by Gary Russell
And Toshiko was somewhere else, watching someone else, seeing through someone else’s eyes.
It was a street in Cardiff. A building she didn’t recognise, brand new. All concrete and blue-tinted glass.
A car pulled up, a small sports car – Toshiko wasn’t an expert on cars, but she could recognise something smart, new and expensive. The doors opened automatically, upwards. The passenger got out, briefcase, smart jacket and skirt, hair swept back. Power-dressed to the nines. On the briefcase was stencilled a logo in leather; she recognised it as a slightly modified Torchwood logo.
Oh my God, somehow, she knew, this was the new Hub, but right at the heart of the city centre, in full view of everybody.
Staff were gathering on the steps, applauding lightly and uniformly.
The woman from the car looked up, adjusted her glasses, smiled at the assembled staff and then placed the case on the floor and returned the applause.
It was Toshiko.
After a minute, the car driver joined her. Sharp suit, similar glasses. Owen Harper.
There was something wrong though – it was his hand, his left hand. It was metal and, as it flexed, she could hear dozens of tiny servos moving the fingers, and she just knew this was some kind of alien prosthetic, linked into his nervous system, working perfectly in unison with the rest of his body.
Owen took Toshiko’s hand in his, and she now noticed the weddings bands.
Toshiko and Owen, married?
She and Owen!?!
Toshiko Harper spoke to quieten the applause. ‘People, thank you. You’ve done us all proud. Today, this building stands as a testament to the work of Torchwood throughout the Empire. Five years ago, Torchwood was buried away, ashamed of its roots, ashamed of its past. But today, we stand proud, we stand tall and, above all, we stand united with all the other Torchwoods across the globe, throughout the entire Empire.
‘I am honoured to be your CEO. Mr Harper here, Owen, is, as you know, going to head up our science and medical divisions. Mr Lawson there – good morning Eric – will run logistics and Mrs Williams, who sends her apologies, but the baby just wouldn’t wait and she went into labour last night-’
There was another round of applause.
‘-and she’s using Torchwood tech to ensure smooth delivery and a healthy baby boy should be here in about, oh, three hours. Anyway, when she returns to work, Mrs Williams will head up our humanities division. Welcome, ladies, gentlemen and others-’
At this, a small grey alien pushed through the crowd and stood at the front, applauding lightly.
‘-Everyone, welcome to Torchwood Cardiff.The home, the heart and the soul of the Torchwood Empire. We run planet Earth, ladies and gentlemen, let’s treat it and its peoples with the love, care and dedication that they deserve.’
More applause.
Toshiko turned to Owen. ‘You think he would approve?’
Owen laughed, squeezing his wife’s hand. ‘Nah, he would’ve hated all this, but you know what, deep down, I think he’d be proud of what you’ve achieved in his name.’
‘And let’s face it, lover,’ Toshiko replied, ‘without his unique properties, none of this would have been possible. You could say he’s still the heart and soul of the Torchwood Empire.’
They passed the crowd, nodding at various staff, shaking hands with a couple of divisional leaders.Two great glass doors slid open, and the flock of people followed their leaders in.
The atrium of Torchwood Cardiff revealed forty storeys of offices, labs and R amp;D areas. Below, an undisclosed number of basements, sub-basements, vaults and state-of-the-art cells, containment areas and other secrets.
In the centre of the atrium, next to the reception desks, was the old water tower, moved from its original home in the Bay, now stretching up towards the high ceiling, the Rift Manipulator on display to the world at large.
And at the foot of that was a glass rectangle embedded in the floor.
Inside was a figure, wired up to something hidden beneath the rest of the cream-coloured concrete flooring, tendrils snaking away from every joint, every inch almost of the body, powering… powering Torchwood itself.
No wonder they said he was the heart and soul – the body was Captain Jack Harkness, trapped in a frozen moment of time, his immortality being drained and, in turn, running the entire Torchwood Empire.
Toshiko looked down into the glass container, Owen smiling that thin, almost cruel smile of his, at her shoulder, always one reverential step behind his wife and mistress.
‘And as for you… what can I say?’ Toshiko was asking. ‘You showed me the truth, you showed me how anything could be achieved if I just explored my potential.’
‘No greater responsibility than potential,’ Owen added. ‘You told us that.’
