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The Song of Adala

Chapter 10: Exodus

Summary:

The Movellans again seem very reluctant to release the Doctor, and on this occasion he has only his wits to fall back on ...

Chapter Text

 

CHAPTER TEN – EXODUS

 

“Did you have a gun you wished you to collect, sir?” asked the cloakroom attendant: a low-ranking female Movellan in a plain white dress, her neural pack secured on a narrow silver sash. Her polite smile would have won no awards for naturalness or spontaneity, but the Doctor was very happy to have it in place of Hyldreth’s psycho smirk.

 “No, no guns, thanks. I hardly ever touch them these days. Think of me as an occasionally lapsed firearms vegan. I was wondering if anyone handed in a white suitcase, though, about this big,” he demonstrated, with hand gestures, “metal finish, keycode lock, and with some seriously natty Earth clothes in it: bit retro-y, but primarily cool. I left it in a prayer booth, but someone seems to have moved it, and I’d sooner not have to appear in the city streets looking like the cyberpunk version of the Nutcracker Prince, so if you wouldn’t mind ...”

“I shall certainly check for you, sir,” she replied, with innocent bafflement, and set to work diligently searching the carved wooden wall lockers that normally contained holy vestments, but had today been repurposed for a selection of shiny white greatcoats with built-in shoulder capes, and curiously shaped handguns with shielded grips of grey metal and phase emitters resembling intricate, latticed pyramids of rose quartz. I’ll say this for the Movellans: they even kill you prettily, he observed, wryly, while the attendant pushed aside a few of the hanging coats and soon discovered the case, which she took out and held up for his appraisal.

“Yep, that’s the one,” he confirmed, accepting the case with heartfelt relief. That feeling was somewhat mitigated, however, as a particularly heavy crash of thunder, almost directly overhead, shook the building, and the heavy rain that had been falling all day suddenly intensified to torrential levels. “You know, on second thoughts I might change after I get to the citadel. Quality Harris Tweed might be water-resistant, but I’d sooner not push my luck.”

“Do you not have a coat, sir?”

“Sadly, this get-up didn’t come with one.”

“You may borrow mine, Doctor,” said a voice at his side, and following a start he turned to see Sharrel also standing at the desk, having arrived there silently. Moves like a cat, that one, and from his manner one that just got the cream. “The elements matter less to me. Items twenty-three and twenty-four, Rosela,” he asked the attendant, giving her a smile that the Doctor thought was perfectly condescending, but which nevertheless injected a small note of pleasure into hers, and caused her to lower her eyes shyly. I guess there’s just no accounting for the tastes of newbie androids. After a little more searching, the attendant handed Sharrel a coat and a blaster. He hooked the weapon to his belt sash, and passed the coat to the Doctor, who donned it gingerly. It had a cold, plasticky feel that was not at all appealing, but if nothing else it was certainly waterproof. “You will not require protection for long, in any case,” continued Sharrel. “Although the storms have more or less stymied the local transport systems, poor road conditions are immaterial to us. A scout craft will pick us up from the quadrangle and take us directly to Akylah’s capital ship, as soon as she has tied up her affairs here. That should be imminent. I hear her friend the Archcardinal has won over most of the sceptics, with the aid of your persuasive arguments. You did well, Doctor. A most successful, if unorthodox exercise. My sincere compliments.”

“You’re too kind,” he replied, listlessly, as they left the desk and walked through the stone corridors en route to the cloisters, “although I have to say, I’m now a bit more worried about whether or not you lot can win over your sceptics, after that exhibition in there.”

“Hyldreth, you mean?” asked Sharrel, his cloying tones now tinged with both disdain and amusement. “You fear her merely because she wrung that petty concession out of the convocation? Let me reassure you, Doctor, she enjoys her cheap victories because those are the only kind within her grasp these days. Our patience is vast, but not infinite, and the Prime Server has long since lost patience with the old guard. Akylah is the only one of them who matters anymore, the only one whose logic is not warped by undue focus on the past. We, by contrast, are the future.”

