TWENTY-ONE
Acrid smoke billowed through the hallway and the sitting room.
‘Owen?’ Toshiko cried. ‘Owen?’
The smoke caught at her throat and she began to cough.
‘Owen?’
Davey was fumbling about behind her, dazed and blinking. The picture of the Scottish Highlands had fallen off the chimney breast and shattered on the hearth.
Toshiko peered out into the hallway. The blast had snapped all the banisters on the stairs. The carpet was scorched, and the old wallpaper was bubbling and peeling.
‘Owen?’
No reply.
She thought about drawing her side-arm, but realised that it was pointless. Owen had proved that much, in what had probably been the last moment of his life.
She dropped down and crawled forward, peeking out into the hallway. The front door had entirely gone, and a cold draught was stirring in through the smoke.
She looked the other way. At the end of the hall, the kitchen door was splintered open. There was no sign of the thing.
She got up. Something stirred at the foot of the stairs, and she pulled her gun anyway.
It was Owen. He was curled up in a ball.
‘Owen?’
‘What?’ he answered, over-loudly.
‘Owen, be quiet.’
‘Bloody well deafened me,’ he said.
‘Shush. How are you alive?’
‘What?’
‘How are you still alive?’
‘I ducked. Onto the stairs. Jesus Christ, that thing plays for keeps. Where is it?’
‘I don’t know,’ replied Toshiko.
Davey limped out into the hallway. He looked around. ‘Oh no,’ he murmured. ‘Oh no.’
‘Mr Morgan? Sir?’ Toshiko called. ‘Go back in the room, Mr Morgan. Please, sir. We need you to be safe.’
Davey Morgan stayed where he was. He bent down and picked something up. The hall table had been smashed. The picture that had been standing on it had fallen and broken. Davey brushed off the glass fragments and smoothed the photo inside the frame.
‘Oh, Christ, I’m sorry. It’s all right, love. It’s all right.’
‘Davey! Sir!’
Davey turned to face her. ‘Look what happened to my house!’ he cried. ‘Look what it did to my bloody house!’
Toshiko went over to him and tried to calm him down. The photograph was black and white, and showed a smiling, slightly self-conscious middle-aged woman in horn-rim specs.
‘Davey, I have to get you clear,’ Toshiko said. ‘You have to go outside. Out the front.’
‘Who’s this now?’ Davey demanded, ignoring her.
Jack hurried in through the hole where the front door had been. He narrowed his eyes and blinked at the smoke.
‘Everyone still alive who should be?’
‘Yes,’ said Toshiko.
‘What can you tell me?’
‘I think it went out the back,’ said Toshiko.
James and Gwen appeared behind Jack. Both had side-arms in their hands, raised in ‘safe’ grips.
‘They won’t do any bloody good,’ said Owen loudly. He was on his feet, leaning against the wall and wiggling a finger in one ear.
‘Why?’ asked Gwen.
‘Because it’s bloody well bullet-proof,’ said Owen. ‘And if it looks at you, hint, be somewhere else.’
‘What happened?’ Jack called as he pushed past Toshiko and the old man and headed towards the kitchen.
‘I tried to defuse the situation peacefully,’ said Owen.
‘This would be why the lower part of this house recently exploded?’ asked James.
‘Ultimately,’ Owen nodded, his voice still just the wrong side of loud. ‘It was a stand-off. A matter of the first one to flinch.’
‘And?’ asked Gwen.
‘I flinched first,’ said Owen. ‘Sorry. I’ve always been a flincher.’
‘Get these people out of my house!’ Davey cried.
‘Get the old guy out of my hazard radius,’ said Jack. He stepped into the little back kitchen. It was dingy and worn. A single teacup and saucer on the drainer, a bowl of cat food on the floor, a ragged-looking jacket hanging from a peg. Jack drew his revolver, and edged towards the broken backdoor. Gwen came through from the hallway behind him.
‘Any ideas yet?’ she asked.
‘That was a phasic weapon,’ said Jack. ‘Very distinctive energetic pattern. Very advanced.’
‘So, yeah, then?’
‘Let’s say I’ve got a hunch.’
‘Let’s say your coat disguises it well.’
He looked at her. ‘Making jokes? Really?’
They reached the door. The little backyard was empty. They advanced down the back path. The chorus of house and car alarms had not yet abated, and now police sirens added to the mix.
‘We’ll need to pull rank,’ said Jack. ‘We can’t let the uniforms near this, though they might want to start getting the street evacuated. The streets on either side too, probably. In fact, Cathays.’
‘Special access, right. I’ll go talk to someone,’ said Gwen. She went back into the kitchen, passing James and Owen on their way out. They joined Jack.
‘See it?’ asked Owen.
‘Uh-uh. Not so far.’
