Your Little Dalek

      ‘Aaaah! Take it away! Take it off me! Professor, you will remove this juvenile! NOW!!!’       My screams are carried across the moorland under the laughter of Song. The Doctor sits on a mossy boulder and grins with satisfaction and vengeance, now flexing his fingers, now rubbing his chin. On my back, in the blind spot, where I can’t reach with a shoot, a dirty little wretch of about two years old is dangling and having fun. There’s a whole microbiolab of all sorts of contagion on its hands, how dare it touch me? Me, the most perfect creature in the entire Universe?! Hanging on sensors?! That hurts! Kicking my clean, just an hour ago washed polycarbide with dirty bare feet?! Oh, by Mother Radiation, why did I turn around to look at this unsanitary situation? A dirty palm immediately reaches for the photoreceptor! A-a-ah!       ‘Professor Song!..’       ‘A-boo? Badabu-gu? Ha-ha-ha!’ Again, goes a series of kicks on my back sensors. I spin around like a compass needle in a magnetic anomaly, trying to shake off the merry cub. I'll shoot this little wretch!       ‘Ex... ter... mi...’       ‘Don't get carried away, Dalek.’ After the quarrel in the library I am no longer "Wildy" for The Doctor. ‘The agreement was to shoot at duplicates only.’       He gets up, comes up to us and grabs the kicking wretch under his arms.       ‘Come here, “juvenile”. What have I to do with you now...’       I may propose, but my rational idea obviously will not be supported. So, I let them rack their brains over a humane solution to the problem themselves.       The situation with the juvenile arose in the last destination point. There were an abnormal family: a Trojan warrior, a girl from the future, their offspring. Ancient Britain, wild wasteland and no signs of intelligent life. Apparently, the family was moving somewhere and stopped for a rest in the middle of the road. The juvenile was sleeping when we located them. Both mother and father, naturally, were duplicates. But the juvenile turned out to be real. We were almost gone, but Song noticed a cloak moving in the cart. We lifted it up, and found there our problem. The juvenile looked, wondering where the parents were and who we were, and was clearly getting ready to scream with tears. While The Doctor was running around the cart, waving his arms enthusiastically, and rejoicing for his associate Vicki and her husband, and Song was searching through her pockets for something to put in the child's hands to prevent an expressive reaction to the absence of parents, this abomination changed its mind about crying and decided to study the big shiny thing, that is, me. Well… Actually, yes, “well”. And there are no other words, except for this stupid “well”.       ‘It got me dirty!’ I feel the mud spots left on the outershell with my whole body. ‘It is dirty!’       Song corrects, ‘Not “it”, but “he”. It's a boy. Stop your hysterics, Wildy.’ She turns to The Doctor. ‘We can't leave a child here.’       ‘That's certainly out of the question!’ The Doctor objects, interspersing each word with cute coos with juvenile. Why do all the inferiors go crazy at the sight of cubs? ‘We can’t leave Vicki’s son in these wastelands. We’ll take him onboard.’       Meanwhile, the child understands that he won't be able to wriggle out of the Doctor’s hands and reach me just by kicking (which he obviously wants), so he sinks his sharp teeth into my enemy’s hand. The Doctor almost drops the little wretch with a scream. What a nice little trifle.       Song looks critically at this fight between a terrorkon and an urvacryl.       ‘You're not going to drag him to the AHoH Zone, are you?’       ‘I’m crazy, but not that crazy. Let's hire him... ug-oh... a nanny.’       She asks, ‘Do you have a nanny in mind?’       ‘Yes, Mary Poppins!’ The Doctor answers. Song gets a very strange expression on her face, an ironic half-smile and a distrustfully raised eyebrow. It must have been some kind of joke, the highbrow humor of which I didn't catch. And I have no desire to seach information about that female “Poppins”. ‘Let's go to the TARDIS. We need to look into the 21st century.’       