I

Earth, 2009

It was always quiet in the hub, Captain Jack Harkness thought – no – not so much quiet as devoid of sound, of human color. That's what it felt like to him, anyway. He didn't feel much these days, anyhow. His existence – not life, as he always put it – was like toil without sweat, a wound without pain. Most dulling of all, he would never experience death without grief. While shuffling papers across his cold steel desk, he glanced up at Tosh clacking away intently upon her keyboard, way too engrossed in this job for her own good. Gwen was slumped in the couch, burying her cares in a glamor magazine. Owen was hidden away behind the autopsy room, humorlessly playing a video game. Ianto…Ianto just kept to himself these days. Death would befall them all in time. He would just have to idly observe them transform slowly into corpses, unable to save them from their own mortality. Death was certain, but life was not. Neither of them was true for Jack, which brought him no great comfort.

Torchwood Three was at maximum operating capacity. Thursday, 21st of July, 2009 oh-nine-hundred hours. Nothing to report. Not to central command, not to anyone else. Not like he reported everything to them, anyway. Every week or so there seemed to be a disturbance, an errant scrap of action. It was almost as if it was programmed, as if an audience of curious onlookers were watching them precisely when something interesting happened. Still mulling over what kind of fib he should concoct to cover up another boisterous incursion (three dead, five wounded, over three million pounds in property damage – mostly foul-smelling residue) from the heavens above. His distant gaze at nowhere in particular was interrupted by Toshiko shyly standing at the door.
"Jack, do you have a minute?" She asked, scanning her tone for anything that might cause offence.

Jack promptly shook himself out of his own coma of boredom.
"Yeah, sure. Whaddya got for me Tosh?" he replied in his broad, West Coast accent. In fact, most of Jack was broad – you'd be hard pressed to find one part of him that wasn't.
She awkwardly ventured inward. "We're picking up…something unusual. I think you'd better take a look." He whisked away, almost as if he anticipated her request. He was so quick she ended up following him back instead. Everyone else was still too busy to notice. She sat down and started to clack away furiously.

"Well, about three hours ago, Torchwood Russia picked up some feint signals – shortwave radio signals."

"I knew the Russkies were low on cash, but to be that backward? Jeez, I think they deserve some sort of award."

Jack was pleased with himself, evidenced by his wide grin. Tosh tried to fumble a laugh, but couldn't match his enthusiasm. She didn't take kindly to being interrupted. That, and she couldn't remember the Cold War precisely as Jack did. She wasn't there, after all.
"Moscow thought they were just echoes of our numbers stations, but, well, you can hear for yourself." She flicked the speakers on and relaxed a little. Jack inclined his head towards the computer, as if it improved his hearing. What came out was chilling: what came out were numbers. These sounds – if one could call them such - were like nothing Jack had ever heard. These numbers were rhythmically recited by a human voice drained of its soul, trapped inside a machine. They reminded Toshiko of the talking clock you could ring on the telephone. They sounded as if they were painted onto cracked and torn canvas, ripped up and put back together again. Three. Nine. Seven, One, Five. Three. Nine. Seven, One, Five. Three. Nine. Seven, One, Five. Two tones. Six, Six, Four, Two, Seven, Two. They were almost as hypnotic as they were mysterious. It left Jack suitably puzzled.
"That isn't one of ours." He turned to Toshiko for answers.
"I know! I don't know what to make of it."
Gwen casually walked over, hands in her jeans like it was some kind of social gathering.
"Isn't one of ours what?" She inquired with her long Welsh brogue, squaring up both of them for some kind of explanation. Ever reliable, Jack launched into one.

"Numbers stations. They're shortwave radio stations run by us to confuse the locals." He turned toward Gwen to display his enthusiasm with full effect. "They're just endless patterns of numbers repeated continuously to divert attention away from our business and onto real crazy stuff. We set 'em up at random, and they're gone as soon as some one picks one up on their home receiver. I think Tosh did a Japanese version, didn't you Tosh?"

"Yep…roku, yon, roku, nana, juu, I think it was." Her memory was too good sometimes.

"I see…" Gwen fibbed. Jack continued apace.

"We built them during the Cold War – people were more preoccupied with being blown to kingdom come by the Reds than with alien abductions. We played up to all those fantasies of spies and political espionage. You know, that James Bond behind enemy lines sorta stuff. That's when they worked real well." His enthusiasm simmered, reflecting on times gone by. "Now people are into sci-fi, they're into comic books, World of Warcraft" – spitting it out as if it were some kind of curse word – "no one would believe in alien invasions even it was confirmed by CNN…a lot of people think that the Battle of Canary Wharf was just…" - he snapped his fingers - "Some rabid Star Trek fans run amok." His expression grew colder. He knew damn well it wasn't.
"But that doesn't explain how this one is operating. It isn't even one of our codes." He paused to look at Gwen. "This…this is just spooky."
Soon enough Owen appeared beside them. His face was as sullen as everyone else's was bewildered.
"Playing with the phones again Tosh? I thought that was Ianto's job." If they were any more acerbic, his words would have melted right through the computer monitor.
"No Owen, there's an unauthorized number station operating outside of Siberia. We're stumped as to how it got there." Owen showed utter contempt for Tosh's enthusiasm as per usual, firing back contempt that countered her eager-eyed "keen as mustard" disposition.
"Oh yes! Our kitsch little number stations. Thank god for those – otherwise we'd have to pay the Beeb to make a show about us so people think we didn't exist. I'm surprised they haven't already actually. Might have to tone down the snogging, though." He looked knowingly at Gwen before zeroing in on Jack.
"David Walliams could play you, even." Owen grinned. Jack thumbed his nose savagely at Owen – David Walliams didn't have as luscious an arse as he did. Or so he thought. Nevertheless, Jack took his mind to task. First, he had to discern at least what these number stations were about. Torchwood ran its numbers stations to deceive. Perhaps whoever – whatever – was transmitting these codes had the same intention. Jack couldn't get past the fact that a supposedly advanced alien race could be using such antiquated technology to attract human attention. It was absolutely ludicrous.
"Tosh see if you can do a cryptographic analysis on the numbers. Let's see if they form any patterns and if we can't translate them into something more…English."

Jack motioned Gwen and Owen over. "Ok you two. We're gonna have to get some of our agents in the field to investigate. Get your fur coats ready, because you're going to Russia."
Owen blurted a laugh out loud. "Russia!" He rubbed his stomach for effect. "That's rich. Well, considering all our alien invaders love to establish their beachhead in merry old Cardiff. Perhaps every other place is too exotic for them so they run home and ask for a refund. Maybe there's an extraterrestrial Contiki tour to the Millennium center-" Jack's patience ran thin.

"Keep a lid on the lip Harper. Get geared up. You both leave within the hour on the Transmat. Captain Piotr Gieorky will be your point of contact. Understood?" Jack fired at them with a brutish look. Owen and Gwen both nodded silently before dashing off to prepare for the trip. This'll be a piece of piss, Owen thought to himself. We'll just fuck around for a half-hour then it's off to fuck some Russian birds. He smiled wickedly at the prospect of it.