FEAR OF THE DARK.

by TREVOR BAXENDALE.

Prologue.

Every dream exists on the precipice of nightmare. Nowhere else but in the subconscious is the divide between comfort and horror so narrow, and so fragile. It is almost as if a dream is just waiting to be toppled, its hopes dashed, its promises broken.

Nyssa sometimes dreamed of Traken, but the dream always tipped over into nightmare.

And the nightmare always ended the same way: she would be hurrying through the gardens and cloisters, calling for her parents, warning them of the disaster she knew was coming. But no one could hear her.

Worst of all, she couldn't even find her parents.

In her dreams, her mother was still there, a half-remembered face made clear by the imagination. But in the nightmare, Nyssa couldn't find her. She ran and ran, and searched every secret garden and grove, all the while knowing that time was running out.

Her father had disappeared too. In his study sat a man with a dark beard and even darker eyes. He would laugh at her when she arrived, breathless and soundless, at the very moment Traken vanished from the heavens.

And she saw that as that as if from a distance, the whole planet fading away into the awful blackness of s.p.a.ce as if it had never existed. if from a distance, the whole planet fading away into the awful blackness of s.p.a.ce as if it had never existed.

Nyssa woke up, breathing raggedly, the bed sheets tight around her sweating body. She was shivering, although it wasn't cold. It was dark, but she had her eyes shut anyway.

There was something nagging at her memory, something she had read in one of the books in the TARDIS library. Nyssa usually stuck to the extensive science journals and textbooks, but she had come across this slender, dusty volume of Earth poetry wedged between Wisden's Almanac Wisden's Almanac and A and A Brief Brief History of Time History of Time only a few days ago. It said 'Keats' on the spine, and it had fallen open on a page where two lines had been circled in green ink: only a few days ago. It said 'Keats' on the spine, and it had fallen open on a page where two lines had been circled in green ink:

The thought The deadly thought of of solitude. solitude.

For some reason it had stuck in her mind, and now she realised why. When Traken was erased from the cosmos, it had left her the sole remaining person from that world in existence.

She had felt so very alone.

She felt alone now, sitting on her bed in the dark, listening to the hum of the TARDIS around her. With nothing else to distract her, she was able to concentrate on that noise: the soft reverberation of distant, mysterious engines powering the vessel through the s.p.a.ce-time vortex. If she listened carefully, she could imagine that the engines were made quiet only by distance, that the almost subliminal hum was just the final echo of ma.s.sive, churning machinery.

Somewhere deep in the TARDIS, its its ancient dynamos thundered with terrific, unending exertion. Nyssa found the image quite disturbing. ancient dynamos thundered with terrific, unending exertion. Nyssa found the image quite disturbing.

Only then did she realise that normally, on her waking, the TARDIS would automatically activate the lights in her room. Softly at first, gradually increasing the lambency as she threw off sleep. But now it was pitch black. She couldn't see a thing. And yet she had the feeling, growing in intensity, that she was not alone.

Is there anybody there?' she heard herself asking plaintively.

There was no reply. Nyssa pulled her knees up and wrapped the sheets around -her more tightly. She peered into the gloom, hoping that perhaps her eyes would soon grow a little more used to the dark and she might be able to see something. Her ears strained to pick up the slightest sound, but all she could hear was her own heartbeat and the deep, alien breath of the TARDIS.

'Wh-where are you?' she asked the darkness. There was no reply. Nyssa immediately decided that she had imagined a half-formed phantom left over from her dream of Traken. The perspiration was cold on the exposed skin of her back now, and she felt a droplet trickle down her spine like an icy caress.

Why wouldn't the lights come on? Perhaps the TARDIS had malfunctioned; it wouldn't be the first time.

Her eyes were indeed now more accustomed to the blackness. She could just make out the bedclothes in front of her as a dull grey rectangle in the gloom. Staring, Nyssa picked out the edge of the bed itself, although beyond it there was nothing but the dark. It was exactly the same darkness that Traken had left in its place. Nyssa experienced a nauseating sense of peering into an abyss; of her bed floating like a miniature island in an ocean of night.

And then she saw it.

At first it was just a smudge of black against the greyness that marked the end of her bed. Then it inserted itself like a dark finger into the sheet, plucking at the material as it was dragged along the edge of the mattress.

Nyssa stopped breathing. But she could hear a low, rasping susurration in the air around her. There was was something in her room with her. Something that breathed. something in her room with her. Something that breathed.

Rigid with fear, she watched the finger of blackness spread out into something the size of a hand. Then it started up the bed towards her, expanding like a dark stain across the bedclothes.

She cringed as the darkness approached, convinced it would feel cold and wet to the touch. And as the blemish crept up towards her, so the shadows gathered around her, above her, behind her. Soon she would be submerged in the blackness.

She opened her mouth to cry out, to call for the Doctor and Tegan. But at the last moment she halted, frozen by the sudden, sickening fear that her voice would be as silent as it was in her Traken nightmare.

The darkness rose up and engulfed her like a shroud.

The loss of vision was so absolute that, for a long moment, moment, Nyssa thought that her eyes had been taken from her. Nyssa thought that her eyes had been taken from her.

She sat, blind and paralysed with fear.

Then something in the darkness touched her.

MESSAGE STARTS.

'OK, sweetheart, you can start talking now.'

'Is it on?'

'Yes, it's running. You can talk to Daddy now.'

