Risk Assessment Part 5

Agnes shrugged, craning round to look at her shoulder. 'I don't. . . I think merely a water droplet. No doubt the plumbing is deplorable.'

They both looked up. And stepped back hurriedly.

Where once there had been a chequerboard of ceiling panels, there was now an empty metal skeleton, tiny snotty strands of dissolved plastic trailing down.

'What?' gasped Gwen.

'I don't know, my dear,' said Agnes, coldly. Her gun was drawn. 'I am presuming this is not a usual phenomenon?' Gwen shook her head. 'What is supposed to be there?'

'Polystyrene,' said Gwen. 'Polystyrene ceiling panels.'

Agnes looked blank.

'Er. . . a plastic. . . derived from oil. . . a. . .'

'Like celluloid, I see.' Agnes sniffed dismissively. 'I understand. An artificial material. And it's been consumed. Fear not. I am familiar with plastic.'

The wall behind her vanished, and she scrambled hurriedly for cover.

She turned rapidly to the worried-looking scientist.

'Let me see if I understand you correctly, Professor Jenkins,' she gasped, dragging him through the spinney, aware of the disagreeably autumnal smell of burning privet in the air. 'This Torchwood training camp is almost entirely composed of-'

A plastic nun swung across their path and Agnes removed its head with a single shot.

'- entirely composed of plastic mannequins?'

'Er, yes,' gasped Jenkins. 'You're not supposed to shoot the nuns. Strictly speaking. And these experiments have the approval of Mr Chamberlain.'

Agnes sighed. 'Someone clearly bullied that out of him. So, these are here for the purposes of training operatives? And something has taken control of them?'

'Yes,' wailed Jenkins. 'They've killed everyone!'

They turned a corner and were confronted by a dead end in the maze. Behind them came an ominous stepping noise. They turned, and were confronted by the sight of a plastic milkman staggering towards them, blank eyes searching the air.

'Dead end!' cried Jenkins.

She tutted. 'One does not always play by the rules,' she said.

The plastic milkman fired at them, but they had ducked. The shot blew a hole in the wall of the maze. They ran for freedom.

Agnes glanced around. 'Anything else wrong?'

Gwen looked ahead of them. It was dark and she could just hear dripping. 'No lights. . . not even emergency ones.' She went over to the receptionist's desk. All that remained of a computer and monitor were a few electrical components embedded in a plastic toffee.

Agnes leaned over. 'How efficient,' she said. 'Have you a lantern?' Gwen pa.s.sed her a torch, and Agnes clicked it on expertly. 'Fascinating,' she said. 'It's a long time since I studied protein strings and polymers, my dear. And I'm sure at the dawn of Torchwood we were scientific infants compared to you. It's simple, isn't it?'

Gwen shrugged, slightly embarra.s.sed. 'Owen and Tosh did most of the science stuff. I nearly did Biology A level, but Mrs Stringer was a nightmare. So I did French instead.'

Agnes tilted her head. 'I see. This is a school qualification? Well, you really mustn't feel embarra.s.sed. You've worked for Jack Harkness for over two years and are still alive. A commendable achievement in itself.' She smiled and gestured with her torch. 'We have evidence something devoured that computer most efficiently. All that remains could not be digested. Which tells us that metal is thankfully of no interest to it. This plastic. . . is it now of ubiquity?'

Gwen was still looking at the computer. 'Er. . . well, yeah. Kind of. I mean it's everywhere.'

'Oh dear,' said Agnes, looking smugly pleased. 'Then Harkness has got himself into a pickle. He's allowed a plastic-eater loose into the world. Let's hope it's not like an airborne bacterium. If it has a physical form, if it has to do work to find its prey, then humanity still has a chance.'

'What do you mean?' asked Gwen.

Agnes swung the torch around so that it was s.h.i.+ning into Gwen's face. 'It has a varied diet, my dear. Along with some ceiling panels and a microcomputer, over a dozen people have been reported missing. If it is an airborne flesh-eater, then it is already too late for us. But we both appear intact. I suggest we look around this towering abomination and then head back to the Hub.' She swung away, taking the torch with her.

