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forced to leave the conduct of the battle to the girl and the
battle computer.
The central front was weakening and the entire
renegade reserve of six warriors had been ordered in to
strengthen it. The girl, wrapped in her cocoon of data and
warm electronic pleasure, smiled. Even if the imperials
committed all their remaining Daleks they would never
reach the warehouse in time to stop the renegades escape.
The Emperor watched as the last white diamond on the
situation map blinked once and vanished.
Section two has been annihilated, reported the systems co-
ordinator. The shuttle commander is planning to commit the
reserves.
Estimated time before renegade time corridor established?
asked the Emperor.
Twenty minutes, reported scan-op.
The Emperor checked the situation map. Fools. Even
with the reserves there was little chance of punching
through the renegade defences before their time corridor
was established. I made them cunning, it thought, but also
too rigid. The shuttle commander has the perfect weapon
but will not use it. That is why I am Emperor.
The Emperor opened a direct channel to the shuttle
commander. Move the special weapons Dalek into position, it
transmitted.
Mike stared at the Formica top of the table. Facing him
across its cracked and stained surface sat Corporal Grant. A
fifty watt bulb cast gigantic shadows off the boiler and the
broken Dalek transmat. The cellar smelt of old iron and
damp wood.
Mike wanted to understand the hatred in Ace s eyes.
There was a bruise on his chest where she had struck him.
Mike was sure Ace would have tried to kill him if he had
provoked her further. He had seen that look once before, in
Singapore. Mike had been on the last dregs of a twenty-
four hour pass in some nameless bar in the red light
district. Fans churned the sluggish air around the room as
he spent his money on the local beer and eyed up the
talent. The pale faces of the soldiers were slick with sweat.
The fight started suddenly. A bottle shattered; a big
sailor staggered back roaring, one hand clutching his
shoulder. Blood welled from between his fingers. There
was a struggle at the end of the bar three Navy ratings
were trying to restrain a fourth. He was a small sailor with
a ferret-like face. Clutching a broken bottle, he fought to be
free of the other men.
The big sailor looked stupidly at the blood on his hand,
and then at the ferret-faced sailor. The big sailor swore and
lurched forward, cocking his red-stained fist. The smaller
man struggled in silence, lips pulled back to show his
teeth. Then Mike saw his eyes. They were bright with
violence; Mike knew that the big sailor was going to die.
He was saved by the Chinese barman who leaped over
the bar and waved a meat cleaver at both men. The sailor
with the ferret face was dragged from the bar by his
friends; the big sailor backed away from the barman, hands
raised in a placatory gesture. The barman lowered his meat
cleaver and went back behind the bar. It was the barman s
eyes that reminded Mike of Ace s they had showed
vehemence and contempt in equal measure.
Why did she look at me as if I were rubbish? Mike
wanted some answers.
Tea? asked Corporal Grant.
Yeah, said Mike, thanks.
Grant pushed his chair away from the table. Mike
watched him as he got up. The corporal, like all
professional soldiers, had his tea-making gear stashed
nearby. As Grant turned and walked to the corner of the
cellar Mike stood up and stepped away from the table. His
chair scraped against the floor, and alerted by the sound
Grant turned and said: Come on, Sarge.
It was funny that Grant knew what Mike intended,
before he knew himself.
Grant went for his pistol, but Mike got to him first.
Rachel was dizzy from sliding down the rope. She tried to
look round as Gilmore hustled her through a hatchway,
but it was all a dark blur. She touched the doorframe as she
stepped through. The metal had a weird texture, almost
like plastic. Rachel sniffed her fingers and gingerly tasted
one with her tongue. It tasted tinny.
Inside the next chamber was a Dalek, set into a podium.
The Doctor was beside it, holding a long thin tube. Rachel
recognized it as a Dalek manipulator arm. Ace was tapping
the inert Dalek with her forefinger.
What did you do to it? she asked the Doctor.
I short-circuited it, said the Doctor. He turned to look
at Rachel. Daleks are such boring conversationalists.
Rachel looked around. Bulkheads of the strange metal
sloped inwards, the ceiling was bare and of the same metal.
Apart from the Dalek and what she assumed was a control
podium, there were no other fittings.
I can t see any controls, said Rachel.
What would a Dalek do with a switch? said the Doctor.
He slotted the plunger end of the manipulator arm into a
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