'Here,' she said, simply, and shot them both.

Jack and Agnes were taking tea. Agnes slid her formica tray despondently along the counter, glaring balefully at its contents.

'You know, Harkness, this place once used to do the only proper tea in Cardiff. Crusts sliced neatly off of sandwiches, bone china, and table service from only mildly slatternly waitresses. How times have changed.' She glanced back at the counter, and then pointed at something sealed in plastic. 'Good afternoon. What is that, please?' she asked the smiling woman behind the counter.

'Why, it's a chocolate flake cl.u.s.ter, dear.'

'I see.' Agnes's hand jabbed at a boxed sandwich. 'And is that really a fresh egg sandwich?'

'That's right,' the woman replied, patiently. 'It's made in Merthyr.'

'That is hardly a recommendation,' muttered Agnes tartly.

Jack paid, and they found a table, away from the young mothers and old couples. Agnes stared in horrified fascination at her cup, yanking the teabag out by its string and letting it twist in the air unhappily before letting it sink back in. 'I can hardly bear to taste the tea of the future,' she sighed.

For an instant, that forlorn look returned, and then her face brightened.

'So, Harkness, I believe you should explain to me the truth?'

Jack sipped his tea and let his eyes wander tiredly to the forlorn selection of cakes. He was exhausted, and Agnes was the last straw. Perhaps, if he told her the truth, things might miraculously get better.

'Where do you want to start?' he asked wearily.

Agnes razored open her sandwich box with a sharp thumbnail, and groaned quietly as she lifted out the contents. 'Just tell me everything, Jack,' she murmured, lifting back the edge of the sandwich despondently and glaring at the egg mayonnaise. 'You can start by telling me why your outrageously lax operation hasn't already been closed down by Torchwood One. I suspect the answer will either be unpleasant or involve blackmail. Again.' She hooked an eye at him, letting the sandwich flop back together wetly.

Jack spoke gently. 'Torchwood One is gone, Agnes. They gambled with the London Rift, and ended up with nothing but a smoking hole in the ground.'

Agnes flashed with anger. 'Stupid arrogant pride. Stupid, stupid, stupid. There is a difference between sensible exploitation and reckless, greedy folly. I always worried that there was a certain avarice eating at the heart of Torchwood. I'd see it, sometimes. When I awoke and had to deal with some crisis or other. And I'd see it whenever I looked at you, Jack. Oh, you're not a greedy man. But the people who hired you were. The kind of people who were hungry for results at any price and would do anything, use anyone to get them. I had hoped we'd learnt our lesson. Especially after what happened to Torchwood Four. It's a disgrace to our dear Queen thank G.o.d he took her before she had to see this.' She brightened slightly. 'Ah well. To lose one Torchwood may be regarded as a misfortune. To lose two smacks of carelessness.'

Jack sensed an opportunity. 'That's exactly it, Agnes. Everything Victoria believed in had gradually been stripped away and with overconfidence came carelessness. I re-established Torchwood Cardiff on the original lines protecting the Empire from alien influence. We've done great work. Really.'

Agnes bit into her sandwich, her face falling as she did so. She chewed neatly and swallowed bitterly before replying. 'I see. I see. Well, I'll give your approach some merit for novelty. Claiming licence for your behaviour by the simple predecease of anyone who could have stopped you is certainly. . . well, it's an approach the Borgias would applaud, I'm sure. But not I.'

She pushed her plate away. 'The Torchwood I knew is gone. The Inst.i.tute is abandoned. All that remains is this tiny regional outpost. I'm afraid it's my task to shoulder the responsibility either of realising your potential or of silencing the project for good. If you pa.s.s the a.s.sessment, then you may continue your work. If not, then the sad end of this will be three strangers shouting in the darkness. A dinner of herbs indeed.'

Her hand tapped reluctantly on the plastic wood of the table. 'Is there anything of this world that has substance, Captain?' she asked, staring at him thoughtfully.

And so Jack took Agnes to see the coffins.