‘Well, it’s kind of hard to miss.’
They went to the gate.
It was standing in the walled lane behind the houses. Just standing, slightly crooked, as if listening.
As the three of them stepped out of Davey’s back gate and saw it, it turned, first its head, then its upper body, then its feet, repositioning them under the rotating torso.
‘Oh, hell,’ said Jack, a note of genuine disappointment in his voice.
The thing tilted its head slightly. The humming sound coming from it changed pitch.
Where the thing’s eyes should have been, there was a pulse of dull yellow.
The three men threw themselves sideways into Davey’s yard as a roaring cone of heat rushed down the narrow lane and demolished two outhouses and part of a wall.
Small lumps of brick and fine grit sprinkled down.
Owen rolled over and inched himself backwards until he was leaning against the yard wall. ‘That’s twice that’s happened to me,’ he said. ‘I’ve decided not to risk a third try.’
James looked at Jack. ‘You know what it is, don’t you? You’ve got that look.’
‘I’m pretty sure I know it. I’ve seen pictures.’
‘Pictures?’
Jack crawled back to the gateway and took a quick look out. The thing was walking away down the back lane slowly.
Jack ducked back in. ‘It’s Melkene tech. A Serial G, I think. Yeah, Serial G. I’m sure of it.’
‘Go on.’
‘What can I tell you? The Melkene were a pretty advanced race. Particularly good at manufacturing artificials, or what Owen would call robots.’
‘That thing’s a robot?’ asked Owen.
‘It’s a soldier,’ said Jack. ‘About five hundred years ago, the Melkene found themselves in a hot war with a rival species. They were losing. Their soldiers – all artificials – were too predictable. They lacked, how can I put it? Uh, the balls for serious warfare. Just point-and-shoot mechanicals, with no killer instinct, no passion.’
‘So?’ asked James, fairly sure he wasn’t going to like the rest of the story.
‘So they manufactured the Serial G. Removed all the logic inhibitors and algorithmic compassion restraints they had traditionally equipped their artificials with. The sort of fundamental safeguards any advanced civilisation with a conscience would have insisted on installing in their artificials. The Melkene were desperate. Their backs were against the wall. They gave the Serial G ungoverned sentience, a ruthless streak and absolutely no compunction whatsoever about committing atrocities. The build remit was: whatever it takes, no matter how cruel or abominable, these things must be capable of doing it, in the name of victory. Put simply, in order to win their war, the Melkene created your basic... regiment of psychotic, homicidal artificials.’
‘They deliberately made mad killer robots?’ Owen asked.
‘Well, that’s a huge oversimplification,’ said Jack.
‘But essentially on the money?’ asked James.
Jack nodded. ‘Yup. They deliberately made mad killer robots.’
The three of them sat there in silence for a moment.
‘Sometimes,’ said Owen, reflectively, ‘you have to wonder why you ever turn up for work, don’t you?’
‘How did things go for the Melkene, Jack?’ James asked.
‘Oh, they won.’
‘Well, that’s nice for them.’
‘Not so much. There was a huge outcry in the Galactic Community. Outrage at what the Melkene had done. In remorse, the Melkene decided to recall the Serial G units. The Melkene were extinct about, oh, six weeks later.’
‘I’ve seen this film,’ said Owen.
‘God, I wish it was a film,’ said Jack. ‘Because of their ungoverned sentience, the Serial Gs were judged responsible for their actions. They were impeached on about 16,000 counts of war crime and genocide. They scattered and went to ground.’
‘And one’s walking about here?’ asked James.
‘Yes it is.’
‘In Cathays, on a Thursday?’
‘Seems so.’
‘A genocidal robot war criminal?’ asked James.
‘That’s also completely bullet-proof?’ asked Owen.
Jack looked at them both. ‘Repetition’s good, but, guys, we’ve got all the facts together now, right?’
James nodded. ‘Things are as bad as they look.’
‘Oh, God, no,’ said Jack. ‘Things are much worse than they look, my friend.’ He held up the heavy service revolver clenched in his hand. ‘You know what this is?’ he asked.
‘Uh, no?’ Owen replied.
‘Absolutely useless, is what it is,’ answered Jack, putting the gun away. He got up and hurried to the gate, head down. ‘It’s gone,’ he reported. ‘It’s moving.’
‘What do we do?’ asked James.
‘Not much,’ said Jack. ‘We follow it. See where it’s headed. Try to keep it contained away from population centres. Think hard and pray for miracles.’
‘It’s probably heading back to my shed.’
They looked around. Davey Morgan stood outside his ruined backdoor, gazing at them. Toshiko hovered behind him.
‘What did you say, sir?’ asked Jack.
‘Yank, are you?’ asked Davey.
‘Kinda,’ admitted Jack.
