THE PERFECTION ARE
RUTHLESS, TIRELESS AND HAVE
A HIGH THREAD COUNT
And, on the other side of Cardiff, Jack Harkness fell back exhausted on the bed and cried out, ‘Please fellas, not again!’
3. DAMAGED GODS
GOD IS DEAD (BORED)
The city was made of silver and glass and spun and twisted across the surface of the planet like a brilliant thread.
Wherever the sun struck it, it glowed, the metal singing with heat and light and brilliance. Everywhere there was a song in the air, and a warmth.
It was, visitors had said, like the first day of spring, but forever.
Outside the city, grass of the greenest hue washed down towards a beach whose sand was, to some eyes, just a little pink.
And up and down crawled creatures – such creatures, like insects carved from jewels, or jewels grown out of insects. And each creature, as it moved, made a little noise with its wings – a happy little sound of wonder and joy. If the creatures flew, it was to make merry little trips up to the very highest tower, where they hung happily for a few seconds before drifting gently away on a warm breeze to settle somewhere else.
And inside the spire, at the top of a thousand beautiful steps that the insects would occasionally crawl dutifully up, in a hall made of glass polished by the sun of a thousand years, sat two beings. They were content. They had been content for centuries, and would be content for centuries more.
Everything was perfect.
But there was a third being in the room. And the third being was actually terribly bored.
JACK IS REMEMBERING AN
AGREEMENT
Three years ago…
Jack stepped into the club. Cigarette smoke hung heavy in the air; there was a pounding fanfare from the quiz machine. Behind the bar was a formidable array of house spirits, tapped beers, alcopops and crisps. Above it was a chalked sign – ‘We can cater for your civil partnership’ – next to a faded warning about drugs.
By the bar was a little DJ booth, in which a starveling Emo kid stood, mixing tracks unhappily in only a pair of jockeys and some boots. Jack sighed.
He looked around the room – the barman/woman (Jack couldn’t really tell) had already tensed and was trying to out-pout him. There were three drunk old men laughing at each other’s jokes. There was a lesbian couple rowing tiredly at a table over a packet of peanuts – one had her arm in plaster, the other was on crutches. A lone businessman sat leafing through a copy of the Pink Paper that was sodden with spilt beer. On the dance floor, a man in a backwards baseball cap was trying to do, dear god, the Running Man.
And then there was…
Well, hullo, boys!
Jack got himself a glass of water and made his way over.
‘Do you mind if I join you?’
‘Not at all. We wondered when you’d make an appearance.’ Jack sat down at the stool and looked at the two men. He smiled, impressed despite himself.
‘Is it your first human form, fellas? If so, I have to say, pretty good.’
One of the couple shrugged. They were, Jack thought, amazing. Just over six foot, mid twenties, clear blue eyes – one blond and preppy, the other dark-haired and olive-skinned. Simple, fitted T-shirts, expensive jeans – neither garment concealing any of the muscle that was rippling underneath. Both were staring at him, quiet amusement dancing across their deep blue eyes. ‘I can just imagine them advertising underwear,’ thought Jack. And then he dwelt on the thought a little too long. He realised he was supposed to say something.
‘You guys are a dream. I’m impressed.’
The dark one spread his hands out modestly. ‘Oh – consider us a work in progress. We want to be perfect.’
Jack smiled even more. ‘I see.’
‘You want to ask us some questions, don’t you?’ The blond seemed mildly amused. ‘I take it you are Torchwood.’
‘Yes, I am. And if you know us, you know that I’m not here to ask you questions. We protect the Earth from alien threats.’
‘And is that what we are? Alien threats? Puh-lease. I’m just Brendan,’ said the blond.
‘And I’m Jon,’ the dark-haired one shook Jack’s hand. It was a firm, warm handshake, and Jack grinned into Jon’s eyes despite himself.
‘Nice,’ he said. ‘Nice manners, guys. Very charming. So when does the killing start?’
Both of them laughed. Laughed like Jack was a toddler who’d said something funny.
‘There’ll be none of that. That’s not in our nature.’
‘Then what are you?’
‘We’re the Perfection.’
Jack grinned again. ‘Smug aliens. Great. What does the name mean?’
‘The Perfection are gods, Jack.’ Brendan’s tone was gentle.
‘Is that so?’ Jack took a long drink of his water, and suddenly wished for something stronger. ‘I’ve met quite a few gods. Most of them were just conmen with great gadgets.’