And Toshiko leaned in and touched the glass. ‘I owe you everything.’
‘Oh and Jack?’ This was Owen. ‘Thanks again for this.’ Owen flexed the artificial fingers on his left hand. ‘Best birthday present ever.’
Suddenly, there was a commotion at the door, two guards went flying and a tramp ran in. No, not a tramp, but a dishevelled young man, screaming obscenities in Welsh, shoving his way through the crowd.
‘He’s got a gun,’ screamed a young woman, somewhere.
Sure enough, a pistol was in his hand, and he waved it around, as if focusing, looking for something specific.
Or someone.
‘You!’
He was looking for Toshiko and Owen.
Twenty large, armed guards surrounded the CEO and her escorts instantly.
Owen eased himself through the crowd. ‘Ianto, mate,’ he started to say, but the ranting Ianto cut across him.
‘I want him back! Now!’
‘Not possible, mate,’ smiled Owen. And he pointed at the glass slab beneath his feet.
Toshiko waved the guards back as Ianto stepped forward and saw Jack’s contorted, agonised body.
Then, faster than should have been possible, Ianto raised his gun and fired twice, the first bullet straight through Owen’s forehead. As the corpse fell, the second bullet hit Toshiko’s shoulder.
Thirty guards opened fire, and what remained of Ianto Jones would have needed tweezers to collect together.
Toshiko had a hand pressed against her bleeding shoulder as she knelt next to Owen.
She looked up at the guards. ‘Get him to my suite – now.’ Then she turned to the bloody mess that was spread around where Ianto had stood.
‘Welcome to Torchwood, Ianto,’ she muttered. ‘Jack would’ve been proud.’
And the real Toshiko, the one watching this awful, terrifying vision of her future, shivered as her vision swam, bright lights popping in her vision until everything was blotted out by a white haze.
Then she was back to herself, standing in Bilis Manger’s strange shop, holding his hands, and staring into his face, his eyes still gone, still replaced by that same blazing white light. The lights bled from his eyes and roared into hers. Toshiko ceased struggling after three seconds as her body filled with the white light.
And Bilis’s own eyes returned to normal.
‘And now you have a share of a stronger, younger host,’ he murmured.
Toshiko stood there. Why couldn’t she move? Why couldn’t she see properly? Why was everything so bright…
And then she realised, as consciousness began to fade again, that the light was inside her. Not in Bilis.
The last thing she was aware of was the touch of his hands on hers. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ll make sure nothing bad happens to your body. Well, nothing too bad. That’s the best we can hope for. When we make deals with the Light and the Dark.’
THIRTEEN
‘Jack,’ Gwen called as he emerged from the basement, ‘there’s nothing after 1941.’ She waved towards her monitor. ‘Same newspaper reports as last time about the dance hall, then nothing. Bilis Manger simply vanishes.’
‘What about that wretched shop he had
?’
‘Gone,’ called Ianto, from Toshiko’s station. ‘No records with the Council, it was never there. It’s been a clothes shop since 1998. Paid up, account in the name of Julia Martin, who seems to be a model citizen of Wales, bar a few speeding fines and a hefty overdraft.’
Jack frowned and passed a sheet of clear plastic sheeting to Gwen. ‘Scan it, it has Bilis’s handprint on it. Silly idiot put his hand on a cell door. I want every system in the world checked, Scotland Yard, Interpol, the FBI, CIA, Mossad, the works. Someone must have encountered him, someone else must have some info.’
‘UNIT?’
‘Been there, tried that, called in a favour from a friend. Nothing.’
Gwen placed the sheet into a scanner and it transferred an image of a handprint to her monitor. Tiny lines blinked to the fingertips and palm, mapping the unique signatures and a series of images of other hand and fingerprints flashed up in a pop-up box as the Hub systems accessed similar records around the world.
Jack’s impatience was palpable, and Gwen said after a minute, ‘It takes time. Go have coffee. Ianto, make the man coffee.’
Ianto nodded and stood to go, but Jack waved him back to his seat. ‘No coffee. No tea, no OJ, no vodka till we have answers.’
‘I have a hit,’ said Ianto shortly.
‘Where?’
‘Hang on…’
‘Where!’
‘Here. Sort of.’ Ianto frowned. ‘This doesn’t make sense.’
‘Let me judge that,’ Jack said. ‘Come on, what’s up?’
