Owen sniffed and nodded. He sighed. ‘Everyone’s probably quite right about that.’
‘You put it away again, right?’
‘Of course.’
‘In the Armoury?’
‘Yes, Jack.’
‘Did you put it away or did Ianto put it away?’
‘He put it away,’ said Owen. ‘Give me some credit.’
‘Sorry,’ said Jack.
There was another long silence.
‘Anything else?’ asked Jack.
‘Davey Morgan’s going to be staying in secure accommodation until his house is repaired,’ said Toshiko. ‘I’ve moved funds out of the Institute’s accounts to cover the work he needs.’
Jack raised his eyebrows. ‘We don’t do that kind of thing,’ he said.
‘We do today,’ said Toshiko flatly. There was a firmness in her tone that Jack decided he was too tired to take issue with.
‘How’s James?’ he asked instead.
‘I’ve got him sedated,’ said Owen. ‘I opened up one of the care rooms downstairs so he could be comfortable.’
‘He looks awful,’ said Gwen quietly.
‘Will he be OK?’ Jack asked.
‘I think so,’ Owen replied. ‘He’s been battered about, but I think so.’
‘Shouldn’t he be moved to…’ Gwen fell silent.
‘To a what?’ Owen asked. ‘A proper hospital?’
‘That’s not what I meant,’ she said.
‘I know what you meant,’ said Owen. ‘I am actually good at what I do, you know?’
‘Owen-’ she began.
‘No arguing tonight, please,’ said Jack, holding up a hand.
‘Look,’ said Owen. ‘There are two reasons James is better off here. One, we’ve got better kit and technical medical support than any hospital I know of. Two… well, he’s not actually hurt that badly.’
The other three looked at him. Owen shrugged. ‘I know, he’s a mess. And you told me what he went through. But it’s basically just bruising and cuts and stuff. The blow to the head and shoulder were the worst of it, and even they were comparatively minor. Our beloved Captain Analogy was bloody, bloody lucky.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Gwen.
‘I scanned him thoroughly,’ said Owen. ‘Some muscle tearing and a slight crack to the cheek bone, but no head trauma to speak of. At any rate, not the sort of head trauma you’d expect after being punched out by a mad killer robot.’
‘Just keep him under observation,’ said Jack. He rose to his feet. ‘Just now, Owen said it was all over. It isn’t.’
He looked at them. Their faces were solemn, waiting for him to continue. His head bowed slightly, thoughtfully. ‘When I realised what we were up against in Cathays,’ said Jack, ‘there was one clear upside to it all, as far as I could see. God knows, a Serial G is a big deal. As we chased around after it, I remember thinking, “At least this is it. At least we know what the warning was all about now.”’
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
‘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.