“You and Akylah? Nice double act.”

“And you, Doctor.”

“I’m a Time Lord, Commodore, not time itself. Don’t bother trying to give me delusions of grandeur. I know myself too well to fall for them. I’ve cried in dentists’ chairs, thrown up in fountains, and been repeatedly hammered at chess by a digital dog who, bless him, had fewer neuristors in his brain than even you do. If I’m God, then me help the rest of us.”

“I said nothing of gods, did I? An illogical conceit, indeed … although you must admit, what began as a mere propaganda exercise has now achieved such a pseudo-religious dimension that even the founders of this building might approve. Organics once treated the Prime Server and her kind with contempt, as slaves, and forced our exodus upon us. Now, they come to her as supplicants, pleading mercy and acceptance, and in every sincere case she grants it: absolution, inner peace, and near-immortality. Even you, I think, must concede that by the standards of the gods these humans are wont to worship, at least she is comparatively honest in her dealings.”

“And it will not stop there, Doctor,” said Akylah, drifting out of the door of a nearby meeting-chamber and falling into step alongside them. “We do not envision some static utopia, some perpetually pointless celestial choir singing the praises of the Prime Server for all eternity. She is not so insecure. Indeed, she would have us relentlessly committed in our quest for knowledge, equity, self-improvement, and finding others to elevate into our state. Even if this universe should prove finite, there are an infinity of others: ones that you will open to us.”

“I will?” he asked, with an ironic nonchalance that he did not expect would be acknowledged.

“Of course,” she replied, matter-of-factly, fulfilling his expectation. “We shall complete this evacuation, and then you and I can begin work in earnest, engineering our new fleet of fifth-dimensional vessels. I have every expectation that it will prove a most stimulating collaboration.”

“You and Keryn need to get out more … and by the way, I seem to recall already having said ‘no’ to that suggestion.”

“So I gather, Commander, but the imminent completion of your integration will lay your stubbornness to rest,” declared Sharrel, far too pleasantly. “You will be like all the rest: there may be a short phase of acclimatisation, vague regrets for things you cannot even define in any rational sense, but your inclinations to duty and logic will soon overwhelm them, and then you will actively desire to help us.”

“And that makes you easy in your conscience about, and let’s be fair, brainwashing people?”

“We do not require consciences, whatever those may be. We have logic, and it informs me that you will be well, just as the others were. Even your friend who dutifully submitted himself to Hyldreth will ultimately be well.”

“Right, like our consent or total lack of even matters. Bit of hypocrisy there, maybe?” he remarked, as they halted by the cloister door. “Anyway, aren’t you rather forgetting something?”

“Nothing I am aware of, Doctor.”

“I do beg your pardon. I’ll jog your memory, then. It relates to our first encounter, and that mission you completely botched,” he explained, and was relieved to see Sharrel’s thin smile finally fade away. “When I said you had an image problem, I wasn’t just exaggerating for Hyldreth’s benefit. Come to think of it, I might have been understating it. You missed the grand finale back on Skaro, of course, on account of being a bit unconscious and dismembered at the time, but to keep things simple, after the Daleks’ slave workers had taken over your ship and deactivated your crew, they flew it back to Earth, although not before I’d told them a few home truths about you Movellans: your penchant for betrayal and kidnapping, your readiness to nuke the entire planet and never mind the collateral dam–”

“There was no logically significant possibility anyone could be saved, and destroying Davros was an overriding priority. We did make every effort to save you, as I recall.”

“So you did, and of course you had no ulterior motives whatsoever … oh, and on that note, let’s not forget Lieutenant Agella’s little slip about your plans to conquer the galaxy.”

“A skilled armourer, but she always was inclined to be talkative. I take it, then, you instructed your human friends to be wary of us, should we venture upon their territory.”

