Smiths & Joneses

by Soledad

Author's note: For disclaimer, rating, etc. see the Introduction.

Don't mind the technobabble; it's been made up by me, mostly.

Chapter 04

"Look at this baby!" Trevor Howard, Torchwood Three's number two geek slowly walked around the little Raxacoricofallapatorian ship that was standing in the middle of the great, empty hangar – Myfanwy's earliest abode – on its three extended landing struts, to take it in from every possible angle. "Ain't she a beauty? Definitely an updated design, compared with the one we fished out of the Thames in 2006. More streamlined, too. But that was to be expected."

"How that?" Jack asked absently. Trevor in happy geek mode was a lot more boring (not to mention a lot less cute) than Tosh in a similar condition, but he couldn't deny that the engineer knew his stuff.

"We've classified the other ship as a landing unit; as part of a much bigger vessel, some sort of shuttle, most likely," Trevor explained. "It only had atmospheric thrusters, indicating that it probably wasn't even capable of independent space travel, save from very short passages between two motherships, in which case it must have functioned as a glider. This little lady, on the other hand, is definitely equipped to travel in deeps space alone, without the backup of a mothership."

"It has hyperspace capability?" Tosh asked in surprise. "Isn't it too small for that?"

"Raxacoricofallapatorian technology is known for its remarkable headway in miniaturising," Trevor reminded her. "But my guess is that this ship isn't running with its original engines. Preliminary scans showed a slight yet definite discrepancy between the energy signatures coming from the engines and the board systems, respectively."

Tosh checked the readouts and nodded. "Yeah, you're right. The technology is similar but not exactly the same. Which means that the engines either come from a later, slightly more advanced phase of Raxacoricofallapatorian technology, or from a completely different sort that is roughly on the same technological level. Perhaps just a little bit more advanced."

"Good; there's no chance then of the ship falling apart simply from being over-powered," Jack said.

"No, but it has taken quite the beating by some kind of energy weapon," Trevor replied, "and some of the board systems have sorted out, too. The damage report will be longer than my arm, I'm afraid."

"Let's hope we'll be able to manufacture some ersatz parts that might be needed," Jack sighed. "I wonder if we have random pieces of Raxacoricofallapatorian tech buried someone in the Archives."

"If anyone, Jonesy would know," Trevor answered. "We might be able to use parts of the crashed ship from 2006, too. They ought to be compatible, even if a bit outdated."

"You mean that ship still exists?" Jack asked in surprise.

Trevor nodded. "Oh, yes. When we were done examining and studying it, the wrack was transferred into one of Headquarters' external storerooms, where it probably has been collecting dust ever since."

"Do you know which one?" Tosh's eyes gleamed with excitement.

Trevor shook his head. "No, but Jonesy ought to be able to find out. Such transfers were always documented in the Archives. He would know where to look for the information."

Once again, the unparalleled importance of the Archivists for Headquarters – and, consequently, the true value of Ianto's knowledge – became crystal clear for Jack. The thought that the last surviving Archivist of the Institute had laboured as their janitor for more than a year still filled him with shame. Fortunately, Her Majesty the Queen had shown better judgement in his absence. Making Ianto the head of what was left from Torchwood had been the best decision she could have made.

Even if the fact that he'd been so swiftly replaced still smarted Jack sometimes.

Well, this was not the time to mourn over lost positions; besides, he could only blame himself. Had he not been so ken on keeping secrets from his own team, things might have turned out differently. Right now, however, they had a spaceship to repair – and, surprisingly enough, perhaps even the means to do so.

Jack activated his earpiece. "Ianto? Trevor says we'll need spare parts from the other Raxacoricofallapatorian ship; the one Headquarters scavenged after the thwarted Slitheen invasion… and that you'd know where One has stored it."

"Not off the top of my head, I don't," Ianto's calm voice answered. "I was responsible for the data concerning alien life forms, not for their technology. But I'll look into the transfer records. It shouldn't be hard to find where it's been taken – and it would give Emma the opportunity to learn how to deal with the Virtual Archives."

"The real problem will be to get it here from London somehow," Jack said. "Especially without drawing any unwanted attention. Not even Mickey's monster truck will be big enough to transfer an entire spaceship."

