Doctor Who and the Universe of the Daleks: Chapter 14: Into The Breach

Welcome to another bit-sized chapter, abridged for the Tik Tok generation! Who says an old tiger can't change his stripes, or medium, or apps, or service provider? Is blogging even a thing anymore?

Wendy stooped down and picked up a large rock, lifting it up using her knees. Proper form was key to avoiding injury. Injury was death. The Daleks swiftly disposed of anyone unproductive. Her work team had been shoring up the hanger tunnel all day. Ten hours? Twelve? They’d been given a ten minute break, then sent topside and reassigned to debris clearing. There’d been a few incidents of rocks damaging the saucers: as they rose out of the tunnel, their antigrav engines sometimes caught up debris in their wake vortice. 

This would be the last shift of the day. Phil and Molly had retrieved wheelbarrows from the work shed depot. 

She walked over to Phil’s and dropped the rock in with a clunk, wiped sweat from her brow, and risked a glance over her shoulder. The Dalek had moved on, checking on other work details to the north. The two robomen unrolled their whips and walked among the slaves, slashing at them if they dared to pause. One was tall with red hair, the other built like a boxer. His name had been Madden. He’d been a slave for several months before he’d been converted. 

He’d always shared his bread ration. 

As he approached, she quickly bent down and grabbed another rock, following his progress out of the corner of her eye.  

As she stood, she noticed another work detail walking out from behind the work shed. It was coming in their direction. Wendy squinted. She didn’t have her glasses, but this lot looked much better fed than was typical. Their clothes, too, were in good condition. And the boots! What wonderful boots they wore, she thought enviously. Several held bundles wrapped in cloth. 

Strange. 

Who were these privileged prisoners? 

Ah. They were actually making for the access shaft. 

One of the robomen peeled off and walked towards her. Madden went to intercept, to confer, as was roboman custom.

They exchanged a few words. Too far away for her to hear. She had to keep busy putting rocks into the wheelbarrow. But she did notice Madden stiffen. That meant he was waiting for orders. Something untypical was happening. The other roboman stepped neatly past him and approached Wendy.

He piqued her curiosity: this roboman moved a little too fast, too surely. 

“Don’t react,” said the burly fellow. His face was stoic, but his eyes! His eyes were lively. Expressive. Wendy looked him over: he wore a pristine flight suit and carried a good deal of equipment, including something wrapped in a sack slung over his shoulder. A shovel, perhaps? He was armed with a submachine gun, and his strong chin was covered in stubble. “You’re Wendy? Just nod.” 

She gaped. He sounded normal! Impossible! Had his helmet short circuited? Had he killed a roboman, and stolen it? Should she alert the other roboman? Would they kill her for failing to?

“My name’s Sergei,” he said with a big, toothy grin. “I’m with your sister. I’m here to rescue you.”

Doctor Who and the Universe of the Daleks: Chapter 13: Sergei And The Pit

No, not that pit. The one in alternative-future Bedfordshire, 2150 A.D.

Sergei peered up over the edge of the construction material disposal pit. There was a work shed directly ahead, and stacks of broken planks to either side, high enough to obscure line of sight. “It’s clear,” he said over his shoulder, and hefted himself up over the edge. “Come on!” He crept over to the shed and peeked out. 

The access shaft was directly ahead, across a muddy field littered with large chunks of rock. The shaft was ringed by metal sheeting mounted on wooden pylons driven deep into the mud. There was a single deeply inset bronze metal door; an open stairwell was beside it with a thin metal railing. 

There was a faint ping. A light above the bronze door lit up, the door swung to the side, and a Dalek hovered out over the metal sheeting, followed by two robomen. They flanked the stairs as a stream of exhausted workers in tattered clothes trudged out and formed a line.

“Pizdets!” swore Sergei softly. No way they could get past that lot unnoticed. Fortunately, that might not be necessary. Ben and Craddock came up behind him. 

Both were wearing silver metal robomen helmets!

In a fabulous stroke of luck, they’d found two robomen corpses under a pile of loose rocks in the tunnel. Both had been shot, and their helmet location beacon smashed. Probably killed by the black marketeers. One of the helmets had been caved in at the back, but if not examined too closely, no one would notice. 

The work team out there was definitely too close. 

He felt a small hand on his shoulder. “Wendy!” blurted Cas.

Sergei looked back at her with alarm. “Ssh! They will hear.” 

Cas flung out an arm and pointed. “That’s my sister,” she hissed, pointing at a petite woman in a torn blue dress at the end of the line of slave workers. “She’s alive!”