‘Got to know a lot of your sort, back then,’ said Davey. ‘Good old boys. Tough as old boots, they were.’
‘Thanks,’ said Jack. ‘What were you saying about a shed?’
‘Mr Morgan has been talking with the machine,’ said Toshiko gently. ‘They have an understanding, of sorts.’
‘Old soldiers together,’ said Davey.
‘Is that right?’ asked Jack, walking over.
‘I tried to make Mr Morgan wait out front,’ whispered Toshiko to Jack. ‘He wouldn’t be moved.’
‘You could have smacked him silly and dragged him,’ Jack whispered back.
‘Yes, I could have, but I’m a nice person,’ whispered Toshiko.
Davey Morgan looked at them both. ‘It’s not polite to whisper,’ he said.
‘No, it’s not,’ said Jack, turning to him. ‘Mr Morgan, wasn’t it?’
‘Davey.’
‘OK, Davey. I’m Cap’n Jack Harkness. Tell me about this shed.’
‘It’s up on my plot,’ said Davey. ‘On the allotments, I mean. I kept your smart weapon there after I dug it up. I think it likes it there.’
‘Where is this shed exactly?’ asked Jack.
‘I’ll show you,’ Davey said. ‘Hang on a mo.’ He turned, and limped back into the kitchen.
‘Does he realise there’s some degree of urgency?’ Jack asked Toshiko.
‘He can help us, Jack,’ Toshiko insisted.
Jack pursed his lips. He pulled out his phone and tried to dial. Dead.
‘We’re still inside that thing’s jamming range,’ he said. ‘Serial Gs are fitted with a comprehensive suite of communication counter-measures.’ He tossed his phone to Owen. ‘Take that, and get walking. I don’t care how far you have to go. As soon as you’ve got a signal, call Ianto and tell him to go to the Armoury, book out catalogue item nine-eight-one, and bring it here as fast as is humanly possibly. Got that?’
‘Armoury. Nine-eight-one. Right,’ said Owen, and hurried off through the house.
Davey re-emerged from the kitchen, a cap on his head. He was buttoning up a threadbare jacket. ‘Off we go, then,’ he said. ‘I just had to get my digging jacket.’
‘Well of course you did,’ said Jack.
Davey Morgan led the way down the back lane behind the houses to the allotment path. Jack, James and Toshiko followed him. It was slow going. Davey had a pronounced limp that was obviously troubling him.
The sky had blackened. The sporadic rain had turned into a shower, and worse was undoubtedly coming. The wind had picked up. Choirs of alarms were singing across the backyards, punctuated by the whoop of a police klaxon.
‘Gwen’s dealing with the police,’ Toshiko told Jack. ‘She’s keeping them back, clearing people from the houses here.’
Jack nodded.
‘A lot of them don’t want to go,’ Toshiko added. ‘A lot of them want to see what’s going on.’
‘They’ll die then,’ said Jack.
‘I suppose they might,’ said Toshiko. ‘Let’s hope the police are persuasive.’
‘Yeah, let’s hope.’
‘Jack?’ asked James.
‘Yeah?’
‘What’s catalogue item nine-eight-one?’
Jack smiled. ‘James, you so don’t want to know.’
‘Apparently, I do.’
Jack glanced at him. ‘It’s one of the Armoury items I don’t let you play with.’
‘And that’s going to take this thing out?’
Jack shrugged. ‘Couldn’t honestly say, James, but I can guarantee it’ll make a whole lot of noise.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh, yeah. There will be noise. There will be bright lights. There will be woe. There will be weeping and consternation. The streets of Cardiff will resound with the lamentation of estate agents.’
‘This is Torchwood going to war, then?’ asked Toshiko.
‘No, this is Torchwood trying to prevent one,’ said Jack.
‘You people have never seen a real war,’ said Davey.
‘Sir?’ Jack asked, looking at the old man.
‘I said you’ve never known a real war. Not a real one. It never leaves you, war doesn’t. Everything you saw or did, it all clings like a smell you can’t ever wash off. Sixty years, sixty damn years, it hasn’t ever washed off.’
Davey had stopped by an iron gate. It stood open on its bolts, as if it had been pushed aside.
Beyond the gate lay the allotments: portioned-out strips of ground, a patchwork of rectangular plots, some with sheds, some with rainwater tanks or tool chests, some neglected and overgrown. A hazy mist drifted over the winter beets and rhubarb leaves. The rain began to fall harder, pattering off the vegetation.
Jack walked into the allotments, and looked around.
‘I could come to like a place like this,’ he said. ‘When I retire. Not so much with the rain, obviously.’
He looked at Davey. ‘Your shed?’
‘Up along there, Captain,’ Davey said, with a gesture. Raindrops dripped from his raised sleeve.