The boy finally turns away, hitting The Doctor in the chin with his dirty heel. Of course, he immediately falls to the ground, but, jumps to his feet without tears and charges at me confidently, like a tank. I hate juveniles! They are dangerous! They know no fear and break everything they can reach! And this one can even climb, despite being only slightly taller than a test tube! It's good when you can scare them right away, then they keep their distance. But this offspring of an ancient warrior cannot be stopped with a simple “boo”. The instinct to shoot is so strong that my emitter twitches. And the wretch doesn't even understand what this threatens him with. Oooh! Unable to bear the provocation, I rise into the air to create the maximum inaccessible space between him and myself. Then an offended cry comes immediately from below.       ‘Well,’ Song asks cheerfully, leaning towards the boy, ‘didn't they give you a toy? Did the toy fly away?’       Whaat?!       ‘I’m. Not. A. Toy.’       ‘See? The toy says it's not a toy. Come on, come on. I'll show you something better, you'll like it.’       She picks up the show-off baby in her arms and drags him to the TARDIS. That's right, let him occupy the console! There's something to twist and unscrew there. I don't care, as long as he doesn't bother me and doesn't provoke me to shoot. I've endured so much on the TARDIS, but this is too much!       The Doctor moves after, rubbing his jaw, but very pleased for some reason. I need to go after them before they fly away without me. I descend to ground level and move through the doors just to hear The Doctor’s, ‘Oh, what's up?’       ‘Just a minus of the past, the lack of normal diapers.’ Song holds the baby under his arms, something is dripping from his heel, and there is a puddle on the floor. Ugh! ‘It's good that he's in just a shirt, less washing will be needed.’       The Doctor looks a little confused.       ‘Yes, yes, that's right!’ He slaps his forehead. ‘Look, River, take him to wash, and I'll clean up here.’       I drive around the puddle proudly. For why did they take this juvenile specimen from its natural habitat? There will be extra brain pain with it.       The Doctor is spinning around the "accident”. ‘I’ve already forgotten how to do it!’ He grabs his forehead with one hand, then the other. ‘It was so long ago!.. I need a rag, just a rag…’       They’re irritating me by all this fuss and bustle. I turn around, switch my emitter mode in unison with my graviplate, remotely collect the liquid into a ball and throw it out the half-open doors, then say into my microphone as most dry as possible, ‘Is this enough?’       The Doctor abruptly stops in a split pose. Then he draws himself up, adjusts his bow tie, straightens his jacket and nods with dignity, ‘Yes.’       I turn away and move on, to the galley and my scrambled eggs. Time to eat cesium. From behind I hear, ‘Errm… Thank you.’       Bipeds. They create their own problems, and I have to clean up after them. I can't stand it, I would destroy it, and must start with the little abomination that is now screaming from the bathroom for the whole TARDIS to hear.       Song sticks her head out from the corridor, which is inaccessible for me. She’s wet from head to toe and looks a little contused. ‘Doctor… Hey, I'm not very good with little ones. He won't let me!’       ‘Of course, it's his first time to see a shower.’ The Doctor, shining like a fuel rod in a puddle, rushes to the rescue. How disgusting. How good it is that we don't have any parental instincts that turn our brains into stupid jelly.       Song groans, ‘Wildy, look for baby clothes there!’ And she shows into the direction, forbidden to me.       ‘I don't have an access.’       ‘I made it for you.’       They've gone crazy with parental instincts, they don't even let me nourish myself! Seems, the dressing room is opposite the galley. Aha, maybe that drawer… I open it. I figure out what's lying there. Yeah, cool. A bottomless box, bigger on the inside. Not like the TARDIS, but on the principle of an ever-increasing drawer: you pull its content out, and pull it out more, and pull it out again, and it never ends. Finally, I pick up something small and drag it towards the bathroom, accompanied by soap bubbles flying out and the Doctor's delight voice: ‘You're as fair-haired as your mommy!’       A child's voice immediately echoes, ‘Mama?’       ‘Yes. You have a wonderful mommy. We used to have great adventures together. By the way, she wasn't afraid of the Daleks at all either. I remember once even she hitchhiking with their time machine. You're just like her.’       