We were marched onto the parade ground, all six billion of us, (our armour rubbing hard against the soft new flesh of our cloned bodies) by the majestic towers of the Hall of the Fallen and the Brave. Our drill sergeant was something of a legend (or so we were told as we were less than two hours old at the time) and went by the name of General Oroxx. There is little point in describing him as he looked like all the rest of us – except for the massive scars which bisected his face like a cross, the result (our instruction coils told us) of the twin blasts of a Rutan attack force in the Dagmar Cluster which the General had repulsed. It had also cost him two of the three fingers on his left hand.

On that first day, he marched up and down before us (or rather an endless number of projections of him did. It’s quite hard to personally supervise six billion new warriors), scowling and muttering that he had never seen such a miserable bunch in all his hatched days and that we were a disgrace to the name of Sontar and would, in all probability, die ignoble deaths unworthy of our Mighty Ancestors. Those whose wide shoulder-armour we stood upon. However, if we strove hard and forgot all notions of personal ambition and – he hissed this word as though it were an oath – compassion then we might, just might be worthy of the name of Sontarans.

Then our probic vents were attached to the Edicts program and our endless, gruelling instruction began.

Eighteen minutes later we were sent into battle.

*

Being the reminiscences of Miss Jenny Flint, lady’s maid of Paternoster Row, London.

So, north we headed. I was all for the train – but we’ve had trouble like that before when a gust of wind blew Madam’s veil up and a King’s Cross porter got the horrors. A closed carriage it was then – and a fearfully bumpy and exhausting journey too.

‘According to my researches,’ said Madam once we was under way, ‘Sweetville’s proprietor Mrs Gillyflower – pretty name … ’ she mused with a little smile. ‘The flower itself is known as Dame’s rocket – do you know it?’

‘Can’t say as I do,’ I replied.

‘Anyway, she holds recruitment drives for her little community. But she is only interested in the fittest and the most beautiful.’

‘You may rely on me, Ma’am,’ said Strax, sitting opposite us in the carriage.

‘I was, in fact, speaking to Jenny,’ said Madam, a little puzzled.

Strax’s toad-face fell. ‘Jenny?’ he sighed. ‘If this weak and fleshy boy –’ he could never tell the difference between the sexes, see – ‘is to represent us, I strongly advise the issuing of scissor grenades, limbo vapour and triple-blast brain splitters.’

‘What for?’