'Great,' thought Gwen. Immediately, her skin began to p.r.i.c.kle, and she became convinced her flesh was dissolving. The sun had set and she was back in SkyPoint and she was about to be eaten alive. Again.

They made their way around the lobby, aware of the growing volume of dripping and creaking noises. Gwen pointed out a mostly digested electrical socket. 'It's been eating the wiring.'

'Ah,' Agnes nodded gravely. 'Domestic electricity. I've never really had a chance to examine the proliferation of electricity mains in the home environment. In my day it was still something of a novelty. Is there a socket in every room?'

'Several,' said Gwen seriously. 'It's throughout the building. Each wire is insulated with a plastic sheath and it's been eaten away, blowing every fuse in the building. It explains why the lighting isn't working. . .'

'Ah, and accounts for that faintly sulphurous smell of conflagration. I suspect we'll find a small fire somewhere in the building.' Agnes looked alarmed for an instant.

'Yeah, well,' said Gwen. 'I still think we should have a quick look around, eh? Just a brief look on an upper level.'

They crossed to the elevator not only was it not working, but there weren't even any b.u.t.tons left to call it. So they crossed to the fire stairs and made their way up.

'If only my parents could see me!' laughed Agnes as she led the way. 'I don't know if they'd be more horrified that someone of my upbringing fought monsters or used the back stairs. Ah well.'

The first floor was creepy in the extreme, like walking through a collapsing bouncy castle. The noises were building around them, and their feet stuck with every step. Agnes glared down. 'You use plastic in your carpeting?' she asked, quietly amazed. 'One would have thought that nothing could surpa.s.s wool, but clearly you have. I fear you may have become over-reliant on a single material.' And she tutted her displeasure.

Gwen raised an eyebrow. Truth to tell, she was getting a bit tired of this. Stuck in a dark, dissolving tower block, at imminent danger from flesh-eating bugs or of being patronised to death. 'Pity a smug-eating alien didn't land in the Victorian era,' she muttered.

Agnes barked a short laugh. 'You think me a little harsh? Well, perhaps. Every era gets the monsters it deserves. I merely observe that you have a superfluity of the material which would make you tempting for something that preyed on it. Sadly, Wedgwood china never had the same appeal for an alien predator.' She spread out a mollifying grin. 'Bear in mind, a few weeks ago Queen Victoria was on the throne, Gilbert and Sullivan were still the toast of the town, and the biggest threat to civilisation was a revival of The Importance of Being Earnest The Importance of Being Earnest. It's been quite a time, I can tell you. Really, Mrs Cooper, you must tell me when I'm being unduly cruel. Unless it's about Captain Harkness.'

'What is it about you two?' asked Gwen, intrigued.

For a moment it looked as though Agnes was about to tell her, and then she shook her head. 'He deserves that, at least,' she muttered to herself, and stepped down the corridor. 'Let's inspect one of these slum dwellings,' she muttered.

Gwen's phone beeped, and she pulled it out of her pocket. A text from Rhys.

Agnes glanced over. 'Your mobile device is made out of plastic?' she asked, intrigued. 'As is this torch. . . and neither has been consumed. Finally, something promising. I am beginning to hope that the threat has moved on.' She strode off, trying the door to one of the apartments. 'Should your device start to rot, or the light go in either of these torches, then at least we'll know that we are in serious trouble.' Agnes sounded pleased.

She picked the lock with surprising elegance, and stepped into the flat. 'Goodness, how deplorable the living quarters of the urban poor,' she sighed.

The last time Gwen had looked round an apartment at SkyPoint, it had been at its very best. Polished furnis.h.i.+ngs, mood lighting, the works. Now she found herself touring a flat by flashlight, with the knowledge that every step could be her last. It just seemed empty and rather sad a sofa robbed of most of its leather coverings and all of its stuffing, kitchen cabinets sagging off the wall, bathroom eerily cold. And the wind. She shuddered.

'Someone has left a window open,' said Agnes.

