Risk Assessment (14 page)

‘No.’ Agnes was firm. ‘No one ever said progress was pretty. Every time I wake up, I must confront a world more ugly, horrible and desperate than the one I left behind. A world that’s made terrible choices. That creature is abhorrent. But it is also useful. We must contain it, we must exploit it. It is what Torchwood was set up to do – to make the most out of alien threats. Queen Victoria would be proud.’

‘And what are you proposing to do?’ Gwen was bitter. ‘Dig a big pit and throw people at it?’

Agnes was slightly stung. ‘Not at all. A pit is a capital idea, although I suspect we’ll have to find something stronger to contain it. Mr Jones has shown me your World Wide Web, and I have not squandered the opportunity. In terms of food for the creature – why, you are a nation of waste plastic, plastic that was until recently shipped out to China to be picked over by children. Until your Global Financial Meltdown, that is. Since when it has simply sat in vast, ugly piles, growing and spilling out across the country, every bit as vile as this creature. We shall simply pour all that rubbish at this excrescence, and then harvest the results. We’ll make the Empire great again. Why, in two decades, with a little bit of careful husbandry, Great Britain will be the only country left with any oil. This may be a very ugly goose, Mrs Cooper, but the eggs it lays are still golden.’

Jack realised sadly that his moment of strength had passed. Oh, Gwen was furious with her, sickened by the creature, but something about Agnes’s solution struck her as revenge. She was watching Agnes with the same curiosity that Ianto now was. He realised Jack was studying him sadly and glanced down.

‘Agnes! Think what you’re doing!’ begged Jack before turning to his team. ‘Can’t either of you see this is nuts?’

They both looked at him, sheepishly.

‘Um,’ said Gwen. ‘A lot of what we do is nuts, Jack. Working with you has taught me never to rule out a solution just because it’s out of the ordinary. What if there is something in Agnes’s discovery? God knows, this creature deserves whatever hell we can invent for it.’

Ianto kept staring down at the mud. ‘I think it’s worth exploring,’ he said. He thought about the pictures they’d found of Chinese children picking across fields where rice had been grown for centuries. Now those fields were covered with bottles and plastic bags and sandwich cartons and juice boxes.

Agnes met Jack’s gaze and smiled sweetly. ‘You see, Jack?’ she continued. ‘If, occasionally, you look at something alien, not just as a threat, but as an opportunity, then true progress can be achieved. But I would like to thank you all for such a stimulating and refreshing exchange of views. It is most welcome. Ah!’ At that, she looked across the car park to where a large, black, official-looking car had drawn in.

‘That was quick,’ she said, slyly. ‘I suspect I am about to be reasoned with. A bit swift for the Prime Minister, but no doubt someone with impeccable credentials. The first of many.’

She turned and started for the car, a smile on her face. And then she turned, and looked at Gwen. ‘I am sorry for what the creature has done, Gwen. Believe me, we shall make it pay. And,’ turning slightly, ‘Jack, let’s resume this fascinating discussion later.’

It was early the next morning.

‘Rhys! Visitor for you!’ cooed Large Mandy from the outer office.

Bloody great, thought Rhys, staring miserably at the vast pile of paperwork in front of him. What he didn’t get about the paperless office was how much paper there was, everywhere. Even with GPS there were still invoices, purchase orders, receipts and even the occasional tachometer to be gone through.

Gwen hadn’t come home last night. Which wasn’t really that unusual, given her really quite unique job, and the world ending, but still. . . you know. Even if she crawled in at two and slipped out before dawn, he still knew she’d been there. She’d come home. And that was, somehow, nice.

But not a sign. Not even a call. Just a text message: ‘Love you, don’t be afraid, call you later xXx.’ That had sent the spiking horrors jumping up his spine.

Worse, he’d come in this morning to discover the Bryant account worse than ever. Stuff was still going missing from their shipments. He had scheduled different vans, different drivers, even a different depot, but always something went astray – usually fridges. Nice ones. He stared, mystified at the paperwork, and suspected a trip down to one of the discount white goods outlets off Newport Road might help.

But first, something about a visitor. So long as it wasn’t Mr Bryant himself. Anything would be better than. . .

