Your Little Dalek

      I can tell a long and amusing story about how wires, nuts and chips fly off our duplicates. But only the Daleks are able to appreciate the elegance of a tattered robot, whose filling is hanging on all the surrounding lampposts.       One of them was too fast. How would we have thought that a decrepit old man could jump over fences like a young magnedon? Although his prototype was either a former marine, or an ex-paratrooper, an old soldier and all that. The duplicate even shot back. But, at the end I turned out to be faster and more accurate. Maybe his program provided for the inviolability of the Daleks, but I’d rather flatter myself with my combat skills. After all, I served a decade in the space fleet, although mostly an engineer.       The Doctor was sick of my chase. Especially when, in the middle of the pursuit, we accidentally flew into someone's backyard, into a chicken coop. It was not my fault, that I smashed a couple of stupid birds with my outershell. Feathers, guts, blood, all this was even funny, but The Doctor threw up both sandwiches back, as if he didn't know who he was dealing with.       I washed dirt from my outershell graviplate in a puddle, then I and my tender-green enemy caught another fake girl at the third point. Finally, now we’re going into the promised store for yogurt. And the first thing my audio receptors catch is the most offensive phrase for a Dalek, ‘Hey, guy. Leave this... this trash can at the entrance.’       Grrr! I turn off the gamma blaster, turn on the electric shocker. A lightning to the ceiling will look more impressive and is more safe than a stream of hard particles. It’s reckless to leave such obvious Dalek traces in time as a ceiling burned by gamma pulse. I destroyed the transmitter, but a minor trace may give my coordinates away. There are already enough destroyed duplicates for me to be located sooner or later. Later would be better.       ‘This is an alien invasion.’ I say as clearly as possible, radiating streams of hatred in the direction of the stunned security guard. ‘You should speak to me, and not my robot secretary.’       Obviously, the Predator falls into a stupor from my insolence.       I continue, ‘Ten packs of strawberry yogurt, a dozen of eggs, milk and a pack of semolina at the checkout, right now. My Legions of Death need quality supplies. Obey, or you will be EXTERMINATED.’       I shoot a second lightning bolt at the ceiling and point the emitter hand with a purple spark on it at the pale security guard. He rushes into the shop zone on wobbly legs. A random customer, an old female with a cart, presses herself against the shelves and mutters something about “Lord”. The cashier looks at us through the stand with chocolates with same bulging eyes.       ‘To the checkout.’ I order the Doctor. We’re not going to stand in line.       He hisses quietly in response, ‘Don't start bossing me around!’       Oh, really?!       ‘Also, I want that thing!’ I point the emitter hand towards the colorful bags on the bottom of the chocolate stand. The Doctor gloomily goes to the checkout, takes a colourful pack off the pin and puts it on the conveyor belt. Just then the security guard runs up with all the junk I ordered to bring. I watch The Doctor pay the cashier and comment:       ‘Keep the change. Use this money to fix the broken lampshade. And you should also repair the fire alarm, it is malfunctioning.’       I grab the shopping bag from the Doctor, turn around to leave and hear his voice, turning everything that's happening from a sci-fi horror into a dull sitcom, ‘This is a TV show, you were filmed by a hidden camera! Smile, wave to your relatives and friends! Broadcast next week, Thursday!’       A collective groan or laughter from the staff answers The Doctor.       Do you try “to cover my base”, Predator? You ruined all my fun, you’re the Gallifreyan slyther!       I hate you.       ‘Let's go to the next coordinates.’ I say into the microphone without turning around. However, his long limbs come into my field of view every now and then.       ‘Well, this is the first and last time…’ The Doctor mutters in exactly the same way, ‘…I said, last time I go shopping with a Dalek. You are an aggressive, arrogant, insane killer!’       Wow, how many compliments!       I immediately suggest, ‘Order me go shopping without you next time.’       ‘You will never leave the TARDIS again!’ He cries, spraying saliva right into my photoreceptor.       ‘First, you will have to drive me there.’ I say peacefully, but do not stop moving.       I feel that he is not serious. His hands are really shaking when aiming at his fake associates. But nothing is shaking with me, so he will not finish the task quickly without my support. Also, we had a lot of fun in the store. Oh, if only I really had a Legion of Death, better two, to command. Then I would not have to travel with this time jerk.       ‘I still don't understand how could I listen to you, and take you with me.’ Now The Doctor grabbs his hair, throw his head back and circles around me like an electron in orbit. How expressive.       ‘How did you manage to convince me, Wildy?’       ‘Do you have senile sclerosis? Do Time Lords get sclerosis?’ I feel myself terribly excited.       ‘No.’ He says and lowers his hands so abruptly that I can't help but look closely to see if there are any clumps of hair left in his long fingers. ‘You said you'd explain everything to me. Well, go ahead and explain.’       I remind him, ‘If I am in the mood. You ruined it for me at the store with your “explanation”. So ask me normally first.’       ‘After you introduced me as a secretary robot?!’       He's indignant. But it feels like he's not serious again.       ‘Your argument is accepted. I'm an information thief.’       ‘WHAT?! A sp…’       ‘Incorrect, NOT a spy!’ I even stop, writhing and pulsating with anger. What an idiot... ‘These are different things and different articles of our criminal code.’       ‘I don't understand.’       Yeah, it'll be hard to explain. I’m pulling myself together. Inhale, exhale, forget it, darling. Symmetrical creatures are stupid by factory settings.       ‘Sit on this bench and eat some yogurt instead of the ingloriously lost sandwiches, and I will try to explain to your defective brain the difference between these concepts.’       ‘Just make your speech shorter, otherwise we'll put down roots here while you finish speaking.’       He tries to sit on a park bench, sipping yogurt straight from the pack, and I study the colorful bag I picked up at the store. The inscription says “Rainbow snakes. Gummi candy.”       ‘In short. In our opinion, espionage implies that data will be transferred to a third party. Or can potentially be transferred. Or will be used by the spy for his own purposes. Information theft is the aimless extraction of closed data, either for training in hacking secure networks, or because of information addiction. My case is just the latter. I'm an info-addict.’       ‘How so?’ The Doctor chokes on his yogurt. By the way, he's already on his third pack. Hey, it was mine!       ‘Doctor, we are a nation of scientists. This is a certain mentality, based on enormous curiosity, a passion for learning about the world, and a terrible hunger for information. This is one of our main traits, which everyone always forgets.’       He says, ‘No wonder. With such a program of destruction, they don't expect anything else from you.’       He’s a boring bonehead. Who else in the Universe will ask him to “explaaain” something in the middle of a fight? Sontarans?       ‘We know that other races often use a way called "imagination" in science. We prefer to rely on logic, observation, and curiosity, and do not give up the important space of operational thinking to sorting through obviously empty options. Therefore, our curiosity is many times higher than that of all others.’       It's true. Where scientists of other races, faced with the unknown, begin to philosophize about what it could be and how to figure it out, we just poke it with a stick and see what happens.       ‘My level of curiosity, compared to The Black Dalek standards, is over three hundred percent. That is, I am more than three times more curious than a ordinary commander. It’s an extra high level, almost deviation. The result is a psychological addiction of the size of incoming information.’       The Doctor chuckles, ’Wildy, I haven’t noticed you sticking your tentacles into anything.’       Yes, of course, I don’t stick my manipulator hand into the TARDIS console, but I record everything The Doctor does with it for further analysis. So, your conclusions about me are incorrect, my foe. If you have no correct information, then keep silence.       ‘Add a low threshold of emotional resistance and a high level of secrecy. Your little Dalek is curious, secretive and hysteric.’ Damn, it’s the best way to introduce a prey to The Predator. ‘I observe, compare, analyze and always keep my conclusions to myself. For us, this is a light mental deviation. A parallel you maybe understand is a mild form of autism.’       ‘Autistic Dalek. This is it.’       ‘Silence! Or…’       Ahem.       ‘…Or I’ll stop my explanation.’       Inhale. Exhale.       I continue, ‘Our society is based on a constant and complete exchange of the information. The data that is potentially dangerous to the Daleks is automatically removed from public access and will not be harmful. I was constantly commiting a double crime, hacking the restricted data and hiding it after reading. Understood?’       ‘So-so. Twisted behavior with crushed brain filters and hacking of closed sectors of the Pathweb is certainly a criminal offense for the Daleks. But I still don’t understand, why the fact of keeping the prohibited information in secret is a crime?’       He even wipes his face. What a dumbass, was he even listening to me? The answer to his question was above, a constant and complete exchange of all acquired information. Especially since the filters will cut out everything unnecessary and prohibited. But while I'm trying to find the words to explain in his language what the crime is, The Doctor pulls the fifth yogurt out of the bag. Does he want me to starve to death?!       