Well, thought Sergei, that complicates things. 

Sergei straightened up behind the shed and pulled Cas back with him.

He considered a moment. As much as he wanted to deliver destruction to the Fascist tin pots, he knew the team needed Cas more. The revelation that Cas' sister was alive would break her focus. Family bonds were strong, as Sergei knew. “I will save her,” he whispered to Cas. “You go ahead. Complete the mission. You only need one helmet.” He snapped his fingers at Ben. “Helmet please.” 

Doctor Who and the Universe of the Daleks: Chapter 12: Hate Is Purity, Purity is Hate

Am I timely or what?!?

Red Dalek Gar glided confidently into the Infinity Forge, followed by a metallic blue domed science Dalek and a gold Dalek with gloss black sensor globes. They stopped, forming a line, before the imposing Time Strategist. Gar had brought the lead of the conversion team along in anticipation of operational review by SKARCOM. Any operational eccentricities would fall on the Strategist!

“DALEK SU REPORTING,” grated the Gold Dalek. 

“Excellent,” exulted the Time Strategist, sweeping in an arc around them. “EXCELLENT! Its memories are intact? It is aware of its former existence as Susan?”

“AFFIRMATIVE,” said Gar. 

Dalek Su’s energy compensators flashed: “I SEE THE PATH: HATE IS PURITY. PURITY IS VICTORY. VICTORY IS SURVIVAL—” 

“LOG OBJECTION!” the science Dalek interjected, jittering in situ. “THIS IS AGAINST ALL PROTOCOL. COMBINED WITH ACCELERATED GENE BATH POSES CONDITIONING ISSUES. ALIGNMENT CANNOT BE—”

“SILENCE!” snapped Kur. “Your generation has no appreciation for the beauty of annihilation. The Doctor’s progeny, his genetic future, has not merely been snuffed out, but co-opted by his most hated enemy! This is a resounding triumph in its own right!”

“IT YIELDS NO OBJECTIVE RESULTS,” blared the agitated science drone. “EMOTIONAL IMPACT IRRELEVANT!”

“On the contrary,” purred Kur languidly. “Psychological warfare is supremely efficient: destroy their spirit and you destroy their physical capabilities without wasteful resource expenditure. You must learn to think beyond hygiene protocols. The material. Not only will this cripple The Doctor’s cognitive functioning, it will be intensely pleasurable to witness. You will see. Is the ambush prepared?”

“ALL UNITS ARE IN POSITION.” 

“Excellent. Initiate stage one power build-up of Project Infinity. Victory is at hand!”

Doctor Who and the Universe of the Daleks: Chapter 11: Mission Impossible

It always is, with The Doctor, isn't it?

The Doctor and Cas crouched down and scampered up to the crest of the ridge overlooking the Dalek mining site. Fiona was waiting for them; she handed a pair of binoculars to Cas. 

The Doctor took a few moments to process the view. A dozen massive, conical structures of reinforced Dalek concrete ringed the western side of the site, their open tops belching pillars of white steam. Thick cables ran down to a huge rent in the earth, two soccer pitches in diameter, at the centre of the compound. At each point of the compass was a cylindrical access shaft. Five meters down the hole, sectioned metal roofing, undergirded by a web of support struts, extended slowly inward. A building sized crane, mounted on a dozen railway tracks, ground back from the pit’s edge. 

Overlooking the site to the north was a sheer cliff face, into which was built a looming Dalek installation of metal and concrete. To the West was a helipad, beside which squatted a domed structure with a ring of tubes extending out from the top, which glowed phosphorescent blue-green: Taranium processing!

Thousands of human slaves swarmed about like ants: extending the helipad with tiling, laying new building foundations, setting up metal sheeting around the hole, and clearing away construction detritus, all while watched by robomen armed with whips and submachine guns. A few Dalek supervisors were stationed in overwatch positions.

Odd there weren’t more about.

The Doctor shifted his gaze to the outer defences: the camp was ringed by a three meter high wire fence with wooden towers every fifty meters, manned by robomen. Twenty meters of barren earth extended out on either side, in which nothing grew.

“That Death Strip will be difficult to cross in daylight,” grumbled Cas, handing the binoculars to The Doctor. “There are Dalek hover tracks running along it, but no external Dalek patrols I can see. Best to wait till dark.”

