Another Life Page 23

  Toshiko peered out too, and together they watched the waves from the Bay surge up over the wooden walkway around the Quay. The boards in front of Torchwood’s Tourist Information entrance were submerged by as much as a metre of water, completely covering Ianto’s overly optimistic pile of sandbags.

  ‘Look at that,’ pointed Gwen. ‘There’s so much water running off the Oval Basin that I bet you could go whitewater-rafting down it. When we get back, what d’you reckon we’ll only be to see the Pierhead clock tower poking out of the sea?’

  ‘The tidal barrage has already been breached,’ explained Toshiko. She was checking the computer display that fed her information from the local-authority computers she had hacked. ‘The sluice gates failed about an hour ago. The Bay area’s usually a couple of metres below spring tide. But even that can’t account for this much flooding.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Well, it’s not like the Bristol Channel has suddenly got a lot deeper. So how has the water level in the Bay risen by three metres? Or four metres in some places. It’s like a localised bubble of water, angled out of the sea.’

  ‘I didn’t think water behaved like that,’ said Gwen. ‘I don’t understand it, I’m…’

  ‘All at sea?’ suggested Toshiko. ‘You’re right, water isn’t supposed to behave that way. So let’s go and find out what’s causing this, and put a stop to it.’

  She settled herself in front of the controls and prepared to dive. The large hemispherical window in front of her afforded them a view of the Bay’s heaving water. The whole vessel lurched as another large wave surged beneath them.

  Gwen watched nervously as the nose of their vessel started to sink down. Dirty green seawater began to lap higher and higher against the large front window. She didn’t much enjoy confined spaces, and she wasn’t a particularly strong swimmer, so this combination was making her particularly nervous. Was it her imagination, or was the air getting thicker in here? She closed her eyes, and took slow, deep breaths. ‘What’s this thing called, then?’ she asked, hoping that conversation might divert her for a while. ‘A diving ship, probably. Or a bathyscaphe?’

  ‘What do you imagine?’ Toshiko smiled as the water covered them completely. ‘We call it the Torchwood sub, of course.’

  It helped that he knew what to expect when the airlock opened. Owen remembered what Sandra had told them back in the A&E department. And it wasn’t like he hadn’t seen an alien spaceship before now, so he wasn’t completely nonplussed by it.

  For Megan, it would be a different matter. He’d expected to offer her a slow build-up, a gradual introduction to the wonders and astonishments and, yes, the horrors of the extraterrestrial. That’s how Jack had made sure that Owen did not go bonkers. That he was open to the experience of things hitherto not imagined, not possible. That he wasn’t totally overwhelmed with the utter alien-ness of the world he was entering in Torchwood. Jack had described it as ‘inoculation’.

  Owen had planned to do the same for Megan, his own protégée. Showing her the Bekaran device, to seed that thought in her mind. Introducing her to the grandeur of the Hub and its contents, a safe environment where she could face a Weevil safely from behind safety glass in the dungeon. And then a first simple foray in the field, for that adrenalin buzz you couldn’t get anywhere else.

  Sandra’s unexpected arrival had put the mockers on that, hadn’t it? So here was Megan, learning it the hard way, seeing first-hand an alien spaceship that had crashed on her very doorstep. Owen took her by the hand to help her out of the escape pod, and continued to hold it tightly as they ventured deeper into the unknown corridors.

  In stark contrast to the ship’s exterior, the inside was softly illuminated in a wide variety of green hues. It was as though the murky water of the Bay had been transformed into aquamarines and apple-green and viridian. Soft sage-coloured fronds dangled from a high, arched ceiling. Dark green walls pulsed with the arcane bright outlines of unknown symbols or images. A fizzing row of brilliance speared through the corridors at floor level, apparently steering them onwards. To either side, the corridor walls were punctuated by dark shafts leading downwards to who knew where, each hissing with the faintest wisp of steam.

  Sandra shuffled ahead of them, as though drawn inexorably forward. When Owen asked her where the control room was, she merely beckoned him on with her hand without turning around.