"Not in one piece," Trevor agreed. "We'll have to dismantle it; or remove all spare parts we might need for the repairs. It's gonna be a lengthy job."

"Which means: somebody will have to go to London with Mickey and help him remove the necessary parts," Ianto said, with a hint of a smile in his voice.

"Yeah," Trevor agreed, also smiling. "No great hardship on my part, Jonesy."

"I thought there wouldn't be," there was gentle amusement in Ianto's voice. "All right, I'll search the transfer records for you, and – Rift permitting – you can leave for London in a day or two."

"Great," Trevor rubbed his hands in glee. "Do you think I can take Jenny with me? She seems to know her way around Raxacoricofallapatorian tech; it would make things easier."

"No," Ianto replied courtly. "As long as we can't be sure that she really is who she says she is, I don't want her anywhere near to the UNIT Headquarters."

"And what if she really is the Doctor's daughter?" Jack asked.

"Then I'd want her even less within UNIT's reach," Ianto said. "You know how they deal with aliens, Jack. They're not much better than Torchwood London used to be. She'd never see the light of the day again, once they got their hands on her."

"The Brigadier would never allow that!" Jack protested.

"Perhaps not," Ianto allowed, "but save for special cases, the Brigadier can no longer influence things within UNIT. Certainly not when it comes to the daily routine. I'd prefer if they didn't learn about Jenny at all, unless it's inevitable."

"All right," Jack had to admit that Ianto's concerns were not entirely unfounded. "What do you want us to do now? We can't go on with the repairs till the spare parts arrive."

"I need a detailed list about the damage and the spare parts that will be needed," Ianto answered. "Trevor can do that on his own, so don't panic. As for you, I want you to take a good, hard look at the damage the ship has suffered and make an educated guess about the weapons that were used to cause it. If these aliens manage to track Jenny down through the Rift, we must know what we're dealing with."

"If they manage to track her down," Jack said slowly, "we might soon face a full-scale invasion."

"My thoughts exactly," Ianto agreed. "Which is why we need to learn as much about their weapons as we can."

"I can make preliminary scans on the hits' energy signature with my wrist strap," Jack offered. "But we'll have to come back with more serious equipment later."

"No," Ianto said. "Remove the damaged parts that need to be replaces. We'll be examining them in the Hub. That's safer."

"Yeah, but they're pretty big parts," Jack pointed out. "They won't fit into the SUV."

"I'll send Mickey with the truck," Ianto promised. It might even be helpful if he gets to see what sort of spare parts he'll be fetching from London. The problem is, he's out, dealing with a Weevil sighting right now."

"It doesn't matter," Jack said. "We've got enough stuff here to keep ourselves occupied until he arrives."

Mickey and his monster truck arrived an hour alter. He had brought PC Andy with him, and the four men spent another two hours with loading all damaged parts of Jenny's ship that Trevor had found worth examining more closely – and that they could actually remove without damaging the little vessel even more – onto the truck. Which, as Mickey critically remarked, was more than half the ship.

"You've got your work cut out for you, mate," he said to Trevor. "Building a whole new ship might be easier."

"In the end, that's exactly what we're gonna do, I'm afraid," the engineer replied, scratching his bald head absent-mindedly, his mind already working on several problems at the same time. "Even with the spare parts from the other Raxacoricofallapatorian ship, we'll have to be really… creative to make this baby space-born again. The damage is worse than I've originally assumed. A lot worse."

"Ask Tosh," Jack suggested. "She's one of her kind in the creative department."

"Now, Jack, you're exaggerating," Tosh managed not to blush, but it was a close call.

"Nonsense," Jack said. "Anyone who can build a functional sonic weapon based on completely useless blueprints can also rebuild a small spaceship from spare parts."

"Perhaps, but I'm not gonna let her have all the fun," Trevor grinned. "I mean, playing around with bits of alien tech is nice, but rebuilding a whole spaceship? That's the wet dream of every engineer come true."

