Sleeping Dragons 05 - The Old Terror 03
Author's notes: The Torchwood Two Headquarters has been modelled after Pollok House that really exists in Glasgow. I chose it as a template because it is old, impressive and so very different from both Torchwood One and Three. The Pollok Park Beach is real as well. Both are only templates, though, not the exact copies of the real thing.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
CHAPTER 03 - A SHORT VISIT TO TORCHWOOD TWO
Two days after Ianto’s meeting with Colonel Mace a nondescript grey van, driven by Private Harris, turned into the parking lot of the Hub. Jenkins and Grey, also in civilian clothes, climbed out of the vehicle and looked around with interest… well, with slight trepidation in Stevie Grey’s case. Neither of them had ever been to the Torchwood Three Headquarters, and they knew this was as close as they would even get.
It was only half past seven, but part of the Torchwood Three team was already gathered around a leased van, fairly similar to their own. Jenkins recognised Captain Harkness - he’d have been hard to mistake for anyone else -, their young boss in his impeccable three-piece suit, and the bald-headed, bespectacled bloke who was their Number Two scientist. Trevor-something was his name, and he had to be an old pal of their boss, as he always called the Torchwood Director simply Jonesy.
No-one else did that, although they were all on first-name basis with each other, including Jones.
The tall, no-nonsense blonde with the ponytail, whom everyone called Lloyd, was an ex-SOCO and actually had a PhD - or several PhDs, Jenkins wasn’t entirely sure -, and the weasel-faced, ill-humoured bloke was the head doctor of the Torchwood team, Owen Harper. The sweet-faced, innocent-looking blonde girl in the oversized black leather jacket and the obviously troubled young man who seemed more skittish than Stevie Grey facing the colonel on a bad day were new, though. At least Jenkins had never seen them before, and he was the one with the most previous contact with the Torchwood gang.
They were introduced as Jenny Smith and Adam Mitchell, which didn’t tell Jenkins a thing. Mitchell had a slight Manchester accent, with some American smudge thrown into the mix, and the girl sounded very vaguely Scottish, but that wasn’t much help, either. He’d have to watch them carefully if he wanted to find out more.
With the introductions out of the way, it was decided that Dr Howard (the bespectacled scientist) and Dr Lloyd would ride with the Torchwood newbies, since Dr. Howard (“just call me Trevor”) had already been to Torchwood Glasgow before and knew the way. Dr. Harper was supposed to play the same role for the UNIT soldiers.
“We don’t use a GPS, as a rule,” Director Jones explained. “They can be tracked, and most of the times we can’t take that risk.”
“Especially not now,” Captain Harkness added grimly. “If Colonel Oduya catches us red-handed, sniffing around his top secret lab, being unfit for armed duty would be the least of your problems.”
There was something in his eyes, the reflection of something truly horrible that spoke about very unpleasant past experiences with the freshly minted commanding officer of UNIT’s British division but Jenkins knew better than to ask. Not yet anyway. Perhaps Dr. Jones would be able to tell something about it; she usually had a very similar reaction to Colonel Oduya’s name.
If he could get her to talk.
“So be careful and don’t dawdle,” Captain Harkness continued brusquely. “Get Maggie and her stuff to Archie, then go on to Torchwood House and do your jobs. From there you’ll be able to reach Forgill Castle and whatever else is there in a matter of hours.”
“And keep in touch,” Director Jones said. “Report in once a day. Use the satellite connection, but sparsely. We can’t know how safe it still is; not before you’ve checked out that secret lab… if there is one in the first place.”
“Yeah, yeah, don’t get your pants in a twist, Teaboy,” the Torchwood medic said impatiently. “We know what we’re doing.”
“I hope so,” his boss replied grimly - and was that the proper way to address one’s superior? Jenkins couldn’t see Stevie’s face but he was sure it would be grey with shock. “Otherwise we could count ourselves lucky when we only get killed.”
With those sobering parting words the two vans got on their way to Scotland.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The journey to Glasgow was long but not entirely unpleasant. Harris was a good driver and now that no authority figures were present, Stevie regained his composition, too. Soon he was engaged in some very excited conversation with the tall blonde named Lloyd about football and twentieth century B-movies, ignoring the sarcastic comments of Dr. Harper who appeared to despise both.
Jenkins didn’t know Glasgow very well but he did know Sir Archibald and had visited him before, so he wasn’t particularly surprised when the other van turned into Pollok Park in front of them. The jaws of the others, however, hit the ground simultaneously at the sight of the veritable mansion waiting for them - save that of Dr. Harper, of course.
“That is the headquarters of Torchwood Two?” Stevie started getting ash grey with shock again.
“That is Pollok House,” Jenkins corrected, “which serves both as the location of Torchwood Two and the private residence of Sir Archibald. It has been the property of the McAllisters since it was built in 1752; the family has owned the estate for about seven hundred years.”
“Impressive,” Lloyd judged, taking in the heraldic lions on the gate piers, the huge, semi-circular white staircase that led up to the main entrance of the house and the extensive gardens behind it. “Sir Archibald appears to interpret the idea of hiding in plain sight differently from both One and Three.”
