Doctor Who: Prisoner of the Daleks

Read Doctor Who: Prisoner of the Daleks Online

Authors: Trevor Baxendale

DOCTOR • WHO

 

Prisoner of the Daleks

 

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DOCTOR • WHO
Prisoner
of the
Daleks

TREVOR BAXENDALE

 

 

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.

 

ISBN 9781409070191

 

Version 1.0

 

www.randomhouse.co.uk

 

2 4 6 8 10 9 7 5 3 1

 

Published in 2009 by BBC Books, an imprint of Ebury Publishing.

 

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

 

© Trevor Baxendale, 2009

 

Trevor Baxendale 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

 

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.

 

Daleks created by Terry Nation.

 

This electronic book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

 

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: 9781409070191

 

Version 1.0

 

Series Consultant: Justin Richards
Project Editor: Steve Tribe
Cover design by Lee Binding © BBC 2009

 

For Martine, Luke and Konnie – for ever

 

It was a forgotten world.

 

On the very edge of explored space, the planet resembled little more than a speck of dirt floating between the stars. From the surface of this world, the nearest sun was visible only as a distant blue glow on the horizon. The planet existed in perpetual dusk.

 

It had once been inhabited by men intent on pushing back the dark boundaries of the universe. The planet had been a useful staging post between the old worlds and the distant, uncharted stars beyond.

 

The debris of men impatient to be gone littered the dusty surface: empty, prefabricated buildings, corroded machinery, plastic components brittle with neglect. The computers lay dormant, their purpose lost in shadowy, offline sleep.

 

But even a remote and unremembered place can become important – if only to those who visit.

 

There was no wind to trouble the dust that had settled over the ages, but, at a secluded point in the middle of the abandoned central structure, a breeze appeared from nowhere. Scrubby little weeds, struggling through the cracks in the paving stones, shivered and withdrew. A sudden, wild noise reverberated from the walls of the surrounding buildings, reaching a crescendo of wheezing and groaning as a tall blue box surged into existence from nowhere.

 

The TARDIS doors sprang open and the Doctor leapt out, thoroughly annoyed.

 

'All right! That's it!' he yelled. 'I've had enough. What's got into you?'

 

The TARDIS made no reply.

 

The Doctor shoved his hands into his pockets and thrust out his bottom lip. 'You've been acting all funny since we left Earth. What's the matter? Bit of grit in the old dimensional stabilisers? Broken sprocket on the relative time filter?'

 

Still no reply.

 

The Doctor sighed. 'You're costing me a fortune in repairs, you are. How can I be expected to run a classic TARDIS if it keeps jumping time tracks every time it lands?'

 

Gradually, the Doctor seemed to become aware of his surroundings, as if the silence had politely, and impossibly, cleared its throat.

 

He turned on his heel. His canvas trainers were already covered in dust. He let his gaze wander around the empty buildings and crumbling machinery and then sniffed. 'So where are we?' he wondered aloud. 'And is there really any point in talking to myself?'

 

He shot a black look at the TARDIS and then closed and locked the door. 'You can't even bring me anywhere interesting any more,' he grumbled. Then he relaxed a little and smiled, giving the police box an affectionate pat. 'Who am I trying to kid? There's always
something
interesting...'

 

He wandered down a path between two prefabs and called out 'Hello!' a few times. 'Anyone home?'

 

There was no reply.

 

'Hello!' he called again. His voice came back to him in a mocking echo. Above him, beyond a thin grey mist, was nothing but deep space and a distant neutron star.

 

'Brrr,' he said, wishing he had stopped to collect his coat before leaving the TARDIS. He trudged on until he found a steel podium, pitted with corrosion, supporting an old, scratched monitor screen. He pressed a few buttons on the keyboard but nothing happened. He tried giving it a whack with the flat of his hand, but it still wouldn't respond.

 

The sonic screwdriver broke through the computer terminal's dormant status in seconds. A minute later, the Doctor's face was bathed in a cool light as the screen activated. A rather fuzzy graphic swirled into focus:

 

WELCOME TO LODESTAR STATION 479.

 

'Well, thank you very much,' replied the Doctor. 'Lovely to be here. Not.'

 

He put on his glasses and started scrolling through the data.

 

'Ah, now that's interesting,' he said, smiling and nodding. 'No wonder this place is deserted. No one's been here for, ooh, absolutely
yonks
. No need for a refuelling station in this part of space any more, is there? And here's poor little you, the computer interface, all forgotten and alone.'

 

He used the sonic screwdriver to delve a little deeper into the computer's databanks. 'Blimey, what's been going on in here, then? Your independent sub-routines have been messed around a bit, haven't they?'

 

Frowning, the Doctor glanced around for the nearest doorway. 'I'd better check your operational hard drive's not corrupted,' he muttered. 'Wouldn't do for a place like this to go haywire. You'd have the Health and Safety department of the Shadow Proclamation down on you like a ton of bricks.'

 

The screwdriver made short work of the door and the Doctor went inside. It was cold and smelled of metal and oil. He was reminded of old, forgotten refineries on Earth; places full of the hard edges and unforgiving angles of brutal practicality. He found a stairwell and trotted down the steps, the metalwork rattling under his plimsolls.

 

He hooked out a pencil torch from his pocket and switched it on. The beam found walls studded with rivets and disused electrical cable. It was colder down here and there were cobwebs hanging thickly in the shadows. The Doctor brushed some aside, surprising a number of arachnid life forms that immediately ran for cover, their spindly legs skittering across the ceiling. He avoided some of the larger webs; he'd got on the wrong side of enough spiders in his life to know when to keep clear.

 

Further down, he reached a bare corridor with a concrete floor covered in debris and grime. His torchlight roved the area until it found a sign saying:

 

COMPUTER DATA CORE – NO UNAUTHORISED ACCESS

 

The access door was locked but it didn't take long to pick it. The sonic screwdriver proved to be all the authorisation he needed.

 

'That's odd,' the Doctor said aloud. His voice sounded flat in the confined space beyond. There didn't appear to be any computer terminals in here, and certainly no sign of any data core.

 

Something lying on the floor caught his attention. It was white and smooth; half-hidden in what looked like a pile of laundry. The torchlight gleamed on bone and in that instant the Doctor recognised the shape as a human body, curled up against the opposite wall. It was a complete skeleton, held together by the last remnants of dried skin. It was wearing the remains of a one-piece overall, the decaying fabric tucked into cracked plastic boots.

 

The Doctor knelt down and inspected the body but there was no way of identifying it. 'What were you doing here, then?' he wondered grimly. 'Same as me, probably. Sticking your nose in where it doesn't belong...'

 

The door shut behind him with a loud clang.

 

The Doctor jumped up and tried to open it, but it was locked. He tried the sonic screwdriver again but it was no use. 'Deadlock sealed
and
rusted,' he muttered ruefully. 'It's just not my lucky day, is it?'

 

He stepped away from the door and checked the cell – because that's what it had suddenly become – for any other way out. Of course there was none. He was trapped in here, alone but for the emaciated corpse on the floor. No way out and no one to know, or care, that he was here.

 

'Nice one, Doctor,' he congratulated himself. 'Now all you can do is sit and wait. Someone must have programmed the door to shut like that. They'll have to come and inspect their trap sometime, see if they've caught anything.'

 

He stared mournfully at the skeleton. 'Any time soon...'

 

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