The Dalek Factor

  Simon Clark

  The Dalek Factor

  ***

  When a Thal platoon arrive on a hostile planet investigating reports that Dalek artifacts have been detected, they are unprepared for what they find. In an underground room is a stranger, a Professor, or so he claims, with no member of who he is or why he is there, with death and horror their only companions, the Thals make their way with the Professor into the heart of a crumbling Dalek citadel in search of answers-only to find that the Daleks are the least of the horrors they must face.

  Telos Publishing, 2004. Limited edition hardcover (to 800 copies).

  ***

  FOREWORD

  I NEVER UNDERSTOOD STAR TREK.

  The cheerful teamwork, the scientific gobbledygook, the lycra outfits, the alien enemies that were never very alien, or remotely frightening - and all those life-lessons to be learned each week.

  Doctor Who - now that I could get. Science-fiction needs to foster a sense of otherness in order to work. Star Trek, Time Tunnel, Lost In Space were fun but always felt cosy and safe. Doctor Who, on the other hand, refused to be neatly pigeonholed, for the simple reason that you never knew where each new story would take you.

  Three cliches have been endlessly repeated about Doctor Who.

  One: everyone of a certain age remembers watching it from behind the sofa.

  Two: the props people would have been lost without perspex and polystyrene.

  Three: you can't have a universe-conquering enemy that can't get up the stairs.

  And only one of these three cliches is really true. Let me explain.

  1963. England is freeing itself from the debilitating gloom that followed the war. The nation of smogs and rations and diphtheria jabs is slowly fading. The English imagination, cowed by the horrors of a Europe-wide conflict, is starting to return. Pop music is in its grand ascendancy. The creative arts are starting to flower once more. The ideas of science-fiction, thanks to TV series like Quatermass, Pathfinders and A For Andromeda, are capturing young minds. And into this rebirth, this fertile innocence, is planted a series of such peculiar originality that it takes the nation entirely by surprise. It's a series that somehow captures the strange dislocation of the time, the fast evolution from Olde World England to something fresh and fast and cool.

  From the outset, it was clear that the old rules governing TV SF had suddenly changed.

  First, there was the title sequence. Electronic music (so cool that it still turns up sampled on dance tracks) and those pre-music-video graphics.

  Then, the strange hero; a crafty and somewhat sinister elderly man. The setting; anywhere and everywhere, back and forth in time and space.

  The cast of characters; ever-changing, fallibly human, confused and independent-minded.

  The villains; non-humanoid, possibly insect-like, amorphous, robotic.

  Big ideas on a small budget.

  If the brief for the series seems broad now, think of it then, with primitive monochrome video technology and virtually no available effects. What Doctor Who had instead, and in abundance, was imagination.

  There was one familiar object in the 1963 Doctor Who (although it's not so recognisable now); a blue police box, but bigger inside than out - that was the first thing you had to grasp. Folding time and space - that was the second. Time Lords - the third. And as the original series developed, through some seven doctors and dozens of castaway passengers, running for almost thirty years, one true enemy ruled them all...

  The Daleks were unlike any alien seen before. They possessed no recognisable human features. They had no redeeming qualities. Their very alienness made them impossible to reason with. Then why were they so popular?

  First of all, you could impersonate them. Any kid with a sack and a sink plunger could handle a passable imitation (and they were muchimitated - even Spike Milligan conjured up some rather dodgy Pakistani Daleks at one point).

  Secondd, their inhumanity made them genuinely frightening. They operated in a collective intelligence decades before Star Trek: The Next Generation's Borg. When Daleks appear, there was a sense that the laws of normal TV might be broken, and something terrible would happen.

  Finally, they ingrained themselves deep within the national psyche. It is often said that the Enlish are historically a cruel race, and perhaps, in this cruellest of enemies, we found a kindred spirit.

  So, two of the three cliches could be demolished: the poverty-row settings and props became unimportant when all you saw was encrouching alien terror. Likewise, who worried about stairs when the Daleks had ways of betraying everyone? Which just leaves the fear, the need to block out the sound of those rasping voices, those futuristic - but endearingly sixties - metal bodies that hid the slimy, pulsating deformities within.