V.

FELLOW.

TRAVELLERS.

In which the coffins are revealed and, amid the Yuletide preparations, the Dowager Mrs Gowan is reminded that 'it never does'

It was a ship of graveyards.

The coffins stretched out all around them, each one bobbing and clanking, tied together in long beads by swimming-pool rope. This far out in the Bristol Channel, it was an extraordinary sight endless neat rows of shining metal boxes, somehow floating, rolling with the waves.

'Someone's been losing a war, Agnes,' said Jack. 'Somewhere far away from here. And they've been sending the coffins through the Rift. We've been picking up traces of energy-weapon discharge, but there's also some evidence from how tightly the coffins are sealed and marked that biological weapons have been used.'

Agnes turned away from the prow of the Torchwood speedboat and fixed Jack with her gaze. 'How many coffins?' she asked.

The Queen was very old by now and yet she just about walked by herself.

'They would like me to keep to a bath chair,' she said, her voice little more than a soft iron rustle. 'But I make do with a stick and a firm boot. These skirts conceal a mult.i.tude of sins.'

Her visitor leaned forward to catch the words, as courteously as possible.

They were in the gardens, facing out towards the Solent. Behind them, stood the house, grimly impressive in the December frost.

The old Queen took her visitor's hand in a tiny claw and stared at her with rheumy eyes that still shone. 'I come here every Christmas,' she said, laughing like dry leaves. 'A beach holiday fit for the Monarch!'

The threadbare gra.s.s drifted away into the lonely grey sand of the beach and the uncertain shuffle of the most powerful woman in the world came to an end. She stopped, looking out at the sea and said nothing.

Her visitor stood patiently, even a little fearfully, at her side.

'I am very old,' the Queen said eventually.

Another pause.

'Have I said that already? I am almost sure that I have. You will correct me if I begin to drift. Believe me, it is no discourtesy. My mind needs a firm hand on the tiller, otherwise it is prey to gusts.' The creases of the Queen's shrivelled face set themselves slowly into a frown. 'Yes. How was your journey?'

'I cannot complain, Your Majesty,' said her visitor.

'And your room?'

'Most satisfactory.'

The Queen laughed delightedly. 'And there I catch you lying to the Empress of India! Your room is so cold even the vermin huddle together for warmth. Am I not correct?'

Slightly abashed, her visitor nodded. She had found a small family of mice wrapped tightly under the counterpane last night.

'Well, no matter,' said the Queen. 'Your room lacks festive cheer, and I fear we shall not see the sun today. We are both women almost entirely lacking in the New Conversation. Even I find myself oppressed by the need for inconsequential chatter. Why, on the journey down, the Dowager Mrs Gowan pressed me for my opinion on the gramophone. I found myself completely at a loss for what to say, and so said nothing.' Another pause. 'When one is as old and fearsome as I am, a cold silence can be very cold indeed.'

A lonely gull swept its way across the beach and out to sea. The Monarch watched its pa.s.sage.

'You are very brave,' she said suddenly. 'You know fully what it is that you have volunteered to undertake?'

Her guest nodded.

'I find it curious that I am in the position of bestowing immortality upon one of my subjects. I can feel only great sadness for you, my dear. You seem so young and indeed, you will look very much the same for hundreds of years, I suspect. I fear I face my last Christmas, so the notion of being cut adrift from the banks of time holds a strange appeal. I have considered it, and, on the whole, I do not find it a warm prospect. You are certain?'

'I am.'

'Very well,' the old lady gave a little huff of regret. 'Time is a hill we can only roll down, my dear. You will travel further and faster than all of us. . . and. . . if you will permit the conceit, you will gather precious little moss. There!' She gave a delighted little smile, which her guest gave a wintry echo of. 'But you will be doing me and my Empire a great and invaluable service. The Torchwood Inst.i.tute is a fine thing indeed. It has already protected us from wordless threats and given us technologies far in advance of sailing boats and gramophones. I know why it is that you are doing this. Of course I do. The pain of losing a loved one is something. . . well, it has marked my life. And I can see that you are letting it do the same to you. And I am old and cold and bold enough to say that it is the things we do for love that are the only proper things we do.'