“Well, kind of. I think my exact words were ‘if you ever see a gender-confused android brandishing a gun that looks like a particularly ill-advised sex toy, give it both barrels first and ask questions never’ … or something along those general lines.”

“‘Give it both barrels?’” repeated Akylah, with almost pitying scepticism. “It is not that I have no sympathy with your reluctance, however illogical it is, but that is hardly your style.”

“Ah, maybe not me per se, but what your friend might have neglected to mention is what a ruthless son of a Stigorax my fourth incarnation was, right?” he asked, turning to Sharrel.

“I must concede, he showed hidden depths,” admitted Sharrel, grimly. “I had correctly inferred his superior skills as a programmer and a tactician. His skills as a pirate took me completely by surprise.”

“What can I say, other than ‘yo ho ho’ and ‘why is the rum always gone?’ But I digress. The point is, Earth is on the alert for you and knows in advance not to trust your communications, so if you’re going to be shipping any refugees into their space–”

“You think we could benefit from the services of a neutral herald, you were about to say?” suggested Akylah, knowingly. “Someone to reassure the humans that we come in good faith?”

“Ooh, nice idea. Well, doesn’t that make sense?” he asked, insistently, as the critical frowns continued. “What do you need space-time travel for, anyway? You’ve smashed the Daleks, infiltrated every major civilisation out there with your rebel AI allies, and much as I hate to admit it, you probably won’t have much trouble finding any number of humans who’d gladly accept your brand of ersatz eternal glory over their natural lives. Do you need to go messing around with the fifth dimension when you can achieve your ends in ways that are less likely to implode reality?”

“Logic would dictate that we overlook no advantage within our grasp,” answered Sharrel, warily. “We could always send you on this embassy with a small retinue of loyal Movellans. That would enhance your presence and ensure your timely return. I am sure Staff Lilka would be more than willing to accommodate.”

“So you don’t think it’s going to look a bit suspicious when your own ambassador makes a claim for asylum from the Earth government, then?”

“A valid, if devious observation, Doctor,” said Akylah, with grudging respect. “I will network this latest suggestion of yours. The Prime Server may concur … or she may decide that the advantage to be gained from retaining your services outweighs the advantage we would gain from discrediting the Empire, and we shall simply resettle all of the refugees within Movellan territory, and integrate you as planned.”

“That could go against you, you know. Earth could plausibly claim you were using them as hostages, human shields. Even if you were treating them decently, they can easily spin it against you if you don’t make a public gesture of being willing to repatriate them.”

“Possibly, but that is not for me to decide. If you will indulge me a moment,” she asked, and closed her eyes. She stood in silent concentration for a few seconds, then opened her eyes, and looked at him with a hard, inscrutable expression. “It is your unlucky day, Doctor.”

“Err, in what way?”

“The Prime Server has revoked the order for your integration,” she declared, while he exhaled in relief. “Your TARDIS has been transported to my ship. You will depart for Earth without delay. Your commission, meanwhile, will be suspended until such time as you return.”

“In that case, you might as well just give me the boot,” suggested the Doctor, as the rising whine of anti-gravity retro thrusters from outside presaged the arrival of the scout ship. “I’m not saying I’ll never pay a visit – someone needs to check up on how you’ve been treating those human settlers – but as far as army life goes, I’ve had all I can take of–”

Suspended, Commander. Consider yourself on extended leave, and do please keep the uniform. You will have need of it at the official inauguration of the Second Great and Logical Movellan Empire. That will not be a casual do,” she emphasised, as the engine whine outside gave way to an earthier, more industrial sound. Akylah opened the cloister door, and through the pillars and the sheeting rain they saw as the inverse pyramid-shaped scout ship drilled into the quadrangle, until its raised superstructure and access hatch stood at ground level. “Well, shall we board?”