"I'd be careful if I were you," Jack warned. "Raxacoricofallapatorian ships usually have an artificial intelligence built into their board systems. A rudimentary one, most likely, but still advanced enough to cause nasty surprises if you mess around with them."

"Captain," Trevor replied with barely contained amusement, "You're forgetting that I've worked for Torchwood London in the cybernetics department. We were building AIs… well, we were on our way to do that. I know you still despise us, the ones you call Yvonne's leftovers, and that Jonesy is the only one you actually trust. But let me tell you this: we were hired because we were good at what we did. And we got even better, thank all the alien tech we got to study. So don't worry – I can do this. I'm sure Toshiko and Jenny will help, but this is my scientific field."

"Are we done?" Mickey interrupted them a little impatiently. "Cos if we are, we should head back to the Hub. Loading all this junk off and storing it somewhere you can poke at it safely will take time. And we still have to go to London tomorrow."

Trevor checked his list one last time and then nodded. "Yup, we're done. Let's secure the hangar and get going. We won't be back here for the next few days."

"You ride with Mickey and Andy," Jack suggested. "I'll take Tosh back to the Hub."

"Works for me," Trevor was already climbing into the driver's cabin of the truck.

Jack let them out of the main door, then he closed the hangar, switched on the security system – after all, they didn't want anyone prodding at Jenny's ship – and headed to the SUV, hoping against tope that there would be some of Ianto's magic coffee left on the bottom of his thermos.

Colonel Alan Mace, commanding officer of the UNIT base just outside Cardiff, glared at his unexpected visitor suspiciously. Said visitor was a blonde woman in her late thirties, wearing an elegant, pin-striped charcoal grey trouser suit with high heels and carrying a yellow satchel that served both as a handbag and as a laptop case. Her pale skin, straw-coloured hair and almost watery blue eyes gave her a somewhat unhealthy look, but she seemed competent enough nonetheless… for a shrink.

"Let me get this straight," Colonel Mace said with what he thought to be mild dismay. "You are a therapist and here to deal with Jenkins and the other nutcases?"

The woman nodded, not taking offence or, at the very least, not showing it.

"Psychiatrist, actually, specialized for the treating of post-traumatic stress syndrome," she said in a somewhat monotonous voice. "I thought Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart had announced me well in advance. My name is Doctor Emilia Fox."

"Yes, I know who you are, Doctor," Colonel Mace replied sourly. "You were the one counselling the survivors of Canary Wharf. If I remember correctly, it wasn't such a glowing success, though. How many of them have committed suicide since then?"

"Too many," Doctor Fox was clearly hard-pressed to keep her professional calm. "Unfortunately, we can't always help everyone, and Canary Wharf was an extraordinary disaster, even as alien invasions go. The Sontaran attack was a different matter entirely. Besides, your Privates have managed not to kill themselves so far, so there is still hope that they might make a full recovery – with the proper help."

"I know it was a mistake to allow Jenkins to sign up as a simple soldier," Colonel Mace murmured unhappily. "Simple soldiers with high-ranking relatives are always a nuisance. Which one of them had the brilliant idea to send you here anyway? His father? His mother? That eccentric uncle of his, Captain Magambo's pet scientist?"

"Actually, it was Commodore Sullivan who came up with the suggestion," Doctor Fox explained.

Colonel Mace rolled his eyes. "His godfather, then. Terrific!"

"You must admit that the idea does have its merits, Colonel," Doctor Fox said, refusing to be intimidated by the foul mood of the base commander. "Those three soldiers are practically vegetating here, wasting their time, while UNIT has lost too many men in the recent years to afford that luxury. Wouldn't it be better if we could clear them for armed duty again?"

"It would," Colonel Mace admitted reluctantly. "I'm just not sure it will ever be possible. Well, perhaps with Harris; he's coping best. Grey, on the other hand, has become a nervous wreck who turns into jelly whenever an officer as much as looks at him. And Jenkins – he's sheer unbearable. I'm not sure there's any hope for him at all."

"Give me at least the chance to work with them," Doctor Fox insisted. "They might surprise you."

"They do that each day; and not in a good way," Colonel Mace said dryly. "But orders are orders. If the Commodore wants them to get counselling, then counselling, regardless of what I personally might think about the whole thing."