  After only a few minutes, they turned into large room. There was none of the brilliance of the corridors, only a subdued background illumination. Six scooped frames, each like an elongated letter J, were suspended by thick, olive-green tendrils from a darkened ceiling. They faced towards the centre of a circle. At its centre was a pale cylinder that might have been a table, and at the head of the circle was a closed cabinet fashioned from what looked like jade. Sandra staggered into the room, and slumped against the cylinder.

  Owen took a quick look at Megan, who was still wide-eyed and speechless with amazement. He let go of her hand, and hurried across to Sandra. She shrugged him off, a feeble effort that seemed to wrack her with pain.

  ‘No,’ she insisted. ‘You must take up positions in the control frames.’

  He looked at her, uncertain.

  ‘Hurry!’ she hissed. ‘Can’t you tell that the ship’s about to break through? It will…’ Her body was wracked with a huge cough. ‘It will destroy the Bay.’

  She stepped awkwardly away from the cylinder, and indicated to Megan that she should use one of the scooped frames. Megan looked to Owen for confirmation. When he nodded to her, she leaned back and sat in the middle frame.

  Owen took the one next to her. Sandra was already helping Megan to fasten the tendrils around her in the frame, like a seat belt. Next she did the same for Owen. The tendrils went taut, and he could feel them forcing him back against the hard frame.

  ‘Ow!’ shouted Megan. ‘Oww!’

  Owen laughed, and settled into his frame. ‘Is it a bit tight again? Get Sandra to loosen it a bit.’

  Then Megan began to scream.

  Owen wasn’t sure whether to call out something calming and reassuring, or to tell Sandra that she should release Megan for a few minutes. He craned his head forward to see what Sandra was doing.

  Sandra was standing by the pale cylinder in the centre. Her whole posture made her look exhausted, like she was ready to drop down in front of him. But her eyes were different. They were alive, glittering with satisfaction, and in the soft green light of the room her grin was a startling rictus.

  He didn’t have time to say anything. The tendrils around him snapped tight, and pulled his head back hard against the frame. Megan’s screaming abruptly stopped. By squinting sideways, Owen could see Megan’s head slump forward like an abandoned rag doll.

  ‘Let her go!’ he yelled at Sandra. His voice seemed lost in the room.

  Sandra limped over to him, still showing that terrible smile. ‘We only just made it in time, Owen.’ The effort of speaking racked her. ‘This particular body’s reached the end of its use. But I couldn’t relinquish it until we got here.’ She indicated the whole room. ‘I’m not sure it will survive very much longer. But that’s of no consequence now. See you again! Soon.’

  The light in her eyes seemed to vanish, like an extinguished candle. Where previously there had been a kind of triumph in her expression, now there was only incomprehension, confusion, and pain. Sandra glanced around the room in bewilderment. She said one word: ‘Oh.’ And then her eyes rolled back into her head, and she dropped to the floor like she’d been poleaxed.

  Owen struggled against his restraints, yelling and cursing and utterly failing to get free. His futile efforts were cut short by the buzzing noise and brightening light that engulfed the frame beside him. With a whipping sound, the tendrils around Megan withdrew and vanished.

  Megan stepped out of her frame.

  ‘Get me out of this thing, Megan!’ called Owen. ‘It hasn’t released me.’

  ‘It’s not supposed to,’
said Megan. Her voice was calm and secure. She walked slowly around the cylinder, with the confident gait of someone who knew she was safe.

  Megan held her hands in front of her, turning them over, examining them as though they were a thing of wonder and novelty. When she looked at him, Owen could see there was no more terror in her eyes.

  ‘Hello again,’ she said to him.

  He struggled vainly against his restraints once more. ‘Not funny, Megan. C’mon, Sandra needs help. Get me out of this thing.’

  Megan considered Sandra where she had fallen heavily against the pale cylinder. The blonde woman’s eyes were closed, and she was taking frequent, shallow breaths.

  ‘I think Sandra’s beyond help now. And I certainly have no further use for her.’

  Owen studied the woman he thought he knew, standing right in front of him. ‘Who are you?’

