‘But who would want to do a thing like that?’ Gwen wondered.
‘It ain’t a friendly universe,’ Jack said. ‘There’s folks out there who are queuin’ up to have a pop at planet Earth.’
‘And why’s it called the Undertaker’s Gift?’ asked Ianto.
‘I’ve no idea. This is the whole problem: not enough hard information, too much speculation. Fear of the unknown does the rest.’
‘What can we do?’ Gwen asked, trying to think practically. ‘Maybe if we could find it. . .’
‘It’s never been found,’ Jack reminded her. ‘It’s never even been proven to exist.’
‘Could it be a bluff?’ Ianto asked.
‘Can we take that risk?’ Gwen replied.
Ianto held up the Hokrala envelope. ‘Looks like the writ will have to take a back seat.’
‘Let’s not ignore it,’ Jack said. ‘It could tell us something. Run it through the translator when you get back to the Hub, see what they’ve got on us. Knowing Hokrala Corp, it’ll be about five hundred miles of red tape but there might be something in there that can point us in the right direction. It’s not much, but it’s all we’ve got to go on.’
‘And to think I was hoping for a couple of days off,’ Gwen said ruefully. She took a deep breath. ‘Rhys is staying over in Gloucester and I was hoping to join him there if I had the chance. . .’
Jack shook his head. ‘I can’t afford to let you go just now. We need to get on top of this Undertaker’s Gift thing as well as everything else, just in case. Get on to it, Gwen – use those cop instincts. Run some scans for anything that might be a temporal fusion device – if it’s really here it’s bound to be in the vicinity of the Rift.’
‘Lucky old Cardiff.’
‘And you need to keep checking on our guest in Cell One. See if you can’t get him to talk any – he’s come through the Rift only recently, so he might know something.’
Gwen thought about the alien life form that had been sitting in the Hub’s premier holding cell for the last week. ‘He hasn’t said a word so far,’ she argued. ‘He hasn’t even moved. What makes you think I’ll have any luck?’
‘Use your feminine wiles on him.’
Gwen never really knew if Jack was winding her up when he spoke like this. He came from the far future but sometimes he sounded so old-fashioned. ‘Jack,’ she said with as much patience as she could muster, ‘we are talking about a big blob of electric jelly. What good are feminine wiles?’
‘I’ve asked the same question a thousand times,’ smiled Jack. He pointed out of the windscreen. ‘You can drop me off here.’
‘Here?’ Puzzled, Gwen pulled the SUV over by a row of derelict shops. The dark mouth of an alleyway yawned at them.
‘Not a very nice area,’ commented Ianto.
‘There are no nice areas in our line of work,’ said Jack darkly. He got out and shut the door behind him.
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I’m going fishing. See what I can find. Catch you guys later.’
And with that he was gone, striding into the shadows of the alleyway with a flare of his greatcoat.
‘I hate it when he does that,’ muttered Gwen. ‘He so likes to be the centre of attention.’
Ianto frowned. ‘He has been acting a little strange lately. Distracted. Mysterious.’
‘You got that too?’
‘Some might even say grumpy.’
‘Some might say Bashful, Sleepy and Sneezy. But I say worried.’ Gwen’s eyes narrowed. ‘Something’s on Captain Jack’s mind, and I wish I knew what it was.’
EIGHT
The cat arched its back, ears flattened, fangs bared. It stood rigid, hackles raised. Its tail had expanded to a fantastic size and in the cat’s own mind it looked huge, ferocious, terrifying. Nothing would dare to attack it now.
Three seconds later it was dead, seized by the throat and shaken so hard its neck snapped like a twig. The limp body was then hurled contemptuously against a wall and ignored.
‘No fun!’ squawked a voice. ‘No fun! Too quick!’
A heavy, squat creature with dull, warty skin scuttled over to the corpse and devoured it in a single wet gulp.
Another joined it, bounding along on outsized, disjointed legs. Gimlet eyes stared in the shadows, nostrils twitching at the sweet scent of fresh blood. Both creatures resembled enormous frogs. For a moment they sat and stared at each other, utterly immobile.
‘Make ’em fight!’ snarled the voice. ‘Make ’em fight!’
