Doctor Who: Shining Darkness (12 page)

For the first time since Garaman had kidnapped her, she was starting to feel lonely. Until now, there had been enough happening to keep her occupied; but the trip to Karris – and the discovery that the Doctor was, indeed, on her tail – simply highlighted how out of her depth she was here. For a moment, after they’d returned from Karris, she’d been tempted to tell them about the Doctor, to rub in the fact that he was right behind her. But after giving it a few moments’ thought, she’d realised that it made
sense
to keep this bit of information to herself. The Doctor could have made his presence known on Karris, instead of hiding, and he didn’t. Therefore, Donna had reasoned, he had good reason to keep hidden. She didn’t want to go wading in with her size sevens and jeopardise any plans he had.

Donna knew that the ship had now left the Karris system, bound, no doubt, for the next piece of the puzzle. No one had bothered to tell her exactly how many pieces there were. It wasn’t impossible that she could spend the next ten years of her life haring around the Andromeda galaxy, picking them all up with the Doctor just a step behind.

It wasn’t even as if she’d managed to make any friends here – the robots seemed totally lacking in any kind of personality (due, no doubt, to Garaman’s dislike of any that showed even a flicker of intelligence), and the human ones just gave her sniffy looks and refused to talk to her about anything other than the basics.

Bizarrely, Mesanth seemed to be the closest thing she had to a friend: not the kind of friend you’d go for a drink after work with, though. More the kind of friend that says hello to you at the photocopier and goodnight at the end of the day.

And it was Mesanth who was now standing in the doorway. He hovered uncertainly for a few seconds before Donna sighed and beckoned him in.

‘We will be arriving at our next destination shortly,’ he said as the door closed behind him. ‘I thought you should know.’

‘Why?’ said Donna, realising that it came out more snarkily than she’d intended. ‘I mean, what difference does it make if you tell me or not? Face it, Mesanth – I’m a prisoner here. Oh, very nice room, thank you very much – although the lack of a mini-bar is a bit of a let-down. But I’m still a prisoner.’ She sat up on the bed. ‘How much longer is this going to take, eh? A week? A month?’

Mesanth sighed and looked away from her awkwardly, his three hands flexing with agitation.

‘Garaman is disappointed by the attitude you displayed on Karris.’

‘Me? Attitude?’ Donna boggled. ‘
Attitude!?
What attitude?’

‘We were of the impression that you were…’ Mesanth stumbled over his words. ‘Of a similar mind to us,’ he finished carefully. ‘Taking you down to Karris was a sort of test.’

‘In what possible way,’ said Donna through gritted teeth, rising to her feet, ‘could I be of a similar mind to you? And why would you want to test me?’

Mesanth looked away awkwardly, his fingers flexing again. Donna was beginning to think she could read some of the creature’s body language, and he was looking decidedly uncomfortable.

‘To find out how similar to us you are, whether you share our attitudes, our beliefs.’ He paused and glanced away. ‘You’ve experienced, first-hand, what mechanicals are capable of. You mentioned these “robot Santas” on your homeworld. You know how little regard they have for organic life. But on Karris…’ He tailed off.

‘You mean the robot? The one that got smashed up? The one you didn’t try to help?
That
robot?’

‘It did not suffer, if that’s what you’re thinking. They
can’t
suffer: they’re just components – circuits, wires. That one didn’t even have a positronic matrix.’ Mesanth paused for a moment and then turned and gave the door a hefty kick. Donna flinched.

‘What was that for?’ she asked, astonished at such a display from Mesanth – a self-confessed scaredy-cat plant-eater.

‘Interesting,’ the lizard-man said, returning to Donna with a very slight limp.

‘What?’

‘You express concern for a damaged mechanical but yet no concern for the door.’

‘
What
?’

‘Is it because the mechanical was humaniform – because it looked human?’

‘No, of course it’s not.’

‘Then why?’ Mesanth seemed genuinely puzzled. ‘The mechanical had little more self-awareness than the door; it was no more able to feel pain or hurt or distress than the door. And yet it elicited in you an emotional response that the door did not.’

