Shining Darkness Read online

  Shining

  Darkness

  MARK MICHALOWSKI

  Contents

  Cover

  Title

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Recent titles in the Doctor Who series

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Acknowledgements

  This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

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  Epub ISBN 9781409072836

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  Published in 2008 by BBC Books, an imprint of Ebury Publishing.

  Ebury Publishing is a division of the Random House Group Ltd.

  © Mark Michalowski, 2008

  Mark Michalowski has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act 1988.

  Doctor Who is a BBC Wales production for BBC One Executive Producers: Russell T Davies and Julie Gardner Series Producer: Phil Collinson

  Original series broadcast on BBC Television. Format © BBC 1963. ‘Doctor Who’, ‘TARDIS’ and the Doctor Who logo are trademarks of the British Broadcasting Corporation and are used under licence.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

  The Random House Group Ltd Reg. No. 954009. Addresses for companies within the Random House Group can be found at www.randomhouse.co.uk.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978 1 846 07557 5

  The Random House Group Limited supports the Forest Stewardship Council (FSC), the leading international forest certification organisation. All our titles that are printed on Greenpeace approved FSC certified paper carry the FSC logo. Our paper procurement policy can be found at www.rbooks.co.uk/environment

  Series Consultant: Justin Richards

  Project Editor: Steve Tribe

  Cover design by Lee Binding © BBC 2008

  Typeset in Albertina and Deviant Strain

  Printed and bound in Germany by GGP Media GmbH

  For Dave and Steve – good luck in Scotland!

  Recent titles in the Doctor Who series:

  WISHING WELL

  Trevor Baxendale

  THE PIRATE LOOP

  Simon Guerrier

  PEACEMAKER

  James Swallow

  MARTHA IN THE MIRROR

  Justin Richards

  SNOWGLOBE 7

  Mike Tucker

  THE MANY HANDS

  Dale Smith

  GHOSTS OF INDIA

  Mark Morris

  THE DOCTOR TRAP

  Simon Messingham

  ‘Two and a half billion light years,’ said Donna Noble, her eyebrows raised and a gentle smile tugging at the corner of her mouth, ‘and you’ve brought me to an art gallery?’

  ‘Two and a half million light years,’ corrected the Doctor, pulling Donna back out of the path of something that resembled an upright anteater, studded with drawing pins, trundling down the street, ‘and it’s not just an art gallery.’ He sounded almost hurt.

  ‘If you’re going to tell me it’s “not just an art gallery” because it’s got a shop that sells fridge magnets…’

  ‘It might,’ replied the Doctor, glancing away guiltily and tugging at his earlobe.

  ‘You,’ laughed Donna, ‘are so transparent, you know that?’

  ‘And you,’ cut in a deep, buzzy voice that sounded like a talking chainsaw, ‘are so in my way.’

  Donna turned: right next to them, smack bang in the middle of the broad pavement on which they stood, was a robot. Although it took Donna a few seconds to work that out. From the waist up, it was like a bronze version of some Greek god, all bare metal muscles, jawline and attitude. From the waist down, however, it was a different story: instead of legs it had caterpillar tracks.

  Donna’s first reaction to it was that it was an ordinary person (well, as ordinary as you could get, looking like someone had vandalised something from the British Museum with a can of metallic paint) who’d lost his legs in an accident and had half a JCB grafted on.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said automatically.

  ‘I should think so,’ buzzed the robot – and only then did Donna realise that it wasn’t a creature of flesh-and-blood. The eyes were cold and glittering, and she realised the skin wasn’t skin at all, but a curiously fluid metal, reflecting back, madly distorted, her own face. ‘If you’re going to stop to converse, I suggest you move over there.’ And it raised an imperious finger and pointed to the other side of the pavement.

  This was too much for Donna.

  ‘Well,’ she said, drawing herself up.

  (‘I wouldn’t,’ she vaguely heard the Doctor whisper.)

  ‘If you’re going to be quite so rude,’ she continued, ignoring him, ‘I’d suggest that you move over there.’ She pointed to the centre of the street, where four lanes of traffic were whizzing by at stomach-clenching speed. ‘Mate.’ She added for good measure.

  (‘I really wouldn’t,’ added the Doctor.)

  The robot raised a haughty eyebrow and looked Donna up and down.

  ‘Organics!’ it spat, sneerily.

  ‘That meant to be some sort of insult?’ retorted Donna. ‘Cos where I come from, sunshine, that wouldn’t get you on Trisha, never mind Jeremy Kyle.’

  (‘Donna…’)

  ‘Your words are gibberish,’ said the robot dismissively.

  At this point, the Doctor cut in, grabbing Donna by the arm and pulling her to one side.

  ‘Donna! When in Rome…’

  ‘Sure you don’t mean Pompeii?’ she replied, acidly. ‘Who does he think he is?’

  ‘He probably thinks he’s a local who’s just come across two offworlders who don’t know the rules and regulations for using the streets, is what he probably thinks.’

  Donna saw the Doctor flash a bright, apologetic smile at the robot.