Gwen wasn't so sure. She crossed over. 'No.' The floor-to-ceiling window gla.s.s had gone. 'It was sealed in with plastic.' They were only on the first floor, but, standing overlooking the SUV with no hint of a safety barrier. . . she felt a slight twinge.

Agnes nodded. 'All right, my dear. I think I get the point. Plastic is everywhere. I believe we've learned our lesson without needing to belabour the issue.'

They made their way down the stairs, the handrail sticky to the touch. Gwen realised her breathing was shallow. She was terrified, as though the building was about to collapse around them.

They got to the door, and Agnes paused, hitching up her skirts. 'Get ready to run,' she said.

Outside was the noise of rain but a rain of gla.s.s, as panels, caught by the wind, fell down from the floors of SkyPoint. 'It might, just might,' gasped Agnes, 'be safer to wait until every window has fallen out. But by that time, I rather feel there might not be much building left.'

And so, with a shrug, they ran for the car. Gwen decided that, if you added the danger of being decapitated to the horror of being eaten alive, it really wasn't that good a day.

VIII.

IN WHICH A GREAT PATRIOTIC.

CONFERENCE IS HOLDEN.

A light supper is taken, in which a truth drug is administered, and the deficiencies of the Undead are much discussed Agnes swept into Torchwood, wiping the odd splinter of gla.s.s from her dress. 'Jones,' she barked, 'I fear the carriage has sustained some damage. You will see to it, while I speak to your employer.' And then she marched past, bearing down on Jack like an avenging angel.

Gwen winced in antic.i.p.ation, but Jack was all smiles. 'Agnes!' he beamed. 'What did you find?'

If his bonhomie withered under the strength of her glare, he did his best not to show it. 'I would like a word with you away from your staff.' She gestured to the door of the office. 'Take a turn with me around the room, Captain,' she commanded.

Ianto and Gwen stood outside, watching the row played out in mime. Ianto pa.s.sed her a cup of tea. 'Funny day, isn't it?' he said.

Gwen nodded, and took a sip of the tea. It was horrible.

Jack's arms were flapping up and down like a bird and he was yelling, really yelling. Agnes's face was tight with cold fury, a gloved finger pointing at him sharply.

'Quite a woman,' said Gwen.

'Oh yes,' said Ianto.

'Do you think he's going to cry?' she asked.

'Dunno.'

They stood and watched for a bit. And then Ianto went to clean the car, and Gwen went to Wikipedia plastic.

Under cover of night, the Vam rolled away from SkyPoint. It had feasted. It had grown. If you had uncurled it, you would have been faced (very briefly) with something like a mobile football pitch. It had learned much from SkyPoint, sampling a range of materials and working out which of them it could usefully consume. Truthfully, the Vam could eat anything, especially if it was a threat (and then quite slowly), but it had a preference for a few materials. And it had quickly sorted out what they were. Food didn't have to be alive if it simply required sustenance, as it now did, then this plastic was the perfect fodder. But if there was some life to be consumed as well, then that was joyous.

As the Vam undulated along the road towards Cardiff Bay, it considered its next move. What the Vam really needed now was a vast storehouse both of complicated polymers and livestock. Fortunately, it now knew about late-night shopping hours.

Gwen looked around the Hub. At Jack staring into a microscope, at Ianto doing something very pointedly at the other end of the building to do with paperwork, and at Agnes, staring seriously at a computer like a nun at a sewing machine. In for a penny. . . In for a penny. . . thought Gwen, getting up from her desk and crossing over to Agnes. thought Gwen, getting up from her desk and crossing over to Agnes.

'Yes?' Agnes looked up, all teacherly, and suddenly Gwen remembered Mrs Wilson, who liked inviting the girls in her form round to tea. She'd choose four girls each week invariably four who Just Didn't Get Along and force them to cram onto a Viyella sofa, sipping milky tea from Charles and Di china and nibbling at over-margarined malt loaf while Mr Wilson loosed off silent-but-deadlies in the corner. This was a very bad idea but. . .

'Fancy popping out for a bite to eat?' she asked.