'Will he hear me?'

'Sure he will. When this gets to him. It'll take a little time, it's got to go a long, long way.'

'How far?'

'To the edge of the galaxy.'

'What if it goes too far and falls off the edge of the galaxy?'

'Galaxy, not galaxy! Now speak up and Daddy will be able to listen to your message later.'

'OK. Now? OK. Hi Daddy. It's Rosie. Mummy says you'll see me on your viewer when you get this. She says I can talk to you later, too. And then you'll be able to talk back. That will be better, because I want to ask you some things. I've been having bad dreams at night again. Last night I dreamed a bear and a lion were chasing me and I was scared. Is it silly to be scared of dreams? Mummy lets me sleep in her bed at night but it's still dark. I don't like it when it's dark. Mummy says there are no bears or lions here but how can you tell if it's so dark? Mummy says you work in caves where it's dark all the time and you're not scared one bit. Is that right? How come you're not scared? What if a bear or a lion comes?

Please come home soon, Daddy. I don't like it when you're away. Neither does Kooka. His arm's come loose again.

Mummy says it's going to drop right off soon, so you'd better come back home and fix it real quick. I'm out of time now so I've got to say bye. Oh, but Daddy, be careful you don't fall off the edge of the galaxy. We miss you. Bye.

MESSAGE ENDS.

PART ONE.

INTO THE VOID.

Thoughts are but dreams till their effects be tried - William Shakespeare Shakespeare

Chapter One.

The dust hadn't settled yet. It hung like a miasma of filth in the cavern, and Stoker thought she was going to choke. She managed a dry cough and picked her way through the men clearing away the debris, until she reached the edge of the rock fall.

A large, broad-shouldered man was helping to shift fallen rocks out of the way, and Stoker tapped him on the shoulder.

He turned round slowly, eyes fierce above a big jaw covered with a four-day beard. His hands were big and solid, covered with dust and scratches. Stoker wasn't the least bit bothered.

'What the h.e.l.l d'you think you're playing at, Cheung?'

She only ever called him Cheung when she was really annoyed, and he had the good grace to look abashed. 'I dunno what went wrong, I'm sorry.'

'You're supposed to be my explosives expert,' Stoker said. 'It'll take days to clear up this mess.'

'It's not as bad as it looks.'

'Oh, I forgot, you're the expert!' Stoker laughed harshly.

'"Ex" as as in in not any more not any more and "spurt" as in and "spurt" as in a drip under a drip under pressure.' pressure.'

She saw the wounded look even through her anger, and realised it was time to turn it down. They didn't need any more fireworks at the moment. 'I'll see you later,' she told him, with slightly less rancour.

Cheung nodded. 'How are the casualties?'

'Lucky. The woman's just cuts and contusions. I'm on my way to check on the other two now. They're probably filing a ma.s.sive compensation claim as we speak.'

Cheung smiled grimly.

Stoker watched him turn to pick up another rock and said, 'Leave that, you big lummox. Go and help with the a.n.a.lysers, they could do with your muscle.'

The big lummox pulled a face and stood up, towering over her. Stoker was tall, an easy six feet, but Cheung was like a giant and he could, quite literally, bend iron bars with his bare hands. The other men loved him because he combined that kind of physical power with a surprisingly gentle manner and good humour.

'Go on,' she told him, whacking the knuckles of her left hand against his shoulder. 'Scoot. I'll handle this.

Cheung mock-saluted her and moved off. Stoker pushed at a rock with the toe of her boot. It was half buried and wouldn't budge. She let out a sigh of frustration, then gagged on the dust.

A figure appeared in the haze.' tall, horned, with a sharp-looking face and huge, staring eyes.

'Oh, it's you,' Stoker muttered after an initial flutter of panic. She distracted herself by fixing her blonde hair back in a short ponytail. She guessed she looked a mess.

'This is not good,' said the horned figure ominously.

'Tell me something I don't know, Jaal.'

'I warned you that this was a Bad Place,' Jaal insisted. 'I can sense the evil around us, living in the rock, waiting for its chance to strike.'

'Give it a rest, Jaal. The situation is bad enough without your endless prophecies of doom. Don't let me catch you telling any of the others that rubbish, d'you hear?'

Vega Jaal looked at her balefully. Stoker couldn't tell if she'd hurt his feelings, but she needed him on her side.

'Come on, Jaal.' I know it's not possible possible for you to lighten up, but we all need to muck in here.' for you to lighten up, but we all need to muck in here.'

Vega Jaal gave a solemn nod, the best she could hope for. 'Right,' Stoker said. 'Where are the casualties?'

He pointed back into the swirling fog of dust.

'OK,' she said. 'Leave this to me.'

Stoker walked across to where a camp bed and a power lamp had been hastily set up. The dust seemed to have thinned out a bit here, and for a few seconds she just stood and watched the Doctor attending to his patient. He was tall, almost boyish with his fair hair and smooth skin, but he had broad shoulders and an intelligent look in his eyes. The white running shoes he wore indicated an active lifestyle, but the rest of him - pale striped trousers and a long fawn coloured jacket, presented as much a mystery to Stoker as his name.

She was determined to keep an open mind, however.

Stoker's nose had been broken in a bar fight twenty years ago with the result that she now looked a h.e.l.l of a lot tougher than she really was. She played up to the image when it was useful, but it had taught her to never judge by appearances.