‘I can’t believe we’re having this discussion,’ Donna gawped. ‘That robot was nothing like that door and you know it.’

‘But in all important respects, it was. It is.’ Mesanth shook his head again, and Donna realised that he really was having a hard time understanding the difference.

‘It,’ she said, as emphatically as she could. ‘Was. A. Door.’

‘And,’ retorted Mesanth, matching her tone. ‘It. Was. A. Robot.’

‘Boy,’ sighed Donna. ‘This is going to be hard work.’

77141 SHIFTED IN
his seat, noting with alarm that one of the hinges was squeaking in a manner indicative of imminent failure. Again. He’d only replaced it a month ago, from the fuselage of a Bindir passenger shuttle. The Bindir might have bottoms shaped exactly like his, but they didn’t build things to last. Lazy, that’s what the Bindir were. Lazy.

77141 reached across his huge control panel and flicked a switch. And with a deep, rumbling sigh, he spoke into the floating microphone that constantly attended him.

‘Unidentified vessel,’ he growled in his most authoritarian and threatening voice. ‘You are entering the greeny-yellow province of Junk. Please supply your credentials immediately or you will be reported to Junk’s traffic management authorities, who will, I can assure you, manage you with severe prejudice.’

He scratched one of his frontal lobes with a spined finger and waited for the usual excuses and explanations.
Instead
, through the window of his monitor tower, from where (on a good day) he could see the whole of greeny-yellow province, he saw a brief flare of light down in sector K.

‘Bleeping transmats,’ 77141 grumped, leaning forward to flick another button.

‘Ahem,’ he coughed into the microphone, causing it to do a dizzy little dance away from him. ‘Your arrival by transmat has been noted,’ he growled, pausing to hear his own words echo away across the darkness of greeny-yellow province from the speakers set around his monitor tower. ‘Do not move away from your arrival zone. Any such move will be considered an act of invasion, and under the authority vested in me, 77141, manager of greeny-yellow province—’

77141 stopped suddenly when he realised that his words were no longer being blasted out of his tower speakers. In fact, they’d been replaced by a very disturbing creaking noise. A creaking and groaning noise that seemed to be coming from the tower itself. He grabbed the arms of his chair as the tower shook – and one of them came off in his hand.

‘Bleeping Bindir,’ he grunted, flinging the arm away across the room – just as
something
smashed in through the window behind him.

Before he could raise an alarm, cry for help, or even open his mouth, a huge metal hand torpedoed through the gaping window and grabbed him by the neck; and 77141 found himself looking up into an impassive steel face, eyes as red as coals glaring at him.

‘Hello,’ said a tiny, cheery voice from the doorway behind him. ‘I’m the Doctor, this is Mother, and my friend down there is Boonie. D’you mind if we have a poke around your scrapyard?’

77141 wasn’t accustomed to fighting. To be honest, he wasn’t particularly accustomed to
moving
. He spent most of his 30-hour shift sitting in his chair (when it wasn’t broken) and overseeing the ‘scrap-drop’ flights that visited Junk at all times of the night and day, dumping their unwanted, obsolete or broken technology. All the processing, sorting, dragging, arranging and – in the case of the older stuff that it was clear no one in their right mind would want – crushing and catapulting into the sun was done by service bots, many of which spent their days and nights scuttling, like rats, up and down the rows and rows and rows of piles and piles and
piles
of junk.

So, when one very large bot and a very much smaller human smashed their way into his monitor tower, he wasn’t quite sure what to do. Actually, he
was
sure what to do. Nod and say yes.

‘Help yourself,’ 77141 said, eyeing up the bot with the red eyes that hunched in the corner of the control room, trying not to poke a hole in the ceiling with its head. ‘I just work here.’

‘Most kind,’ said the one who’d called himself ‘the Doctor’, before pulling out some sort of metal pen, making the end of it glow blue, and waving it around.

‘Aaah,’ he said eventually, peering out of the broken window over sector J. ‘Got it!’