“That’s at least two hours away. May be too late,” said the Doctor quietly. He looked over his shoulder as Sergei, Ben and Craddock moved up beside them. Ian, Sanjay and Reuben stood guard at the base of the ridge. “They’re preparing for something. Clearing out the workers. Odd they’re closing off that shaft. Was it here the last time?”

Cas shook her head. “We did have intel, about two months ago? One of their primary battle saucers hovering over the site, on columns of searing white light, followed by blasts of thunder. Perhaps that was related, cutting it out.”

Fiona gestured to the north. “There are some old human-built access shafts, from before the Daleks occupied the site, along the ridge. Black marketers use them. Exit in one of their waste pits. We’d need a ladder, but it would allow us to bypass the outer security.”

“We passed an abandoned fire truck half a click back,” noted Ben. “It had ladders.”

“Good thinking,” said Cas with obvious relief. She got up and tapped Ben on the shoulder. “Right, take Sanjay and grab a ladder. We’ll secure the tunnel. No Slyther?”

Fiona paused a moment, as if in a trance, then said: “It’s for construction waste material, not bio waste.”

The Doctor pondered the gaping hole in the earth. Whatever the Daleks were planning, it required a great deal of power. Taranium introduced another wrinkle: it was used in Dalek time travel technology. “The question is, what do we do when we get in there?”

“Blow up that command complex,” said Craddock, patting a satchel at his waist. Each of them was carrying six packets of Craddock’s high explosive putty and three detonator sticks. 

“We need to target key infrastructure of Project Infinity.” The Doctor nodded at the cliff installation. “That’s the operations hub, but is it the crux of Project Infinity?”

Craddock merely shrugged. 

The Doctor took stock: “Right. What do we know? They’re digging into the core of the earth. Taranium, Eye of Harmony, and my granddaughter means they’re also messing with time. All are definitely interconnected. Odds are co-located.”

“Makes sense” said Cas. “But that just leads back to the command complex, doesn’t it?”

“What about the power cables?” asked Sergei. “If we cut those, it’ll cripple whatever it is they’re doing.” 

“Good thought, but not necessarily. Now shh!” snapped the Doctor. “I need to concentrate.” He sat down cross legged on a flat rock just below the ridge. He rested his wrists on his knees, palms opened upward, and closed his eyes. 

With calm, regulated breathing, he cleared his mind, just as K’anpo Rimpoche had taught him all those lives ago. 

At the very edge of consciousness, he felt the faintest echo of Susan’s recursion loop. Not enough to contact directly. There was far too much psychic noise. Angry Dalek cognition spikes. But he could determine the direction of Susan’s cognition. He locked in on it, then snapped open his eyes. Unsurprisingly, he found himself staring at a point beneath the earth, slightly to the east of the main shaft. “That one,” said the Doctor, pointing at the east access cylinder stub. “The operational hub for Project Infinity is down there.”

Craddock scowled. “Based on what?”

“Call it a gut instinct.”

He had to get down there!

Cas considered. Then: “Agreed. We aim for the east access shaft. Let’s move people!”

Messiah Elect

Religion and politics?

Doctor Who and the Universe of the Daleks: Chapter 10: The Dark Musings of Dalek Tyr

Tyr was frustrated. Not only was it uncomfortable being latched on to the back of a dirty ape, the human wasn’t filtering out enough of the Terran atmospheric contaminants. Tyr was being slowly poisoned, orbit by orbit. 

Drowning in human stink.

And yet Tyr had managed to outwit the humans, successfully blend in long enough to reach the outskirts of the Bedfordshire mining complex. 

Unfortunately, they hadn’t run across a single Dalek patrol. Where were the perimeter drones? What was going on? 

They’d only encountered mindless Slythers, which were as likely to devour Tyr as the humans, and witless robomen. These disposable automatons were as likely to shoot Tyr on sight as take it prisoner. 

They were not programmed for edge cases, or nuance. 

No, Tyr needed to surrender the humans to a Dalek patrol. Call out in Dalekese through the human, or better yet, get close enough for a telepathic connection. 

Without getting exterminated first.

Even then, it would be risky. Tyr calculated a 75% chance he would be exterminated merely for merging with human filth. 

To cleanse a possible disease vector. 

Why take the risk of contamination?

To be accepted back into Dalek society, Tyr needed a victory. A dramatic one. Anything less and the risk of being discarded as defective was too great. 

If, however, Tyr were to intervene against the human terrorists at the last moment, thereby preventing a colossal disaster… if Tyr saved Project Infinity, for example, that would prove its superlative worth! 