Whaa…? This makes me stop. Genetic resistance to fear of my people? This needs to be studied! Oh, give me a lab, and the juvenile with his mother in there!       I suddenly realize that Song is already standing in front of me, trying to pull the children's clothes out of my manipulator hand.       ‘What are you thinking about, Wildy?’       I give her clothes and boots and say, ‘Did The Doctor just say about a hereditary resistance to fear of the Daleks? Did humans invent a genetic modification that suppresses natural fear?’       Song stares at me with wide eyes for a rel, and suddenly doubles over in a fit of mad laughter. Why is that?       ‘I don't understand.’ I really don't understand what caused such a violent reaction. ‘Explain? Explaaain?!’       ‘Wildy,’ she moans through her laughter, ‘it's just a saying. The boy doesn't know that he should be afraid of you, that's all. He actually likes you. And The Doctor is joking. You can't take everything so literally.’       ‘Accepted.’       I turn around and go to my galley, my scrambled eggs and my cesium. Around me, a light version of the Asylum is happening: Song continues to laugh as crazy, the Doctor is demanding that he needs a towel and baby clothes, and the juvenile is even more demanding calling for his mother, sobbing at the top of his lungs throughout the TARDIS. It seems that someone still hasn’t managed to talk him into it. The wretch is bawling even when he is finally dragged out of the bathroom, dressed and combed, into the console room. He falls on the floor and kicks his legs hysterically: give him his parents, that’s all.       ‘We need to fly.’ The Doctor, as wet as Song, wipes his forehead and rushes to the console. ‘Clara is a professional nanny, she can wait with him while we get Vicki out.’       Song tries to take the boy, which makes him even more furious and starts to tear himself out of her arms, not listening to any persuasion. My auditory receptors are already overloaded by this juvenile space plankton! I throw all my cooking towards the black hole and go up.       ‘Silence immediately, or YOU WILL BE EXTERMINATED!’ I growl into the microphone at the top of my lung. The wretch does shut up, but clearly not out of fear. ‘Leave him alone, professor Song. May he do what he wants, just don't overload my receptors.’       The child wriggles out of Song's arms and crawls towards me on all fours, because I'm close enough to them now. He gets up and, barely reaching, starts to paw my emitter hand.       ‘Doctor, I'll stand here with him, just finally transfer us to this Clara of yours!’       I hate juveniles! And the little wretch babbles, ‘A-boo?’       ‘What does he want?’ I hiss, looking at the attempts to tear off my weapon.       ‘I bet, he is interested in what you are.’ Song sits on the floor and begins to adjust her wet curls. Definitely, the style of an indomitable comet in leather pants suits her better than the costume of a Victorian lady. ‘Look, boy, it's a Dalek. The most dangerous monster in the entire Universe.’       ‘Incorrect,’ I notice, ‘the most dangerous monster is attacking me now.’       ‘Wildy, are you afraid of children?’       ‘They are dangerous, illogical and unpredictable.’       ‘Wow, a Dalek with a phobia!’ The Doctor admires under the sound of the start.       ‘Children think very nonlinearly, so their actions are inpredictable. They are monstrous. We lost the first war with the Soolians because of children.’ I suppress the instinctive desire to shoot at the enemy again. It's better to pull the plug on the weapon, or the Doctor won't forgive me for killing this obnoxious little wretch.       ‘Soolians? Who's that, never heard of them?’       ‘Then forget.’ I answer. ‘We won the second war, and there is nothing left to discuss.’       Song coughs delicately into her fist. The Doctor winces. The juvenile, having pulled himself up on my emitter hand and rested against the second level of spheres, reaches for my photoreceptor. To dig out Miss Dalek's eye, no doubt. Of course, he won't break it, we're durable. But I'm still shaking, shaking, shaking of anger! Oh, if only I could afford one short disintegrating shot! I've suffered in a few days in the TARDIS more than in my entire past life, including the escape from Skaro. Everything is too different from the usual environment. Here I’m alone against a bunch of enemies. I'm all alone, understand? All alone, against everyone!       