Border Princes t-2

by Dan Abnett

  Jack took the black tile out of his trouser pocket and held it up. It was still flashing.

  ‘If this doohickey is supposed to alert us to an approaching threat, or to an imminent war, the Serial G wasn’t it.’

  Jack chuckled humourlessly to himself. He tossed the tile down onto the conference table. ‘I was so sure. When I saw that heap of junk stomping around, I was so damn sure.’

  He looked around at them again. ‘So, we’re left wondering… What is it? What is it really? Was it, maybe that strange grey thing that managed to be both invisible and kill a Serial G in the same afternoon?’

  ‘It didn’t seem like a threat,’ Toshiko said. ‘It was on our side.’

  ‘We don’t know that,’ said Jack. ‘All we know is that it wasn’t on the Serial G’s side. That’s not the same thing at all.’

  Gwen got up. ‘I’m going to look around Cosley Hall.’

  ‘We’ve been through this, Gwen,’ Jack said. ‘There’s no point.’

  ‘I think there’s a point,’ Gwen replied.

  ‘I’ve done it. I’ve been there,’ said Jack. ‘There are no clues.’

  ‘That secret doohickey was doing nothing for years,’ said Gwen, pointing at the tile on the table. ‘Now look at it. What makes you so sure something hasn’t suddenly changed at this Hall place too?’

  Jack hesitated.

  ‘Just because there was nothing to find last time you were there, doesn’t mean there’s nothing to find now. That’s logic, see?’ she said.

  ‘She has a point,’ said Toshiko.

  ‘She’s not going to Cosley Hall,’ said Jack.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it’s ten thirty at night and the place will be closed. She can go in the morning.’

  Gwen stood for a second longer and then sat back down. ‘That,’ she admitted, ‘is also logic.’

  A bridge, a river, a palace. Shades whispering along the tops of the high walls.

  Below the old, fossil bridge, the boiling river torrent thunders along its deep, stone-cut channel. The river is a mile wide. The sides of the stone channel have been polished like glass by the action of the river, year after year. Violet moss, soft as velvet, fringes the channel and coats the underside of the bridge.

  Starlight glows on the silver-green bricks of the high walls and towers. The palace seems as insubstantial as smoke, or like a translucent husk of brittle, scaled skin sloughed off by some vanished reptile. Pinpricks of fire stipple the fur-black expanse of the sky.

  It’s cold. The air is clear and hard as crystal.

  The shades are restless. They murmur and scratch, making soft, dry noises like a breeze stirring through desiccated leaves.

  They see him on the bridge. He has passed through the gate, along the causeway, and onto the ancient bridge approach. The night wind stirs the old ribbons and garlands hung from the bridge’s arches.

  He doesn’t want to run, although he knows he must, as much as he knows that it is ultimately pointless. The palace is a gravity well, its pull too great for him to resist. Nothing ever escapes from its orbit.

  One foot, then another. His pace picks up. He’s running, as he always knew he had to. He smells the air, the musky scent of the dried flowers in the old garlands. He hears the echo of his own footsteps along the wide span of the bridge.

  The clear note of a siren sounds from somewhere far behind. The shades on the high walls begin to move, scuttling and scratching. It takes them no time at all to close the distance. They are fast, like birds whirling in a flock, whipping darting shapes.

  Still running, he looks over his shoulder. They have reached the bridge. They are on the bridge. They are rushing towards him.

  One leaps-

  * * *

  James opened his eyes.

  ‘What the hell was that, then?’ Gwen asked.

  James had some trouble identifying where he was. It wasn’t his bedroom, or his flat. It was a small room, with a single bed. Two lamps, set to a low level, provided a modest night-light glow. A bank of functional, clinical machines, flickering with a few display lights, filled the wall behind the bedhead.

  Gwen was sitting on a chair beside him.

  One of the care rooms, that was it. One of the Hub’s care rooms that they only used occasionally, for overnight guests or long-term invalids. Tosh had been in one for a week after Operation Goldenrod.

  Which was he, he wondered, guest or invalid?

  He moved, and the pains in his shoulder and face decided him.

