Pack Animals t-7

by Peter Anghelides

  ‘Oh boy,’ murmured Jack. ‘Terraforming. Or whatever the Vandrogonite word for it is. Creating an alien world right here in Cardiff.’

  ‘There’s something else,’ said the other son, Matt. Gwen couldn’t decide whether he sounded more worried or ashamed than his brother. The big man was shuffling in his seat, almost absurdly. He reminded her of a naughty toddler caught out in a lie. ‘The transmission frequency.’

  Gwen looked blank. ‘The what?’

  ‘That Visualiser thing,’ said Matt, ‘has an affinity for other devices that transmit visuals. You know, CCTV, video phones that kind of thing. If the conditions are just right, the creatures can be transmitted to another receiving device.’

  ‘That makes sense,’ piped up Toshiko from the video wall.

  Everyone in the room stared at her image. Toshiko blinked back at them worriedly.

  ‘Oh, for goodness sake!’ cried Gwen, exasperated. ‘There are no Rift creatures in here at the moment.’ She chewed her lip worriedly. ‘Are there?’

  ‘You’re missing the point,’ Jack told her. ‘You said it yourself, Gwen: Torchwood can control small groups of scavengers for day trips to Cardiff. Even Achenbrite can stop some of those.’ If he could see the dirty looks that the Portland family were giving him, he just ignored it. ‘But use this Visualiser near any passing camera phone, and Gareth’s got something that’ll give numberless creatures a season ticket to anywhere on Earth. We gotta find him!’ He must have noticed that Toshiko was doing her ‘aha’ face again, because he turned to her and asked: ‘Got something?’

  Toshiko rattled some more commands on her keyboard. Part of the wall display changed into the interface of an audio player. The sound of a radio interview began to play through the conference room speakers. Gwen saw from Toshiko’s smile that she was enjoying making a point: she had not only regained control of the Torchwood computer, but she was now able to manipulate the Achenbrite systems remotely.

  David Brigstocke’s voice filled the room. Jack rolled his eyes, but Toshiko made a shushing gesture and indicated that they should listen.

  Brigstocke was concluding a live radio link from the centre of Cardiff. He was interviewing celebrity shopper Martina Baldachi. From the edge to his voice it was clear he thought the assignment below his dignity. The Italian supermodel was in town because her husband, Jakob, was playing in the international between AC Liguria and Cardiff United. She’d taken their son, Galileo, to Wendleby’s toy store. Brigstocke prompted her to say some platitudes about the terrible traffic accident just outside the store, and Martina turned the interview into a bit of a car crash by explaining that they’d missed the whole thing because their chauffeur-driven limousine had taken them to privileged access at the rear of the store.

  Was there a note of smug satisfaction in Brigstocke’s voice? ‘Looks like Galileo has a memento of his trip today. You bought him a pack of cards instead of a toy telescope.’

  ‘Oh no,’ purred Martina. ‘He has heard all about these MonstaQuest cards. He is so pleased to meet the man who invented them. Thank you so much, Gareth.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ said a young man’s voice.

  ‘Gareth!’ breathed his mother as she listened to him over the conference room speakers.

  Brigstocke was explaining to radio listeners now that Gareth was wearing his Cardiff United shirt, but had just accepted a couple of VIP tickets for the match from the captain of the rival team. Jack was evidently too busy to enjoy the humour of this, because he was watching Toshiko’s agitated reaction to some other data that she’d received.

  ‘Electromagnetic spectrum analysis,’ Toshiko explained. She muted the audio, and displayed a schematic of Cardiff.

  Slap bang in the city centre was Wendleby’s department store. And all around that, the Rift energy was going off the scale.

  TWENTY

  Ianto Jones hated waiting. He stared out between the front seats of the Achenbrite van and tried to stay calm.

  Chris Portland fidgeted in the driver’s seat, his mother next to him. Beside Ianto in the rear, Matt Portland stared fixedly at a scanner. The back of the vehicle had barely enough room for one person, crammed as it was with badly wired equipment and alien tech. If he didn’t die from an electrical shock, Ianto reckoned he might keel over from asphyxiation.

  ‘Chris, have you farted?’ grumbled Matt.