  The early shows, especially, were redolent with the grim dampness of an England now lost from view. The Doctor's companions were unwilling participants, frightened and anxious to go home. They were foolish and foolhardy, with none of the analytic common sense exhibited by starship crews; they were students and schoolteachers, ordinary people hurled into dislocative situations, facing an unthinkable evil. Nor could the wilful, disorganised Doctor be entirely trusted and left at the mercy of the dread Daleks.

  That was a long time ago, of course. Since then, a bountiful supply of Dalek merchandise has placed them all around us. (There are a couple on my desk as I write this.) Daleks still seem as familiar as Thunderbird 2 or The Prisoner's penny farthing.

  It seems pleasingly appropriate, then, that Simon Clark should restore a sense of dread to the world of the Daleks. This is the guy who rediscovered another great touchstone terror, the giant ambulatory plants of John Wyndham's Day Of The Triffids, when he gave us the terrific official sequel Night Of The Triffids. And this book gives us the Daleks as they are meant to be: disturbing, dark, and utterly alien.

  What Simon has managed to do is not simply replicate the quirky writing style of the original, using its characters and situations (although he has achieved this to an extraordinary level - check out that opening); rather, he has created a new story that feels like part of the classic canon, broadening the scale of the originals, and craftily weaving in fresh situations, so that his tale feels like a grand space opera of wishfulfilment. This is not the mimicry of a fan, but the work of someone who understands why the characters have become so loved, and why they deserve to continue.

  As Simon will show you, the possibilities are endless.

  The Doctor is ready to see you now.

  Christopher Fowler

  London,

  August 2003

  ONE

  'SEE?'

  'No.'

  'Advance.'

  'Advancing. Copy.'

  'See?'

  'Nothing. Dark… it's all dark.'

  'See… See!'

  'Negative.'

  'Caution…'

  'Captain, I see nothing. It's too dark. No light…'

  'Advance. Advise caution. Target directly ahead of you.'

  'Where's Kye?'

  'She's off monitor.'

  'She's dead?'

  'Keep moving. Observe extreme caution. I repeat: caution. You should have visual contact now.'

  'But I can't see… visibility, nil. I repeat, Captain. Visibility nil.'

  'Advance.'

  'Request withdrawal, sir.'

  'Request denied. Advance.'

  'Sir, density of growth increasing; it's becoming…'

  'Advance.'

  'Captain… Captain?'

  You see worlds. You map them. You survey them from core to outer atmosphere. This one I can taste. Moisture drawn by a searing jungle heat from marsh-wet earth has long smeared my tongue with the flavour of stagnant water. Bitter sap fro
m the plants now sprays into my mouth.

  'Captain. Comm link failing. I don't read you… Damn.' Comm link failed. Vocal links with command severed.

  I move from the darkness of dense tree canopy into a green world. Slender grasses reach high above my head, three… no, four times as tall as a man. Moist stalks, bristling with vicious spines, make the sound of angry whispering as I push through. They are so close together that I see no sky above. I don't see anything in front of me. Nor anything to flanks or rear. The tall plants swish back behind me with the completeness of liquid. I could be swimming through a green ocean. One that leaves no trace of my passing.

  And all the time, just ahead of me…

  A rush of static sounds in my earpiece… then as quickly passes. I am alone here now. All communication lost. This green forest is a soundproof wall. Within moments of entering, I'd lost verbal contact with Kye and Rain. Sap smears my visor. Drops of water fall to tap my helmet. The grass spines, slender as hypodermics, find their way through my suit to prick my skin. My forearms itch. Humidity and heat form a solid mass in my lungs. Breathing is near impossible.

  And yet still ahead… I know I must locate my target. I must advance.

  Moving faster, sweeping grass aside. All I see are stalks flashing in front of my eyes. A tunnel effect of the lushest green. It flows over me. I don't see… I don't see anything but grass. Even if I extend my hands they vanish into the greenery as if vegetable jaws have greedily swallowed my limbs. My instincts flare inside my head. This place is evil; this jungle is a green clot on the face of a planet that oozes danger. Beneath my feet, the ground moves as if it is nothing but a membrane. Forbidding thoughts suggest that there is nothing but a dark void beneath me. If the membrane should split I will tumble through into everlasting night where nightmare carnivores wait for fresh prey.

