Your Little Dalek

      ‘…Hey, do you hear me, tin can?’       The external receptors are switched to ten percent power because of the sleep mode, so the Doctor's voice comes muffled, as if through a door. I yawn sweetly, wish myself a good awakening, stretch and only then turn on the photoreceptor and microphone. The Predator did it quickly, judging by the devices and my well-being. I would have slept another five skarels. Or better yet, seven.       ‘Why are you so noisy, Doctor?’       He looks angry. No, more precisely, he is furious. I can see it in his symmetric eyes. How good it is that we’re separate by a force field, otherwise I would fly out of here like a hard photon from a nuclear explosion. The presence of a small barrier, even a surmountable one, often sobers up bipeds.       ‘I checked your information. These are really Skaro duplicates.’ The Doctor is storming and raging, but I don't care who he was checking, they're all fakes. ‘You octopuses didn't even stoop to puppets. Well, you always manage to piss me off in a new way, and you've never repeated yourself!’ Yes, it’s our creative approach. ‘In short, where are my friends?’       Hmpf! “In short”, he says!..       ‘Where is the guarantee, that, having received this information, you won't return me to where you took me from?’       ‘I’m not a Dalek, don't judge by yourself!’       ‘I demand guarantees.’       He's almost green with anger, but still holding back.       ‘Okay, what kind of guarantees do you need?’       ‘Limited freedom on board your ship, my own cabin, nourishment, water, energy to recharge my engine.’ I think for a moment about which moon to ask from the sky to finish him off. ‘And the National Geographic and Science 24 TV channels for the year 5823 according to the Earth's calendar. And you'll drop me off where I decide, not where you decide.’       The Doctor's face is imprinted with complete, reference, beautiful hatred. I don't like primitive life forms for such open emotions. How dare he hate such an intelligent, beautiful, modest and insightful girl like me, without even being able to appreciate my merits? Doctor, you are a xenophobic beast.       ‘I’ll throw you. Right now. Into supernova. Tell me where my friends are!’ And he continues in a completely different tone. ‘Oh, my, for once I'm angry. No, imagine, I'm angry, I'm just furious!’ He's already talking to the ceiling, not to me, obviously. And he doesn't have his associates with him now, otherwise I would have seen them already. Does he speaks with his TARDIS? Looks like a brain deviation, to speak with a ship. I knew it, he is jerk.       All right, it’s time to tell him.       ‘Do you know, Doctor, what is the place in the entire Universe the most abandoned, the most rotten and the most terrible? The place that any Time Lord is afraid of? Which he prefers not to think about so much that he is ready to forget about it? A place hidden and at the same time obvious?’ I almost purr, noticing fear emerging at the bottom of his eyes. ‘Yes, Doctor. They are in The Ash-Heap of History. Or, as is written in Gallifrey research works, the AHoH Zone. Correct?’       ‘Damn, it's a legend! Just a turn of phrase!’       Huh, an expected reaction. The Daleks knew well where to shove his associates to make an ideal trap.       ‘So a legend or a turn of phrase? Or is it still a real place?’ My low emotional threshold has woken up again, spits on all external filters and drips with sarcasm. It's good that only another Dalek could notice this. ‘Doctor, where do forgotten souls go? Where are irrelevant ideas? Insignificant gray everyday life from our lives? Silly fears of juveniles and stupid human fantasies? Physics is clear even to a young embryo just crawled out of the incubator. There is a basic law of the Universe, and it cannot be ruled out. Nothing disappears just like that, including the information. You know that this place is real. And you are afraid of it. Very afraid. Because what goes to the AHoH Zone is lost irrevercible. A moment of death that lasts forever. An instant there is no escape. But you have a chance to leave it. Your TARDIS is a time paradox that exists everywhere and nowhere, stretching from the instant the Universe is born to the moment of its death. You will be able to find a way out of the AHoH Zone and get your associates out of there. And I will help you to make right calculations.’       The Doctor swallows nervously.       ‘Okay, let's say so. But how do we get there?’       ‘It's not difficult. Every forgotten object goes to the AHoH Zone automatically. The Daleks don't remember you anymore. So, let the others forget about you too. We also need to destroy the duplicates, their memories of you are very vivid. Perhaps that will be enough if no one else remembers you in the near future, at least for a half of rel. Now, where is my supplies and my cabin? My inside body is starving for sleep and calories. You don't want your little Dalek to die of hunger and fatigue, do you?’       ‘You’re a crashing bore.’ The Doctor says. ‘We're heading to the AHoH Zone.’       ‘I refuse. Nourishment and sleep first. And you will handle the logistics and workout the best route between the locations of your fake associates. When I wake up, you'll take the TARDIS along this route, and I'll exterminate them all after you check with a screwdriver or something. Otherwise,’ I grin, ‘someone was missed and I accidentally exterminate a person?’       It seems that his hair stands on end when he hears this one word. How funny to watch it while there's a force field between us.       ‘Now, where is my nourishment?’       ‘A petty, selfish, narcissistic, sentient amoeba with the only short thought!’ The Doctor hisses through his teeth, giving in. He's furious that I'm right and we shouldn't get too haste. But I'm disgusted to listen to crudity addressed to me, not being able to shoot him a couple of times between his symmetrical eyes. Steady, darling, you must endure it. No options.       ‘I suppose you mean to be rude, because I'm not a protozoan.’ I deliberately nag under the sound of the field being switched off. ‘This call sign is unacceptable. Let's get to know each other in normal way.’       ‘Well, let's do it. What's your number?’       Hmm. Darling, if you’ve already started breaking the patterns, then keep breaking them.       ‘We use unit numbers in combat, and identification codes in a formal setting…’       ‘…I wonder what an informal setting is like in the Daleks' performance?’       You can do without such joy.       ‘… and in the presence of inferiors. Now, we both are not in a battle or formal Skaro setting, also I cannot regard you as an inferior. You are our equal.’       He visibly grimaces, as if it’s not the first time he has heard this. Yes, there is a good chance that somebody has told him this, we all agree together in our assessment of The Doctor.       I continue, ‘My profession is an architect, my social position, in your opinion, is a senior researcher, or, also, senior lieutenant. My system number is too long for you, and I will not name a personal call sign that you could accept as a name. Firstly, you will not appreciate its beauty anyway, and secondly, you also never introduce yourself by name. So you're The Doctor, and I'm your little Dalek.’       He says with a dull skepticism, ‘You call it short, “Your little Dalek”? Y.L.D. is enough for someone like you.’       ‘Uaaai… Elll… Deeeee… Wildy. Acceptable. You can call me “Wildy”.’       He winces as if he has a toothache, climbing up to the bridge and fiddling with the console.       ‘TARDIS made you a room, also you can go to the galley and to the library. You may only approach the console when I'm here. Is it enough for your shining magesty?’       ‘Affirmative. I expect you are not limiting the library to our scientific journals up to my timeline year?’       ‘No, there are books from the other planets there, too. Up to your timeline year.’       Greedy varga.       ‘What about my TV channels?’       He just hisses through his teeth. That's right, he's a greedy varga and a tightwad.       Strangely, I sense something else besides his visually detectable disgust for me. Something that permeates the air and my outershell, like penetrating radiation or time energy. The sensors don't pick up anything, but... This feeling reminds me of something.       We've been mutating for a very long time. We can't survive on other planets without outershells that hold the right level of radiation inside, which is usually absolutely lethal for most aliens. Our shells are complex machines that provide us not only with protection and movement, but also with voice amplification, improved vision and hearing, and even touch. Nevertheless, when we still called ourselves not Daleks, but Kaleds, we had an advantage: a visual contact with each other, improving mutual understanding. And when we turned into the perfect weapon and could not live without outershells, we had to learn to understand each other through armor, a voice altered by a modulator, and the absence of a reciprocal gaze. So, we had to develope empathy during our evolution. Without this, we would not have survived. We still understand each other perfectly