The nearest toad received a hefty kick and it jumped in the general direction of its mate, whose mouth gaped open in a reflexive hiss, showing rows of shark-like teeth still smeared with blood and cat fur.
‘No good, man!’ complained the voice. ‘Fight! Fight, you little runts!’
There were two of them, wearing hoodies and dark, waterproof coats with baggy tracksuit pants and new trainers. Here, at the bottom of the alleyway, it was impossible to see their faces.
‘Hi, boys,’ said Jack Harkness.
The hoodies swung around. The toads growled at their feet.
‘Now that’s what I call antisocial behaviour,’ Jack said. ‘Don’t you guys know that pitbullfrogs are illegal in this time zone?’
There was a glint of streetlight on metal as one of the thugs produced a knife.
Jack raised the Webley. ‘Put the blade down, kid, I’m not here to play games.’
But the thug took a step forward, dropping into a fighting crouch, knife extended. As the owner moved out of the shadows his face became visible beneath the hood of his jacket: cold, angry eyes glared out from glistening, crimson flesh and a multitude of spines quivered around an ugly, puckered mouth.
‘Human scum!’ it hissed.
Jack sighed. ‘Great. Just what the world needs – Blowfish hoodies.’
‘Stick ’im, Kerko!’ ordered the second hoodie, and the kid with the knife lunged obediently. Jack stepped inside the thrusting blade, cracked his pistol against the side of the Blowfish’s blubbery head and then threw him backwards into his friend.
Jack picked up the fallen knife as the Blowfish tumbled to the ground. Beyond them, the two pitbullfrogs were getting excited by the violence.
One of the Blowfish yelled, ‘Kill ’im!’ and the frogs lurched down the alleyway towards Jack, fangs bared. As the nearest prepared to leap, Jack twisted, shooting from the hip. The beast was flipped backwards, spraying what little brains it had across the alley like a bad sneeze.
The other pitbullfrog let out a squeal of alarm and bounded away into the darkness.
‘Shit!’ exclaimed one of the Blowfish angrily. ‘Those things cost, man! You lousy—’
Jack pointed the revolver at the Blowfish and it fell silent. But in that second Jack had taken his eyes off Kerko. Enraged, the Blowfish launched himself at Jack and they crashed to the floor in a heap.
Jack lost his grip on the Webley and suddenly the Blowfish’s hands were around his neck, squeezing hard.
‘Kill ’im, Kerko!’ the other urged.
Jack swung the Blowfish over onto the pavement and butted him with savage force. There was a crunch of bone, and Kerko went limp.
The other thug leapt onto Jack’s shoulders, but it was a clumsy attempt and Jack threw him off easily. The Blowfish hit the metal shutters of a nearby shop with a clatter but was otherwise unhurt.
Jack was on him straight away. He pulled him to his feet and then punched the Blowfish hard enough to send him staggering out into the street.
‘You’re pretty tough for a fish,’ said Jack, grabbing him by the scruff. ‘But I’ve been handling your sort for over a century now. Give it up, kid.’
‘Go to hell!’ spat the fish. ‘Torchwood filth!’
He struggled and squirmed, swinging his fists. Jack, suddenly tired and angry with this piece of alien flotsam, pushed him roughly away. The thug stumbled out into the road and into the path of an oncoming truck.
It was a skip
lorry, carrying a heavy load. The driver, thickset and bald, was talking on his mobile. Jack watched in mute horror as the truck’s big wheels gobbled the Blowfish up in a single, crunching mouthful, chewed it to a pulp and excreted it from the rear axle. The remains were dragged along the road until there was nothing left but mangled clothes, bones and a long smear of blood.
The lorry carried on without stopping; the driver hadn’t even noticed. Jack didn’t know whether to be relieved or appalled. He watched the red tail lights turn the corner and then stood and got his breath back in silence.
Kerko was crawling out of the alley. There was blood dribbling from a split in his forehead where Jack had butted him.
‘You murdering bastard,’ gasped the Blowfish. He pointed at the long, wet stripe of gore on the tarmac. His voice was choking. ‘That was my little brother!’
‘It was an accident,’ Jack said lamely. ‘I didn’t mean it to happen.’