"Why is the colonel fighting this so much?" Doctor Fox asked the medical officer of the base, a pretty, dark-skinned young woman by the name of Doctor Martha Jones. "One would think it were in his interest to have three of his men, who are practically useless at the moment, cleared for duty again."

"Right now, the colonel would fight practically anything that comes with an order from the general staff," Doctor Jones explained. "He considers his current position as a serious break in his career, and let's face it, that is what it is. He's practically exiled here, running this insignificant little base, shut out of all important decisions – compared with the fact that he used to command the entire British division of UNIT, this is a serious setback. Probably a fatal one."

"Yes, I do remember him being in charge after the Battle of Canary Wharf," Doctor Fox nodded. "What happened?"

"There's some unconvincing official explanation," Doctor Jones said, "but if you listen to barrack gossip, which is always the most convincing source of information, it had something to do with violating the non-fraternization rules."

Doctor Fox stared at her colleague in surprise. "They've exiled him here because of a love affair?"

Doctor Jones nodded. "According to Private Jenkins, yes. And what Jenkins doesn't know about the inside affairs of UNIT isn't even worth knowing."

"And he's willing to share his knowledge, I assume," Doctor Fox grinned. "No wonder the colonel considers him a nuisance."

"He's not a bad guy," Doctor Jones said, clearly fond of the base's enfant terrible. "It can't be easy for him, with all those important people in the family, all pressuring him to make a spectacular career and outdo them in every imaginable aspect. He needs an outlet for that pressure."

"And he chose to be outrageous and signed up as a simple soldier, just to piss them off," Doctor Fox finished. "There are worse solutions, I guess. But why would the colonel think that he's beyond hope? Was his shock so much more severe than that of the other two?"

"The main problem with Jenkins is not of purely mental nature," Doctor Jones replied thoughtfully. "With that part, he deals fairly well. But he's taken some serious physical damage from that Sontaran weapon. He has inner ear problems that disturb his balance, so much that he can't even drive a car. Some nerves responsible for controlling finer movements have been irreparably damaged, and he has a serious case of insomnia, most of the time. His hand-eye coordination seems unaffected, which enables him to play computer games. That has become some sort of escape for him. But he's on the way of becoming an addict, since that's basically the only thing he can do like he could before. Even if he answered positively to counselling, which, to be honest, I doubt, he might never be cleared for armed duty again."

"What about erection problems?" Doctor Fox asked, knowing that the kind of injuries Private Jenkins had suffered often led to that, too.

Doctor Jones shrugged. "His physical reactions are normal, but he seems to have lost interest in sex. And, according to the other two, isn't exactly normal for him. After all, he used to be known by the nickname of the cockerel."

Doctor Fox nodded, thinking about priorities. "Is there no way to heal him physically?"

Doctor Jones shook her head. "Not with the current medical technology we have on Earth, there's not."

The peculiar phrasing didn't fail to catch Doctor Fox' interest.

"Are you thinking of something in particular?" she asked.

Doctor Jones nodded. "We should ask Torchwood. Nobody knows for sure what they have stored in their Archives. Perhaps there's something that can help. I know for a fact that Torchwood London used to have access to nanotechnology. If it survived Canary Wharf or not, I've no idea, but we could ask."

"And they would tell us the truth?" Doctor Fox asked doubtfully.

It was a justified question. Torchwood was never very forthcoming with information about the technology they had harvested. At least Torchwood London hadn't been, and what Doctor Fox had heard about Torchwood Three did not exactly encourage her. If possible, Captain Harkness was considered even more secretive and mistrustful than Director Hartmann had been, and that was saying a lot.

"We can try," Doctor Jones replied. "The new Torchwood Director is a bit more cooperative than Captain Harkness used to be, and since he was the one to suggest your involvement to Commodore Sullivan, it would be only fair if he helped us."

"You ask him," Doctor Fox clarified. "You are the Torchwood liaison. I'm still wondering how he picked me of all the available therapists, though."

"Well, he's one of the survivors of Canary Wharf, so your name must have already been known to him," Doctor Jones shrugged. "But, as far as I know, it was actually your ex who suggested you."