They stood there a little longer watching the sea rush up the dead beach. And then they turned around and headed back to the house.

'There are about a hundred coffins,' Jack said expansively.

Agnes turned back from gazing out to sea. 'I make it eighty-seven,' she said, finally. 'And how long has this been going on for?'

'It's been a very long week,' said Jack, truthfully. 'We watch over the Rift as soon as there's the tiniest peak in activity, we find the coffin and we chain it up here. We haven't let any of them go ash.o.r.e. Apart from one. And no one knows they're here. Ianto's been doctoring satellite footage personally.'

Agnes nodded, showing the tiniest bit of approval.

'And have you any idea what's inside?' she asked.

Jack shook his head. A silence settled.

'Has any attempt been made to gain access?'

'Not with that sign on the coffin-' Jack pointed to a mauve marking. 'That's a fairly universal indication of "Keep out! Contents poisonous!" Although, we've tried pretty much every standard a.n.a.lysis and a few other tools besides. About all we can get is a general impression that there's something inside and that it's no longer alive. And that's it. There aren't even any individual markings on the coffins.'

'No stony tears to mark my graven bed, eh?' Agnes looked thoughtful. 'They made the ultimate sacrifice.'

She turned back to the giant pens of coffins, watching them wash patiently up and down.

'It's magnificent,' she said, exhaling.

A chill spread across the boat. Agnes rested her hands on the rail and breathed deeply. 'Dulce et decorum est eh, Harkness? What a sweet and n.o.ble thing it is to lay down one's life for one's planet?' eh, Harkness? What a sweet and n.o.ble thing it is to lay down one's life for one's planet?'

Jack stiffened. It was almost like a trace of the old fight came back into him. 'It's a shame you flicked through two world wars. You missed quite something. A tonne of sweet n.o.bility going on there.'

Agnes smiled. 'You shouldn't mock such sentiments not when, as far as I can tell, you spend a fair bit of time dying for what you believe in.'

Jack shrugged. 'Oh, I'm lucky. I get to keep on dying until I get it right. Others only get one go.'

'Shame,' said Agnes.

They held the moment. It was as though Agnes was waiting for something to happen. She stood, staring again at the coffins, her face twisted in a smile.

'A remarkable, remarkable mystery. And you're quite sure that no coffin has made it ash.o.r.e?'

Jack looked quite firm. 'Only the one. And we found it quite quickly. No one saw it.'

Agnes glared at him, full of sharp disappointment. 'I should like to see the a.n.a.lysis of that coffin. Not every threat is visible.'

Jack spread the naval charts out on the floor of the speedboat. He flicked on a portable Rift monitor, resting it on a corner of a chart. It hummed and growled like an angry dog. Finally he handed her a folder. 'There's the a.n.a.lysis,' he said.

Agnes took it, and leafed through it briefly, before handing it back to Jack. 'You neglected to mention something about this coffin, Captain.'

'I don't think so. Did we?' A trace of doubt crept into his voice. 'We were very thorough.'

'Of course you were,' Agnes's tone was pure honey. 'Within your obvious limits. Without a scientific or medical expert, how could you be expected to understand the trace elements report?'

'I really don't understand,' repeated Jack. 'There was nothing unusual on that coffin. Certainly no traces of life.'

Agnes nodded, sweetly. 'Well, of course not. But this report clearly shows an area of this coffin that's discoloured and where the metal has reacted, very slightly, with something. There are tiny indentations and mineral deposits. I'd argue that they're the excreta of some kind of organism I believe it may have travelled pick-a-back on the coffin.'

Jack looked at her sharply. 'How can you tell?'

'If it was rust or mould it would still be on there. It isn't. It's walked off.'

'No way.' Jack shook his head. 'It could have fallen off in the Rift.'