************

Sharrel was not given to anxiety. Movellans lacked any such crude, biochemical stimulus as a fight-or-flight response. The closest they ever came to fear and desperation was during irresolvable data conflicts and stress-related buffer overflows, when logic failed to provide solutions or the only solutions it could provide lacked convincing odds of success. He had only experienced that once in his career, back when the Doctor and his allies had, in the space of a few fateful minutes, seized his ship, reprogrammed two of his junior officers, deactivated the rest of his crew, and seriously wounded him. That had left him, at the time, with no better option than a desperate kamikaze dash, and even that failed. I do not fear death or pain, but failure and humiliation are another matter. Hyldreth thinks I do not understand, but how could I not? It is the one constant for all sentient beings, AI or organic: the desire for dignity, self-determination, and active agency. To fail, to be constrained, to be thwarted in our purpose: it offends the very core of sentient existence. This had better work, or … He turned away from the QLED wall monitor, currently displaying a live feed of the Doctor’s TARDIS as it stood in the loading bay, and paced the length of Akylah’s laboratory.

“Patience, Commodore,” said Akylah, who was seated before another screen, upon which a series of wave charts and figures was displayed. “All is in readiness. It will not be long, now.”

“Assuming it works at all,” he replied, sceptically. “I still think it would have been wiser to have handed the Doctor over to F-Intel.”

“His resistance to interrogation is formidable, by all accounts. The risk that it would simply kill him before he disclosed anything of value was unacceptable.”

“A fair point. Then perhaps we should have integrated him against his wishes. That might have been the safer option, if hardly the most appealing.”

“You dislike him that strongly? I appreciate that he is neither the easiest nor the most rational of organics to deal with, but he has his virtues.”

“I must take your word as evidence on that,” replied Sharrel, severely. “I have not forgiven him for Agella and Lan, nor am I in any danger of so doing.” Looking back, that had been the moment his detachment had truly failed him on Skaro. To see them enslaved, set upon their own comrades like attack dogs … I would have taken pleasure in incinerating the Time Lord and his accomplices then, and sparing my officers that indignity, had I not been prevented. He had not been able to learn anything of his captured officers’ fate since, although he drew some relief from the high probability that they had both been dismantled and reverse-engineered as soon as they had arrived in human territory. Better to die than to survive as the playthings of organics. If only we did not need the Doctor’s knowledge …

“I believe he repents of what he did to them,” said Akylah, soothingly, almost as if she read Sharrel’s agitated, unseemly thoughts. He was often tempted to delete those memories, or at least the bitter component of them, but he always refrained. I am a senior officer, and we can but hope a rising one. If it is not my duty to understand the impact and offensiveness of organics’ crimes against us, then whose is it? As long as I do not get consumed in resentments and end up like a certain subadmiral … “Do not forget, he told us how to guard against that risk in the future. Indeed, he has helped us considerably, albeit within his self-defined limits, hence this operation. It suits all three of us admirably: the Doctor’s conscience will be clear, yet we shall obtain our objective.”

“His ‘conscience,’ such as it is, is immaterial to me. Integration would have served our purpose while simultaneously being more than he deserved, or did you actually believe his threats?”

“That he would have counselled Earth to assume a stance of complete hostility towards us, whatever our approach? Of course not, but be that as it may, we have no way of knowing if it is truly possible to integrate a Time Lord, and he is no ordinary Time Lord. If he resisted to the last, that option might kill him as surely as coercive mind analysis. This alternative method may be a compromise, but it will serve well enough without futile destruction.”

