Risk Assessment (6 page)

And, on the shore, the Vam awoke.

VI

A SHOAL

OF BARNACLES

Which is chiefly dedicated to the Glory of the Vam and the regrettable transience of estate agency as a profession

‘Interesting,’ was its first thought.

It wasn’t surprised to be still alive. The Vam had always existed – it would have been more surprised to be dead. Somehow it always continued. Even though at the moment. . . barely. A quick check told it that it occupied a mass of less than ten centimetres in diameter and barely a few millimetres thick. ‘Interesting,’ it repeated. What a comedown! Was this all that remained of the Vam? A creature that had wrapped itself around whole solar systems. . . reduced to little more than a splat on a. . . where was it?

It reached out into its memories, and realised that very little remained of them, and much of that was over-compressed. No matter. It would grow, it would repair and, when it occupied enough mass, it would unpack those glorious memories. It had no idea of where it was, or how it had got there. It tried out its senses, and discovered it had very few. It extruded an elementary sense membrane and established which way was up. There was some form of landmass beneath it. There was an atmosphere – although it could not yet analyse that. However, an atmosphere allowed it to infer that there would be life somewhere. And if it could feed, then it would grow, and the Vam would live again. The Vam! The Vam! The glorious hunger of the Vam!

It stretched itself down, pressing into the ground. . . perhaps there was some food in there. Nope. Ah well. Something would come along eventually.

Opponents of the Vam would have laughed at its first prey. This was a creature that had eaten entire planets, which regarded the most impressive space fleets as a mere snack, and would casually drape itself around a sun. And the best it had managed so far was to eat a pigeon.

The bird had been wandering across the beach, and had noticed the shiny, shiny black surface of the Vam. It had been interested in its own reflection, and had wandered too close. Humiliating as it was for the Vam, it was enormously glad of the meal. Nearly every process had shut down. It was close to total exhaustion and denaturing. It was beginning to think the unthinkable – a universe without the Vam.

And then that pigeon leaned too close.

The Vam savoured its first meal in. . . no, still no idea. The meat was surprisingly rich, which boded well. The Vam briefly regretted not currently having a way to see its victim’s struggles, or, more importantly, to hear the cries as it wrapped itself around it, and then the sudden, sickening
pop
! But it promised itself that soon it would gain some senses. In the meantime, it luxuriated in a first kill. Like a cat in the sun, it stretched out, and then carefully wrapped itself around the corpse, consuming every last piece.

It would, it decided, let itself grow a little, and also move around. Just slightly. A small portion of Vam examined the brain of the creature. There was so little to learn. Some impressions of flying. Water. Blue sky – which probably meant oxygen, always a good sign. Others of its kind. Things that were Bigger Than It And Moved. And that was about it. A pity, but not a complete write-off. The simple fact that the creature lived in some fear of persecution meant that there were probably predators. Good. It had been a while since the Vam had clambered all the way up a food chain, and it was rather looking forward to it. Slightly reluctantly, it unfolded itself from the carcass, laying it out on glorious display. Look at this, said the Vam, lovely bones for you to come and have a pick at.

And it waited for the carrion feeders.

By the time it made it off the beach, the Vam had learned a lot about this world. It had also grown pleasingly. Now the size of a deflated football, the sticky black mass rolled and crawled its way up the beach. Now it was mobile, it was easily able to locate tiny moving insects. Some of them were even blown onto it by the breeze. Breeze, it thought. It would be nice to eat something that couldn’t fly. It had pretty much had its fill. It would like something more intelligent. Something from which it could learn. The Vam enjoyed learning almost as much as it enjoyed eating.

The Vam reached the top of an incline and extruded a basic visual sensor. Hmm, interesting. Much of what was around it was artificial in construction. Promising. Still, in the distance, beyond all the regularity, was a certain amount of natural life. Tasty. The Vam let itself look forward to eating all this new knowledge. Hey!

It recoiled, much to its surprise, as a moving box slid past it. Ahhh. A craft. It had been a while since the Vam had seen a craft, and then it had been something far more complex and deadly, a battle cruiser throwing itself at the Vam in a futile suicide run.