  When I fall, it's not down but forward. Brightness flares against the sap-smeared visor. Suddenly there's no resistance in front of me. I'm losing my balance, tumbling down to my knees. Bouncing on the spongy stuff. Then I'm on my feet again, adrenaline powering me on.

  Because the target should be here. I'm almost on top of it.

  A shadow flies at me. I raise my weapon.

  'Jomi… Jomi…'

  I hear my name being called by the speeding shadow. The voice is breathless with terror. 'Kye?' I call her name. 'Are you all right?'

  'Jomi, get back.' She grabs my arm to drag me into the dense clot of grass.

  'I thought you were dead.'

  'I'm alive and staying that way.'

  'We've been ordered to advance to target.'

  'No way, Jomi. It's there… It's in those trees!'

  'Kye. Stop. We're acting under orders. We can't just…'

  'You don't know what it's like. Not until you see for yourself… It's…' She shakes her head, unable to finish the sentence.

  I flip the stained visor. At last I can see clearly. Kye stands beside me, panting with exertion. She wears a black suit and helmet just like mine. Only she's far more slender at the waist. We're standing at the edge of the grassland. Those spine-covered stalks tower over us, swaying in the humid air. Above them, black clouds boil in a turbulent sky. Thunder rolls in the distance. It has the ominous beat of a monster heart. Now, I look ahead in the direction of the target. A loathsome blanket of moss that sweats its own toxic moisture runs for around fifty paces before reaching a clump of trees; they are a mass of contorted limbs that twist upward before looping down on themselves to bury their scarlet tips into sick-looking moss.

  Kye stares at the trees, her eyes so wide and fixed that I figure her entire body is gripped by intense muscle spasm. I've never seen fear like that before on a face. Or terror distilled to such a shocking degree in human eyes. Wisps of blonde hair have slipped down from beneath her black helmet; they drip with perspiration. Her mouth has frozen, partly open; her lips are pale, bloodless. Muscles beneath the skin of a face that is normally so youthful and glowing with health, now twitch. Veins are broken in her cheeks, either through rocketing blood pressure induced from stress or from a blow; I can't tell.

  'Kye?' Gently, I put my hand on her shoulder. 'Kye.'

  As if breaking free of a trance she finally looks at me. Those eyes are pools of anxiety.

  'Kye. Show me where it is?'

  Her face drains. She finds it hard to breathe, she's so afraid. 'Sh-show you? You really want me to?'

  'You've got to.'

  'But… Oh my God, Jomi. I don't…' She gulps. 'I never want to see it again.'

  I squeeze her shoulder, trying to reassure her. 'That's our purpose, Kye. That's why we're here.'

  'No. We're too young. They shouldn't have sent us alone. Where are Pelt and Golstar?'

  'This is what we're trained to do. We swore an oath.' I speak gently but firmly. 'Show me where it is, Kye.'

  For a second I picture her tearing from me to plunge back into the wall of grass. That spine-covered vegetation would be infinitely preferable to this. But I see her blink. Maybe she is recalling her months of training, her oath of allegiance; her loyalty to her platoon. And to the ghosts of all our past heroes that sacrificed their lives for the Thal homeland.

  This sends a ripple of energy through her. She looks taller. In control of herself. 'OK, I'll show you.'

  'Where's your gun?'

  She's ashamed. 'I ran… I don't know…'

  I take the lead with Kye following. She hisses instructions in a whisper. 'Straight ahead. Left… left. Through those trees shaped like a pointed archway. Twenty paces beyond that.'

  We reach the archway trees, where she pauses. I glance back. She's staring into the gloom of the copse. Thunder morphs from a heartbeat sound to a menacing growl. Lightning flickers in the clouds.

  'I'm sorry, Jomi. I can't go back in there… I want to help… But I just can't… Oh my God, I know I can't see it again.'

  'Wait here.'

  Arm the gun, safety off. I raise the muzzle, ready to fire the second the target is sighted. Then I move forward, swiftly, silently, my senses soaring into overdrive.