Oh God.

‘Rhys, hi!’ said Captain Jack Harkness, sitting down.

‘She’s dead, isn’t she?’ said Rhys.

Jack frowned, ‘Sadly no. . .’ And then his face cleared. ‘No! Lord no! Gwen is fine, Rhys. Honestly. Fine.’

‘Then why are you here?’ asked Rhys stiffly. He hadn’t got over the shock, truthfully. He lived in fear of something terrible – a last, brave phone call from Gwen, or finding Jack stony-faced outside his flat or. . . here.

Jack sensed Rhys’s discomfort, and spread his hands out. ‘Sorry to call on you. It’s a bit. . . difficult.’

There was a tiny tap on the door, and Large Mandy squeezed herself in. ‘Can I offer you something to drink?’ she giggled excitedly. Rhys quivered. He knew that Jack was going to take some explaining. Mandy lived a life of reasonable certainties that just about fitted into a bungalow in Troed-y-rhiw. A life that didn’t ordinarily include a man with movie-star good looks, a twinkling eye and a vaguely military uniform covered in dust and green slime.

‘Gin would be lovely,’ said Jack firmly.

Mandy giggled. ‘Oh no, my love,’ she said. ‘We’ve got tea or instant. And I can probably find you a digestive.’

Jack swung round to look at her, his smile whacked up to 11. ‘This instant coffee? Would it be a very cheap brand?’

Caught out, Mandy flushed slightly. ‘Oh, well, more of a discount really. Special offer. It’s not branded, see, and quite powdery, but Ruth, she swears it’s—’

Jack’s smile peaked. ‘Wonderful. I would love a cup of your unbranded instant coffee!’ He winked, and turned back to Rhys, just in time for Rhys to catch what looked like a smirk of childish rebellion on Jack’s face.

Mandy, thrilled beyond measure, left the office. Humming to herself.

Jack looked at Rhys.

Rhys looked at Jack.

‘Hi,’ said Jack.

‘Hello,’ said Rhys.

‘So, been busy?’

‘Oh, yes, thank you. Mustn’t grumble. Yourself?’

‘Oh, you know. Plates spinning. Balls in the air.’ Jack looked evasive. For a second his attention seemed to wander, out of the window with its slatted blinds, and across the industrial estate. ‘Not been watching the news, have you?’

Rhys laughed, and spread his arms out to encompass the spilling manila folders. ‘Too tired last night, and straight in this morning dealing with this. Fridges going missing.’

Jack glanced at the folder and shrugged. ‘Someone’s trying to repair a cryogenic unit. Interesting. Tomorrow’s problem.’ He stared back out of the window, and then with difficulty refocused on Rhys. Rhys realised, with a slight chill, underneath the meringue that was Jack’s personality, he was worried. Frightened.

‘Why are you here?’ asked Rhys. Direct questions often worked best with shifty drivers. And, it seemed, with Captain Jack Harkness.

‘I need your help.’

‘Blimey,’ said Rhys. This was interesting. In the same way that bad medical results were interesting.

‘I know,’ and Jack smiled. ‘I have an outrageous proposition for you.’

‘Really?’

‘Oh yes,’ Jack suddenly looked like he was enjoying himself again. ‘How do you fancy going behind your wife’s back and saving the world?’

XII

CONTAINING THE WHOLE

SCIENCE OF GOVERNMENT

In which a conference of great import is held, Mrs Cooper prevails, and Mr Williams embarks on a hunt for the forbidden

It was early morning. Gwen came at a walking run across the car park, bringing with her three men in indifferent suits with important briefcases. Their drivers stood at a safe distance. Agnes strode over, and favoured each one with a gloved handshake as Gwen introduced them.

‘We’ll duck behind here.’ With a gesture, Agnes motioned them to a big brick wall. ‘The fire service are doing some decent work at keeping it at bay with detergent, but we’ve also established that the creature doesn’t really eat brick. Much. Come along, gentlemen.’

Nervously, they followed her.

‘Er,’ began one, immediately losing any advantage. ‘Miss Havisham. . . are we safe?’