Brendan smiled sweetly. ‘I hear your argument. But we are the Perfection.’ It wasn’t an answer. ‘We are very old gods, Jack. We’ve spread a slow arc of perfection across the universe. We stay for millennia, we make everything perfect. And then, eventually, when all is wonderful, we move on.’
‘Leaving a dustbowl in your wake.’
Jon shook his head. ‘Not at all. When a society is functioning as well as is possible – then our work is done. When a people no longer need their gods, we must bow and leave the stage.’
‘No doubt to rapturous applause.’
Brendan laid a hand softly on Jack’s. ‘Underneath that cynicism, you’re hoping that we’re real. Let yourself trust us, Jack. Hallam’s World, the Province of Sovertial, the Min Barrier – these are but the latest in our projects. Worlds known across the galaxy for their harmony, stability and peace. Not, perhaps, utopia, but the very best they can be.’
Jack nodded, impressed. Hallam’s World – he’d once been stationed at the Time Agency outpost there. The most boring time of his life. Everything was like a warm Sunday afternoon just after lunch and before the television got good. But… in their own way, decent people. Very good people.
Jon smiled. ‘You yourself are an outsider – born on another world, making the most of this one. And that’s all we want to do.’
Jack sneered. ‘I see. And in six months – what? A brave new Reich of joy and harmony?’
‘Oh god, no!’ chuckled Brendan, lighting a fag. Jack blinked. ‘I said we are old gods. We’ve spent millennia building worlds where the skies burned with thought and our names were written in gold across the moons. Pfft!’ he exhaled wearily.
‘We’re knackered,’ sighed Jon. ‘It’s all such… work. We just wanted something a little smaller.’
‘Wales?’ offered Jack, mulling it over. The PM would be pissed, but…
‘No. Not even Cardiff. The Welsh are such a strong people – and, frankly, much prefer talking to God than listening. No. Look around you.’
Jack looked around the bar.
‘What?’
‘This. This tiny little group of disparate little outcasts. This gay community. Oh, they could be so beautiful, so fabulous, couldn’t they? But it’s all so drab and tired and joyless. Why – look at the hair, Jack. This is a gay scene where the mullet never went out. Couldn’t it all be more fun?’
Jack sat there. Sipping his water. And thinking.
‘No, hang on,’ he said.
Sip. Think.
‘Let me just check.’
Sip. Think.
Actually, when was this glass last cleaned?
‘So, you just want to give the gay scene a makeover?’ Brendan and Jon nodded together.
‘And it’s not going to involve some weird ritual sacrifice?’
Jon shook his head vehemently. ‘Oh lordy, no. How old school are you, sweet cheeks? We’ll just lead by example. It’s how we work. We are the Perfection. There’s no magic – wherever we go, people adore us, they love us, they want to be more like us. And we help them. But we don’t cheat. We don’t steal. We just bask in their love and we grow stronger. That’s all we want – to be wanted.’
Jack grinned at them with disbelief.
‘I really still think you could be evil. This could all be a horrible, horrible thing. It would be easier to just drag you down to the cells. Job done.’
Jon shuddered, theatrically, and laid his hand on Jack’s arm, muscles incidentally tensing magnificently, like weasels in a sack. ‘It would be easier, yes, but not as much fun.’
Brendan stubbed out his cigarette and grinned. ‘And you won’t. You trust us. You like us. You’ll give us a chance. And you’ll stay for another drink. A proper drink.’
Jack gazed sadly at his glass. ‘I’d love to, but I have to be ready. For when everything changes.’
Jon turned back from the bar, three drinks in his hand. ‘Trust us – you’ll be fine for a few hours. God’s word.’
A few minutes later…
‘Brendan,’ said Jack. ‘Your boyfriend’s hand is on my leg.’
‘Oh,’ said Brendan. ‘Is that a problem?’
Jack grinned. ‘Not at all. I just wondered if you felt left out.’
Brendan shrugged. ‘Not really.’ And placed his hand on Jack’s other leg.
‘Ah, I see. Does anyone ever say no to you guys?’
Jon tipped his head on one side, puzzled. ‘Why would they? We’re perfect!’
And the Perfection laughed, together. Not at all creepily.
And, about an hour later…
‘OK,’ muttered Jack happily into the pillow. ‘I’m open to making a deal.’
Somewhere, Brendan gave a muffled laugh. ‘Oh, you’re open to a lot more than that.’