  ‘Don’t smile at him – a simple “excuse me” would have done. No need for all that attitude.’

  ‘Perhaps in the future,’ said the robot wearily to the Doctor, revving up its gears as its base rotated (although its top half stayed facing them), ‘you could train your pet better?’

  Donna’s mouth fell open but, before she could say anything, the Doctor put a firm arm around her shoulder and moved her out of the path of the robot – which, without another word, roared off down the street.

  ‘Pet?’ she gasped.

  ‘Pets are very highly thought of round here,’ said the Doctor quickly – but without much conviction.

  ‘Pet?’ Donna shouted after the creature, but it had vanished into the crowd. She turned back to the Doctor, op
en-mouthed. ‘Can you believe that? You said you were taking me somewhere civilised and sophisticated. I’d get more sophistication and civilisation at West Ham on a Saturday.’

  The Doctor gently moved Donna back against the building, out of the path of the crowds streaming around them.

  ‘For once, I’d like to meet a nice robot,’ she said, still fuming. ‘There must be some. Somewhere. I mean, with the whole universe to choose from you’d think there’d be one…’

  ‘Remind me to take you to Napir Prime,’ the Doctor said. ‘The perfect hosts – well, that’s what it says in The Rough Guide to the Isop Galaxy. Never been myself, but I’ve heard good things.’

  Donna raised a sceptical eyebrow.

  ‘From the robots I’ve seen so far, the strike rate’s pretty low.’

  ‘Don’t judge a whole class of beings from just three examples,’ the Doctor chided, checking out the monumental skyscrapers that lined the street. ‘Remember how you were when you saw your first Ood…’

  ‘That was different. They weren’t robots – they just looked a bit…’ She smiled at him, hoping to defuse the tension a little. ‘Ood.’

  ‘That’s probably what they thought when they saw you.’

  He gestured at a glossy, dark green building just a few yards along.

  ‘Come on – let’s see if there’s any robot art in here. Might give you a new perspective.’

  ‘Not me that needs a new perspective,’ Donna grumped as she followed him through doors that said a cheery ‘Good afternoon’ as they opened.

  ‘Art,’ the Doctor began, sounding ever-so-slightly-pompous, ‘is a window on the human soul. Or the Andromedan soul, obviously,’ he added with a tip of the head.

  Donna raised an eyebrow.

  A creature a little like a squishy bedside table, with a crown of glinting, metallic eyes, paused in front of them, apparently to observe the slab of dull, grey marble in a glass case that the Doctor was also peering at. Although, Donna realised, it might have been observing them. She gave a tiny, awkward smile. Just in case. Having already offended, however unwittingly, an Andromedan, she thought she ought to err on the side of the caution with any new ones she came across.

  ‘If you’d prefer,’ the Doctor whispered, ‘I’d be more than happy to take you somewhere filled with danger, excitement and death. Your call.’

  The bedside table ambled off, making a chuckling, coughing sound.

  Donna held out her hands, palms up, weighing up the options.

  ‘Danger, excitement and death?’ Her hands moved up and down. ‘Art gallery?’

  ‘Philistine,’ grinned the Doctor. ‘We could combine the two and visit the Third Stained Glass Empire of – ooh, hang on!’

  And suddenly, Donna was standing on her own, watching him dart across the black mirrored floor of the art gallery towards a large display case. With a sigh, she trudged after him. She loved art. Really, she did. She’d had a copy of that sunflowers picture on the wall at home. That was art. Proper art. Not just bits of stuff stuck on a board and sprayed with grass cuttings. Or half a Mini coming out of the floor. Or a slab of grey marble.

  She caught up with him, almost colliding with a trio of tall, painfully skinny blonde women who’d just entered this particular room in the gallery. They looked awkward and stilted, their faces impassive.

  ‘Sorry,’ she whispered, skirting around them. They watched her go silently.

  The Doctor was leaning forwards, his nose squidged up against the display case inside which, on a slender glass spike, sat something that looked like a rusty truck wheel, encrusted with fragments of diamanté.

  ‘Donna!’ whispered the Doctor, beckoning her forwards. ‘What d’you make of this?’

  She peered at it.

  ‘You’re going to tell me that it encapsulates the eternal struggle between The Pussycat Dolls and Girls Aloud, aren’t you?’

  ‘That’s next door,’ he said. ‘No – this is much better.’

  ‘Go on then, Sister Wendy, what is it?’

  ‘Well, I don’t actually know what it is, but whatever it is, it’s a bit more than just art.’

  ‘Is it?’ Donna tried to stifle the yawn that she could feel bubbling up. The three supermodels – or whatever they were – had separated and were all standing around the exhibit that was so fascinating the Doctor, although he didn’t seem to have noticed them. There was something slightly odd about the trio, though: something measured and shifty. Like burglars casing a house, figuring out the right time to nip in and steal the DVD. Never mind the fact that, as far as she could tell, they were all identical.

  The Doctor pulled out his sonic screwdriver, activated it, and waved it around near the case. Seconds later, he pulled a puzzled face and popped it back in his pocket.