well with a half-glance and a half-word and can act quickly and effectively, as our Kaled ancestors could. We are considered a race of cold, scientific exterminators, our coherence is blamed on a effective command network that enables us to make quick collective decisions, but in fact our secret and our secret strength is in this empathy. At the same time, we, or rather our Dalek ancestors, managed to avoid feeling the emotions of other living beings, so that they would not interfere with us in achieving our own goals. It would be difficult to shoot, feeling the agony of the enemy as your own, right? That is why we do not “hear” aliens, and our own, with the rare exception of me, we go to Asylum, and do not eliminate, and it does not matter how we explain this to others. The defensive disinformation is the defensive disinformation.       So, I can swear, I felt someone. It was laughing on us, it just melted from laughter. And it was not distant. But there is no one on board the TARDIS except me and The Doctor?       ‘Doctor... Do you have any more passengers?’       ‘No.’ He says, finally tearing himself away from the console.       ‘Then who's laughing?’       ‘Where?’       ‘Can’t locate. Around. In the air.’       ‘TARDIS, then.’       We stare at each other and repeat in unison:       ‘TARDIS?!’       Is this time box really capable of feeling? I'm amazed. So that's the difference with our machines, there's an artificial intelligence with a sense of humor! But the Doctor seems offended. He looks at the console of his machine with a fair amount of indignation:       ‘Sexy, what are you doing?’       ‘You're speaking to the ship again. Explain. Is the AI ​​capable of responding?’ There's nothing about the TARDIS AI ​​or the conversations in my database. I don't understand... The Daleks couldn't have missed such important information. Did I accidentally stumble upon something classified, not for my rank? It seems that the current situation is becoming more curious and informative than I initially expected.       ‘AI?! All TARDISes are alive!’ He cries indignantly. ‘How may you hear her laugh?’       Oops... However, lie is cheap.       ‘My devices detected a surge of positive emotions of some creature. Enough chatter, provide me my nourishment.’       He suddenly turns to me with the interest of a vivisectionist.       ‘What do you eat? I have never seen what Daleks eat in everyday life, not on missions. Long time ago you gave me your food, but it was a disgusting scum.’       ‘Or so it seemed to you. According to my data, it could be in the beginning of your and Daleks’ hostility…’       ‘…Oh, yes.’       ‘Then you were dying from radiation sickness. This can spoil the taste for life and good food.’ I retort. ‘But you don’t have anything from our nourishment on board. So, I need a stove, a frying pan and two eggs from Earth.’       The excited curiosity in the Doctor's eyes grows even brighter. He clearly wants to see the whole process.       ‘Take me to the galley.’ I order. He doesn't even snort, just waves his hand to follow him.       I have to overcome the stairs by spinning up the grav-engine. There are ramps and elevators at home, but the TARDIS is not barrier-free, so I am forced to fly rudely. A small descent, and here we are already in the galley, right under the console. There is even a food synthesizer of an unfamiliar model, and no miracles. In front of me on the pull-out table there is a frying pan and two eggs, everything as I ordered.       ‘Maybe you need some salt or butter?’ says he.       ‘Sodium chloride is harmful. Some fats will not hurt. Butter is acceptable. Sunflower oil is better.’       ‘Why?’       Funny, the Doctor is really interested in what I am doing. Meanwhile, I confiscate a bowl from the kitchen locker.       ‘Because it is squeezed from seeds that will never give birth to life again.’ I lick my lips greedily and break the eggs thrown into the air with the weakest shot, one after another. I have been hanging around on Earth for almost ten days, it is not the first time I have cooked from chicken eggs, so the technique is well-practiced.       And I don't have any wish to remember my first attempt to do it.       The shell flies off to the side, and its contents plop right into the bowl, where I immediately whip it into a foam. I love fluffy omelettes. The Doctor picks up his jaw.       ‘Really, a mixer…’       ‘Incorrect. It was an ultrasonic pulse of combat power. Is there blood from killed tomatoes in your home?’       ‘There is a can of tomato paste in the fridge.’       ‘It is suitable.’ I find a can and plop a small piece into the bowl. Vegetables are healthy. ‘Now move aside for three delers.’       ‘What for?’ The Doctor immediately says with suspicious.       ‘Do you like extra radiation, or do you have a doze of Thal regenerator on board?’ I grin. ‘I am radioactive. Dangerously radioactive.’       He steps away, all on guard. I reach for my makeshift emergency flask. I cannot say the Earth food is a true poison for me, but it cannot save my exausted organic body without the contents of this flask. Survival rule number one says, if there is not enough radiation in the environment and there is no way to increase it, I need to saturate myself with radiation. Oh, I bet the alarm will sound right now... Yes, as soon as I put out of shell my pseudohand with the flask, the lights start blinking, a warning signal start beeping, and I’m covered by a wave of someone else's fear. Is this the TARDIS again? The Doctor flies off like a bird to the stairs. I plop a pinch of dust from the flask into the egg mix, shake it again and pour it into the frying pan, covering it with a lid.       ‘My nourishment will irradiate regular crockery. Do you have disposable dishes?’       ‘Look in the locker.’ He can't stand it any longer and rushes upstairs, under the protection of the metal floor. It’s unnecessarily. Alpha particles don't fly far. I told him honestly the absolute safe distance.       I get myself a cardboard plate while my delicious breakfast cooks over low heat.       ‘That’s horrible.’ Doctor’s complain is coming from above. ‘The Dalek. In my galley. Fries eggs with tomatoes and strontium.’       ‘Incorrect. It is cesium-137.’ I say, dumping the omelette onto the plate. Unlike strontium, cesium-137 accumulates in muscle tissue, not in bones, which I don't have anyway, but the Predator doesn't seem to care. Then there's no need to explain to him that I've taken apart the first suitable space junk for the RTG. He won't appreciate my survival rate anyway; for him, the best Dalek is a dead Dalek.       ‘Where can I put the frying pan and the bowl so as not to irradiate the galley? In two days I'll have to cook my own food with medicine again.’       There's a beep on the left, and a small hatch opens right next to the stove. I bet it wasn't there just now. The TARDIS?.. I stick the crockery into the hole. Then I finally take the plate in the shell. Ah, what a good smell of a dead life! There's nothing better in the world than a piece of fluffy omelette, when you are very hungry. Drool, Predator, I won't share with you. Here's a plastic cup with clean water, and I can eat in peace. But first...       ‘Cooking is finished. You said I already have a cabin.’       I slam the outershell, and immediately my devices detect a rather strong gust of wind. It looks like the automation is sucking out ionized air. Huh, the competent behavior of a competent time machine that loves its owner. Maybe I'll like the cabin too? Unable to bear the hunger any longer, I finally suck on the omelette. Sometimes it's better to chew and talk both…       The Doctor pokes his nose back in.       ‘The Dalek who kicked me out of my galley. Unbelievable.’       ‘We decided. I eat and sleep. And you work. Then I work, and you observe. All is fair.’       ‘Fair Dalek, that’s a likely story!’       ‘Fair Doctor, that is a likely story.’       It seems that exchange pleasantries is becoming a tradition. Judging by my feels, the TARDIS is laughing at our squabble again. And I find it funny too. I never thought I'd end up in such a crazy situation, living under one roof with the Predator in his sentient time machine, without any chance to shoot. But life, as we know, likes to throw absurd tricks and doesn't give a damn about logic. All I want to do right now is finish my dinner, get some sleep, and adjust my outershell’s defenses to not hear the TARDIS ever. Its laughter isn't annoying yet, but I know that sooner or later I'll get tired of having some man-made device making fun of me.       I throw the chip with the list of duplicates on the table and roll out into the corridor, suggestively gaping right next to the galley corner. Aha, the layout of the available space is clear: first, here is a short vestibule to the intersection, where the passage splits into two in the shape of the letter “T”. On one side is a half-open door, behind which I see rows of bookshelves (we don't understand this passion for paper, the digital texts may be absorbed faster, and we can carry more information with us). On the other side, the door is closed, and there are two black and yellow triangles, which smile me happily: a radiation daisy and a biohazard spider. The time machine does have a sense of humor after all. Or was it The Doctor himself joking on me with the Earth symbols, known to both of us? But this is obviously a door into my cabin, so I turn right.       ‘I permit you to wish me a good night's sleep.’ I say, passing The Doctor, who is still hanging out on the stairs. ‘And I wish you a good job.’       ‘You don’t even care that I might be hungry and sleepy, too.’ He growls, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. ‘How selfish you are, Dalek.’       ‘Those are precisely your problems.’ I say, without turning around or slowing down. ‘Plan your own time yourself. You should be grateful that I’m helping you at all.’       He sticks his head into the corridor after me.       ‘That’s what’s strange.’       ‘Incorrect. I will answer your questions when I will fill up my need for rest. If I am in the mood.’       The door opens right in front of the photoreceptor, and I find myself in a small airlock. Don’t tell me that my need for increased radiation is taken into account here, and I’ll be able to get out of my outershell?! A resort. Maybe they’ll let me wash up too?       First door closes, other opens. Wow, I feel right at home, I only miss my neighbors in the casern. White clean walls, strict lines, bright milky light. According to the devices, the radiation level is not perfect, but quite suitable for life. And there I can see the recharging connector, hurray! Of course, the batteries will last a long time, but it is better to keep them at maximum than to stop somewhere halfway. I should have risked getting a trooper warshell with a normal reactor and full-cycle support systems, and not to get out in a housedress. The planetar outershells aren’t suitable enough for survival mode.       I stick the shell side into the energy connector, and finally, having rolled back the hatch, I sit down comfortably to eat and enjoy the smell of ozone. After throwing out the Thals from Skaro, we could afford not to grow into the outershells to death and have a chance for modest comfort and replacement carriages... Bah, there is also a TV screen, and a big one at that.       ‘Turn on.’ I command automatically. Well, it's on, voice-controlled, right like at home. Just a little bit more, and I'll forget where I am. I wonder what they're showing? Wow, exactly what I ordered! “Science 24”, and clearly not a date when we met with The Doctor. I stare curiously at the screen, where, apparently, they're explaining the theory of multidimensional spaces for idiots, and then a groan reaches me through two doors.       ‘The Dalek. Devoures eggs with cesium. And watches science TV. On my TARDIS.’       ‘Doctor!’ I yell. Then I realize that he won't hear me through two doors without an amplifier, my own voice is too weak. And, pulling the microphone closer, I repeat, ‘DOCTOR! You have two options! Go work or eat a jam cookie.’       Yeah, yeah, go and do something useful. Don't bother my brain, I have the only one and no replacements. It’s an order of the Dalek.       ‘Wha…? Are you telling me to go hell?!’       No, the AHoH Zone only.       The moans stop. He must have left. Sucking on an omelette and looking at the screen for visibility, I adjust the filters of the video camera on my computer to activate it by keywords. I can't run cables to the TV. Firstly, it's not a fact that the owner will be so kind to provide me a suitable connector, and secondly, is it really possible to give myself away so openly? Yes, I am a dishonest, cunning Dalek. If you, Doctor, knew what I was sentenced for, you definitely wouldn't have taken me on board. Although... It's not a fact that you understand what it is, a Dalek with a curiosity level of 328%. I'll explain it to you when I get enough sleep. If I'm in the mood.       That's it, the eggs are gobbled up, the water is drunk, the dishes are thrown into the disposal unit, the outershell computer is set up and pretends to be in standby mode for an outside observer, the TV is working in non-stop mode. I disconnect all the outershell plugs from myself, except for the data cable, and move to the soft inflatable pillow-bed, spreading out more comfortably opposite the screen. Our advantage is that my eyelids do not close completely. Who will guess whether I am sleeping or just staring at the screen in a relaxed manner?       ‘Dim the lights by seventy percent.’       It is gradually getting darker.       That's it, I can switch my brain off reality.       “…What a show! What a fight! Yes, we really hit our target for tonight! How we sing as we limp through the air…”