Agnes considered it. 'A little light supper before things get really hectic? Why not! I hate thwarting on an empty stomach.' She stood up, smoothed down her dress, and looked over at Jack and Ianto. 'Capital idea. This is quite the best time to take an hour or two away for refreshment and reflection. We shall leave the menfolk to try and track down the threat. After all, I don't think Captain Harkness does his best work with me breathing over his shoulder, do you?' And Agnes winked, ever so slightly.

'Come on,' she said, 'I could eat a horse.'

On the wrong side of the River Thames was a supper club that was frequented only by hoodlums, thuggees and outcasts from common criminality. It was exceptionally hard to get a reservation.

The Waxen Maiden had squatted in the Embankment for nearly two hundred years. Its rooms were cramped, the air repugnant, and the food regrettable. The one consolation was that the exorbitant prices guaranteed the silence of the staff.

At the far reaches of the club, along one of the foulest-smelling corridors, under the noisiest of railways lines, was the most exclusive salon the Waxen Maiden had to offer. Mr Jilks had overseen this particular room for nearly three decades, turning a blind eye to frequent depravity and occasional murder.

Born, literally, on the banks of the river, he'd known only a life of fighting and villainy. His face was latticed with scars, and his lips were twisted into a drooling grin. It was rare that he was beaten in a fight.

Tonight he was on extra vigilance. His guests were important, and he was standing guard outside with young Conradin, a man with the olive complexion and all the vices of the Turk.

Inside the salon, Mrs Magee was hurriedly ladling out a broth into worn china bowls before beating a hasty retreat. A collection of figures in suits sat staring at the remarkable man who was addressing them.

He was remarkably tall and portly, rather like a beer barrel wrapped in velvet. He had long white hair and an orange beard, and smoked gla.s.ses that flashed dangerously in the candlelight.

A portrait of the late Queen hung over the soot-encrusted fireplace, draped with a black sash.

'In celebration of the accession of our beloved King, I have thrown together this supper club. This is a time when nations change like seasons, and empires quiver and fall like leaves in autumn. It is a period that can be marked only by a meal of great moment. You are aware that the dish of which you are about to partake is unique. No one has ever, in the history of time, eaten such a thing. You are all epicureans who have paid handsomely for this privilege, and you are to be richly rewarded. Even I have not tasted this creature yet.'

He gestured to something in the corner that rustled and twitched.

'If only Mr Darwin could have been at our table. I've read in his journals that he feasted on Dodo. How he'd have enjoyed eating this. . . a creature from beyond our world.'

And he looked around the table and smiled. There was dutiful applause. The man bowed.

He picked up a sharp knife and pointed to the a.s.sembled diners. 'I think the honour of preparing this alien should go to. . .' The knife waved across the room and settled on a figure. 'Well, Madam Squeers, as the only lady present. . . would you care to make the first cut?'

The woman stood, bowing stiffly, and acknowledging the jealous murmurs of the others at the table.

She took the knife ceremonially and observed it coolly. And then she turned to the diners.

'It will be an honour,' she said.

And she looked up, her face caught in the flickering light.

The tall man gasped. 'You. . . you're not. . .'

The knife made only the tiniest noise as it whispered past his windpipe, before making several darting movements around the table.

It was all over in seconds. The woman surveyed the diners slumped over the table, and c.o.c.ked an ear to check that she hadn't alerted either Jilks or Conradin.

She dipped a finger in the soup and tasted it. Too salty.

She turned, and advanced on the figure in the corner. It rattled with alarm, but she held the knife up to her mouth in a shus.h.i.+ng gesture. 'I am here to help,' she said, bending down and slicing through the cords that bound it.

As she stood back, the alien unfolded, twitching arms like branches spreading out from a body made of toadstools and mossy tree bark. It shuffled towards her, sharp leaves whipping through the air. For a second, it looked like it was about to fall on the woman, and then it paused. Waiting.

She looked at it calmly, and spoke. 'My names is Agnes Havisham,' she said. 'We have received your message. Help is on the way.'