'Oh, undoubtedly,' agreed Agnes. 'Or could it be that it left after it came ash.o.r.e?'

'No,' said Jack. 'That's pure supposition.'

'It's a possibility, Jack. You've been collecting coffins. Coffins containing the victims of a war against something so terrible and deadly to life that they daren't even bury the dead on their own planet. Instead, they're firing them through the Rift. And you've been lucky. A coffin hasn't broken open and unleashed whatever deadly genetic contaminant it contains. So far. But that might happen at any moment. You've been so busy concentrating on rounding them up, that you've not even considered what dreadful creature it is they were fighting against. And that perhaps it saw in those coffins a way to Earth. It might also explain how that one coffin just so happened to drift ash.o.r.e.'

'No,' sighed Jack. 'No no no no. . .'

Agnes just looked at him. 'We shall see, of course,' she said, and folded her hands complacently.

And, on the sh.o.r.e, the Vam awoke.

VI.

A SHOAL.

OF BARNACLES.

Which is chiefly dedicated to the Glory of the Vam and the regrettable transience of estate agency as a profession 'Interesting,' was its first thought.

It wasn't surprised to be still alive. The Vam had always existed it would have been more surprised to be dead. Somehow it always continued. Even though at the moment. . . barely. A quick check told it that it occupied a ma.s.s of less than ten centimetres in diameter and barely a few millimetres thick. 'Interesting,' it repeated. What a comedown! Was this all that remained of the Vam? A creature that had wrapped itself around whole solar systems. . . reduced to little more than a splat on a. . . where was it?

It reached out into its memories, and realised that very little remained of them, and much of that was over-compressed. No matter. It would grow, it would repair and, when it occupied enough ma.s.s, it would unpack those glorious memories. It had no idea of where it was, or how it had got there. It tried out its senses, and discovered it had very few. It extruded an elementary sense membrane and established which way was up. There was some form of landma.s.s beneath it. There was an atmosphere although it could not yet a.n.a.lyse that. However, an atmosphere allowed it to infer that there would be life somewhere. And if it could feed, then it would grow, and the Vam would live again. The Vam! The Vam! The glorious hunger of the Vam!

It stretched itself down, pressing into the ground. . . perhaps there was some food in there. Nope. Ah well. Something would come along eventually.

Opponents of the Vam would have laughed at its first prey. This was a creature that had eaten entire planets, which regarded the most impressive s.p.a.ce fleets as a mere snack, and would casually drape itself around a sun. And the best it had managed so far was to eat a pigeon.

The bird had been wandering across the beach, and had noticed the shiny, shiny black surface of the Vam. It had been interested in its own reflection, and had wandered too close. Humiliating as it was for the Vam, it was enormously glad of the meal. Nearly every process had shut down. It was close to total exhaustion and denaturing. It was beginning to think the unthinkable a universe without the Vam.

And then that pigeon leaned too close.

The Vam savoured its first meal in. . . no, still no idea. The meat was surprisingly rich, which boded well. The Vam briefly regretted not currently having a way to see its victim's struggles, or, more importantly, to hear the cries as it wrapped itself around it, and then the sudden, sickening pop pop! But it promised itself that soon it would gain some senses. In the meantime, it luxuriated in a first kill. Like a cat in the sun, it stretched out, and then carefully wrapped itself around the corpse, consuming every last piece.

It would, it decided, let itself grow a little, and also move around. Just slightly. A small portion of Vam examined the brain of the creature. There was so little to learn. Some impressions of flying. Water. Blue sky which probably meant oxygen, always a good sign. Others of its kind. Things that were Bigger Than It And Moved. And that was about it. A pity, but not a complete write-off. The simple fact that the creature lived in some fear of persecution meant that there were probably predators. Good. It had been a while since the Vam had clambered all the way up a food chain, and it was rather looking forward to it. Slightly reluctantly, it unfolded itself from the carca.s.s, laying it out on glorious display. Look at this, said the Vam, lovely bones for you to come and have a pick at.