‘D’you mind my asking,’ 77141 asked, trying not to sound at all awkward or confrontational. ‘But what exactly is it you’re looking for?’ He had a bad feeling about this.

‘That’s the question: what, indeed, are we looking for? I’ll tell you that when we find it. Now, before we go a-hunting, it’d be quite useful to know whether any automated defences, orbital weapons platforms, remote-control attack drones,’ he waved his hands around vaguely, ‘that sort of thing, might be breathing down our necks. It’s just that, well, there might be some other people along in a short while, looking for the same thing we’re looking for. And since we’d really rather get to it before they do – and trust me, we’re the good guys – it’d be nice to have a bit of advance warning about anything that might get in our way.’

The Doctor raised his eyebrows.

‘Well,’ said 77141 cautiously, one eye still on the bot that the Doctor had called ‘Mother’, ‘um, no.’

‘Good!’ beamed the Doctor. ‘In which case… sorry, what was your name?’

‘77141.’

‘77141 – strange name. You’re not a mechanical are you?’

‘No, but if you heard my real name you’d know why a number’s more practical.’

‘Fair enough. Anyway, 77141, we’ll be off. Well, I’ll be off. Mother here will keep you company for a while.’

And with that, the Doctor was out of the door and whizzing down to ground level on the tower’s lift.

77141 turned his eyes back towards Mother who was
staring
at him, her head cocked on one side like a dog wondering whether to attack or not.

‘Lovely weather,’ said 77141. ‘For the time of the year.’

‘I’ve no idea how much of a lead we have on them,’ gasped the Doctor and he skidded to a halt beside Boonie, waiting in the shadow of one of Junk’s vast piles of rubbish. ‘So we’d better be quick. I hope you’re beginning to appreciate what an advantage my tinkering with your sensors has given you. We didn’t get there in time on Karris – let’s get it right this time.’

Boonie gave him a look that suggested he still wasn’t convinced. The Doctor pulled out his sonic device and began waving it around.

‘This way,’ he said, pointing down the row.

As they made their way along the aisles of discarded technology, the night silence only broken by the distant crash of more junk being added and the occasional roar of a rocket engine, Boonie asked about Mother.

‘She’s keeping an eye on the supervisor for us. If it turns out we need some muscle to get to this segment, we can call her up. Fascinating mechanical, Mother. We had a nice little chat earlier.’

Boonie gave a dismissive snort.

‘Told me all about her start in the weapons industry, how she made herself mute, how you rescued her from being scrapped. She’s been through a lot. But then you know that.’ He threw Boonie a look.

‘She told you all that?’ asked Boonie incredulously as they walked down the wide street of discarded technology.

‘Why not – I’m a good listener. Wouldn’t do you any harm to give it a go, either. Just because she can’t speak doesn’t mean she can’t talk.’ He paused. ‘Or should it be the other way around?’

They came to the intersection of two aisles. Overhead, illumination globes swayed in the gentle breeze, casting dancing shadows at their feet.

‘I listen when there’s something worth listening to,’ Boonie said sullenly.

‘You listen when there’s something you think you want to hear. There’s a difference. Y’know, it’s great to have a goal in life – something to get you motivated, get you out of bed in the morning. But sometimes a goal can become an obsession. And obsessions are never good things. Believe me, I’ve had a few of them myself.’

‘You think this is an obsession? Tracking the Cultists, finding out what they’re up to? An obsession?’

In the cold light of the lamps above them, the Doctor’s eye sockets were unreadable pools of darkness.

‘I’m not saying you’re not doing the right thing; but it’s easy to get carried away with the bigger picture to the point where you can’t see the details.’ He paused and tipped his head back to look up at the night sky. ‘Donna – my friend. Up there.’ He gestured at the stars. ‘She’s a bit like you, only in reverse. Doesn’t always see the bigger picture, but you can’t fault her on spotting the details.’ He grinned at the thought of Donna and her down-to-earth-ness. Well, apart from her stint as a goddess.