  ‘Take it easy,’ Gwen said. ‘Did you dream again?’

  ‘Mmm,’ he said. His mouth was dry.

  ‘Another dream for the man who doesn’t dream?’

  He cleared his throat. ‘How about,’ he swallowed, ‘a drink? The man who doesn’t dream has a mouth that’s not been swept.’

  Gwen handed him a beaker.

  ‘Better,’ he said.

  ‘Remember anything about this dream, then?’ she asked, placing the beaker back on the night stand.

  He breathed deeply. ‘Um… a bridge,’ he said finally. ‘Over a river.’

  ‘Where was it?’

  ‘In my dream.’

  ‘Ha ha. I mean, was it a real bridge or what?’

  ‘I think it was a real bridge. Yes, I’m sure it…’ his voice tailed off and he shook his head slightly. ‘No, it can’t have been. It was too old and too ridiculously long to have been a real bridge.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘I was being chased, I think.’

  ‘By what?’

  ‘The usual nightmare monsters that you can’t quite see.’

  ‘And how would you know,’ she asked, ‘if you never dream?’

  ‘I’ve heard people talk about dreams often enough,’ James said. He looked up at her.

  ‘What time is it?’ he asked.

  ‘Two o’clock in the morning.’

  ‘You should be in bed. You need sleep.’

  ‘I was dozing. I wanted to stay here.’

  ‘That’s nice. You didn’t have to.’

  ‘Maybe I did.’

  ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ she replied. ‘As all right as everything usually is in Torchwood. One thing, though.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I was wondering if you could do me a favour?’

  ‘What would that be?’ he asked.

  ‘In future, could you try not to get yourself half-killed by giant robots at all? It’s not good for my nerves.’

  ‘OK,’ he smiled. ‘Come here.’

  He hugged her, and she curled up beside him on the edge of the narrow bed.

  They lay there for a while. At last, once he’d thought about it long enough, he said, ‘Gwen?’

  But she’d fallen asleep.

  Shiznay padded downstairs in the dark, her dressing gown pulled around her. She was half-asleep, but the noise was keeping her awake. Someone had left the kitchen vents on again.

  The others were asleep in the flat over the restaurant, and the restaurant itself was dark: a forest of chair legs upturned on tables, lit by the amber streetlamp outside the front windows.

  It was cold too. There was a draught.

  Shiznay plodded into the kitchen. The cool air contained a mix of cooked spices, onions and cleaning fluid. In the twilight, the stainless-steel counters were bare and gleaming. Silhouette pans hung from ceiling rails.

  The extractor vents were purring, a low-level chatter occasionally embellished by a clacking whirr.

  She walked across the kitchen, found the cut-out switch by touch alone, and flipped it down. The vents went quiet with a dying murmur. She slid the mesh hatches shut.

  That draught again, against her face.

  Shiznay looked around. She saw that the backdoor was slightly open.

  Tutting, she went over and bolted it. Her father would be furious with whoever had closed up. Leaving the fans on was one thing, but not locking up properly? Anyone could get in and
-Shiznay froze. Her spine crawled. Standing in that darkened kitchen, all alone, and imagining the consequences of an unlocked door, she’d just managed to completely creep herself out. She smiled to herself ruefully and turned to go.

  Something made a tiny noise.

  She froze again, and her spine crawled for real.

  It had been just a tiny noise, a mouse noise. She listened for it, willing it to come again, hearing nothing but the bump of her own pulse in her ears.

  Nothing. No, not nothing. A noise again. There.

  As silently as she could, she took down the heaviest pan she could find and held it like a tennis racket. She thought about the rack of catering knives on the far wall, but it was too far away, and besides, scared or not, she didn’t fancy stabbing anyone. Not even burglar-rapist-escaped looney.

  Smacking him over the head, on the other hand, was something she thought she might adequately manage.

  She listened for the noise to come again. When it did, she realised it was coming from behind her, from the walk-in pantry. The door to the pantry was open a little way too.

  Shiznay wondered if she should call out. She was pretty sure that, by the time anyone woke up and got down stairs, she’d have had to deal with things alone anyway.