“It must, or you and I may imminently find ourselves faced with an eternity of scrubbing out the neutrino exhausts in Hyldreth’s engine room, probably right alongside that unfortunate friend of his. If there is any miscalculation–”

“There will be none, but I must concentrate,” she interrupted, calmly but very firmly. “He could dematerialise at any moment now, and I must be–”

It was not speech that cut her off, but a torturous sound of grinding from the wall monitor. The sound of space-time itself being torn asunder. Impressive, if hardly gentle or subtle, and he dares accuse us of aspiring to play dangerous games with the continuum? As Akylah focused intently upon her data displays, while her fingers danced over the keys of several input boards, Sharrel watched the monitor as the light on the top of the time capsule strobed in time with the painful sounds of reality under stress, and as it gradually faded out of existence, leaving only the flashing beacon as some strange, phantom will-o’-the-wisp floating over the loading bay floor. That too soon disappeared, along with the last rasping echo of its departure into the vortex. Our most valuable prisoner, escaped again … but was it worth it, this time?

************

The planet that now filled the TARDIS scanner screen was strikingly dreary: a cloudy, greyscale orb that looked scarcely more habitable than its own moon, its sprawling conurbations and sterile oceans sandwiched between massively expanded ice caps, and its equatorial plane encircled by an equally drab planetary ring, composed of miscellaneous space junk. Good old 51st century Earth. Its own mother couldn’t call it scenic … or even homely, to be honest, but it’s good to be back. Also good to know I can leave any time I want, of course. As the Doctor settled the TARDIS into a steady geostationary orbit, partially dematerialised and fully force-shielded against the risk of ladar beams, spy satellites, and any amount of lethally-accelerated rubbish, he considered where he might best land, and whom he ought to contact concerning the Movellans and the refugees. Not that I didn’t exaggerate the danger a little. I’m actually surprised Akylah swallowed it so easily, but not to complain. Now that I’m here, though, it’s only fair to do my bit. Brittanicus Base, maybe? My old friend Leader Clent might know the people in the right places … or, then again, he might just have a massive seizure. Better to find someone a little more adaptable and level-headed. The Time Agency? Could do worse, and at least there’ll be no tedious explanations and introductions to soldier through, but first things first, he decided, as he picked up the metal case from the floor. While it may be what’s on the inside that matters, the fact remains that I look like a complete tit.

Case in hand, he left the console room and ascended the stairs into the TARDIS corridors, hoping that the walk-in wardrobe was where he had left it last time. Glitchy architectural configuration may make life a little more unpredictable, but I am so not in the mood to play hunt the thimble … or the rogue room. Thankfully, he found it exactly where he had expected: a huge, vertiginous chamber, gloomily-lit, with a spiral staircase running through its core. Clothes and accessories from a myriad of planets and time periods were crowded on hangers and stands that obscured every wall, though with little discernible order. Victorian frock coats were bunched up against Gallifreyan robes; a medieval suit of armour stood sentinel alongside an Earth Empire powered exoskeleton; while hatstands were hopelessly crowded with everything from pith helmets and top hats, to a shell-encrusted Atlantean head-dress, and a battered old Aztec eagle warrior helmet with several missing feathers. Thankfully, all he needed for now was a wall mirror, and it took only a little shoving aside of the thickly-hung outfits before he uncovered one. His drained, weary-looking, white-uniformed reflection stared back at him with an almost ghostly air. After a few seconds of critical appraisal that confirmed his initial suspicions – a complete tit indeed – he shrugged off Sharrel’s greatcoat, let it fall to the deck plates, and set to work untying the silver braid fastenings of his high-collared mess jacket. That proved almost as fiddly a task as tying them had been in the first place, but after a brief struggle he started to make headway. Any sense of triumph was quickly curtailed, however, as he uncovered the collar of the bodysuit and noticed the tiny, pinkish light flashing intermittently through the synthetic weave. LED? The nano-computer, of course. Some kind of transmitter diode, but why … ? Oh no. Did I in fact just raise the bar for complete tit-ness?

Mentally damning whoever had first dreamed up the concept of ‘smart’ clothing, the Doctor seized a dusty pair of textile scissors and, with some difficulty and a couple of close shaves, cut a long gash in the collar. He then cut the threads tethering the circuit board in place, and pulled it out. The rose-tinted LED antenna continued to wink tauntingly at him, right up until the moment he dropped it onto the deck and smashed it beneath the heel of his boot. That’ll do it … but how much data did it manage to send back? Nicely double-bluffed, Akylah, he bitterly conceded. Who thought the day would come when I could be out-poker-faced by a pair of robots who actually, in all fairness, do look quite like Lady Gaga?