  Megan smiled brightly. ‘Let me show you.’

  She placed her palms on the top of the pale cylinder. Lights within it responded to her touch as she stroked the surface.

  The jade cabinet at the front of the circle cracked from top to bottom as a pair of irregular, hinged doors opened up. Suspended inside, seated in a larger version of the scooped J-shaped frames, was a tall, ugly alien. Bipedal, broad-shouldered, with binocular vision. Its head lolled in the seat, and its skull was a carapace of etched bone. Its thin arms ended in long, thick, dirty claws. The whole of the creature’s torso heaved as it took shallow breaths through the slit of its mouth.

  Megan walked over to the cabinet, checking what must have been medical readings that played continuously on the inner edge of the jade cabinet. Satisfied with the results, she looked over her shoulder at Owen.

  ‘This is the real me,’ she said.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  You’re tingling. It’s a fantastic feeling, isn’t it? You’re not sure whether it’s relief or worry or excitement or anticipation. Or is it that your lover’s here with you, and he’s hanging on your every word?

  You met him at the university disco, what sort of a cliché is that? Or a ‘cleesh’, as he’d say. Owen was the thin-faced, nervous lad with the good cheekbones you’d seen in Anatomy, and joked with Amanda Trainor that you’d like to examine his Anatomy more closely, and did she know his name. Amanda had identified him as local boy Owen Harper, and declared him to be a rat-faced loser with a cruel mouth. You’d seen something else in him. And then, there he was, nursing his pint at the back of the disco, while his better-looking mate was hitting on your better-looking mate and eating her face off during some slow Alanis Morissette record (bloody hell! what were they thinking?). He was never going to make the first move, was he? Though you could see his hungry eyes following you around the dance floor, peering into the bright maelstrom of red and blue and green and white, surveying your every move. So you’d banged into his table and spilled his drink, and thus it began. The following morning was the first of many when you would wake first and see him sleeping beside you, admiring his long dark lashes above his freckled white cheeks.

  Can you ever see yourself as others see you? Most recently, as Sandra Applegate, you caught sight of your face in the mirror at Wildman’s apartment. Pale and tired, the blood smeared over your mouth and chin and staining your favourite coat. Before that, you watched your reflection in the shop windows as you ran for safety down the high street and into the building site. And, earlier still, you studied your nakedness in the mirror that hung over the corner sink in your room at the barracks. Amazed and amused that your pale pink body, with its curious musculature protected by a thin epidermis, was considered by humans as a peak of fitness.

  Confusingly, you thought you were in peak condition, too. It’s a curious double life to live.

  And now here you are, facing yourself as you cling on in the life-support unit. This is a new perspective, indeed. Look at you there – the proud warrior, laid low by the accident. And yet also the inventive explorer who possesses the means of your own salvation.

  You close the doors to the life-support unit, and seal your true self into the protective cocoon. When you turn around, you can see Owen in the restraint chair. He’s not looking at you with hungry eyes now. His look is full of fear and fury. ‘What are you talking about, Megan? What the hell is that thing in there?’

  You shared everything with Owen when you were together in London. Your hopes, your aspirations, your dreams. You kept nothing from him, even when you knew he was never wholly open with you. It seems entirely natural to share your latest secrets with him now.

  ‘I told you,’ you tell him calmly. No need to shout. ‘That thing is the real me. My body is in stasis, to protect me from the crash injuries. The rest of this warship’s crew were killed during the collision that brought us to this strange place. I need to return to Bruydac for medical attention.’

  Owen has stopped struggling against his bonds now. That’s good. That will help. But he doesn’t understand yet. ‘What’s happened to Sandra? We were supposed to be stopping this ship from coming through the Rift. And then removing that tracker from her spine.’

  You prod Sandra’s slumped body with your toe. ‘Not exactly what I had planned, Owen. It’s not a tracker, you see. It’s a control box.’

  ‘Oh God,’ murmurs Owen.

  ‘Though it’s strange. As Sandra, I was able to control you without having to insert a control box in your spine. And now that I’m controlling Megan… now that I am Megan… I can understand why.’