  Hefting up the pan for a good first service, she crept towards the pantry door. She placed her hand on the handle. One, two…

  She swung the door open. At first, she could see nothing. It was impenetrably dark, a shadowy cave filled with sacks of vegetables and stacks of cans in catering packs.

  Then she saw the figure, gasped, and swung her improvised weapon up.

  She hesitated.

  ‘Oh my goodness…’ she whispered.

  Mr Dine was sitting on the floor, his back against the wall. What remained of his clothes were ragged and shredded. His head leaned forward limply, his hands draped at his sides.

  ‘What are you doing here? What are you doing in here?’ she hissed, stepping forward.

  He stirred, and slowly turned his head up to regard her.

  ‘How did you get in? You shouldn’t be here! You really shouldn’t be here!’

  ‘You… said…’ he whispered.

  ‘What?’

  It was hard to hear him, his voice was so distant. Was he drunk? Out of his head? Had he been mugged, or something? Shiznay lowered the pan.

  ‘You… said…’ he repeated.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You said, “Come back when you want,”’ Mr Dine whispered.

  ‘Well, I…’ Shiznay paused. She thought hard. ‘Look, I didn’t mean this. I didn’t mean… My father would go off on one if he knew you’d broken in and…’ She crouched down next to him. ‘Mr Dine?’

  He didn’t reply.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  He opened his eyes and nodded at the pan she was holding. ‘What is that for?’

  ‘Cracking you over the head. You don’t just go around breaking into places.’ Shiznay stopped and laughed suddenly. Given his prior form, that was exactly the kind of peculiar thing Mr Dine would do.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asked again. ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘I crashed,’ he said, soporifically.

  ‘You said that before. Is that… is that like a drug thing?’

  ‘No, no.’

  ‘What happened to your clothes? Were you roughed up?’

  ‘I suppose you could say that.’

  ‘I should call the police,’ she said.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you see who did it?’

  ‘Shiznay-’

  ‘The police will help you. You can’t stay here.’ Her mind whirled. If she rang the police, her father would know. He’d see how Mr Dine had broken in. There would be all sorts of trouble.

  But she couldn’t just turf the man out into the street, not the state he was in, even if she did ring in an anonymous 999.

  ‘I’ll have to call the police,’ she insisted.

  ‘No. They can’t help me. Please do not call them. I just need to rest. To recover.’

  She peered at him closer. ‘Oh goodness!’ she blurted, realising what she was seeing. ‘Oh good lord, they stabbed you! They stabbed you, didn’t they?’

  Despite the half-light, she could distinctly see the dark fluid oozing out of a gash in his ribs. There was a pool of it on the floor.

  ‘It’s not from a knife,’ he said. ‘I received a contact injury. It’s healing. Let me take time to heal.’

  ‘You need to go to Casualty. You need stitches at least. That’s not just going to heal on its own.’

  He suddenly looked at her quite fiercely. His eyes blazed intently. ‘Yes, it is,’ he said. ‘I promise you, it is. I just need somewhere safe to lie and rest. Somewhere safe. I thought you could…’

  ‘You can’t stay here,’ she said.

  He sighed and nodded. He began to move himself, as though intending to get up. ‘I understand. I will go.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I’ll find somewhere.’

  She put a hand out and restrained him gently. ‘I meant… you can’t stay here. In here. My father will be up at six, and there’ll be food prep. People will come in here and find you. You can’t stay in here.’

  ‘Where, then?’

  ‘Can you move? If I help you, can you move really quietly? Really, really quietly?’

  ‘I think so.’

  It took a moment to hoist him up. He was heavy and his skin was hot, almost feverish. Bracing him, she shuffled them out of the pantry and propped him against a counter.

  ‘Stand there, just a second.’

  Mr Dine swayed, but remained upright, holding onto the edge of the counter.

  Shiznay went back into the pantry, dropped a sheet of old newspaper over the puddle of blood, and heaved two sacks of onions and sack of potatoes over to cover the paper. She picked up the pan, stepped out of the larder and closed the door. Then she hung the pan back up where she’d found it.

  ‘All right,’ she whispered, coming back to him. ‘Here we go. Really quietly, OK?’