Kerko climbed slowly to his feet. ‘Yeah, sure. That’s what Torchwood does, innit? Kill you and make it look like an accident, yeah?’ He spat a gob of dark blood at Jack. ‘Murderer!’
‘OK, that’s enough!’ Jack grabbed the Blowfish and spun him around, slammed him up against the wall. Then he jerked one of his arms hard up between his shoulders. ‘You’re comin’ in.’
The handcuff clicked on and Kerko snarled. ‘Taking me back to your HQ? What for? Why don’t you just kill me now?’
‘That’s not how I do things,’ Jack growled.
‘Tell that to my brother, arsehole!’
Jack pressed his lips close to Kerko’s ear. ‘It’s too late for him. But it’s not too late for you.’
NINE
Gwen sat at her workstation and shivered. All this steel and concrete, she thought, looking across the water at the mirrored tower rising up through the cavernous ceiling. Half of Torchwood’s funding must go on heating bills.
The Hub was abnormally quiet. She could see Ianto watering the plants in the Hothouse; a dark, silent, ghostly shape beyond the glass and ferns and bottles.
She shivered again and stared at the old, complicated machinery contained in the base of the water tower. The mirror panels surrounding the Rift manipulator were covered in algae, and with the constant trickle of water it looked more like a botched plumbing job than a super-complex control system for a time and space anomaly.
It was Gwen’s turn to monitor the Rift sensors. Torchwood’s semi-organic computer system ran its own routine of checks and balances on the powerful temporal energies the Rift contained, but day-to-day data analysis required human consideration. She glanced at the photo stuck to her workstation, reaching out to touch it gently. No more Tosh. No more Owen.
And soon, no more anyone.
If this Undertaker’s Gift thing was as bad as Jack thought, then the three of them were up against the end of the world. Again. What was it the Hokrala lawyer had said? A world of suffering?
Ianto stepped as quietly as a cat into the pool of light which surrounded her workstation. He stood as neatly as a cat as well, feet together, all tidy and groomed and contained. He carefully placed a fresh mug of coffee down on her workstation, making sure it was on a drinks mat. Great, thought Gwen. He’s watered the plants and now he’s watering me. I am a plant.
‘Shouldn’t you be checking on our guest in Cell One?’ Ianto queried.
‘Shouldn’t you be checking that Hokrala writ?’ she asked. She looked at him and smiled sweetly.
‘Ah. Touché. Coffee took priority, I’m afraid. It usually does.’
‘That’s avoidance tactics.’
‘Psychologists call it displacement activity. Finding other things to do instead of the ones we should be doing.’
Gwen nodded thoughtfully. She picked up the mug and sipped. ‘Good coffee, Ianto.’
‘Slow-roasted Arabica. It contains natural antioxidants. It should help.’
She looked up at him over the rim. ‘Help with what?’
‘Sometimes it’s easy to slip into a poor frame of mind. In this line of work it’s hard not to become morbid. Drink the coffee and immerse yourself in work. Does it for me.’
‘O-kay.’ Gwen sighed and ran a hand through her hair, keen to change the subject. ‘Where do you think this Undertaker’s Gift could be, then? Somewhere in or around Cardiff, allegedly.’
‘How big is it, do you think?’
‘How big does a temporal fusion device need to be? The size of a house? A car? A football?’
‘A pinhead?’ Ianto blew out his cheeks. ‘We know nothing.’
‘I’ve set the Rift scanners to detect the kind of energy signature the computers say would be indicative of a temporal fusion device,’ Gwen said, tapping the keyboard array. ‘It’s got to be high-end alien tech, and it’s got to give off some kind of signal, even if it’s just a general power leakage. . .’
‘Any luck?’
‘Absolutely nothing.’
‘Tried anything else? A radiatory numospheric scan may show up something unexpected.’
‘Already tried it. Didn’t show anything.’ Gwen pursed her lips thoughtfully. ‘I wonder if that’s good or bad?’
‘You mean the whole thing may be a hoax after all?’
‘Or it could just be very, very well hidden.’
Before Ianto could reply, his earpiece alerted him to a call from Captain Jack. ‘Ianto? I’m coming in and I’ve got company. Get a detention cell ready, will you?’
‘Successful fishing trip?’
‘You shoulda seen the one that got away.’