"Tom?" Doctor Fox asked in surprise. "What does he have to do with Torchwood?"

"He's their new medic; has been for the last three months or so," Doctor Jones explained. "Doctor Harper is still in therapy, and they needed somebody with practical experience, so they hired him."

"And he accepted?" Doctor Fox found that a little hard to believe. "I thought he was happy to get that job at A&E. He always wanted to become a surgeon."

"He still does, and he will, eventually," Doctor Jones replied. "Torchwood offered him a better opportunity than that London hospital, I guess. He seems to like his new job just fine."

Doctor Fox shook her head, still astonished. "Somehow I can't imagine Tom Milligan of all people to go alien-hunting. He's always had a helper complex the size of a planet. That's what drove him to Physicians Without Borders in Africa, and then to A&E. He always wanted to save people; not to cut dead aliens open."

"And you never wondered where his nightmares come from?" Doctor Jones asked seriously. "The nightmares he could never explain, not even to himself?"

"Of course I did," Doctor Fox replied. "But we never found an answer. We've tried everything, even hypnosis, but it didn't help," she gave the UNIT doctor a sharp look. "Do you know where they come from?"

Doctor Jones nodded. "I do. Unfortunately, I'm not allowed to speak about it. Let's just say that he had an alien encounter; and it encouraged him to work for Torchwood."

"Which means that he might have access to whatever medical devices Torchwood keeps shut away," Doctor Fox guessed.

"Not to nanotechnology, I'm quite sure about that," Doctor Jones said. "Such things are in the Secure Archives. But if we hold a consilium and all three of us attest the necessity to use a certain piece of alien technology, Director Jones might consider allowing it. He's a very reasonable man."

"Director Jones? Is he a relative of yours?" Doctor Fox knew Jones was a fairly common name, especially in Wales, but considering how very few people had anything to do with Torchwood in these days, she felt the question justified.

"Oh, no," Doctor Jones replied with a wide smile. "That particular branch of Joneses is quite unique as you'll see. Come with me now, Doctor; I'll show you my personal notes concerning your patients' condition, and we can decide together what to do next. "

"Call me Em," Doctor Fox said, following her colleague to the medical data storage of the base.

It was beyond 11 pm when Ianto finished processing and fling away all the information Jack had downloaded from the database of Jenny's ship. He'd sent Emma home to Rhys hours earlier – they still counted as newlyweds and needed some private time – and had completely lost himself in his work.

He loved being an archivist; integrating new pieces of knowledge into the ever-growing, complex system that was the Torchwood Archives. Unfortunately, his new and demanding duties as the Torchwood Director didn't leave him nearly enough time to familiarize himself with more than just the really important new discoveries. Having a photographic memory came in handy if one was an archivist; however it could lead to information overload and a mental collapse if one was the only archivist, so he had to be careful.

Which was why he'd begun to instruct Emma in the job as soon as he'd hired her. He needed to delegate. That still didn't mean he had to like sharing his beloved Archives with anyone. And sometimes he simply couldn't resist doing some of the work all by himself, just like in old times.

He knew he'd pay for today's indulgence with a nasty headache tomorrow. His eyes felt already dry and gritty, as if filled with sand, and he saw stars as he emerged from the Archives to the better illuminated working area of the Hub.

For some reason he couldn't explain, he had the feeling that the day wasn't over yet, though.

He found the main Hub empty, save for Sally who was writing on her thesis at one of the workstations while keeping half an eye on the Rift monitor.

"Where's everyone?" he asked, because this definitely wasn't what night watch was supposed to look like.

"I sent them home," Jack answered, and the silhouette of Jack himself, now in his shirtsleeves and wearing a waistcoat that accentuated his strong upper body most flatteringly, appeared on the balcony. "Mickey and Trevor must go to London, first thing in the morning, so they need their sleep. PC Andy and Owen are on emergency call, just in case, and Lloyd is still in her lab, doing… well, frankly, I don't have a clue what she's doing there, but it seems important. Tosh's taken Jenny home and Tom's got a phone call from Martha and left three hours ago."