The Vam was transfixed both by the motion and the occupant of the vehicle. It would, it decided, very much like one of them. Another craft slid past, and the Vam wondered how to get inside one. It posited that they probably stopped somewhere to unseal their precious cargo. Ah well. The Vam rolled down the road in steady pursuit of the. . . Fiat Punto.

An hour later, the Vam had feasted on its first human victim. Engorged at such wonders, the Vam paused in its consumption, just long enough to learn the victim’s name (Suzanne), all about the profession of estate agency, that it was squatting on what remained of her face in a car park, that she really wished that she owned a more reliable car, some worries about being late for work, an unresolved romantic attachment to a man called Brian and, while it was at it, all of her knowledge. Goodness, thought the Vam, what a meal, what a civilisation.

It drew itself up slightly and looked around. It was unobserved. Which was good, as it was still vulnerable. But still, it had to be said. ‘Fear me, humanity, for I am the Vam!’ it whispered, trying out a human language for the first time. It remains to be known whether the National Assembly would have been proud that the Vam’s first words were in Welsh. But there we go.

And then the Vam looked at the remains of Suzanne. And decided the best thing to do would be to make sure that no trace remained. For the moment, it must remain unknown. It looked down at the beach and thought, ‘Hello beach! Hello birds! Hello sky!’ etc. And then it looked at the small cluster of ‘buildings’ and laughed. ‘Hello Penarth.’

And then the Vam had a very clever idea.

VII

THE PROGRESS

OF AN EPIDEMIC

In which Captain Harkness makes a rash promise, and Miss Havisham visits the luxurious dwellings of the urban poor

When Agnes and Jack got back from the graveyard, Ianto and Gwen were waiting for them in the harbour. Agnes was all silence. She stepped neatly out of the new Torchwood speedboat, the
Sea Queen II
, and strode away from the jetty without a word.

Ianto tied the boat up with an efficient knot. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘she’s very cross.’

‘Yes,’ said Gwen, helping Jack out of the boat.

‘Hmmm,’ sighed Jack. ‘And she may even be right. I hate it when she’s right. It’s not just my pride at stake, although that’s obviously enormously important.’

‘Obviously,’ said Ianto.

‘No,’ continued Jack. ‘It’s that when she’s right, lots of people die.’

The artillery shell fell too close to the window, blowing glass against the hastily drawn curtains, slicing jagged tears in the cheery floral pattern. Plaster dust filled the room.

Jack pulled himself up off the ground, trying not to choke, and noticed Agnes already stood at the window, firing her gun at their attackers.

Jack turned to the survivors – all sixteen of them, huddled in a grimy corner of the room. They looked at him, desperately.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘We’re going to get you out of here.’

And without looking round from the window, Agnes spoke. ‘Captain Harkness,’ she said coldly, ‘should not promise what he cannot deliver.’

Finally, Ianto was alone. The Hub ticked away to itself, like an intricate clockwork masterpiece slowly, steadily unwinding. Ianto cleared away some stray mugs, and closed down a couple of abandoned computer terminals, straightening up leftover paperwork and tidying away pencils and pens into appropriate slots. Hmm, a slight smear on Gwen’s monitor. Probably brown sauce. He’d give that a wipe down in a bit.

He breathed out, relaxing quietly at the thought of another day over. The world still here. Good.

‘Mr Jones, a word if you please.’ Agnes’s voice rang through the Hub, and Ianto let out a little yelp of surprise.

He wheeled round to Jack’s old office. The lights were off, but he could just see Agnes sat there in the darkness.

‘Miss Havisham?’ he said.

Her silhouette moved, an arm beckoning. The motion triggered some lights into action, flickering across her face, which was smiling at him kindly.

‘Mr Jones. . . Ianto. . . Come through, come through,’ she said, patting a chair. She leaned over Jack’s desk, plucking a boiled sweet out of a jar, carefully unwrapping it, sucking on it thoughtfully while she neatly and precisely folded away the wrapper.

Ianto sat down opposite her.

‘You’re working late,’ he said. ‘Well, you’re sitting in the dark. Which is freaky.’

