Dan Abnett - Border Princes

It’s cold. The air is clear and hard as crystal.

The shades are restless. They murmur and scratch, making soft, dry noises like a breeze stirring through desiccated leaves.

They see him on the bridge. He has passed through the gate, along the causeway, and onto the ancient bridge approach. The night wind stirs the old ribbons and garlands hung from the bridge’s arches.

He doesn’t want to run, although he knows he must, as much as he knows that it is ultimately pointless. The palace is a gravity well, its pull too great for him to resist. Nothing ever escapes from its orbit.

One foot, then another. His pace picks up. He’s running, as he always knew he had to. He smells the air, the musky scent of the dried flowers in the old garlands. He hears the echo of his own footsteps along the wide span of the bridge.

The clear note of a siren sounds from somewhere far behind. The shades on the high walls begin to move, scuttling and scratching. It takes them no time at all to close the distance. They are fast, like birds whirling in a flock, whipping darting shapes.

Still running, he looks over his shoulder. They have reached the bridge. They are on the bridge. They are rushing towards him.

One leaps-

James opened his eyes.

‘What the hell was that, then?’ Gwen asked.

James had some trouble identifying where he was. It wasn’t his bedroom, or his flat. It was a small room, with a single bed. Two lamps, set to a low level, provided a modest night-light glow. A bank of functional, clinical machines, flickering with a few display lights, filled the wall behind the bedhead.

Gwen was sitting on a chair beside him.

One of the care rooms, that was it. One of the Hub’s care rooms that they only used occasionally, for overnight guests or long-term invalids. Tosh had been in one for a week after Operation Goldenrod.

Which was he, he wondered, guest or invalid?

He moved, and the pains in his shoulder and face decided him.

‘Take it easy,’ Gwen said. ‘Did you dream again?’

‘Mmm,’ he said. His mouth was dry.

‘Another dream for the man who doesn’t dream?’

He cleared his throat. ‘How about,’ he swallowed, ‘a drink? The man who doesn’t dream has a mouth that’s not been swept.’

Gwen handed him a beaker.

‘Better,’ he said.

‘Remember anything about this dream, then?’ she asked, placing the beaker back on the night stand.

He breathed deeply. ‘Um… a bridge,’ he said finally. ‘Over a river.’

‘Where was it?’

‘In my dream.’

‘Ha ha. I mean, was it a real bridge or what?’

‘I think it was a real bridge. Yes, I’m sure it…’ his voice tailed off and he shook his head slightly. ‘No, it can’t have been. It was too old and too ridiculously long to have been a real bridge.’

‘Anything else?’

‘I was being chased, I think.’

‘By what?’

‘The usual nightmare monsters that you can’t quite see.’

‘And how would you know,’ she asked, ‘if you never dream?’

‘I’ve heard people talk about dreams often enough,’ James said. He looked up at her.

‘What time is it?’ he asked.

‘Two o’clock in the morning.’

‘You should be in bed. You need sleep.’

‘I was dozing. I wanted to stay here.’

‘That’s nice. You didn’t have to.’

‘Maybe I did.’

‘Is everything all right?’

‘Oh, yeah,’ she replied. ‘As all right as everything usually is in Torchwood. One thing, though.’

‘What?’

‘I was wondering if you could do me a favour?’

‘What would that be?’ he asked.

‘In future, could you try not to get yourself half-killed by giant robots at all? It’s not good for my nerves.’

‘OK,’ he smiled. ‘Come here.’

He hugged her, and she curled up beside him on the edge of the narrow bed.

They lay there for a while. At last, once he’d thought about it long enough, he said, ‘Gwen?’

But she’d fallen asleep.

Shiznay padded downstairs in the dark, her dressing gown pulled around her. She was half-asleep, but the noise was keeping her awake. Someone had left the kitchen vents on again.

The others were asleep in the flat over the restaurant, and the restaurant itself was dark: a forest of chair legs upturned on tables, lit by the amber streetlamp outside the front windows.

It was cold too. There was a draught.

Shiznay plodded into the kitchen. The cool air contained a mix of cooked spices, onions and cleaning fluid. In the twilight, the stainless-steel counters were bare and gleaming. Silhouette pans hung from ceiling rails.

The extractor vents were purring, a low-level chatter occasionally embellished by a clacking whirr.

She walked across the kitchen, found the cut-out switch by touch alone, and flipped it down. The vents went quiet with a dying murmur. She slid the mesh hatches shut.

That draught again, against her face.

Shiznay looked around. She saw that the backdoor was slightly open.

Tutting, she went over and bolted it. Her father would be furious with whoever had closed up. Leaving the fans on was one thing, but not locking up properly? Anyone could get in and-Shiznay froze. Her spine crawled. Standing in that darkened kitchen, all alone, and imagining the consequences of an unlocked door, she’d just managed to completely creep herself out. She smiled to herself ruefully and turned to go.

Something made a tiny noise.

She froze again, and her spine crawled for real.

It had been just a tiny noise, a mouse noise. She listened for it, willing it to come again, hearing nothing but the bump of her own pulse in her ears.

Nothing. No, not nothing. A noise again. There .

As silently as she could, she took down the heaviest pan she could find and held it like a tennis racket. She thought about the rack of catering knives on the far wall, but it was too far away, and besides, scared or not, she didn’t fancy stabbing anyone. Not even burglar-rapist-escaped looney.

Smacking him over the head, on the other hand, was something she thought she might adequately manage.

She listened for the noise to come again. When it did, she realised it was coming from behind her, from the walk-in pantry. The door to the pantry was open a little way too.

Shiznay wondered if she should call out. She was pretty sure that, by the time anyone woke up and got down stairs, she’d have had to deal with things alone anyway.

Hefting up the pan for a good first service, she crept towards the pantry door. She placed her hand on the handle. One, two …

She swung the door open. At first, she could see nothing. It was impenetrably dark, a shadowy cave filled with sacks of vegetables and stacks of cans in catering packs.

Then she saw the figure, gasped, and swung her improvised weapon up.

She hesitated.

‘Oh my goodness…’ she whispered.

Mr Dine was sitting on the floor, his back against the wall. What remained of his clothes were ragged and shredded. His head leaned forward limply, his hands draped at his sides.

‘What are you doing here? What are you doing in here?’ she hissed, stepping forward.

He stirred, and slowly turned his head up to regard her.

‘How did you get in? You shouldn’t be here! You really shouldn’t be here!’

‘You… said…’ he whispered.

‘What?’

It was hard to hear him, his voice was so distant. Was he drunk? Out of his head? Had he been mugged, or something? Shiznay lowered the pan.

‘You… said…’ he repeated.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You said, “Come back when you want,”’ Mr Dine whispered.

‘Well, I…’ Shiznay paused. She thought hard. ‘Look, I didn’t mean this. I didn’t mean… My father would go off on one if he knew you’d broken in and…’ She crouched down next to him. ‘Mr Dine?’