‘Tosh tells me you’ve spoken to this thing?’
‘Tosh?’
‘The nice Japanese girl there.’
‘Oh, right. Yeah, we’ve spoken a little. I dug it up, after all. Kept it safe. We chatted. Reminisced, really, one old boy to another. War stories. Memories of life during wartime.’
Jack wiped rain off his face and looked at Davey. The old man’s eyes were very sharp, very knowing.
‘So, was it good to talk?’ Jack asked him.
‘Good?’ replied Davey.
‘I have no idea, no frame of reference, so I’m asking you. Was it good to talk?’
‘I suppose,’ said Davey. ‘It was refreshing to meet someone who got it. To be truthful, Captain, I’ve never had anyone I could talk to about... about the service. Not Glynis. Not really. She never got it. God knows, I never wanted her to get it. It understood, though. I could tell it things. We shared things. Memories. It was nice for me.’
‘Yeah?’
Davey nodded. Drops of rain ran off the end of his nose. ‘Nice to be respected. To be acknowledged. Only a soldier understands what another soldier has been through. In the end, we’re a lonely breed in that regard.’
‘I guess you would be.’
‘I just—’
‘What?’ Jack asked.
Davey shook his head. ‘I just wished we could have kept it to that. It kept having these dreams, see? At night, its dreams leaked into mine. I tried, but I couldn’t bear them. The things it had done. Laughed about. Awful things. I have my own bad dreams, Captain Harkness, and I’ll carry them to my grave, where God can judge me, if he likes. I couldn’t carry its dreams too. I wanted to. I tried. One old soldier to another.’
‘It’s OK,’ said Jack.
‘You’re going to have to kill it, aren’t you?’ asked Davey.
‘I think we are. I wish to hell I knew how,’ said Jack. ‘Davey, let’s see this shed of yours.’
The rain beat down relentlessly. The shed was a silent, damp box. Its windows were broken and its door was half-open. Jack and James gazed at the decaying remains of the bodies spread and staked out in front of it. Toshiko looked away, swallowing hard.
‘What do we do?’ James asked Jack.
‘I guess we... find out if it’s inside,’ said Jack. He took a step forward.
The shed juddered violently. It stopped shaking for a moment, and then juddered again.
‘Get down,’ said Jack.
The shed blew apart. It came to pieces in a flash of yellow light. The panelled walls burst out in all directions in a flurry of splintered boards. The pitch-treated roof ascended, in one burning piece, and crashed over into a plot two allotments away.
Swathed in flames, the Serial G turned and looked at them. It was standing on a scorched rectangle of ground that had been the floor of the shed. The downpour sizzled as it fell around it.
‘Keep your heads down!’ Jack yelled, on his belly in the soaking grass. James was face down with his arms over his head. Toshiko was trying to get the old man into the cover of a compost bunker.
‘Tosh! Get him out of here!’
Toshiko replied something inaudible. Jack was well aware how impractical his last instruction to her had been.
The Serial G took a step forward off the burning patch of shed floor. Its long, thin legs extended slightly, taking it up to over ten feet tall. The huge steel hooks that formed its hand opened and closed with a noise like a luxury liner’s anchor chain running out. It turned its head to the left, then to the right, and took another step. It hummed. Rain streamed off it.
It was coming towards them. With a curse, Jack got up and ran, head down, through the rain, between rows of cold frames and bean poles.
‘Jack!’ James yelled.
The Serial G turned its head to follow Jack’s movement. There was a yellow pulse.
Jack had thrown himself headlong into a bed of wet brambles and elephant ear rhubarb leaves. He felt the scorch of the heat cone as it shaved the air above him. The blast exploded up a patch of ground in a great, muddy divot, and crushed a galvanised water tank with a kettle-drum bang. The water inside evaporated instantly in a screaming belch of steam.
The Serial G began to trudge towards the spot where it had seen Jack drop down. Jack heard its steps pulping vegetables and snapping canes. He heard the drum of raindrops. He couldn’t get up. That would be suicide. He rolled instead, scrambling through the soaking undergrowth, twigs and nettles scratching his face.
The Serial G fired again, but its blast fell short, violently excavating a cabbage patch and turning a large cold frame into a blizzard of glass and wood chips.
Jack winced and tried not to cry out. One flying chunk of glass had stabbed into his upper left arm, and another had cut his cheek on the way past.
The Serial G took another two steps.
Jack sprang up, wincing at the tight pain from his upper arm, and started to run for better cover.
The Serial G turned immediately, its torso rotating. It raised its left arm to shoot it out and snatch Jack off his feet.
‘Oi! Buggerlugs!’ James yelled. He came up from behind a composter and emptied the clip of his side-arm at the metal figure.
His distraction worked. Too well.
The Serial G ignored Jack and turned to face him instead.