  Matt snorted. ‘Why you asking me instead of that Torchwood tosser?’

  ‘Don’t be rude about our guest,’ said Jennifer. She had been agitated throughout the journey, and now drummed her manicured nails in a staccato rhythm on the dash in front of her.

  They were parked at the ideal spot – close to a local electricity substation, and within sight of the nearest mobile phone relay. They were ready to kill the cellular network by disabling the base transceiver station. And, if necessary, they could cut off power to the Wendleby’s store through remote access to its systems and the local grid.

  The Achenbrite team made it clear they thought they were in charge. Ianto was happy to let them think that.

  The cadence of Jennifer’s tapping faltered. ‘Oh, I can’t wait around here any longer,’ she sighed. ‘Not while Gareth is in trouble.’ Before anyone could stop her, she had slipped out through the passenger door and slammed it shut behind her.

  Ianto reached up to tap his earcomm into action. In a blur of speed, Matt Portland’s hand seized Ianto’s arm. ‘Radio silence.’

  ‘Why, who do you think is listening in?’ Ianto used his free hand to pinch the nerve points on the other man’s wrist and pulled it away.

  He peered through the front windscreen, and could just make out Jennifer’s red hair as the woman disappeared into the shopping crowds.

  Ianto activated his earcomms. ‘Mrs Portland is moving. She’s on her way into Wendleby’s.’

  Martina Baldachi hated the general public. She was desperate to get out of Wendleby’s.

  The photo op had finished. Martina and her entourage were making their way down the emergency stairs at the rear of the store. The limo would be waiting for them, engine running, in the loading area at the rear of the store. Her bodyguard, Carlo, led the way, which frustrated the store manager who was trying to chaperone his VIP guests. The manager was a fussy man in a cheap suit, and Martina wouldn’t be sorry if she never saw him again. She’d already forgotten his name.

  Martina was furious with her personal assistant, Andrea. Where was the TV coverage? Why was there only a handful of Press photographers? Didn’t they know who she was? Hadn’t she brought Galileo with her? The store manager was apologising about some bus that had crashed at the front of the store, because it had drawn most of the Press away. Andrea was concentrating on helping Galileo negotiate the stairs, and said nothing.

  Carlo had stopped on the stair landing, confronted by two strangers. Martina’s first instinct, as usual, was that she was about to be kidnapped. Sensing her fear, Galileo shrank back too. He anxiously sought out Andrea’s hand, not his mother’s.

  The first stranger was a pale-faced man with bad hair and a cruel mouth. The other one was a dark-haired woman, who obviously had more style. They identified themselves.

  ‘Bloody Torchwood,’ said the store manager.

  The dark-haired Torchwood woman saw Martina on the higher stair and smiled in recognition. ‘Hello, it’s Martina Baldachi, isn’t it? My fiancé is a big fan of your husband’s. My name’s Gwen Cooper and this-’

  ‘One autograph,’ snapped Martina. ‘We must leave for our car.’ What a pity, she thought. This Torchwood woman really should get something done about her fringe.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Gwen Cooper. ‘You misunderstand. We’re looking for the man you gave those VIP tickets to earlier.’

  Martina clicked her fingers in Andrea’s face. ‘Tickets.’

  ‘Owen Harper,’ said the pale-faced man. He moved up a few steps to talk to her. ‘We don’t want your tickets. We want to find Gareth Portland. Where is he?’

&
nbsp; Gareth? She remembered an untidy young man in the toy department. She’d given him VIP tickets to the match. Not for the private box that she’d be in, obviously. The smelly Welsh oaf would be in a separate section with all the other freeloaders, leaving her to make her phone calls in peace and not require her to look interested during the match. Perhaps something could be rescued from this PR disaster, she began to think, so long as the cameras saw her entering the Stadium.

  Owen Harper was still talking, ‘Listen, love, I can see you’re in a rush to get to your next colonic or whatever. So let us know where you saw Gareth, and we’ll get out of your fabulously coiffured hair.’

  Martina drew back her manicured hand and slapped him across the face.

  The thin man’s hand moved like lightning. It seized Martina’s wrist so that her hand remained pressed against his cheek. It was both intimate and threatening.