Ianto looked back at the expectant Jack and Gwen. ‘He’s on the Torchwood database.’
‘But that would mean…’
Ianto nodded at Gwen. ‘Yeah, he’s staff. But,’ he added quickly, to stifle their questions, ‘that’s impossible. He’s not on any records, no photos, no paper trail. Even Jack has a paper trail. The name doesn’t show up anywhere, but that handprint is given top access here in Cardiff, at Canary Wharf, in Glasgow and at Torchwood Four. But no names, no pictures, no records whatsoever.’
Jack headed to his office. ‘I’m going to talk to Archie in Glasgow. As a strange little old man himself, maybe he’s an expert on even stranger little old men.’ He slammed the office door behind him.
‘You ever meet Archie?’ Gwen asked Ianto.
Ianto shook his head.
‘Owen?’ she called down to the Autopsy Room.
‘What now?’
‘Ever met Archie?’
‘Who?’
‘Glasgow Archie,’ Ianto added.
‘Oh. Old Tartan Archie.’ He appeared at the top of the stairs. ‘Nah. Exchanged a few bizarre emails once.’
‘Bizarre?’
‘Yeah. Not sure he quite got the hang of computers really. Some of the words he used were… interesting and not always used in the right context. And he frequently referred to himself in the third person, so I thought he was a bit eccentric. Either that or the whisky was really good that morning.’
‘I think we need a Torchwood day out to Glasgow. Take Archie out for a drink.’
‘I’ll hire a minibus,’ Ianto said. ‘Probably get it painted matt black quite easily.’
‘Can we go without the blue lights this time. Sometimes, in the SUV, I feel like I’m in Santa’s Grotto.’ Owen headed back to work.
‘I like the blue lights, me,’ Gwen said. ‘What’s wrong with blue lights?’
Ianto shrugged. ‘I think they look sophisticated. Perhaps Owen’s only happy if they’re red lights.’
Gwen laughed.
Jack came out of the office.
‘Blue lights, Jack?’ Gwen asked. ‘Or red?’
Jack stared at the two of them. ‘Sometimes, I’m not sure that office doesn’t lead to a parallel dimension and each Hub I go into is slightly different from the one I left.’
‘I think Jack’s a blue light guy,’ said Ianto. ‘Look at the coat. And those matching shirts.’
‘Oh, the shirts, yeah, dead giveaway,’ Gwen agreed.
‘Owen?’ bellowed Jack. ‘Have you been experimenting with strange gasses again?’
‘Nope,’ Owen yelled back. ‘They’re just weird, those two. I got used to it, why haven’t you? Oh and Ianto, I prefer green lights, not red.’
Gwen gave Ianto an ‘ooh, caught out’ look and laughed.
Ianto winked at her, then called to Jack. ‘Anything from Archie?’
‘Nothing. Couldn’t reach him. Maybe he needs a Ianto to field his calls.’
Ianto pretended to think about this. ‘Cardiff or Glasgow? One’s a nice city, with a nice Torchwood base near the waterside redevelopment, good shops and an enigmatic leading man who’s never around when you want him. Or Cardiff? What should I do, Gwen?’
‘Bet Archie doesn’t have an SUV though.’
‘Oh, good point. And I’m good on coffee, but I can’t tell the difference between whisky and whiskey.’
‘Oh, word puns,’ said Jack at his left ear. ‘Very good. Now, if you can apply some of that smartness to finding Tosh or Bilis, I’ll take you out tonight and show you a good time.’ Ianto turned to say something but Jack beat him to it. ‘Yeah, I know, no rooftops.’
Ianto tried again. ‘Photo?’
Jack raised an eyebrow.
‘We could send a photo of Bilis to Glasgow,’ said Ianto.
Jack snorted. ‘Ever tried emailing an image to Archie? Either it bounces back, or he presses the wrong button and it ends up on the front page of the Glasgow Herald.’
‘Oh, that’s where that Loch Ness Monster story came from. I thought they were a bit close to the truth,’ Ianto said.
‘Loch Ness Monster? Do I want to know?’ Gwen asked.
‘Some kind of dinosaur, apparently,’ said Owen, walking towards them with a PDA. ‘Never believed that myself. Dinosaurs, God, whatever next?’
‘We have a pterodactyl!’ Gwen said, pointing upwards.
