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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!' 

Page 18 
   

'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 -' 

Page 19 
   

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. 

Page 20 
   

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. 

Page 21 
   

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. 

Page 22 
   

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. 

Page 23 
   

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?' 

Page 24 
   




Page 25 
   

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?' 

Page 26 
   

'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.' 

Page 27 
   

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. 