  Carlo twisted around to defend her, reaching for the gun that he should not have been carrying. But the Torchwood woman turned the movement into a shove that pressed the bodyguard against the grey brick of the service corridor. Carlo grunted in pain as the woman pushed his arm further up his back.

  Martina blinked in fear. The thin man’s eyes glittered at her, demanding an answer. ‘Gareth? He was in the toy department,’ she blustered.

  ‘On the fourth floor,’ added the store manager.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Owen Harper. He let go of Martina’s hand, and pushed on past her up the stairs. Gwen Cooper released Carlo, and followed Harper. As the pair disappeared around the next corner, Martina could hear the man mocking his colleague. ‘Ooh, my fiancé is such a big fan…’

  Martina snatched Galileo’s hand from Andrea’s grasp, and practically fled down the remaining stairs. She pulled up her fur collar and ran to the white stretch limo that waited patiently in the loading bay. The afternoon air was warmer than she’d expected. After all, that thin man had only just come into the building, and his face and fingers had been icy cold.

  Toshiko hated driving in town. She gripped the wheel of her 350Z, and focused on the road while Jack grumbled next to her.

  Usually, she let the others take charge of whatever vehicle they were using, while she remained in the Hub to coordinate activities, or used the remote systems in the rear of the SUV. She didn’t like the idea of Jack driving her car today

  ‘Can’t this thing go any faster?’ Jack was an irritable passenger at the best of times. Today, he was itching to get on and get out. ‘Did you choose this car? I bet I could get it into fourth gear.’

  ‘Your gear-change foot might make that difficult.’

  Jack flexed his left leg. ‘Well, I bet I could get it above thirty.’

  Toshiko tried to focus on the late-afternoon traffic. ‘You’re not on my insurance,’ she said feebly.

  ‘You mean you don’t trust me with your car.’ Jack sounded faintly offended.

  Toshiko considered some polite lies. ‘I mean I don’t trust you with my car,’ she admitted eventually.

  The front of Wendleby’s was still blocked to through traffic. Toshiko flicked on the blue warning lights in her windshield, and the police team lifted the barrier so that she could drive through.

  ‘Hey, there’s a big picture of a Weevil in that window,’ Jack noted. ‘When did that become NFC?’

  Toshiko looked blankly at him.

  ‘Normal For Cardiff,’ explained Jack. ‘Remember when we had to cover up every Weevil appearance? Looks like MonstaQuest has made them mainstream.’

  ‘I’d be more worried about that Halloween display in the next window,’ Toshiko told him. She even shivered a little.

  Jack checked it out. ‘What… you’re frightened of clowns?’

  ‘They’re scary clowns,’ she muttered defensively. ‘Like Stephen King’s “It” clown.’

  ‘Yeah, but…’ Jack was grinning. ‘Clowns?’

  Toshiko pretended to ignore him as she steered around the building and into the loading bay. A white stretch limo squeezed past them on its way out. Toshiko parked the 350Z next to the Torchwood SUV.

  ‘I’m going in,’ said Jack. ‘Looks like Gwen and Owen are already here. You can base yourself in the SUV.’

  With that, he struggled from the car and limped into the building.

  Jennifer Portland hated people being rude. She called over to the policeman who was at the crash barrier, but he seemed to be ignoring her.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she called to him, ‘I need to get into the store.’

  The constable had taken off his cap and was scratching idly at his blond hair. He was engrossed in his conversation with another officer. ‘It was going to be bad enough on crowd patrol for the match,’ he told her, ‘but this is just madness.’

  ‘Yeah, right, Andy,’ she laughed. ‘You’re just sore because you haven’t got touchline duty for the international.’ The female officer had spotted Jennifer now. ‘Sorry, madam. You can’t come through here. There’s been an accident. As you can probably see.’

  ‘The overturned bus would have been your first clue,’ the policeman muttered under his breath.

  Jennifer could certainly see. Even without the crash barriers, the street was mostly blocked by the mangled wreckage of a bendy bus. Soil and debris showed where it must have struck some road works and tipped over before smashing into the front window of Wendleby’s. An accident investigation team had set up floodlights in anticipation of dusk. The blue flashing lights of the remaining ambulance speckled the area. A large crane was slowly manoeuvring itself into position on the far side.