‘Pteranodon, actually,’ corrected Ianto. ‘But Pterodactyl does sound sexier.’
Gwen sighed. ‘Sometimes, I think I’m going mad.’
Jack clapped his hands. ‘Tension-breaking banter over, guys. Serious jobs here. I want Bilis Manger. More importantly, I want Tosh safe and sound. And I kinda know you do, too, so let’s say nothing more on the subject. Ianto, thank you for the research, I’m going to plough through more of it now. You and Gwen get out to Tretarri, see if she’s there.’ And then he looked hard at them and spoke softly. ‘And yeah, I read that ghost-sighting report. And yeah, I think it’s got something to do with this, so start your search at number 6, Coburg Street, OK? Owen, what’ve you got for me? I want to be able to pay a house call to Tretarri as soon as possible.’
‘Do you believe in ghosts?’ Ianto asked Gwen as they approached Tretarri in the SUV.
She shrugged. ‘Well, we kind of know that most ghosts are time echoes rather than the “I’m haunting you, Ebenezer Scrooge” types, so no, I don’t believe in ghosts per se.’ She thought about that. ‘Better to say, I don’t believe in malicious hauntings.’
‘Me neither. So why am I terrified of going into Tretarri?’
Gwen looked at him as he drove. ‘My God, you are.’
Ianto was sweating profusely and was looking decidedly green around the gills. ‘I don’t know why,’ he moaned. ‘I know this is completely irrational, I keep saying to myself this is completely irrational but I’m pretty much bricking it.’ He looked at her quickly. ‘Sorry.’
She held a hand up. ‘Not a problem. You want me to drive?’
‘No, nearly there.’ He pointed ahead. ‘Years ago, there were plans to bulldoze this place, create a Cardiff Bay Retail Park rail station.’
‘What happened?’
‘Plans got bulldozed instead. How many Earth pennies d’you want to bet that if we found the sign-off form blocking it, it’d have Bilis’s signature on the bottom?’
‘Oh I think you’d win that one fair and square.’
Ianto stopped the SUV near t
he retail park and suggested they walk the rest of the way. They went past the gasometer, and Gwen noticed the giant furniture store where Rhys had wanted to buy that hideous cream leather sofa. Apparently, he’d always liked the Swedes – although she was gratified to learn when they were at uni that he wasn’t a great fan of Abba, since men at uni who were Abba fans tended not to be interested in Gwen. Or women generally. ‘Do you like Abba?’ she found herself asking Ianto. As non sequiturs went, it was a good one.
He looked at her. ‘Is this going to lead to a “Jack” conversation?’
‘No.’
‘Fine. Then I admire the Andersson/Ulvaeus writing partnership as craftsmen and songsmiths. I believe “One Of Us” may be the best song written about relationship breakups ever, and I have a soft spot for the fusion of witty lyrical content and poptastic danceability of “Voulez-Vous”, but let me make this absolutely clear: I bloody loathe “Dancing Queen”. All right?’
Gwen stopped walking and just looked at him.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘You’ve had this conversation before, haven’t you?’
‘Might have.’
‘Jack?’
‘You honestly think Jack knows anything about music after 1948?’
‘Who then?’
‘Doesn’t matter.’
‘Who?’ She starting walking again. ‘Come on. I might die tonight, never knowing.’
‘Me mam.’
‘Aww. When she found out about Jack?’
‘When I was fourteen.’
Gwen stopped again. ‘I dunno which scares me more – that your mam worked you out ten years before you did, or that the fourteen-year-old Ianto Jones used the phrase “poptastic danceability” without getting beaten up.’
Ianto stopped suddenly. ‘She didn’t work me out, Gwen. No one has. And if I ever do, I’ll let you know.’
Gwen smiled, nudged his arm. ‘Oh come on, smile. Lisa, Jack… being bisexual is hardly a crime. Best of both worlds, isn’t it?’
And Ianto pushed her away. ‘No, Gwen. No, really it’s bloody not. It’s the worst of any world because you don’t really belong anywhere, because you are never sure of yourself or those around you. You can’t trust in anyone, their motives or their intentions. And because of that, you have, in a world that likes its nice shiny labels, no true identity. For Torchwood’s “Little Miss Sensitive”, you don’t half talk crap sometimes. So do me a favour and shut up about it, all right?’