‘Yup,’ admitted Jack, giggling.
Jon leaned in close, his voice joining the blissful throbbing in Jack’s head. ‘You’re prepared to consider an arrangement?’
‘Yeah. I just wish more people tried your approach. So much more fun than waving around weapons.’
‘Really?’ Jon kissed Jack. The kiss was perfect. ‘But you’re such a skilled diplomat. And we don’t have any guns.’
Jack felt Jon move away from him, and started to laugh. ‘Hey guys. Don’t think I’m not extraordinarily grateful.’ He smiled, dreamily, and just enjoyed himself for a while. ‘I hate to ruin the moment, but just a reminder. It ain’t gonna stop me having a good time, but if you let me down, I won’t hesitate in coming back here guns blazing.’
Brendan laughed, pleasantly, and moved up the bed to wrap his arms around Jack’s shoulders. ‘How evil would we have to be just to get you to come back?’
Jack beamed. ‘Oh, barely evil at all. Just a little naughty. But remember – you start hurting people, and, charming as you are, fun as this is, and …. absolutely great as that is, Jon – it’s not gonna stop me blowing you away.’
Jon laughed.
Jack smirked. ‘Howabout, I love it when a plan comes together?’
A year later…
Jack bumped into them at Cardiff Gay Pride. He was covered in mud and a scrap of blood-spattered gingham.
Brendan and Jon stood underneath a gold umbrella, watching the downpour. They were just wearing tight jeans and body paint. They waved to him.
‘Hey, guys,’ said Jack. ‘I’d love to stop and chat, but… you know… alien menace.’
‘Grr!’ they both mimed claws.
‘Yeah. Exactly. Lots of tentacles, big gun, gingham dress. Seen it?’
They shook their heads.
‘So, how are you?’ asked Brendan.
Jack shrugged. ‘Keepin’ busy. Saving the world. You?’
‘So-so,’ said Jon. ‘Look around you – we’ve already improved the hair.’
‘That was you?’ laughed Jack. ‘Way to go, guys.’
‘The last mullet moved to Swansea the other week. We had a party. Lasted a few days.’
‘Few other things – you know. Stern words with innocent boys down from Treorchy for the weekend. You know – always use a jonny, and no, a Mars Bar wrapper’s not a substitute. The STD clinic’s dead chuffed. Talked about giving us a plaque, which was sweet. Plus, by just being ourselves, I think we’ve been a good influence.’
‘Yeah,’ said Brendan. ‘People have finally stopped wearing plaid. And I’m doing some great work with the Assembly.’
‘I’m impressed,’ said Jack.
‘Care to show us?’ asked Brendan, raising an eyebrow. If anything they’d got prettier. Something even more striking about his cheekbones. And. Oh. Monster. Right.
Jack looked over, reluctantly, to the main stage. He could hear roaring and a few screams. ‘I’d love to. Maybe later?’
Brendan and Jon followed his glance to where Cardiff’s queen of song stood, drenched as usual, belting out ‘Delilah’ over a sodden PA. There was a flash of gingham and a tentacle backstage. Over the rain, Jack could just hear the sound of automatic gunfire. As he watched, Owen backed onto the stage, desperately aiming a flamethrower into the wings. He became gradually aware of the crowd, and grinned sheepishly, dropping into the kind of guilty creep that he’d seen roadies use. He paused and winked at the singer, who somehow carried on singing despite Owen aiming a jet of flame into the lighting rig. A large, charred tentacle flopped onto the stage next to them, and lay there, flailing and smoking.
Jon applauded, ironically. ‘That boy’s got to be one of yours,’ he smirked. ‘Torchwood are never throwing me a surprise birthday.’
Brendan leaned in and kissed Jack quickly. ‘Go!’ he urged. ‘Save Charlotte Church. We’ll be around tonight. We’re having a White Party.’
Jack saluted and ran off.
And two years later, Jack found himself back at the club where it all began…
CAPTAIN JACK HAS KILLED
THE WABBIT, KILLED THE WABBIT
Jack made his way slowly across the dance floor. Partly because it was packed. Partly because it was packed with strikingly attractive, topless men. On the one hand, he wore a look of grim determination. On the other, it seemed like a good party.
A particularly muscled guy with a big grin wrapped himself around Jack and started to dance against him slowly. He drew himself close to Jack, and Jack leaned slowly in and whispered quietly in his ear. ‘Not right now,’ he said, and moved on.
