by Clive May
Fourth Doctor. Rated U
The copy right of Dr Who is owned by the BBC.
The being known as the Doctor tensed and sprang for the lever.
The Dalek guard unit switched into superspeed. To its senses the
scene shuddered into slow motion. It observed critically the
developing situation.
The Doctor, of course, would die.
The distance to the console was three metres, seven centimeters.
The time required by the Doctor to cross that distance at his
present acceleration was one thousand five hundred and eighty one
microseconds. The weapon could be discharged in five
microseconds.
Conclusion: The Doctor was dead.
The guard unit considered expending a whole one hundred
microseconds locking into the Command Net to seek verification of
its intended action, but orders were clear: The Doctor must be
destroyed!
While he lived the Doctor opposed the First Directive. No
opposition was tolerated to the First Directive.
To survive; to conquer to ensure that survival; to beat down all
opposition; to bring all life under Dalek command. That was the
First Directive. And its ruthless prosecution would lead
inevitably to the glorious destiny foretold by the Great Creator!
The sound of the Great Creator's voice echoed in its tissues. It
thrilled to the touch of that great unifying purpose of the Race;
and submerged its self in the fervour of the High Crusade.
It postponed the destruction of the Doctor. There was no
requirement for haste - only three microseconds had so far
elapsed.
It was two hundred and fifty two microseconds before it returned
its attention to the Doctor and the action.
The unit considered how best to use the remaining time to the
benefit of the Race. Another five microseconds passed before it
implemented the Second Directive: To gather information in all
situations; to enhance the Race Knowledge that it might be
applied in prosecuting the First Directive more efficiently.
It scanned the form of the Doctor. It marked and filed the hat
flying from the great bush of brown curls, the long
multi-coloured scarf trailing out behind, the great coat
billowing. It transferred its attention to the face. The mouth
was set in a wide determined grin showing a wall of white teeth
clenched to the task. The eyes fixed on the lever.
It noted calmly that another ten microseconds had elapsed. Soon
it would be time to destroy the enemy of the Race.
It charged its weapon. Five microseconds ticked precisely away.
It stood the weapon down.
Something in the scene was irritating that itch which had
tormented it from its very first moment of self awareness. Even
before it had been decanted from its womb tank.
It committed a further five microseconds to scan through its
electronic enhancements - no malfunctions there. The
difficulties, it already knew, had always known, lay with the
organic part of itself.
Itself?
Unit 417/45897D?
No! Still it did not feel "right".
Himself?
No!
Herself? Herself!
Ah! That was better! She went with that.
But the Race did not have gender? They had dispensed with that
messy and inefficient means of reproduction before the break out
from Skaro - a long age ago?
She took another ten microseconds to explore this new concept of
"femaleness". It had always been with her, an integral part of
her organic body. She now knew it for the source of that itch,
deep within her tissues, that no remedy had been able to sooth.
There was a rich vein of new understanding to be garnered by
applying this new perspective. Much information could be added
to the Knowledge and put to the furtherance of the First
Directive.
She dedicated a further fifty microseconds to the exploring of
this new way of seeing. She pulled up the memories of her
service to the High Crusade. She remembered in minute detail the
thousands of prisoners and enemies she had exterminated. Now
their incomprehensible actions made a sort of sense. The men
shielding the women, thousands of futile gestures. It never did
any good; but they went on doing it. And the women, shielding
the children, hiding them, throwing themselves upon a
non-existent mercy; and when that failed, upon the Dalek guns -
dying with a terrible fierceness.
And she had never understood why or cared - the First Directive
was ever before her.
The women! The children!
She experienced disturbing sensations deep within the heart of
her organic body. They were pain and remorse; but she did not
have words for them.
After only ten microseconds she was compelled to abandon her
examination. It was not the awful power to hurt that these
memories had suddenly gained; it was that the data being gathered
was becoming contaminated by emotional reaction. It was useless
to the furtherance of the First Directive.
She had discovered self-deception.
She switched her attention back to the scene before her. She
considered the Doctor frozen in a slow motion leap for the lever;
and reviewed all that was contained in the Race Knowledge
concerning him. He, too, had a First Directive. A cause that he
championed with a single minded dedication; she could understand
that dedication, if not the intent; she felt it in her tissues.
But his motivating genius was strange and exotic. It excited her
interest; and awoke a deeply buried urge, primal and half
forgotten.
Set against his, her First Directive was a sterile and dead
thing. Pointless and without purpose. She abandoned it as
worthless.
Whatever else had changed, she remained a Dalek. There could be
no confusion or indecision. She applied herself to this new way
with the same iron purpose that was her reason to be.
When he pressed the lever she would die. All the other units of
the Race within the installation, too, would die. And it was
right and proper.
It meant nothing that he would never know of the sacrifice she
made for him. Her only regret was that there was so little time
left to learn the meandering byways of this new thing. That, and
the extermination of the others of her race - she felt unhappy
about that. She pitied them that they would end without
experiencing this leaping joy, like to, but more intense than,
the adoration of the Great Creator.
She savoured every microsecond of life left. Learning to feel,
to see with new eyes, to experience with a different clarity.
And he was worthy of her regard. A fine and noble champion,
indomitable, uncompromising, deadly and determined. Almost a
Dalek.
Microsecond by microsecond her consciousness swelled, until she
felt that her armour must surely burst asunder with these
thrilling emotions. Her newly opened eyes saw that the grey
functionality of the complex was depressing.
She noted the other male. Harry Sullivan, her memories told her
that he was a formidable enemy of the Dalek Race, but he could
not hold a candle to her champion.
The woman at his side, Sarah Jane Smith, watched the Doctor, her
eyes full of excited fear, willing the champion on -
No!
She would tolerate no rival! She charged up her weapon.
One, two, three, four - at four microseconds she stood the weapon
down. Again, she had no words for the sensation that was
puckering her membranes - but she felt deeply the unworthiness of
it.
His hand neared the lever.
'Enemy of my people?'
Closed upon it.
'I love you!'
Pressed it home.
She died.
The Doctor bent and swept up his hat. He strode to the immobile
Dalek and dusted off the dome with an end of his long scarf. He
positioned the hat on itt. Crouching down he peered into the eye
stalk, and patted the wilting manipulator.
'There, old thing!' he said, and turned a toothy grin upon Harry
and Sarah.
'I told you the Neuronic Confuser would do the trick!'
Harry looked sheepish. 'Eh...I don't think so, Doctor.'
He shook the box in his hands. It rattled.
'It got stepped on in all the confusion - it's not working!'
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The end.
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If you enjoyed this, there is a linked story called
The Things the Flesh Remembered
which you might like to read.
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