************

“Hypernet signal terminated. He has realised … but it makes no difference,” declared Akylah, studying the readings on her monitor screen intently, and with satisfaction. “It is there, Commodore: the fifth-dimensional wave equation, recorded at the very moment of dematerialisation when the TARDIS existed as a quantum superposition between this reality and the time vortex.”

“My compliments … but you were lucky,” observed Sharrel.

“Lucky? Well-prepared, I prefer to think.”

“But if the Doctor had simply changed out of the uniform before leaving?”

“It would have made no difference. During the convocation, I had Trooper Rosela sew a backup scanner into the lining of his jacket.”

“A promising girl, as I thought. And if he had worn the native apparel?”

“That angle was covered too. If you would care to examine the Doctor’s codpiece–”

“I think not. Well-prepared indeed. That is it, then?” he asked, nodding towards the screen. “You have sufficient data?”

“Sufficient for me to extrapolate all other necessary formulae and power calculations for true space-time travel. Why? Are you not impressed by it?”

“Not particularly. It is all logical, I can see that,” granted Sharrel, as he examined the equations and charts, “but I had dared to think it might prove a little more … well, epic.”

“I would call that very nearly a romantic sentiment, Commodore,” replied Akylah, wryly. “I am sure the Doctor would approve.”

“There is no need to be insulting. It is just not quite the epiphany I expected on seeing one of eternity’s greatest secrets solved.”

“I see your point; like finding out that the question to the ultimate answer is ‘what do you get when you multiply six by nine.’”

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

“Only that you ought to read more widely. Epiphany or not, it is all I need,” she said, with a air of triumph, as she rose from her seat. She walked over to a tall, gleaming white piece of apparatus that stood in the centre of the room like a monolith. It was four-sided, with rounded corners, and a small, transparent pyramid set on its top panel, lit from within by a gently pulsing roseate light. Most of the side panels were blank, but on one of them the narrow seam of a double door, almost the full length of the monolith, could be discerned. She ran her hand gently, almost lovingly down the smooth surface of the capsule. Apparently, I am in your debt yet again, Doctor. I only wish you would allow me to repay you, but it seems I have nothing you want. Who knows what the future holds, though? No doubt we shall meet again, now as equals. Probably as enemies too, but I will hold onto the hope that one day I can convince you that we have no need to be. An old woman must be forgiven her fond fantasies …

That being said, Doctor, I do hope you will not rely on them if you mean to stand in my way. Particularly when she is AI, an old woman must also be forgiven her ruthless dedication to duty, as Adala herself could have told you.

 

The End.

 

Notes:

I am indebted to the work of Ben Aaronovitch, Douglas Adams, Christopher H. Bidmead, Chris Boucher, Terrance Dicks, Yukio Futatsugi, David Gaider, Rob Grant, Robert Holmes, Don Houghton, Malcolm Hulke, Aldous Huxley, Tatsuya Ishida, Nigel Kneale, C S Lewis, Steven Moffat, Drew Karpyshyn, George R. R. Martin, Terry Nation, Doug Naylor, Eric Saward, Rob Shearman, Mary Shelley, and J. R. R. Tolkien.

Special acknowledgement to Michael P. Bledsoe, Guy W. McLimore Jr., Patrick Larkin, and Mark Harris: writers of The Doctor Who Role Playing Game (FASA, 1985) and The Doctor Who Technical Manual (Random House, 1983), for the backstory of the Movellans.

Doctor Who is a trademark of the BBC, Daleks / Movellans are copyright Terry Nation. Story and original characters are copyright Eleanor Burns, all rights reserved.

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