All around him was disco. Surprisingly good disco. When you’ve lived through the twentieth century a few times over, you’ll go to a lot of parties. Most of them a bit rubbish, really. When you come down to it, it’s all a mixture of sex, chemicals, fancy hair, loud music, dry ice and, in the 1970s, roller skates.
For a large chunk of the twentieth century, Jack hadn’t been drinking, and he’d never got the hang of roller skates. But he still fancied he knew how to twist up a rug, and this seemed pretty, well… A few parties stood out. He’d gone to the Cavern Club in Liverpool in the early 1960s to hear The Beatles’ first-ever concert. Not so much cos he liked the music, but just in case He turned up. He never could resist a spot of showy nostalgia. Actually, He hadn’t, but Jack had still had a surprisingly good time with a party of student nurses in Biba skirts.
Then there was that lost weekend in the Weimar Republic in the 1930s. Berlin loved to party, and those Germans – they really loved a man in uniform. He’d been supposed to be investigating rumours of trafficking in Alien Artefacts by some leading National Socialists, but had got distracted by… well, everything really. About the only thing he remembered was the look when he’d handed in his expenses claim.
Oh, and that party in an enormous warehouse in Docklands, way before it got redeveloped. Back then it was just an enormous shed of noise, with people draped across the stairs. The host lived in a greenhouse in the middle of the second floor and made weird films. The warehouse was breathtakingly cold and filthy, but everyone looked amazing. The music was bizarre, and every single mattress was crowded with beautiful people. Oh, and there had been cheese-on-sticks and fireworks along the Thames.
And then there was this. Someone had repainted the entire club a burning white, the walls glowing with the heat from the lights. The floor itself blazed with light, the entire club both full of shadows and yet having no shadow. The bar was a long plate of shining glass, with mirrors behind it, floating somehow above the dance floor. Tables of polished steel leaned against mirrored columns of solid light. Everything was bright and burned and the noise flowed up and around. Even the dry ice appeared to be glitter, floating around everyone like dusk in summer.
Jack made his way to the bar, and enjoyed the spectacle. Everyone was young, they were thin, they were pretty and happy. No one seemed drunk, just blissful. And nearly everyone was dancing.
He saw Brendan over in the DJ booth. He was standing there, just wearing a pair of combats and some headphones. His blond hair was flowing effortlessly free. He waved towards Jack, and Jack walked over.
‘It’s been a while!’ Brendan said, his normal voice somehow making itself heard over the crowd.
‘There’s been no need,’ replied Jack.
‘Forgive the appearance. I’m just dressed down tonight. You know how it is. Fancied a spot of DJ-ing. After all, everyone loves a DJ.’ He winked. ‘Let’s go upstairs and get a drink with Jon.’ He reached out of the booth and tapped a student wearing speedos and a snake tattoo. The boy turned and looked at Brendan and smiled. Brendan leaned down and stroked his arm. The boy stepped forward and they kissed in the booth. Brendan leaned away. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Eric.’
‘Good boy, Eric. You get to DJ. You’ll do brilliantly.’ Brendan kissed him again and walked away.
Jack shook his head. ‘You two are worse than me.’
Brendan shrugged. ‘You don’t know the half of it.’ He strode off.
Behind him, Jack’s smile died.
Upstairs had never been much of a bar. Just kind of an overfill that occasionally did for functions or strip shows and Karaoke. But now it was all wood panelling and leather chairs and under-floor lighting.
As Jack walked in, Jon was walking over from the bar with three drinks. He smiled, happy to see the Captain.
‘Do you like what we’ve done?’ he asked.
Jack nodded. People sat on the couches, chatting and smiling. The bar appeared to sell vodka and toast. Somewhere, three bottle-blond kids from Swansea were poking uncertainly at some dim-sum.
Jack sat down at a little table. He could still hear the amazing noise from the club below. But also…
Over the PA, the barman announced, ‘And next on Karaoke is Barry from Barry. And he’ll be doing the Queen of the Night’s song from Die Zauberflöte.’
Brendan giggled. ‘Such a lovely boy. Great voice, but he’ll never make that high G.’
As the Mozart thundered around them Jack blinked. Brendan laughed. ‘Oh, the Opera Karaoke? All Jon’s idea.’
‘Well, life’s not all party favours and Kylie,’ said Jon. ‘And it’s a touch of class. It’s not show tunes.’
‘I’ve never been a fan of musical theatre,’ said Jack.