  TWENTY-FOUR

  He smelled coffee. Not just any coffee. Ianto’s coffee.

  He woke up.

  He felt stiff and sore. His head throbbed. He looked around, but he was alone. At some point in the night, Gwen had gone.

  Slowly, gingerly, James sat up. He worked his shoulder slightly, then leaned over and turned up one of the lamps. He saw his watch lying on the cabinet and picked it up. Nearly ten a.m. Quite a sleep.

  With care, testing out his aches and pains, he swung his legs around and got out of bed. There was a hospital dressing gown on the back of the door.

  ‘Oh, no!’ cried Owen. ‘Oooh no, no, no, no, no!’

  He leapt up from his work station the moment he saw James shuffling into the main space of the Hub.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he asked, reaching James.

  ‘I woke up,’ said James.

  ‘Lovely. Go back to bed.’

  ‘I don’t want to.’

  ‘Listen, mate, when a doctor — like me — puts a patient — like you — in bed, staying there is part of the deal.’

  ‘I’m OK.’

  ‘We’re getting you back into bed,’ said Owen. ‘That’s first. Then I’ll run a bunch of standard tests. Then, and only then, will I say if you’re OK.’

  ‘Can I have coffee?’ James asked. He saw Ianto up by the coffee machine, busy. He waved. Ianto waved back.

  ‘No, you can’t,’ said Owen, and began to steer James back towards the door.

  James could see Jack in his office. The door was closed, and he was on the telephone, deep in conversation.

  ‘What’s Jack doing?’

  ‘He’s got a bee in his bonnet,’ said Owen. ‘That whole secret early warning thingy whatsit. He’s making some calls.’

  ‘To who?’

  ‘Oh, like he’s going to tell me,’ snapped Owen.

  ‘But at a guess?’

&nbs
p; ‘The Pentagon, NASA, Project Blue Book, NATO, UNIT, International Rescue, Starfleet, and the Fortress of Solitude,’ replied Owen, ‘but that’s me just speculating wildly.’

  ‘Where’s Gwen?’ James asked.

  ‘She’s gone out with Tosh. She told me to say hi. There was a kiss too, but I’m not prepared to pass that on.’

  ‘Where’s she gone out to?’

  Colonel Joseph Peignton Cosley was as forbidding as his home. Fifty-ish, jowelly, with a Kitchener moustache that suited his choice of army attire, he glared at Gwen, his hand on the pommel of his cavalry sabre, as if expecting her to kick off some trouble any minute.

  ‘That’s him in 1890,’ said Toshiko, reading off the plaque.

  Gwen folded her arms and continued to stare at the large, gilt-framed painting.

  ‘He looks a bit of a…’

  ‘A what?’ asked Toshiko.

  ‘Twat,’ Gwen said. ‘Not the kind of bloke you expect to know secret things about the fate of the world. More like the sort of bloke who’d know how to horsewhip his manservant or shove a bayonet into some African person.’

  ‘“Horsewhip his manservant”?’ asked Toshiko.

  Gwen glanced at her. ‘I know. Even as I said it, I knew it was going to sound dodgy.’

  ‘At least Owen isn’t here,’ said Toshiko. ‘Otherwise he’d be adding that to his little book of squalid euphemisms.’

  The long, panelled hallway was gloomy and quiet. Other dingy paintings hung on the walls above items of stately, roped-off furniture. Heavy morning drizzle beat against the grand windows. From a nearby room, they could just make out the sound of a Cadw guide leading a tour.

  Toshiko was leafing through the guidebook she’d bought. She’d opted for the fat, expensive guide instead of the thin illustrated pamphlet.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘whatever he looks like, he’s the man. Maybe he had hidden depths? Maybe the artist didn’t do him justice?’

  ‘Maybe he didn’t know what it was he had either, which was why he gave it to Torchwood?’

  They walked on. Toshiko nodded to a smaller painting.

  ‘That’s Mrs Colonel.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Gwen. ‘Poor love. Do you think they’d have got a smile out of her if her husband hadn’t spent so much time horsewhipping his manservant?’