Doctor Who: Shada (8 page)

Romana came forward and laid a hand on the Doctor’s arm. ‘Gently, Doctor.’

The Doctor shook his head. ‘Professor, you’ve been appallingly irresponsible. I thought I was appallingly irresponsible, but you’ve taken appalling irresponsibility on to a whole new level. You’ve no idea what might be hidden in that book.’

The Professor smiled. ‘Well then there’s not much chance of anyone else understanding it, is there?’

‘I only hope you’re right,’ said the Doctor. ‘We’d better find it, hadn’t we? Romana, little red book –’

Romana nodded. ‘Five by seven.’ She gave one final despairing glance at the mountains of books surrounding them, then set her jaw and began the search. A little red book…

The Professor’s voice drifted from the kitchen, where he had scurried to prepare more tea. ‘Then again, it could be green,’ he said.

The Doctor’s shoulders slumped. ‘And I usually like Saturdays,’ he said.

Chapter 13

SKAGRA ENTERED THE command deck of his Ship, the dead body of the human over his shoulder. He let it thump to the ground and then barked out an order. ‘Retain the outer vestments and then dispose of this carrion. Transpose it to the emergency generation annex.’

The body was immediately transposed away. In its place was the clothing it had worn, now cleaned, pressed and folded into a neat pile.

Skagra considered. It was time to absorb the nutrients that were essential to the functioning of his body. He viewed this prospect with no particular pleasure. Taste sensations were essentially animal and had no inherent intellectual worth. When the time came, Skagra reflected, he would not miss food.

‘Feed me,’ he ordered.

A golden serving trolley was instantly transposed to his side. It was laden with the finest and most nutritionally correct delicacies that the Ship’s raw-matter synthesiser could provide.

Skagra set down the carpet bag containing the sphere and lowered himself onto his command lounger. Another diktat of the body needed to be satisfied. ‘Rest me,’ he commanded.

He closed his eyes and let the bio-tranquillic vibrations do their work. The rays bathed his neural pathways, cleansing the need for wasteful sleep from his brain. At the same time his body was pummelled by minute, invisible pressures that wiped harmful toxins from his muscles and removed waste matter.

Skagra opened his eyes, instantly refreshed and revitalised. He selected a fruit from the trolley and bit into it, chewing thoroughly to absorb the correct nutrients and ease digestion.

He spoke again, addressing the empty command deck. ‘I have confirmed the location of the book. It shall soon be mine.’ This was not strictly the truth, of course. He had left the Ship fully confident of the book’s location, and fully intending to return with it. There was no logical reason to dissemble, but in fact Skagra had already rewritten his recent history in order to eliminate his concern over the mysterious guest in the Professor’s rooms.

‘Congratulations, my lord,’ said the warm, soothing voice of his truest, most trusted, and in fact only, companion.

He took another bite from the fruit and said casually, ‘Tell me of a Time Lord called “the Doctor”.’

The Ship opened up a data window on the opposite side of the command deck and accessed its data store. Information began to scroll across the window, and Skagra blinked repeatedly, absorbing the information into the data-spike embedded in his cortex. The data store had combed all available information, including the secret and arcane Time Lord histories that were part of Skagra’s own book collection. These books were lined up neatly, their spines matching perfectly, in a sterile, dust-resistant recess in a corner of the command deck, further protected by a powerful force field. Skagra had never physically opened the books, never so much as touched them, but had used scanning devices and robo-papyrologists to extract the information from within and add it to the store with no damage to the originals.

As Skagra watched, he learnt of the Doctor’s early history, academic achievements, his family ties on Gallifrey and elsewhere, and the exact reasons for his first flight from his home world. But all of that was irrelevant. He needed to know about the Doctor as he was now.

Skagra flinched as a grainy image of the Doctor from some ancient video-text flashed by. He was a tall, imposing figure dressed scruffily in a long frock coat, a broad-brimmed hat and an unfeasibly long multi-coloured scarf. He had untidy curly hair, the wide, staring eyes of a child and he smiled all the time.