"I see," it sounded a reasonable arrangement for the night, even if it didn't match the actual schedule. "What are you still doing here?"

"Jack shrugged. "I need less sleep than the rest of you, so I figured I'd stay in tonight instead of Trevor. If there's some minor Rift activity, I can deal with it alone; I've done so often enough in the past. If something bigger comes up, I'll call in Owen and PC Andy."

"All right," Ianto said tiredly. "I'm off for home, then. It's been a long day."

Jack gave him a mildly concerned look. "Do you want a lift? You look like death warmed over."

"I feel like death warmed over," Ianto admitted ruefully. "Nothing that a week of sleep wouldn't cure, though."

"Yeah, cos you get to sleep for a week… when exactly?" Jack returned a little more sharply than originally intended. "You're so concerned about the rest of the team getting proper off-hours, but you keep running yourself ragged."

"It isn't happening by choice, behave me," Ianto replied, giving in to the temptation to lean against Jack, luxuriating in the feeling of Jack's arms coming up around him protectively. "It's the sodding Rift. Ever since we opened it, it's been completely unpredictable; just as you'd warned us before you left. It's our own damned fault. We should have listened to you."

"Ianto," Jack lifted the younger man's chin to look him straight in the reddened eyes. "Self-recriminations are fruitless. What's done is done; we can't change it."

"We should have trusted you to know what you were talking about," Ianto said quietly. "We should have trusted you, period."

"Yeah, you should have," Jack gave him a brief kiss. "And I should have trusted you with a little more than I actually did. So we're to take the blame in equal measure; but that's the past now, ain't it? Let's hope we learned from it and won't make the same mistake again. Deal?"

"Deal," Ianto accepted the kiss but made no attempts to continue on with that sort of action, to Jack's regret. Instead, he gently extracted himself from Jack's hug. "I really ought to go before I fall asleep on my feet."

"Are you sure you don't want me to drive you?" Jack asked. "What if you fall asleep behind the steering wheel?"

"I won't," Ianto replied with a tried smile, "cos I'll walk home. It's not far, and the fresh air would do me good. Clearing my muddy head, for starters."

Jack didn't like the idea of Ianto practically sleep-wandering through the nightly Cardiff, but he couldn't really do anything against it. Ianto wasn't a child anymore, and he was his boss. He could do as he pleased.

"All right," he said, "but give me a call when you're home. Just to put my mind at ease."

Ianto promised that he would do so. Then he stepped onto the slab of the invisible lift, taking the shortest and easiest way out.

It took the closest surveillance post almost a local sub-cycle – their telepathic thralls would have called it a week – to find the signal of the tracking device the lost patrol had managed to put on the small, hostile ship. When the listening post finally managed to localize it, it led them to a strange phenomenon: to a tear in space-time, where it was abruptly cut.

The discovery led to a minor dispute within the Tactical Division. Some military scientists speculated that such a small ship would never survive the crossing of a spatio-temporal anomaly, especially not with the damage it had suffered from the high-energy blasters of the lost patrol. Consequently, they suggested dropping the entire topic and focusing their energies on more important issues.

More tactically inclined minds, however, pointed out that a ship of such primitive design shouldn't have been able to survive a fight with a regular patrol in the first place, let alone to shoot the patrolling cutter to glowing pieces and still avoid being identified. An unknown factor always meant a risk, and the Tactical Division accepted only one way to deal with potentially dangerous factors: by destroying them.

Besides, as one of the chief warlords reminded the rest of the staff, if the ship managed to cross the anomaly in one piece, that meant the pilot could tell whoever lived on the other side about them – and they didn't want that. They preferred to have the element of surprise on their side, once that particular sector of space would be declared ripe for being conquered. Therefore, the hostile ship and its unidentified alien pilot had to be eliminated; quickly, efficiently and without a trace.

So it was decided to send an eraser after the ship, to deal with both vessel and pilot. They could not risk sending an entire ship through the anomaly – they knew nothing about its nature, and their forces were stretched thin already. The practical thing to do was send an eraser in an armoured travelling suit; and that was what they did.