Agnes’s eyes widened with mock alarm and she looked over at the Vam as though seeing it for the first time, then she glanced back at her audience and smiled. ‘Gentlemen, that is a relative term. But I have enough respect for bureaucrats not to let them be eaten by an opportunity. It is not in my interests.’

‘Torchwood hasn’t always been so safety conscious,’ muttered another.

Agnes pretended not to hear and pressed on. ‘Shall I précis the situation, or did you all read my notes on the journey over?’

The third man waved his copy of the document. It had significant portions covered in highlighter pen. Agnes nodded, approvingly.

‘This creature is living oil,’ she told them. ‘It offers the United Kingdom, nay, humanity, its greatest hope in an energy-starved future. We feed it plastic, it gives us oil. Careful control of this will make England great again.’

The third man, who had a Welsh accent, coughed slightly.

‘The peoples of England, Scotland and Northern Ireland will all owe an enormous debt to our Welsh brethren, of course,’ Agnes continued, smiling at all of them as though the slight slip was amusing. ‘Now, the grisly truth is that this creature is not pleasant. Is it, Mrs Cooper?’

The three men’s eyes wandered over to Gwen. Gwen hurriedly hung up on another irate official and smiled tightly. ‘It eats everything. Including people. So far the death toll is almost fifty.’

‘Can that be kept quiet?’ the first man demanded.

Gwen’s expression wavered slightly before she answered. ‘Well, if that’s decided as being absolutely necessary. . . But I’d argue for transparency and honesty here. Really I would. This is quite a radical solution and people should be. . . well, I think everyone deserves a right to know the truth. Sooner rather than later.’

‘Quite,’ said the second man, favouring Gwen with a patronising smile. ‘It is an alien, after all. People don’t expect anything else from their aliens, and they demand nothing less than to be protected by their Government. And –’ here he attempted some bonhomie – ‘I’m sure if it’s being looked after by two such fine women, it’ll be kept on a very strict diet.’

Gwen and Agnes both tilted their heads slightly at this, caught each other doing it, and turned quickly back to the creature before their grins could be seen.

‘It’s important,’ Gwen continued, ‘that people realise the true nature of this creature. It isn’t a benign alien ambassador. It is petrol that hates you.’

‘A chemical process with menaces,’ said one of the men, and nodded. ‘Thank you, ah, Mrs Cooper,’ he said. ‘We don’t want the Animal Rights people on our backs.’

‘Oh,’ said Gwen, surprised. ‘I’d genuinely not thought. . . You see, there’s every evidence that this creature is a plague. It arrives on planets, and it consumes all life on them. It’s here on Earth now. We can’t immediately find a way to get rid of it. For the moment, we propose containing it, and harvesting energy from it through managing its size.’

‘Quite simply,’ said Agnes, folding her hands, ‘if we don’t do this, it will destroy us all.’

‘Tough sell,’ muttered one of the men, and another nodded.

‘Like all truths, it is not easily palatable,’ admitted Agnes. ‘But are you familiar with the old medical practice of
mummia
– grinding up Egyptian mummies into a powder to be ingested? A practice which I now believe is deplored as both a desecration of the dead and a waste of valuable archaeological material. Yet what do you do every time you fill up your motor car? Sealed within the Earth’s crust is a priceless, limited stock of ageless history – and a little more of it gets depleted every time you start your car engine. Why else is it called fossil fuel, hmm?’

‘Well,’ said the first man, and then petered out.

Agnes pressed on. ‘In future years, the practice will seem as quaint as
mummia
. Instead, you’ll be converting all of mankind’s waste into food for this creature, in return for which. . . fuel. It is quite the most. . .’ A pause. ‘. . .  the most Green policy anyone could put forward.’ She favoured everyone with a smile.

The three men’s eyes drifted up to the creature, and then back to Agnes.

She nodded. ‘Oh yes, it is ugly but it is the future.’

‘You have to see,’ ventured the second man, ‘that it’s a bizarre concept.’

With a cough and a shrug, Gwen caught their attention. ‘The biggest producer of greenhouse gases on the planet is the cow. Scientists have been looking at harvesting their expelled methane as a viable energy source. Surely this is a little less strange than cows waddling around fields with bags to catch their farts?’