But he had seen this person, this idiot, earlier today, cartwheeling his arms as he lost control of the water transport on the river! Could this buffoon really be the Doctor?

It appeared that he was. Skagra focused in on a random selection of video-texts involving the Doctor and scrutinised them closely.

The first concerned events on a primitive world called Tara. The Doctor allowed himself to become embroiled in the piffling politics of the planet, siding with one faction against another. The Doctor made a show of acting under duress, but it was clear to Skagra that he was carelessly and irresponsibly enjoying himself. It was not exactly a bad video-text, just a rather bland one.

The second text told of intrigue on the third moon of Delta Magna, where a future Earth methane-refinery and some natives were being menaced by an enormous swamp creature known as Kroll. Again, the Doctor behaved with unbecoming frivolity throughout.

Finally Skagra reviewed a text that told of another enormous creature, this one inhabiting a pit on a planet called Chloris. Skagra noted how the Doctor seemed to react to danger and the threat of death with nonchalance, masking his Time Lord wisdom. It was a pathetic ploy that seemed to fool the low-grade antagonists he encountered.

Skagra found himself bristling. There was something about this Doctor that got under his skin. He was so messy, so silly. He needed to be tidied away. He’d wipe the imbecilic, toothy grin off the man’s stupid face for ever –

Skagra stilled himself. He was not prey to such instinctive, animal reactions. Looked at objectively, the Doctor was nothing but a shambling fool, a 1 out of 10 Time Lord larking about on 2 out of 10 planets.

‘So,’ he said out loud, ‘he is an ordinary Time Lord, albeit with an extraordinary lifestyle. He has no more power than the others.’

‘Indeed, my lord,’ said the soothing voice.

Skagra nodded curtly. ‘Only one has the power I seek. And when I have the book that power shall be mine.’

‘Yes, my lord,’ said the voice.

‘Get me the Command Station,’ Skagra ordered.

The data-window flickered and resolved into a new image. A face.

‘All goes well,’ said Skagra. ‘I shall be with you very soon. And then, let the universe prepare itself for me.’

A voice rumbled sepulchrally from the screen, echoing around the command deck. The words were clear, but they were accompanied by a sound like an exceptionally irritated earthquake. ‘Everything is ready, my lord.’

Skagra gazed on the face of his most glorious and most terrifying creation. The red eyes glowed like twin furnaces. The roughly hewn features were formed from living rock. Smoke billowed from the creature’s granite skin.

With the Kraags at his side, and the book in his possession, Skagra would be unstoppable. Shada was in his reach!

Part Two

An Uncharitable Deduction

Chapter 14

UNAWARE OF THE impending threat to the universe, Clare Keightley checked her hair in one of the porthole windows of the physics lab’s double doors, then knocked.

‘Come in,’ called Chris, sounding oddly preoccupied.

Clare went in. She was puzzled. She was used to Chris being hesitant and nervous where she was concerned. In fact she was used to most people at Cambridge being hesitant and nervous where she was concerned.

When she’d first arrived at Cambridge five years earlier as an undergraduate, fresh from a sixth-form comp in Manchester, she’d been surprised at how nervous and hesitant everyone in the faculty seemed to be. She formulated a theory that they had stumbled upon some massive discovery that would change the world for ever and were keeping it a closely guarded secret. It had taken her a few weeks to realise that the hushed voices, sweaty palms and nervous glances of her fellow students were actually because she was female. Most of them knew women only as mothers, matrons and chums’ sisters.

As they’d got to know her, the ice had thawed. All of them had come to relax around her at least a little, apart from Chris, whose face could not hide a micro-expression of terror whenever he first encountered her. And that was, peculiarly, one of the reasons why Clare liked him so much. He was clumsy and gauche. You weren’t supposed to find that sexy. But Clare loved doing things you weren’t supposed to, like coming from a council flat and becoming a top scientist. So she did.