The little wretch slides off and hangs on the photoreceptor, swinging his legs.       ‘How much longer do I have to endure this?’ I ask The Doctor.       ‘About ten minutes. We're pretty far from the required time period.’       A little more than skarel. Go to the quasar jet, you all, to be sterilized from life! I turn off all my external systems and begin to review the obtained recordings. Knock me when this mockery ends, but I can't take it anymore.       The light scraping of small boots on the sides does not strain, when I disconnect from the outside world and occupy my hearing with the recording tracks. Everything is for its best, I can concentrate my mind on analyzing information. I scroll through all the available recordings at maximum speed, and at the same time study the scanned books. Gallifreyan is to me like a dark forest or the depths of ocean, but maybe there are drawings and more or less understandable diagrams that can be compared with what was found in the educational materials. Let's work, darling, let's work fast, without distractions or interruptions. All the reserves of your both brains, organic and electronic, there, into the matter. The analyzed and sorted information goes in the archive. I'll be tired as a slave, but it's better to work than to suffer from the instinct of self-preservation, which has entered into conflict with itself.       Finally, a distinct knock is heard from outside on the dome of my outershell.       ‘Hey, Wildy! Switch on! Hello?’       Seems, I have to put my work aside.       ‘Yes, Professor Song?’       The console closes the exit from the TARDIS to us, but now I can hear The Doctor arguing with someone, accompanied by the whining of a boy.       ‘That's it, Clara, no, no and no! This is my last word, you are not flying today! Please, help me for once normally, without arguing! I have someone to look after me, and this journey is too dangerous for you and this toddler! And yes, get him some diapers. He's from the past, there are none. Clara Oswald, did you hear? That's it!’       The TARDIS door slams shut with a bang. I'm a bit stunned by the rather abrupt switch from deep work mode to reality, so I don't immediately understand whose name was said and who this mysterious Clara Poppins really is. Then it dawns on me.       ‘Clara. Oswin. Oswald. EXTERMINATE.’       ‘Go to hell, you Dalek!’ The Doctor barks nervously, flying up to the console, and starts the engine before I can even get to him. ‘It's time to get away from that mad girl…’       ‘Are you running away from the girl again, and even leave her with a baby in her arms?’ Song jokingly rebukes him.       ‘Clara. Oswin. Oswald. EXTERMINATE. EXTERMINATE.’       ‘Shut up, you pepper shaker!’       ‘Hey, both of you, calm down!’       ‘EXTERMINATE. EXTERMINATE.’       ‘I said, CALM DOWN!!!’       The light flickers from this “calm down”, or from a bullet in the ceiling. The Doctor and I are freezing.       ‘I asked you not to shoot in my TARDIS.’ The Doctor says plaintively, catching his breath.       Only now I remember that I turned off my emitter by myself a few rels ago.       Song phlegmatically puts away her gun.       ‘It was you who forced me to take extreme measures. That's it, we're done. Wildy, go fry your omelette and make some for us too. With bacon for him, with cheese for me. Strong tea for him, a double Americano for me. Doctor, look at your console and get to work. I'll go set out the plates in the dining room. And we'll hold a small council on what to do with the AHoH Zone.’       And here we are at the table. Song and the Doctor are chewing on their lunch, I'm also sucking on my portion, having settled myself at the far end of the table. It is not very convenient to eat natural nourishment in a closed outershell, so we have to keep our distance. Perhaps, I make The Docktor sick, what’s the reason that he looks mostly at his plate. Song doesn't care, she happily tucks melted cheese onto her fork and reasons out loud, ‘If you think logically, The Ash-Heap of History is something like a warehouse of potential thought energy. An unnecessary thought falls there and freezes in stasis.’       ‘Incorrect.’ I say. ‘According to the Daleks' data, the AHoH Zone gradually processes everything that falls on it. At first, the object turns into its own information ghost, but if no one remembers it at all, the ghost also dissolves into pure energy and is released back into reality, acquiring a new form by the first consciousness it encounters. Otherwise, all the information in the Universe would have migrated there long ago.’       