TEN
Kerko flew across the cell and hit the wall, hard.
Instantly he whirled around, fighting, but the door had already slammed shut and the sound of bolts being thrown echoed around the chamber.
He pounded on the door, but it was useless. He was trapped. Imprisoned.
Jack Harkness walked calmly around to the unbreakable transparent fourth wall of the cell and regarded the Blowfish coolly.
‘So this is it?’ Kerko blazed. ‘A Torchwood dungeon!’
‘This isn’t a dungeon,’ Jack said. ‘It’s a holding cell. We’ve got dungeons if you want ’em, though.’
Kerko spat at him.
Jack watched the yellow sputum slide down the plastic and shrugged. ‘Missed,’ he said.
‘You kill my brother and I end up in the slammer,’ the Blowfish snarled in disgust. ‘How does that work? It’s not fair. It’s not justice.’
‘Torchwood isn’t an agency of justice,’ Jack said. ‘We’re here to salvage any alien or anachronistic technology that comes through the Rift. Flotsam and jetsam from across time and space, washed up on our little patch of beach. Or as we like to call it, Cardiff.’
‘Bah.’ Kerko paced angrily around the cell.
‘We try to keep the twenty-first century smelling – however slightly – of roses,’ Jack went on, leaning casually against the wall. ‘So we utilise, catalogue, store or destroy anything that doesn’t belong here. Where do you think that leaves you, Kerko?’
‘Shit creek.’
‘You got it.’
Kerko scowled. ‘You killed my brother, man. I’ll get you for that.’
‘Ain’t gonna happen, pal.’
The Blowfish pressed his scarlet face against the wall, right next to Jack. His breath steamed against the plastic. ‘I’m gonna kill you. That’s a promise!’
‘Y’know what I hate, Kerko? The smell of bad fish. The sooner we get you into the freezer the better.’
‘Up yours.’
Jack tapped on the glass. ‘I’ll be back soon to ask you some questions. Hope for your sake you’ve got some answers.’
And then he turned and walked away, leaving Kerko to smash his fists against the cell walls and scream for revenge.
Jack walked along the row of empty cells until he came to the last one. Gwen was standing in front of it, arms folded. She turned to look at him.
‘Blowfish hoodies? Really?’
&n
bsp; ‘Better believe it. One ended up under a truck, though. Messy. Kerko back there is understandably upset. It was his brother.’
‘Oops.’
Jack arched an eyebrow. ‘So when did you get so callous, Mrs Cooper?’
‘I can’t stand Blowfish,’ she replied. ‘Give me a Weevil any day – at least you know where you are with them. They don’t have an attitude, just bad breath and big teeth.’
‘Along with an insane urge to bite your head off. Some would call that attitude.’
‘Yeah, but they don’t argue with you.’
Jack laughed. ‘Thing is, we’ve run right out of Weevils.’
‘Still no sightings?’
‘Nothing for the last fortnight. It’s like they’ve just disappeared – or gone underground. I mean, deeper underground.’
‘There must be a reason for that.’
‘Could be anything. Right now I’m just glad we’re not having to spend time rounding Weevils up.’
Gwen pursed her lips, considering. ‘What are you going to do with your Blowfish, then?’
‘Well, short of having him stuffed and mounted – please, no jokes – freezing is about our only option.’ Jack frowned. ‘I want to question him first though, when he’s had a chance to cool off.’
‘What about?’
‘Recent Rift activity. Kerko’s one of the few things to come through in the last couple of weeks that we can actually communicate with. There’s been lots of stuff and a fair few aliens, but. . .’
‘You mean like our friend in Cell One?’ Gwen nodded her head at the nearby cell. ‘Mr Quiet.’
Inside the cell was a large blob of orange-coloured jelly, roughly humanoid in shape but transparent, and with no discernible features, organs or clothes. It sat, silent and unmoving, on the concrete bench opposite. If it had any eyes then they would probably be staring at the floor. It had been in the cell for the last seven days and hadn’t moved. It didn’t appear to need any food or sleep but it was quite obviously alive. The glutinous mass which made up its body shifted occasionally as a thick bubble of some kind of gas oozed slowly around inside it.
The Undertakers Gift Page 4