Then it dawns on me to ask a brilliant question.       ‘Doctor,’ I say, ‘how much do you know about us in general?’       ‘I know enough to hate you all.’ He says, scraping out the appetizing contents with his finger.       As expected, which is why I asked.       ‘I suggest an experiment.’ I say as peaceful as possible. ‘We have a dangerous mission, we both are… deviations. So we need to understand each other as best as we can, to be productive on the task. The result is depending of our effectiveness. Let's see who knows each other better.’       The Doctor's long face flares with sincere excitement, and he lists out loud, ‘The location of the black marks shows that you are from the Junior Intellectual Elite with the right to command. Your job and rank of senior research show the same. Therefore, you are a civilian, if the Daleks even have such a concept, you are damn aggressive squids and all are in the army. So, what else... You hatched not so long ago, if I calculate your age on Earth, it will be 24 years, 7 months and 15 days, allow me not to specify the hours. You surprised me about the names, Wildy, if only you did not lie, trying to adapt to me for your safety. What else? Your brain filter is clearly hacked, apparently your reservations and your extremely rich vocabulary. I wonder what you saw there, that you behave so bizarre. Your armor does not look strong enough, I saw more stronger Daleks…’       ‘Don't bother, Doctor, this is a civil planetar outershell.’ I say to cut off his attempts, and add the only phrase that should clear everything up. ‘Fish fingers and custard.’       He freezes, as if he had been torpedoed in the brain, but quickly breaks into a sad and thoughtful smile.       ‘Amelia Pond. Little Amelia, who knew how to wait.’       I continue, ignoring his sighs, ‘Quite obvious, you know nothing about us. Your data is nothing. You’re a victim of the protective disinformation, one of the many in the Universe, even one of the disinformative sources. You have even been on Skaro, you could remember something more interesting than the dry facts received, by the way, from me.’       His face expression changes to cold and frown.       I continue, ‘The Daleks know everything about you. We collect every grain of knowledge about our main enemy and instantly share it with the rest. We even recreated data from the memories of your associates, that was missing in our databases, about what happens on board the TARDIS when we cannot observe you. So, your enemies know your entire background, right down to the color of your socks. By the way, one is green and the other is striped.’       He immediately lifts his trousers, showing both the green and the striped ones, and smiles at me with all his teeth, ‘Different socks, that's cool.’       ‘You know nothing about your enemies. Zero. You even don’t try to see what are we on the inside, under your labels. This is the second reason why I want to be next to you now, to show you what you really need to expect from us and what to be wary of. It's no fun to fight an enemy who underestimates you.’       ‘And the first reason?’       ‘You obviously have sclerosis, you should get checked in infirmary.’ I say. ‘I want to live, and I need a reliable shelter from the Daleks.’       ‘Anyway, you tell me now too much. Are you really secretive, Wildy?’       He makes me furious.       ‘I speak to you to make our job effective. I… must tell you anything. Or else we’ll fail the task and die at the AHoH Zone. This is not on my shedule today.’       ‘Nor on mine.’       The Doctor suddenly stares at me, as if he wants to drill a hole with his gaze, but instead pokes a dirty finger into my outershell, ‘You're a damn interesting Dalek, Wildy. I want to figure you out. Hacked brain filters, hacked Pathweb, but this didn't affect you at all, you're still obsessed with the Dalek ideology and haven’t moved a step in your holy belief! Excess thoughts get the brain dirty, aren’t they? It's just amazing, some kind of mystery for me. If only you don’t double-cross. Daleks always double-cross in everything.’       How rude of him. Does he try to piss me off? Someday I'll still fire at this jerk, but now I find some self-control to say with dignity, ‘Double? How primitive. We’re always focused on result. It impossible to count the exact number of combinations. Now, my aim is to survive, so no any predictable “double”-cross ever. I won't get amnesty even if I restore all the erased data about you and deliver you to the Emperor personally… STOP IT. You're eating MY seventh yogurt, now you'll go back for my nourishment!”       ‘You'll get by with semolina.’ He says, not even thinking about stopping. ‘So, stealing data is punished so harshly?’       ‘Incorrect. Only systematic violation of a collective decision is punished harshly. The sentence was standard, the exile to the Asylum, when they’ll restore it. But I escaped from arrest twice.’       The Doctor’s symmetrical eyes become bigger and bigger.       ‘Twice.’ He repeats.       ‘I showed systematic disobedience without any sufficient argumentation. It will be punished to the fullest extent of the law. I didn't have any arguments to oppose the entire Council, so I had to run away from under forced euthanasia. I didn't want to die that way.’       ‘All that was on the skyscraper, is called “forced euthanasia”?!’ He almost chokes.       ‘Incorrect.’ I take the colourful pack with suspicious contents in the manipulator hand again. Judging by the composition, it is some crap, but there is a lot of sucrose. ‘It was a total elimination for the theft of data, double escape, resisting arrest, injure the capture group, and stealing a military spaceboat with a time engine to a backward planet inhabited by inferiors, potentially subject to destruction. If our ship had fallen into the hands of the humans, the Daleks could have the problems later. Although I blew it up in orbit, but this will not count towards the cancellation of the sentence... And what are these “gummi snakes"? Explaaain?’       ‘It’s a local sweetness. It won't hurt you, Wildy. Smart and cunning brains need to be nourished sometimes.’ He flatters me, really. At the same time, he elegantly hints that he still does not trust me.       ‘Look, Wildy. Now I’m sure you’re lying about youself. I saw Daleks shooting other Daleks en masse for no reason. So…’       ‘Explaaain?’       ‘In short, new models killed old models.’       By Mother Radiation.       ‘Incorrect term, model is about a technics, and we are living beings. Have you seen the change of generations?!’ I’m almost drooling.       ‘What the hell is a “change”, like “euthanasia”…’       ‘The biped individualist never understand. Answer, what is the unit of survival of a species?’       He is looking puzzled, ‘Well, the population.’       ‘Exactly, “population”. The mass execution you saw is simply a survival mechanism to regulate the population size and cull failed or unviable lines. It works in its own way for each species. An example you understand. Lemmings. When they become overpopulated and there is a shortage of nourishment and space, they go and drown themselves with the entire population, except for the very best representatives of the species. Or your humans themselves, when the same problems are brewing, they start wars, fall into infantilism, change their sexual orientation, poison themselves with all sorts of crap that destroys their bodies and psyche, trying in every way to thin out their population. It is a biological rule of species survival. Those whose DNA has more errors will most likely fall out of the population without procreation. For us, when the superb DNA appears, the old one must be removed as potentially weak. No options for the old versions. They submit information to the Pathweb and die fast. Even those who are not eliminated, they will exterminate themselves any way. Because they feel themselves instinctively a barrier to survival of everyone else.’       I don’t say him, although this is true, that the updated generations of Daleks “hear” only themselves, perceiving previous versions of gene combinations in the same way as representatives of other species. I must not give away a secret of empathy, or our advantage is doomed. Too many people suspect us of psychokinesis anyway.       However, The Doctor looks already overloaded of information. He obviously thinks over he heard from me, chewing and sucking every word in his firm head.       He finally agrees, ‘Yeah, that sounds smooth and very much of the Daleks. Soulless and rational to the point of nausea.       ‘Irrationality is a way of a jerk from a blue box, and the fact of the existence of a soul has not been proven by the science of Skaro.’ I say. ‘Provide me my last yogurt, I'm hungry.’       ‘Chew your gummi snakes.’       He brazenly splashes the contents of the cup into his mouth, then takes it away and opens my colourful pack. A tightwad, a jerk, a beast, I hate him. I snatch the pack from him, turn away, open the hatch and shove the loot inside. Or maybe I shouldn't have turned away? At such a distance, he would have had radiation doze enough for mild indigestion and a six-month rehabilitation. Oh, no... He probably injected a military stabilizer into his blood while I was sleeping. When living side by side with an alien girl who snacks her omelettes with cesium-137, it makes sense to play it safe.       I put something like a short rubbery rope in my mouth. Hmm, tasty, but tough. About the same as my companion gnawing on a log. I wonder if I can to suck it up? While I'm thinking about this, I hear from outside. ‘A horror movie. An amoeba swallowing worms.’       I'll exterminate him. As soon as I stop choking on this, errm, snake, I'll definitely exterminate him.       ‘Okay.’ he says. ‘Let's go, galactic slime. My TARDIS is waiting.’       Grrrrr! I am a beautiful girl, a promising architect, not a galactic slime! Doctor, you’re a disgusting symmetrical compass with boorish manners and ants in your pants!       …No options. Be patient, darling. Your life depends on The Doctor.