Those body armours could withstand the vacuum of space and kept their bearers alive in the most inhabitable environments, from planets consisting of frozen methane ice to the inside of a volcano, and could even provide limited thrusters drive in space.

The only risk an eraser had to take was being separated from the collective mind of its hive. That made each individual extremely vulnerable towards telepathic attacks.

The personal risk for their agent didn't bother the War-masters, though. Erasers were genderless, with no significance for the genetic heritage, and therefore – albeit useful – in the end they were expendable. That was their place in the High Order: to be sacrificed for the good of the many. They knew that and were content with their role.

The War-master chose their candidate carefully. They needed one with ample experience and of great determination, for the stakes were high. If previously unvisited parts of the galaxy became aware oft heir existence, that would mean war on many fronts. On more fronts, most likely, than they could afford.

Their main weapons were of devastating efficiency but limited in number. And their thralls would not hesitate to betray them if they believed they could break free with outside help. For an inferior, bipedal species, they were annoyingly belligerent. But again, all mammals were; they lacked the discipline higher developed species were born with. Life sciences experts were in agreement that it was a genetic trait; most likely the result of their chaotic method of procreation.

But even inferior species could win the upper hand if they had high enough numbers – and time enough to prepare themselves. The Tactical Division couldn't do anything about their numbers – not yet anyway – but they could prevent them from having time. They were not allowed to learn about the threat represented by the High Order… not until it was too late.

The agent they chose had already carried out several difficult missions successfully. It had no name; neither of them had. Each individual was marked by a unique telepathic signature that was recognized by the others immediately, together with the specific signatures of the hive, the gender – or the lack thereof, neither of which could be recognized by outward signs – and those of the caste to which the individual belonged.

Aside from being genderless drones, erasers usually came from the caste of soldiers; although a few of them were also military scientists. Some missions demanded special training and successful warfare was a highly delicate matter.

This particular agent was no scientist – there was no need for one. The low-ranking technicians had extrapolated the likely travel route of the small ship – assuming it had survived crossing the anomaly – and prepared the eraser's armoured suit with the coordinates that would enable it to follow the same route. All it had to do was to travel across the tear in space-time, find its target and destroy it – together with its own self.

A return was neither expected nor desired. A track leading back to the High Order was to be avoided at any costs. The eraser knew that and made the necessary precautions.

When the preparations were finished, came the complicated procedure to transplant the eraser's brain and inner organs into its new, heavily armoured body. The fact that its natural limbs had already been removed for the sake of a previous mission made it easier to adapt to the bizarre, bipedal structure. That it had already gathered experience with bipedal locomotion was only an added bonus. In its new body not only was it nearly indestructible, it also wouldn't be recognized by species.

The melding with the armour took it less than half a standard sub-cycle; it was used to the procedure. When the integration was complete, a scout ship took it to the rim of the anomaly and ejected it right into the wide gap in space-time.

From then on, it was on its own… as always on such a mission.

As expected, Ianto found the nightly walk through the empty streets relaxing. He knew Jack didn't like when he took a stroll through town at night on his own, but that was ridiculous. Not even such a leisurely walk would take him longer than thirty-five minutes to reach his flat, and he could take care of himself. He had a can of Weevil spray at hand, and he had a stun gun on him, as always. Jack was just being overprotective; had always had a tendency for it, but not to such extremes.

He had become like this after his return. He still had not spoken in detail about what had happened to him during The Year That Never Way. But Ianto – and indeed all the senior Torchwood staff, which included him, Tosh, Owen and, surprisingly enough, Rhys – knew the bare bones of it. From Martha Jones.

They just pretended that they didn't, because they all knew it would make Jack uncomfortable. And while they were still mildly pissed off at him for having left them without a word, they didn't want to make it unnecessarily difficult for him. He'd had to deal with enough changes since his return.

Of course, Ianto was fairly certain that Jack knew that they knew and that he, too, was only faking ignorance. The entire situation was beyond twisted: masks behind masks behind masks, in more layers than a German Baumstamm cake. Unfortunately, neither of them was ready to – or capable of – laying everything open and discussing things as sensible people would do. That was not the Torchwood way.

