly sombre, at a loss for words for once, and it was as if he was looking into the future. 'Everything must come to an end at some point, Romana. Nothing's irreplaceable, not even the universe.' He turned his gaze up to the metallic clouds. 'This close to the final dissolution there's bound to be a tangible sense of unravelling.'

Romana snorted. The last thing she needed was for him to slip into one of these moods. 'You're being insufferably -' she searched for the right word '- extispicious.'

'Am I? What does that mean?'

K9 took this as a cue. 'Extispicion: foreboding based on illogical fears.'

'Oh,' said the Doctor. 'That. Well, you can't present a generally cheery face to the cosmos without being extispicious every now and again.' He nodded to the catering lady, who was disappearing between two large outcrops of rock between which ran a narrow, dried-out gulley. 'Come on, or we'll lose her.'

Suddenly K9 beeped loudly and ground to a halt. 'Master, Mistress, danger!' he bleated. 'Take immediate cover!'

The Doctor groaned. 'What is it this time?'

'Imminent attack,' said K9, already darting towards a small hole in the ground not far away. 'Danger! Take cover!'

Romana looked to the skies. But they remained as clear as ever. 'What sort of attack?'

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'Plasma missile approaching!' K9 squeaked. 'Danger, danger! '

Romana made to join K9 in his hidey-hole but the Doctor gripped her arm and held her back. 'Ignore him. He's just being extispicious.' A second, later the unmistakable whine of a descending missile, this time directly above them, split the air. 'Of course, I might be wrong about that. Run!'

Romana was already running. K9 whirred and clicked frantically at her to guide her as a shadow fell over the area. It was as if night had fallen in a second. She didn't dare look up. The whine of the missile became a flat, deadly drone. 'Hurry, Mistress!' the dog called. She threw herself forward the last few inches, and crawled in a snakelike motion over the sharp stones to reach her friend's side. Despite the urgency of the situation a section of her trained logical mind warned her that if the explosion struck nearby she and K9 were likely to be trapped if not killed. She assumed that the dog had chosen this shelter wisely.

As soon as she was over the lip of the hole she stuck her fingers in her ears and crouched down into a crash position, curled up and face down. The shadow, it seemed, was now almost on top of them. She heard K9 say, 'Prepare for impact!'

The blast was shattering and rattled every bone in her body. The ground shook. She felt a wave of burning air moving over her back, and heard K9 gurgle and croak. A scattering of small stones and pebbles rained down, making a tinny percussion on K9's metallic surfaces.

But the noise was the worst thing, a giant's roar that reverberated fiercely inside her head. She waited for it to subside, counted slowly to a hundred, felt the heat dissipate, and gently raised her head. Gingerly she looked over the lip of the crater.

The missile had been a clean one, and struck about half a mile in front of them. The devastation began a few metres ahead. Of the two outcrops of rock, the gulley and the trolley woman there was no trace but heavy palls of drifting, glittering dust hanging in strange designs.

Romana coughed and turned to K9. 'Status, K9.'

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His eyescreen flashed beneath a coating of the grey dust. 'Motor functions and data core preserved, Mistress. However, my offensive laser and several minor back-up systems have been damaged. Sensor capacity is also impeded.'

She bent over and used her gloved hand to wipe away some of the dust clogging his ear sensors. 'You poor thing. We'll have to get you cleaned up.' She turned around. 'Doctor, I -' She broke off. He was nowhere to be seen. 'K9, where is he? Didn't he follow us?' She trailed off and put a hand to her mouth. 'Oh no. He wouldn't have tried to. . .' She looked across at where the catering woman had been merrily pushing her trolley minutes before. 'Rescue her,' she completed dully.

K9's head dropped. 'Likely, Mistress. Doctor Master's personality contains high level of altruism.'

Romana stared grimly at the hanging clouds of plasma. Perhaps the Doctor's illogical fears had been borne out after all.