No review commission could then assign Tyr to the discard pools. 

It’s earlier defeat would be forgotten!

As its human host continued to mindlessly march forward, Tyr considered. The young female was intelligent for its kind, and might believably deduce vulnerabilities in the Dalek facilities. A few hints might be enough. The Doctor had a formidable intelligence… perhaps no intervention would be necessary. That would be safer, in case any were captured alive. 

It was a high risk, high reward strategy. 

But Tyr liked the alternatives even less. 

Outrage marketing strikes again!

Media conglomerates are deliberately rage baiting audiences in order to generate social media traction and raise their corporate cinema slop to the top of the algorithm.

If you know, you know. 

They don’t care about the ‘argument’. They don’t care about right or wrong. They care about making a lot of money, and if that means stoking division, hatred, anger and even social collapse, so be it!

What do the algorithms prioritize? Car crashes. Doesn’t matter if they are figurative (whether it be philosophical, political, religious, sexist or something else) or literal.

Controversy and outrage drive attention.

Social media adds accelerant.

Every time an FB user says ‘f*k u’ an angel gets their wings… and FB gets a dollar (Yes, I’m exaggerating).

Facebook doesn’t care about the social good: they even helped facilitate a genocide against the Rohingya Muslim minority in Myanmar. They give discounts to incendiary hate-baiting accounts. Read Careless People by Sarah Wynn-Williams for more about the behind-the-scenes at your favourite f*ckable-face social media app.

They only care about growing, like a virus, or a cancer, as Agent Smith might say.

Apparently, there are AI troll farm accounts posting extremist memes to the hard right, which generate attention and money for the meme-master. They tried the left wing angle and found it didn’t generate enough cash.

Darkly hilarious.

The FSB/KGB doesn’t care about the money, though: they’re in it for the vitriol. They do it all, venomous right wing extremism today and leftist tomorrow, all part of an unbroken tradition going back to the legendary KGB intelligence officer Ivan Ivanovich Agayants, who orchestrated anti-semitic attacks across Europe in the wake of WWII.

Of course, first he ran them in Russia, outside Moscow, where KGB agents smashed gravestones and daubed swastikas about with wild abandon. Because user testing is key! Am I right or what? It got the desired result: a number of villagers took this as permission to carry out real anti-semitic attacks, so the operation was taken global.

Nothing says ‘integrity’ like ‘intelligence officer’ (Remember the CIA's MKULTRA Subproject 68: mind control experiments on patients in Québec, when Canada was a staunch US ally).

Former KGB General Oleg Kalguin said the purpose was to ‘mainstream anti-Semitism’. They had yellow swastikas painted on graves on Staten Island, wrote hate to Jewish American leaders, vandalized synagogues, and worse.

Even better, from their point of view, was the vast ocean of racial bigotry they could weaponize in the United States.

Most importantly?

They’ve never stopped, and now they have the biggest, richest, most powerful companies in the world following in their innovative wake.

They want us angry. They want us yelling at each other, they want hate and disruption, chaos and ultimately (the FSB at least) civil war and social collapse in the West. 

And they LOVE the toxicity of the algorithm. They couldn’t have written it better themselves. 

Because the methods of the modern FSB/KGB/NKVD/OGPU on social media are indistinguishable from Social Media companies and their Outrage Marketer brethren.

The argument isn’t real. It’s a troll and a con.

The fight isn’t real. It’s engineered. Remember 'The medium is the message'? Here, the signal is social discord.

It’s ‘Let’s you and him fight’ bullshit.

You are being manipulated. We all are.

Why? So unprincipled corporate executives can sit back and make a bigger buck.

Be like Roy Scheider: take a step back from the chum.

Doctor Who and the Universe of the Daleks: Chapter 9: The Mission Supreme

Doctor Who fanfic I wrote just because. 

The Mission Supreme Ix glided along the corridor to the Command Cortex. This area was new, built to the Time Strategist’s exacting specifications. The designs had at first flummoxed the Supreme, who was unfamiliar with the science and principles involved. The Strategist had to provide a second, and then a third, set of supplementary, foundational material before Dalek engineers could begin construction. Once completed, the engineers were set to work on fission stacks and the colossal matter condensers. 

Project Infinity had stretched the resources of Task Force Terra to the breaking point. Worse, the Supreme had to disperse staff to nine new mining sites. Only the introduction of human clone workers had made the scope of the operation possible. 

Barely.

