James Goss - Almost Perfect

‘Oh.’

He shrugged, a little sadly. ‘Oh I’m sure she’s fine – Yvonne was very cunning, by all accounts. But Jack had me going through the pterodactyl’s stools for a month looking for evidence.’

Gwen grimaced. ‘Where is the Fearless Leader?’

Ianto was again a bit too bright. ‘Oh, I’m sure he’s around.’

‘Have you tried calling him?’

‘Yes,’ admitted Ianto.

‘And he’s not answering you?’

‘No.’

‘Ah.’

‘I’m sure he’ll turn up.’ Ianto sank miserably down onto the sofa and cradled his chin in his hands.

‘You’ve said that already.’

‘Not quite that, I think you’ll find. I used a broadly similar but equally evasive turn of phrase.’

‘But Ianto, this is important, Rhys and I have solved the speed-dating thing.’

‘That’s great, Gwen, really great,’ said Ianto, flatly.

‘Hey! What’s up?’ said Gwen, losing it a little. ‘This is big news. We brought back a talking pebble and everything.’

She pulled the evidence bag gently out of her jacket.

Ianto started with horror and surprise. ‘That… that’s the thing that… I found on the boat. Before I changed.’

Both of them had a few seconds of just breathing very, very hard. And staring at the device, glowing gently through the bonded polythene-carbide bag.

‘Well, bugger me,’ said Gwen, eventually.

Ianto’s voice was soft, and scared. Gwen noticed he was chewing the end of his hair. ‘The energy cloud, this object. Jack said it was all his fault somehow. He said he knew who was behind it. And he went off to find them.’

‘Oh, that’s brilliant!’

‘Not really – he went off nearly twelve hours ago. I’ve tried everything to find him, and I can’t. He’s vanished.’

Gwen suddenly understood Ianto’s mood. She put the device down on the desk and frowned. ‘I can see why you’re worried. I mean, what could Jack have been doing all night?’

THE PERFECTION ARE RUTHLESS, TIRELESS AND HAVE A HIGH THREAD COUNT

And, on the other side of Cardiff, Jack Harkness fell back exhausted on the bed and cried out, ‘Please fellas, not again!’

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.

Three years ago…

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 Pink Paper that was sodden with spilt beer. On the dance floor, a man in a backwards baseball cap was trying to do, dear god, the Running Man.

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.’