She clarifies, ‘That is, the transformation of kinetic energy into potential and back?’       ‘Yes, professor, if you are comfortable with such a simple analogy. But a closer comparison would be with a quasar, it’s the same mechanism. Absorption of thought, fragmentation, processing and release of pure primordial energy. Like an information black hole.’       ‘How can we get there?’       ‘In our case, we used suicide troopers and a special station the size of a planet. But for a Time wanderers, there is an easier way.’       ‘Which one?’ asks The Doctor, not taking his eyes off the remains of the fried eggs. As if I hadn’t told him that earlier!       I smile, although even seeing me outside the outershell, they will not notice my smile. What is the question, what is the answer.       ‘Have you read “Through the Looking Glass”? Hand the cake round first, and cut it afterwards. We will go to a time when you were completely forgotten, and then... Someday later, you will create this time.’       ‘In honor of what did you decide to read “Alice”? Aren’t you a Dalek?!’       I’ve told him about my info-addiction earlier! Bone head, bone brain.       ‘I had to spend nine and a half days on Earth before the “maaagic” blue box came in response to the call of my transmitter. It was impossible to capture the planet for the glory of the Empire, the Daleks would have found me right away. The interesting sections of the Internet ended fifteen rels after landing and acclimatization, then my waiting became too boring. All that was left was to read their literature.’       ‘So how was it?’       I wince, ‘Horrible. So much effort wasted on an aimless set of letters, which boils down to the idea: “All the world’s a shit, and all the men and women drowned in it”.’       ‘That explains everything!’ He mutters, hiding behind a fork with a piece of fried egg.       ‘What exactly does it explaaain?’       ‘Your vocabulary is much richer than that of an ordinary Dalek from the junior elite.’       Ah, varga’s tail, what else could I do except expand my repository of speech words? To spit on the attic ceiling?!       ‘It does not mean complete acceptance of all the words that are registered in it. These are just constants that should be understood in order to more effectively exterminate unnecessary plankton.’       ‘I know. But still, you have figurative speech, which cannot be said about your fellows.’       It is not a compliment. I'm trying to find some arguments to kick him back, but then Song chimes in again, ‘Okay, okay, let's leave these dangerous conversations, we have a more specific matter, and we can't get distracted from it. Doctor, can you find the time period we need?’       ‘I’m thinking about it. If we connect a randomizer to the time compass, reconfigure something, maybe we'll find a date that matches the description. After all, nothing's stopping us from an attempt.’       ‘That's great. Do you have any ideas on what this AHoH Zone looks like and what awaits us there?’       ‘No.’ The Doctor and I say in unison.       Song concludes cheerfully, ‘Excellent! That means we can feel like pioneers.’       She pushes away the empty plate and drinks her coffee, snacking on cookies.       I wish I had as much cheerful positivity and courage as she does. Unfortunately for me, I'm a coward and don't like to be in the first rows and lists of appointed volunteers. If a few days ago it still seemed to me that I had thought of everything perfectly. Now that the Zone is so close, I'm not at all sure of my own brilliant plan. What if we get blown to photons as soon as we materialize? I don't really want to die...       I quickly drink some water and move back into my shell. The Doctor immediately noticeably lets go. Correct, xenophobia about the Daleks is a nasty thing. I also don't like hanging around in the company of inferiors subject to elimination without the right to shoot. At least they remind me the Daleks a little, otherwise it would be just awful! Oops, the way back will definitely be “awful”. Two hundred and eighteen representatives of the universal plankton on board the TARDIS, that's like shooting myself.       Well, if there will a way back at all.