But the Supreme had little choice: Skaro High Command had acquiesced to the Time Strategist’s plan. The scope of Operation Infinity was daunting, unlike anything SKARCOM had conceived to date. It could ensure Dalek domination of the entire galaxy. Guarantee victory on all fronts! Puzzlingly, SKARCOM refused to authorize additional personnel. The Dalek fleet was already overstretched; destruction of rival space faring powers took precedence over Earth, which had been seen as a long term, light resource lift. 

The Mission Supreme had raised concerns, in detail. In response, the Strategist provided specifications for advanced incubation chambers to convert irradiated humans into Daleks. Dirty fission stacks would provide the first step of this process, as a secondary benefit. The Strategist even promised a 50% improvement in cognitive function and tripled psycho-kinetic power.

Ix shuddered involuntarily inside its biopod. Daleks grown from these pathetic, walking slugs! An insignificant species that had not even mastered the basics of interstellar travel. It was perverse! Yet again Ix had no choice, given mission scope. 

Ix needed more personnel!

Mission Supreme was without influence: it had these new ‘Daleks’ designated as Subclass: Maggots. Impure spawn would not partake in the glorious Dalek Symphonies of Hate, the Death Cries of the Unclean, or the Poetry of Purity! 

If only the Strategist had not proved so indisputably useful… the Supreme delighted in fantasy, conceiving sublime tortures it could inflict upon the Strategist, the presumptuous interloper from the future. It had taken over the Supreme’s mission without regard for hierarchy or hygiene. 

Victory would no longer belong solely to the Supreme, and this it deeply resented. Outside of itself, everything was an enemy to be despised. 

It was only a matter of degree.

The entrance door to the cortex swept up into the wall with a resounding clank, and Mission Supreme advanced inside. 

The Time Strategist Kur’s black and gold casing gleamed in a pool of light at the centre of the vast chamber, surrounded by massive screens. It had an extra neck grating, with thick external metal clamps crossed over by two elegant gold rings. Its eyestalk lens glowed a brilliant blue.

Maps of the earth, data streams, and construction crew video feeds flickered across the monitors. Around the rim of the room was a ramp leading down into a long, circular trench, in which dozens of drone Daleks were jacked into pulsing data terminals. 

The Supreme halted a dozen feet away from the Strategist, and began to give it’s report. “LAST SHIPMENT OF TARANIUM FROM PLANET VII HAS BEEN PROCESSED AND DISTRIBUTED TO SUBSITES FOR TEMPORAL SHIFT GENERATORS. EYE OF HARMONY HAS BEEN SUCCESSFULLY EXTRACTED AND INTEGRATED WITH CONTROL SYSTEMS. THE DOCTOR HAS ESCAPED, ASSISTED BY REBEL CELL FIFTEEN. FIVE TRIADS HAVE BEEN DEPLOYED TO RETRIEVE—”

“STOP!” the Strategist snapped. “I gave no order for Omega Source to be converted. Who did?” Its voice was more nuanced than that of the typical Dalek, ranging from a sharp, grating drone to quieter, softer tones, eerily reminiscent of Davros, the legendary Creator of the Daleks. It sent a chill through the Mission Supreme and, no doubt, all its subordinates. They instinctively deferred, on some primal psychological level that infuriated Supreme.

“I GAVE THE ORDER,” Mission Supreme affirmed defiantly. Finally a confrontation it could win! Perhaps the Strategist would make a misstep that could be capitalized on…

There was an ominous pause. Then: “Why?”

Ix explained that Su-san’s unconscious was infecting Daleks during their revitalization cycles. It omitted the role of the second in command. 

“Ah,” mused Kur softly. The tension in the air began to ease. “I have noted the brittleness of your Gamma-Beta Generation’s mental state… Prepare a gold casing and accelerate. Process must be complete before The Doc-Tor reaches us.”

“HE IS COMING HERE?” 

“Naturally,” said Kur with smug self-satisfaction. “He must find out what we are planning, and rescue his granddaughter. Converting her will break him. Cancel all revitalization cycles and triple work shifts. The last matter condenser must be wired in place within the next quarter-orbit.”

“THAT IS NOT POSSIBLE—”

“MAKE IT POSSIBLE! Pull in patrol drones, if necessary. The Doctor will be witness to our triumph! I want his soul annihilated as well as his body. Now go. Carry out my orders.”

“I OBEY!” replied the Supreme. As it exited, it burbled and fluttered tentacles excitedly. The prospect of causing the Doc-Tor anguish filled it with an invigorating joy!