  ‘Let her go.’ Owen is pleading. ‘You don’t need her. We’re medics, we can help you – the real you I mean – to recover and get away from here,’

  You place your fingers gently on his lips and silence him. ‘See? That’s what I mean. You need to be needed, Owen. Sandra recognised that. She convinced you by telling you what you wanted to hear – that she needed you. You’re a rescuer; you’re always looking for a victim to help. You think you have all the answers, and it makes you powerful, superior, the centre of attention. You want to be loved because you can protect people, you can salvage them, and they’ll depend on you. Until they don’t need you any more, and then you drop them.’

  Owen is trying to shake his head furiously, but the restraint won’t allow it. ‘That’s the alien using you. That’s not you talking, Megan. That’s not…’

  ‘You want to be loved and needed, Owen. But you end up self-important, demanding, righteous. And in the end, contemptuous of others.’ You’re aware that you’re smiling at him, but it’s with sadness really. ‘I loved you so much, you know. Megan loved you so much.’

  He thinks he found something he can use, some tactic. You recognise that familiar look in his eyes from a dozen arguments in London. ‘I loved you too, Megan. I still do. That’s what last night was about, remember? I know you’re still in there, Megan. You’re a medic, come on! Don’t get lost in this thing. Try to remember. You’re an SHO. One of the best. We both are. We’re good together, aren’t we?’

  And somewhere, you do recognise what he’s saying. You think of his warm breath against your skin, his lips on your neck. His hand scooped in the small of your back. The heat of his body by your side. The feeling of him inside you.

  ‘Come back to me, Megan. Come back. Look at Sandra there. She needs you.’ He lowers his eyes. ‘I need you.’

  The way he drops his gaze, the crack in his voice, the well-timed appeal to your better nature. You remember his technique, now. His routine.

  ‘I am a Bruydac Warrior!’ you snap at him.

  His eyes meet yours again, and you know that he sees he has lost you.

  ‘I am not Megan any more,’ you tell him brutally. ‘The Bruydac stealth technology lets me use the captured inhabitants of the planets we invade. By possessing our prisoners in this way, we can infiltrate the native population in perfect disguise. And when I’ve finished with each person, I can release them wherever they are and return my consciousness back here to the ship – or to another prisoner.’

  ‘The sub-a
qua team.’ He’s as smart as you remember him. ‘They stumbled upon your crashed warship, and you’ve used each of them in turn.’

  ‘They were so feeble,’ you explain.

  ‘What do you mean? Bee and Applegate were trained soldiers. Literally fighting fit.’

  Perhaps he’s right. You think how easy it was for the soldiers to overpower other humans. ‘The problem with you humans,’ you tell Owen, ‘is that the possession just burns up so much of your meagre supply of cerebrospinal fluid. Fortunately, it’s easy enough to obtain more from other humans.’

  You are surprised that Owen’s reaction to this is one of such disgust.

  You explain to him that you have discovered a lot from the humans you’ve possessed. From Bee and Applegate you learned about Earth’s military structures. From Wildman, you discovered a way to refuel the ship with Earth’s crude nuclear technology. ‘And from all of them,’ you conclude, ‘I learned that they suspect and fear and despise Torchwood. So I was intrigued to discover that you work for Torchwood.’

  His face is like stone.

  ‘Now Megan…’ you say to him. ‘She has a depth of affection for you, Owen. That wasn’t a shag for old times’ sake, was it? Not for Megan. It was very different on that first night at university, do you remember? After the disco? That was a basic craving for sex. Shallow emotion. Straightforward physical contact. But good. She thought you were a cast-iron virgin she’d managed to jump in his first term, so you surprised her, you know.’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it.’ He grates out the words like it’s an ordeal.

  ‘That’s not always how it was though. For you, maybe. But not for her. She never told you before you left how she’d really felt. And that’s why she wants to let you back into her life this week. Why she trusts you, despite all the craziness.’

  ‘Stop it,’ Owen says. This time the emotion in his voice is real. ‘You said you could let her go. Well, let her go, then. Do it now. Let her speak for herself.’