  Jennifer smiled politely at the officer, and turned away. No point in arguing, and no time for it either. She took a slim cylinder from her handbag, no bigger than a lipstick. Its surface looked like wet tar, but the device felt firm and dry between her fingers. Jennifer didn’t know which alien race had created it. She only knew what it could do.

  She squeezed the device, and it buzzed quietly. When Jennifer turned to the police officers again, she saw them twist away, nauseated. When they faced towards her, the feeling got worse. Once they turned away, the effect reduced.

  Jennifer slipped under the barrier and marched towards the store. She avoided looking at the blood and glass that spilled from the broken-backed bus, keeping her eyes on the shop displays instead. One large window was filled with Halloween costumes – cackling witches, illuminated pumpkins, and some cruel-faced clowns with fangs in their huge red mouths. The next window was decorated with cartoon monsters, and a poster that declared: ‘MonstaQuest Demonstration Today. Wendleby’s Toy Department, Fourth Floor.’

  She pushed through the barrier that had been placed inside the store to prevent customers leaving by the exits nearest to the accident. The late-afternoon shopping crowds had not diminished, and Jennifer used the nausea device to part the crowds and make her way to the escalators unimpeded.

  As she negotiated the top of the second-floor escalator, an old man in a pork pie hat became wildly disoriented by the nausea device, and staggered into her. The device jolted out of her hand, bounced once on the rubber handrail, and dropped into the down escalator. Jennifer dithered for a moment at the top of the up escalator, undecided about whether to try and retrieve the device.

  The crowd behind her began to recover their composure, a continuous stream of people pushing past as they continued onto the floor. No time, decided Jennifer. She had to press on, and reach the fourth floor. Reach Gareth before Torchwood did.

  David Brigstocke hated the crush of Saturday shopping. But today, he decided, he hated Eleri Francis even more.

  This was a trivial news assignment, and he believed Eleri must have known that. He was supposed to be covering the aftermath of the bus crash in the street outside, but his editor had sent him into the store and up to the toy department instead. One of the Wendleby’s staff had phoned the radio news office with a tip-off that Martina Baldachi had been spotted buying gifts. More likely one of Martina’s PRs had tipped them off. ‘Send Ieuan Wa
lters,’ countered Brigstocke. ‘Isn’t that why we have an Entertainment Correspondent?’ This was the same old office bullshit. It had been like this since he’d overheard them talking about him in the canteen, in Welsh, stupidly assuming that he couldn’t understand. They’d understood him, all right, after Brigstocke confronted them and explained what he thought of them. In Welsh.

  ‘Ieuan’s at the Mid-Wales Beer Festival in Llanwrtyd Wells,’ Eleri had replied. ‘You’ll find the toy department on the fourth floor.’

  Brigstocke had managed to have a bit of fun at Martina Baldachi’s expense during the interview. That wouldn’t go down well with Eleri, he supposed, but with a live feed it was too late for her to do anything about that. Now he was on a down escalator, evaluating whether he still had time to get to the crash site, when he spotted a familiar figure hobbling into the store.

  Captain Jack Harkness.

  Brigstocke caught up with him by the service lift.

  ‘It won’t come any faster if you keep pressing the button like that.’

  Brigstocke was pleased to see Harkness’s exasperated reaction.

  ‘Kinda busy.’

  ‘As always,’ replied Brigstocke. ‘You’re looking good for someone whose foot was almost severed at the zoo.’ He watched Harkness involuntarily look at his own left foot. ‘I spoke to the paramedics, Jack. You can’t fool medical professionals about that kind of thing.’

  Harkness gave up on the service lift, and limped across to the escalator instead. He paused before stepping on. At first, Brigstocke thought he was being cautious about his injured foot. Until he realised that Harkness wasn’t entirely sure where he was going.

  ‘You want to help?’ Harkness had narrowed his eyes, looking for a reaction. He leaned in close to speak into Brigstocke’s ear. ‘That kid you were interviewing earlier? He’s a terrorist suspect, and we need to track him down. No, put the digital recorder down.’