Over on the Karaoke screen, the ball hopped its way across the words:
‘Der Holle Rache kocht in meinem Herzen; Hell’s vengeance seethes in my heart;
Tod und Verzweiflung flammet unm ich her! The flames of death and despair engulf me…’
Jack tried not to marvel as people put down their drinks and toast and started to join in in a boozy, heartening way.
Jon smiled. ‘I know it’s a bit campy, but we’re very old gods. Anything goes. Well, apart from Harrison Birtwhistle. Would you begrudge us this?’
‘Don’t hurry him.’ Brendan grinned. ‘There’s always a but with Jack. Hold that thought.’
‘What?’ asked Jon.
Brendan pointed. A kid wearing normal clothes and too much wet-look hair gel had wandered in. ‘Underneath those baggy clothes and that home dye job, he’s gorgeous. You can tell it’s his first time out. In two minutes’ time he’s going to be smoking a granny fag outside and wishing he fitted in.’
Jon patted his partner on the arm. ‘Go get him, tiger.’
Brendan gave a mock sigh of exhaustion. ‘No rest for the wicked, you know how it is.’ He winked, grabbed his drink and his cigarettes and, steering the kid by the shoulder, swept him outside.
Jon turned back to Jack. ‘See? Another soul rescued. People will see him with us. We’re so beautiful, some of that rubs off on him. He’ll make friends. He’ll dress like them, someone will cut his hair. He’ll sleep with a few of them, get his heart broken, get tougher, go down the gym, break a few hearts of his own… It’s all good. Community service.’
Jack said nothing.
‘Yeah. We’ve led by example. Oh, it’s been a great few months.’ Brendan laughed and ruffled Jack’s hair. ‘Seriously. We’ve made so many friends, we’ve improved the boys and the music. We’ve even raised house prices by a few per cent. Plus we’ve got laid loads. What’s not to love?’
Jack sipped his drink, thoughtfully.
Jon shrugged. ‘I know what you’re going to say, but really, don’t be a stranger. There’s always a place in our hearts and our bed for you, Jack. You get me – I know what it’s like. You’re fighting Weevils, we’re fighting off bears. But, look around you, sweetheart. Isn’t this better than what there was? Look at how happy we’ve made everybody. Even the kids from Newport.’
Jack looked at him and smiled.
‘Oh, I keep cutting you off, which is so annoying!’ laughed Jon. ‘What is the thing? Have you come for a bit of advice? Cos, if you don’t mind me saying, the military retro thing has kind of gone. We need to get you in something tight and fitting. Some fabrics that’ll breathe, if you know what I mean.’
Brendan came back to the table, smirking.
Jon glanced at him. ‘You dirty slut,’ he sighed.
Brendan puckered his mouth. ‘Yeah, well, I made him happy – he’ll have a great evening.’
Jon tutted. ‘And you come back smelling of cheap fags. Can you not try out menthol?’
Brendan shuddered. ‘It’s like licking a minty road. No thanks. Now, Captain Jackoff – what can we do you with?’ And he raised his eyebrows suggestively.
Jon shrugged. ‘He’s not said. Not really got a word in edgewise, have you? Silly me, I’m turning into such a gassy old Mary. It’s the bloody Welsh. So gregarious. I swear they’re rubbing off on me.’
He laughed in a nasal way, and Brendan growled at him.
‘So, Jack, what have you come here to say? Are you going to congratulate us for everything we’ve done?’
Jack’s smile faded. ‘Nope. I’m here to take you in.’
‘What?’ Jon’s cocktail paused mid-sip. Brendan reached nervously for his lighter.
‘You heard. The show’s over. You’ve broken our agreement. I was a fool to trust you. So now it ends.’
‘Oh,’ said Jon, a little sadly. ‘You knew?’
‘I’m only sorry it took me so long to notice!’ exclaimed Jack, furiously angry. ‘Why couldn’t you have come to me earlier? We might have helped you. Instead people have died. And…’ he looked truly regretful. ‘I thought there were two people in Cardiff who really understood me, who I could trust… and now this. Sorry. Party’s so over.’
Brendan let out a long-held breath. ‘Fooo. OK. Wow. Bit sudden, but OK,’ he said. ‘We’ll play by the rules, won’t we, Jonno?’
‘Yup,’ said Jon, moving closer to Jack. ‘Last dance, Captain?’
‘Sure,’ said Jack. ‘Why not?’
And they led him to the dance floor. And a day passed.