Well, Tosh probably would, Ianto admitted ruefully, but she was hopelessly outnumbered by three stubborn men who would not listen. Sometimes Ianto honestly asked himself how Tosh managed to remain sane, caught between him, Jack and Owen. Being a genius – and completely dead to the world when she was working – was probably helpful.

A beeping sound he momentarily couldn't quite pigeonhole interrupted his thoughts. He patted down his pockets to find whichever Torchwood-related gizmo might be making the noise – and found, rather unsurprisingly, that it was the Rift activation detector. The one he still had from Torchwood London. And it was twinkling and beeping like crazy. Like one of those silly computer games his nephew Daffy so loved to play.

"Ah, hell," Ianto said resignedly, realising what this meant: no rest for the wicked. He found his mobile phone and hit the speed dial.

Sally picked up his call immediately.

"Do you have something?" Ianto asked without preamble.

"Rift spike," Sally gave him the exact location; it was uncomfortably close to the place where he lived. "A rather hefty one; something has come through. Something big."

"Define big," Ianto said.

"Not big like Jenny's ship," Sally clarified. "But definitely bigger than the usual flotsam and jetsam. Most likely bigger than the random pieces of alien tech we get all the time, but I can't tell you how much bigger."

"Can it be something living?" Ianto asked, mildly concerned now.

Their recent experiences with a Nostrovite couple in the spawning frenzy had made them all very suspicious about possible visiting aliens crossing the Rift. That visit had cost the city of Cardiff three lives and the Torchwood team weeks of painstaking clean-up.

"Inconclusive data," Sally replied. "Jack's on his way to take a look at the problem. He told me to tell you not to start investigating on your own, just because the spike happened in your neighbourhood."

"Well, if that isn't the pot calling the kettle black," Ianto muttered.

"Sure it is," Sally agreed, "but he gets up again when he gets himself killed – you don't."

"He still has to die first, though," Ianto said dryly, and that was something Sally couldn't really argue with. "Has he called in Andy?"

He very much doubted that Jack would have, but one could always hope. Sally's negative answer nipped that hope in the bud, though.

"All right," he said with a frustrated sigh. "Send Andy after Jack. I'll go there, too, since it isn't far from here."

Sally acknowledged the order (unlike Jack, she'd never think of trying to talk him out of something) and hung up on him. Ianto took out his stun gun – regretting that he didn't have a real weapon on him – and headed towards the location Sally had given him.

Jack needed approximately fifteen minutes to reach the coordinates where the latest Rift spike had been located. It was a quiet little lane, which he recognized as the one running behind the street where he knew Ianto's flat to be. Perhaps if he dealt with the Rift alert quickly and efficiently, he could drop by afterwards and see how Ianto was doing.

Speaking of which… he touched his earpiece as an unpleasant thought occurred to him.

"Sally, has Ianto called you in the last ten minutes?"

"Yeah, he's just called in," came Sally's answer. "He wanted to know if we1ve had any Rift activity since he left."

"But how on Earth could he know…" Jack trailed off and then swore in a language that wouldn't even exist until several millennia in the future. "He must have taken that damned Rift activity monitor with him again. When did you speak with him?"

"Perhaps ten minutes ago," Sally replied.

"Dammit!" Jack grabbed a fistful of his own hair and pulled on it in frustration. "That means he must've gotten here before me. I should have called PC Andy; together, we could search the place much faster."

"I've already alerted him," Sally told him. "Ianto's orders. It'll take him another twenty minutes to reach your position, though. He's just left home."

"Okay, that can't be helped now," Jack was thinking furiously. "I'll try to find Ianto. I'm right behind his house, but I don't think he'd have gone home as he ought to."

"He probably would have, had you not gone out to save the world all on your lonesome again," Sally answered dryly. "I'll try to reach him on the phone; and I'll tell Andy to hurry up."

"Don't bother," Jack said grimly, having reached the end of the little lane as he was still speaking. "Call Owen. I've just found Ianto… and it ain't looking good."

He went down on one knee to roll the slumped body he'd nearly stumbled over onto its back. Ianto's head flopped top the side; his eyes were staring somewhere beyond Jack's head into the darkness, wide open and unseeing."

~TBC~