  ‘Just wait here,’ he said, looking around. ‘I’m going to find the gallery’s owner.’

  ‘Couldn’t you just read the brochure?’ asked Donna.

  ‘I have. It’s rubbish. Back in a sec.’

  One of the supermodels, dressed in a plain grey trouser-suit with creases so sharp you could cut yourself on them, glanced at her. She smiled back.

  ‘Art,’ she said vaguely, uncomfortably. ‘Great, isn’t it? Window on the human soul. Or Andromedan soul,’ she added for good measure.

  The supermodel just stared at her – and then at her two companions.

  Art-lovers, thought Donna. Don’t you just love them—

  The thought was cut off as she spotted the greasy patch on the glass that the Doctor’s nose had left. In the pristine, snooty environment of the gallery it looked horribly out of place, and Donna was tempted to leave it there.

  But she was an ambassador for Earth, wasn’t she? She didn’t want the locals going around saying what mucky pups humans (and Time Lords) were, especially with these three women paying such attention to the exhibit. So, whipping out her hanky, she stepped forward to give the glass a bit of a clean – at the very same moment that a wave of prickling static swept across her skin, and the whole room flared brilliant, snowy white.

  ‘Oi!’ shouted Donna as the glare subsided, leaving sparkly traces on her vision. ‘What was—’

  She stopped as she realised that somehow they’d managed to redecorate the art gallery in the few seconds that she’d been blinded. Instead of a wide, airy space with a shiny black floor and white walls, they’d turned it into a lower, pokier space, all purply-black swirls. The walls around her curved, giving the impression of being inside half a hard-boiled egg. The display case and the supermodels were still there, although the lights inside the display case had gone out, leaving the diamanté truck wheel looking even more like a piece of old junk than it had before. It began to dawn on her that maybe – just maybe – she wasn’t in the gallery any more…

  Donna spun on her heel as a door hissed open somewhere behind her.

  ‘Oh marvellous!’ deadpanned the little fat man with curly blond hair who came striding in. He glared at the three supermodels. ‘Absolutely marvellous! Who’s she?’ He plonked his hands on his ample hips and looked her up and down.

  ‘She,’ snapped back Donna, ‘is the cat’s mother. Who are you?’

  ‘Hold her,’ said the man, sneering up at her. Suddenly, Donna felt steel bands tighten around her upper arms and looked to see that two of the supermodels had grabbed her. No one, she thought, least of all supermodels, should be able to hold that hard.

  ‘Gerroff!’ she grunted, squirming. But their grip was unbreakable. The third supermodel stood on the other side of the display case, observing her with cold, dead eyes.

  ‘Who is she?’ asked the man, almost as if she weren’t there.

  ‘I’m a woman who happens to know a man who’s going to be very unhappy when he gets back and finds out what you’ve done.’

  ‘She entered the transmat area as we activated,’ intoned one of the supermodels in a dull, emotionless voice, ignoring Donna.

  ‘I am here, you know,’ snapped Donna. ‘I can spe
ak for myself.’ She paused. ‘Transmat? I’ve just been transmatted?’

  ‘Clearly,’ said the little man in a weary voice. He stared at her with pale blue eyes that were almost as cold and dead as those of the supermodels. He wore a lapelless, dark grey business suit with a crisp shirt, striped with pink and white horizontal bands. Something about him made Donna think of estate agents.

  ‘Who are you, anyway?’ Donna demanded. ‘When the Doctor finds out, you’re going to be in big trouble.’

  ‘The Doctor? Who’s she? Or he?’

  ‘Oh, ha, ha. Very funny.’ Donna twisted her neck around to try to find the Doctor, but she realised that she’d been transmatted alone.

  Her head snapped back round to face the little man.

  ‘What have you done?’ she growled. ‘Where am I? Who are you?’

  The man paused, his eyes narrowed.

  ‘My name is Garaman Havati, and you’re aboard the Dark Light, my ship. Who are you?’

  ‘Donna Noble. Spelled TROUBLE if you don’t put me back exactly where I was. Now.’

  Garaman chewed thoughtfully at the corner of his mouth.

  ‘No,’ he said eventually. ‘I don’t think so.’

  His eyes flicked to the supermodels flanking her.

  ‘Put her somewhere safe.’ He looked back at her. ‘I’m tempted to have you killed now, but something makes me think I should keep a hold of you for a while.’

  ‘Oh, mister,’ said Donna, struggling as the supermodels began to lead her away. ‘You have made one helluva mistake. Just you wait ’til the Doc- ow! Get your hands off me!’

  But the supermodels took no notice, and half led, half dragged her from the room.

  The Doctor had barely gone five paces when the flare of light behind him made him spin on his heel. Where, moments ago, there had been the display case, Donna and the three humaniform robots, there was now just an empty space and a shallow, rectangular hole in the floor.

  ‘Not again,’ he sighed, and then caught sight of the art gallery’s attendant, rushing in from the next room to find out what the flash of light had been.