  I count every pace I take. Balancing the need for stealth with the requirement for speed. Kye told me twenty paces to target from the archlike trees. One pace… two… three… four… five. A vivid splash of lightning. It reveals twisted tree limbs. They close in, forming something that could be the bars of a cage, hemming me in at both sides. I notice the bark. It's a supple black that resembles the skin of a reptile rather than the covering of a tree. A scaly appearance where drops of water stand proud of its surface.

  More lightning sends sudden shafts of blue light through the canopy of branches. Then a crash of thunder.

  And all the time I'm counting paces, weapon ready, its 'armed' light flashing red in the scope. Eight… nine… ten.

  Ten paces to target.

  Eleven…

  Twelve…

  I engage the trigger to first position. The gunstock throbs through the material of my gloves. The red light pulses faster.

  Count paces. Thirteen… fourteen… fifteen…

  Engage trigger in firing position. Energies of huge destructive power throb in the magazine cyst beneath the gun barrel. The red light screws itself into a frenzied flickering.

  Sixteen… seventeen…

  Where's the target…

  Where's the target? My heart pounds against my ribs. Thunder roars down at me with all the sound and fury of heaven breaking in two. Instinct drives me into attack mode. Moving faster, gun raised to my shoulder I peer down the shadowed tunnel through the tangled limbs of trees. Roots lie in looping tangles on the ground. It's like negotiating a path full of snakes.

  Counting paces: eighteen, nineteen.

  Uh.

  My toe catches in one of the root loops. I plunge forward, arms outstretched to save myself from serious injury. My gun falls into the infestation of plant growth. When lightning strikes again I'm on my hands and knees.

  The gloomy void beneath the tree canopy
explodes into a flash of blue light. Thirty paces in front of me a tree blazes as lightning tears down through the trunk, exploding its core to pulp and sending out cascades of dazzling sparks.

  Only I don't really see the destruction of the tree. That's not important. Because when I look up, I realise I have reached my target. Rearing up before me, towering there in a cone of metal so dark that it seems to devour the brilliance of the lightning bolt itself, is a sinister conjunction of shapes, angles, vertical planes, glittering limbs and an uncompromising hardness. Its size extends beyond mere physical dimensions. My response to confronting the evil presence shortcuts any intellectual understanding of what I see lit by a million volts of storm power. I respond to it, not with mind, but with instinct, with gut and heart. This body of metal and lines of symmetry shatters dispassionate observation. My eyes fix on it as flashes of the most vivid lightning illuminate its presence. And yet I see it represented by symbols that are thrust into my brain. I look at hemispheres bulging from smooth metal flanks. But I see the lens of a dark and terrible god that has the ability to concentrate evil into a singularity of focus. I see a slender, silvered limb projecting from the front. But I see acid burning a child's face. I see the flattened dome at the apex. And I see a billion graves. I see the witchfire glint of a lens cover, but it is Death blinking at me. Death knowing me. Death anticipating me. And the rush of a sudden breeze across that steel shell is the ghosting cry of all its victims from countless worlds without end.

  For the name of what I see in front of me isn't dark enough, brutal enough, nor terrible enough to convey the sheer power and horror of that configuration of metal.

  Dalek.

  TWO

  THE SEARCH HAD TAKEN OUR VESSEL THROUGH TO THE VERY tip of the arm of a spiral galaxy. This was literally the dead end. A scattering of a dozen worlds before star fields petered out to nothing but the freezing gulf of intergalactic space beyond. Our mission was officially known as 'Search and Destroy,' but we dubbed it a 'Shampoo' operation. We were washing what remained of our enemy out of Thal hair. That enemy? The Daleks of course. Or what remained of them. This sector of the galaxy hadn't encountered a viable Dalek force in two generations. Our assignment committed us to scan every world, every asteroid, every hunk of space debris to locate possible sleeper pods of Daleks. Long ago, Daleks had embedded thousands of these pods deep in worlds and space junk across the galaxy. Programmed to emerge and attack as soon as we, the Thals, became lazy and took our now-peaceful lives for granted.