This time was different. Irritatingly different, given the circumstances. She was leaving in three days, for goodness’ sakes. If Chris was going to make his move, he should be down on one knee, or at least hovering hesitantly and nervously as per. Instead he was sat at a desk, boggling – that was the only word for it – boggling at a small red book, five by seven inches. He didn’t even look up as she came in.

‘Chris?’

‘Ssh,’ he said, turning the little book over and over in his hands and continuing to boggle.

‘What do you mean, “Ssh”?’ said Clare. ‘You told me to drop everything and come running. So I did!’

Chris turned the pages of the book, shaking his head and tutting to himself.

‘I can easily go away again,’ said Clare.

At last Chris looked up. ‘Then you’ll miss something extraordinary!’

Clare sighed. ‘What?’

‘Something quite extraordinary,’ said Chris.

Clare had had enough. ‘Why are you being so pompous and odd?’ she asked.

Chris waved the book at her. ‘This book, Keightley! This book will do to the world of science what the Japanese did to Pearl Harbour!’

‘What, dive-bomb it?’ She sat down. ‘I didn’t know you were writing a book.’

‘I didn’t write it!’ cried Chris excitedly, as if it were the most obvious thing. ‘I found it.’

‘What, just lying about?’

He nodded. ‘Yes. Sort of. This book…’ He weighed it in his hand. ‘It’s… it’s staggering.’

‘Right,’ said Clare perfunctorily. ‘What’s it called?’

‘Called?’ Chris laughed. ‘Called? How should I know what it’s called?’

Clare fought down another wave of irritation. ‘Please get to the point, I’ve got lots to do.’

Chris opened the book and handed it over to her, gently, as if it was a bomb. ‘Feel that paper. Go on, feel it. Feel it! What does it feel like?’

Clare did as instructed. ‘I’m afraid it feels rather like paper, Chris.’

‘Aha!’ cried Chris.

Clare made an impatient noise. ‘Aha, what?’

‘Tear it! Go on. Tear it, try to tear it!’

‘That’s no way to treat a book,’ said Clare. ‘A book that isn’t even yours. Who does it belong to?’

Chris batted her objections aside. ‘Old Chronotis. Professor at St Cedd’s. Barmy. Or senile. Or both. Doesn’t matter. Tear it!’

Clare decided that the quickest way to stop Chris being so irritating was to let him have his moment. She tried to tear a corner off a page. It resisted.

Despite herself, she flinched. That was odd.

Chris nodded at her like a hungry puppy. ‘Aha!’

‘All right, so it’s made of strong paper,’ said Clare.

Chris handed her a knife. ‘Aha! Cut it, then! Go on, cut it!’

‘Presumably I won’t be able to,’ said Clare, handing back the knife along with the book. ‘OK, so it’s a wonderful new kind of paper. Hurrah for super-paper. Hardly constitutes a dive-bomb attack on the world of science, or whatever you said.’

Chris raised a finger and opened his mouth to form a vowel sound.

‘Don’t say aha!’ Clare warned him. ‘Really, don’t say aha! I will kill you if you say aha.’

Chris swallowed. ‘Right then. Tell me what you think it’s made of then, this new kind of paper.’

Clare shrugged. ‘I dunno. Plastic.’

Chris raised a finger and opened his mouth to form a vowel sound.

‘I will kill you,’ Clare warned again.

‘I checked,’ said Chris. ‘Not plastic. Not a polymer in sight.’

‘All right then.’ Despite Chris’s incredible irritatingness, Clare was beginning to get intrigued. ‘Is it metal?’

‘There’s no crystalline structure,’ said Chris. ‘At
all!
’

Clare thought. ‘A single crystal then?’

Chris huffed. ‘If it is, our Mr Dalton’s got a lot of explaining to do.’ He hunched forward, getting closer to Clare than he ever had before. That was more like it, thought Clare. ‘That’s the fascinating thing,’ he went on. ‘Yes, I think it is a crystal – but no, it can’t be a crystal. Half of it’s stable all the time, half of it none of the time. There is absolutely no way of telling what it’s made of.’