Agnes smiled pleasantly. ‘Actually, I was listening to the wireless,’ she said. She indicated an ancient valve radio, which was hissing quietly. She shrugged. ‘Nothing on.’

Ianto leaned forward. ‘I can retune it. . . Red Dragon is. . .’

She waved him away. ‘It’s on the correct channel. Please leave it be.’

And so they sat, awkwardly, listening to static.

‘So,’ said Agnes.

‘Yes,’ said Ianto.

‘Have you worked here long?’ asked Agnes.

Ianto immediately realised she knew the answer. She was the kind of woman who would have memorised his entire personnel file, even the awkward or curious bits that Jack had never bothered to write down. She was smiling at him with the pleasant complacency of someone who knew everything about him. Dangerous.

‘I worked at Torchwood One,’ he said.

She nodded. ‘A fine place, which by all accounts came to a lamentable end.’ The smile widened, and she adopted a carefully confidential air. ‘I must admit that, at this precise moment, the Torchwood project looks like a noble failure. I feel that my role is almost redundant.’

‘Why didn’t you wake up when Torchwood One fell?’ Ianto asked. The wrong question.

Agnes’s face thinned. ‘I can only suspect a catastrophic systems failure. I fear there’s only a point in awakening the Assessor when there is still a Torchwood branch to save. Why, when Torchwood Four went missing, all there was was. . .’

Ianto leant forward, interested.

Agnes waved a hand, dismissively. ‘. . .  an awful mess that we won’t go into here. But I’m sorry for Torchwood One. I must admit, I find the entire situation a bit of a shock. Imagine. The last time I go to sleep it’s the 1970s and, aside from some quite startling hairstyles, everything is in order. And then I wake up and find. . . well, it’s like discovering the loss of the Empire. When I first went to sleep most of the map was painted a bold red, Victoria was Empress of India, and Torchwood were busily plundering the Raj. First time I wake up, I glance at a copy of
The Times
, and I think,
Oh dear
.’ She leaned back. ‘It’s curious, flickering through history like slides on a magic lantern. I wonder if I’ve seen all I’m supposed to see, and feel almost cheated that I can’t pop back and have a peep at some of the bits I’ve missed out on.’

‘Well, there’s always the internet,’ said Ianto.

‘Really?’ said Agnes. ‘And what is an internet?’

‘Oh,’ said Ianto. ‘Well. . . um. . . a few years ago there was a project that linked up every single computer in the world to form one enormous dataspace of information.’

Agnes nodded. ‘And it became sentient and tried to destroy the world?’

Ianto shook his head. ‘Actually, mostly just shopping, dating and cats. But there’s also an online encyclopaedia that’s quite useful. And there’s a lot of video clips. Again, mostly cats. But also some history.’

Agnes shrugged. ‘Perhaps you’ll be kind enough to show me this internet later. It sounds like a fascinating bagatelle. In the meantime, I was wondering if we could have a word.’

‘Oh,’ said Ianto, suddenly fearful again. ‘Is it about the tea? I’ve been wondering if I should switch brands. . .’

‘No no,’ said Agnes, waving a hand. ‘I can only imagine the trouble you must have with that bagged tea. No. I wished to have a word with you. . . about Jack. About. . . you and Jack.’

Ianto made a tiny, awkward noise.

Agnes leant forward, smiling. ‘Am I correct in understanding that there is an intimacy between the two of you?’

Ianto nodded, looking as if he’d like to hide under a rock.

‘No doubt one initiated by Harkness,’ said Agnes soothingly. ‘There is nothing to blame yourself for. You certainly wouldn’t be the first member of Torchwood to be corrupted by the Captain’s reprehensible morals. Sometimes I wonder if that man is incapable of forming a platonic friendship. He has all the swordsmanship of a Frenchie. It’s common knowledge that the men of that country would seduce a table with an attractively turned leg. I rather fear the furniture of Torchwood is similarly prey to that man’s depravities. But no matter. I do not concern myself with the despoiling of desking. As far as I’m concerned, he can slake his lusts on all manner of inanimate objects. No, rather it’s perishable goods. . . it is you I am worried about.’