3. DAMAGED GODS
GOD IS DEAD (BORED)
The city was made of silver and glass and spun and twisted across the surface of the planet like a brilliant thread.
Wherever the sun struck it, it glowed, the metal singing with heat and light and brilliance. Everywhere there was a song in the air, and a warmth.
It was, visitors had said, like the first day of spring, but forever.
Outside the city, grass of the greenest hue washed down towards a beach whose sand was, to some eyes, just a little pink.
And up and down crawled creatures – such creatures, like insects carved from jewels, or jewels grown out of insects. And each creature, as it moved, made a little noise with its wings – a happy little sound of wonder and joy. If the creatures flew, it was to make merry little trips up to the very highest tower, where they hung happily for a few seconds before drifting gently away on a warm breeze to settle somewhere else.
And inside the spire, at the top of a thousand beautiful steps that the insects would occasionally crawl dutifully up, in a hall made of glass polished by the sun of a thousand years, sat two beings. They were content. They had been content for centuries, and would be content for centuries more.
Everything was perfect.
But there was a third being in the room. And the third being was actually terribly bored.
JACK IS REMEMBERING AN AGREEMENT
Jack stepped into the club. Cigarette smoke hung heavy in the air; there was a pounding fanfare from the quiz machine. Behind the bar was a formidable array of house spirits, tapped beers, alcopops and crisps. Above it was a chalked sign – ‘We can cater for your civil partnership’ – next to a faded warning about drugs.
By the bar was a little DJ booth, in which a starveling Emo kid stood, mixing tracks unhappily in only a pair of jockeys and some boots. Jack sighed.
He looked around the room – the barman/woman (Jack couldn’t really tell) had already tensed and was trying to out-pout him. There were three drunk old men laughing at each other’s jokes. There was a lesbian couple rowing tiredly at a table over a packet of peanuts – one had her arm in plaster, the other was on crutches. A lone businessman sat leafing through a copy of the
And then there was…
Well, hullo, boys!
Jack got himself a glass of water and made his way over.
‘Do you mind if I join you?’
‘Not at all. We wondered when you’d make an appearance.’ Jack sat down at the stool and looked at the two men. He smiled, impressed despite himself.
‘Is it your first human form, fellas? If so, I have to say, pretty good.’
One of the couple shrugged. They were, Jack thought, amazing. Just over six foot, mid twenties, clear blue eyes – one blond and preppy, the other dark-haired and olive-skinned. Simple, fitted T-shirts, expensive jeans – neither garment concealing any of the muscle that was rippling underneath. Both were staring at him, quiet amusement dancing across their deep blue eyes. ‘I can just imagine them advertising underwear,’ thought Jack. And then he dwelt on the thought a little too long. He realised he was supposed to say something.
‘You guys are a dream. I’m impressed.’
The dark one spread his hands out modestly. ‘Oh – consider us a work in progress. We want to be perfect.’
Jack smiled even more. ‘I see.’
‘You want to ask us some questions, don’t you?’ The blond seemed mildly amused. ‘I take it you are Torchwood.’
‘Yes, I am. And if you know us, you know that I’m not here to ask you questions. We protect the Earth from alien threats.’
‘And is that what we are? Alien threats? Puh-lease. I’m just Brendan,’ said the blond.
‘And I’m Jon,’ the dark-haired one shook Jack’s hand. It was a firm, warm handshake, and Jack grinned into Jon’s eyes despite himself.
‘Nice,’ he said. ‘Nice manners, guys. Very charming. So when does the killing start?’
Both of them laughed. Laughed like Jack was a toddler who’d said something funny.
‘There’ll be none of that. That’s not in our nature.’
‘Then what are you?’
‘We’re the Perfection.’
Jack grinned again. ‘Smug aliens. Great. What does the name mean?’
‘The Perfection are gods, Jack.’ Brendan’s tone was gentle.
‘Is that so?’ Jack took a long drink of his water, and suddenly wished for something stronger. ‘I’ve met quite a few gods. Most of them were just conmen with great gadgets.’
Brendan smiled sweetly. ‘I hear your argument. But we are the Perfection.’ It wasn’t an answer. ‘We are very old gods, Jack. We’ve spread a slow arc of perfection across the universe. We stay for millennia, we make everything perfect. And then, eventually, when all is wonderful, we move on.’
‘Leaving a dustbowl in your wake.’
Jon shook his head. ‘Not at all. When a society is functioning as well as is possible – then our work is done. When a people no longer need their gods, we must bow and leave the stage.’
‘No doubt to rapturous applause.’
Brendan laid a hand softly on Jack’s. ‘Underneath that cynicism, you’re hoping that we’re real. Let yourself trust us, Jack. Hallam’s World, the Province of Sovertial, the Min Barrier – these are but the latest in our projects. Worlds known across the galaxy for their harmony, stability and peace. Not, perhaps, utopia, but the very best they can be.’
Jack nodded, impressed. Hallam’s World – he’d once been stationed at the Time Agency outpost there. The most boring time of his life. Everything was like a warm Sunday afternoon just after lunch and before the television got good. But… in their own way, decent people. Very good people.
Jon smiled. ‘You yourself are an outsider – born on another world, making the most of this one. And that’s all we want to do.’
Jack sneered. ‘I see. And in six months – what? A brave new Reich of joy and harmony?’
‘Oh god, no!’ chuckled Brendan, lighting a fag. Jack blinked. ‘I said we are old gods. We’ve spent millennia building worlds where the skies burned with thought and our names were written in gold across the moons. Pfft!’ he exhaled wearily.
‘We’re knackered,’ sighed Jon. ‘It’s all such… work. We just wanted something a little smaller.’
‘Wales?’ offered Jack, mulling it over. The PM would be pissed, but…
‘No. Not even Cardiff. The Welsh are such a strong people – and, frankly, much prefer talking to God than listening. No. Look around you.’
Jack looked around the bar.
‘What?’
‘This. This tiny little group of disparate little outcasts. This gay community. Oh, they could be so beautiful, so fabulous, couldn’t they? But it’s all so drab and tired and joyless. Why – look at the hair, Jack. This is a gay scene where the mullet never went out. Couldn’t it all be more fun?’
Jack sat there. Sipping his water. And thinking.