Jenkins shrugged. “He is wealthy and eccentric, which is as good a disguise as any. The gallery on the ground floor is even open to the public on certain days - it is a large collection of Spanish paintings, including El Greco, Goya and Murillo - as well as the rhododendron gardens. Torchwood Two is situated downstairs, where once the servants’ quarters were.”
“Next to the gift shops,” Dr. Harper added, grinning. “I bet it drove Yvonne Hartman crazy.”
“But this is a huge mansion,” Lloyd said. “How does Sir Archibald manage it?”
“He doesn’t,” Jenkins replied. “The National Trust of Scotland does - which is why it has to be open to the public, at least partially. Still a clever solution, though; and the parts that are private or Torchwood are more secure than Fort Knox.”
He walked up to the ornamental entrance and rang the bell. Several minutes later a small, almost invisible side door opened and out looked a butler as if straight out from some historical drama, wearing a black jacked and black and white striped trousers, with a dress shirt and highly polished dress shoes.
Only that he didn’t really look like an actor. He was small and slightly bent, as people of earlier times had often been, and there was an air of… well, genuineness about him that made those who’d never visited Pollok House before wonder.
“Temporal displacement?” Adam familiar with the phenomenon from first-hand experience, asked in a low voice.
Jenkins nodded. “Edwardian era; an entire household showed up somehow in the middle of the Scottish highlands twenty or so years ago. The Brigadier found them, shocked out of their minds and without a clue how they’d got there, and since there was no way to bring them home to their own time, he entrusted them to Sir Archibald. It turned out a partnership made in heaven.”
He raised his voice ever so slightly as he turned to the elderly man. “Good morning, McTavish. How are things going?”
“Fine, Master Ross,” the butler, who had clearly known Jenkins since his toddler years, answered. “Come on in, Sir Archibald is waiting for you in the library. Jeeves will take your vehicle to the garage.”
“Thank you,” Jenkins said; then he added for the others. “Jeeves is Sir Archibald’s footman and yes, that’s his actual name. I kid you not. Now come, it would be rude to make Sir Archibald wait.”
Now that he was back in the surroundings he grew up with, his speech patterns changed ever so slightly, and a posh public school accent emerged. The butler nodded in approval and led them to a lift, cleverly camouflaged as a time-worn cupboard door.
The lift, too, appeared to be a relic from earlier times, but they soon spotted the surveillance camera cleverly hidden in the ornate ceiling lamp. The walls were covered with gold-embroidered brocade in a deep burgundy red, and there was an opaque glass surface next to the door, probably just part of the decoration, framed with copper. Like a small mirror, only that it didn’t seem to reflect anything.
Jenkins laid his palm on the opaque surface briefly and leaned closer to the bulkhead, as if looking for something in particular. A diaphragm opened in the wall, with a short beam shining right into his left eye, and the glass under his palm flashed green.
“Identity confirmed,” an artificial voice announced. “Please give destination.”
“Torchwood, main library,” Jenkins said and the lift smoothly began to sink.
Way too smoothly for such an apparent relic, in fact.
“Cool!” Stevie blurted out in open-mouthed awe. “Very Star Trek!”
“A lot better, actually,” Jenkins grinned with almost proprietary pride. “But if you want to compare it to campy sci-fi shows, Sanctuary would be a much better analogy.”
“Why?” Harris, a great fan of said show (and of Amanda Tapping, especially) asked with interest.
Jenkins laughed; they hadn’t seen him so carefree since before the Sontaran invasion. It was a nice sight.
“Wait until you’ve seen the library,” he replied, “Or Yggdrasil, for that matter.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
He refused to say more, but that wasn’t really a problem, as in the moment the lift stopped, opening its doors to the most amazing room any of them had ever seen outside of the library of the British Museum in London.
It was sparsely lit, presumably to protect the ancient, sensitive tomes that filled the floor-to-ceiling shelves made of dark, polished wood, which lined the walls so that its true dimensions could only be guessed rather than seen in detail. Here and there the homogenous wall of shelves was broken by narrow doors, leading to other rooms of unknown function, or tall windows that opened to the famous rhododendron gardens, though those were currently obscured by heavy, tobacco-coloured velvet curtains.
A long oakwood table with matching, high-backed chairs stood in the middle of the room, for those who wanted to read or probably for conferences as well. Further back, in front of a beautifully carved ancient fireplace with its holographic flames glowing gently in the semi-darkness, a coffee table was placed, with four large, comfortable leather armchairs around it. The required paraphernalia for high tea were already laid out on the onyx-plated table, including several three-tiered cake stands laden with dainty crust-less sandwiches and an array of very appetizing cakes and pastries at the sight of which their mouths began watering at once. It was definitely too early for tea, but it appeared that the master of the house held hospitality for more important than following tradition.
Speaking of the master of the house, he was now gracefully emerging from one of the overstuffed leather armchairs to welcome his visitors.
Sir Archibald McAllister, Torchwood Two’s famously eccentric leader, was not what one would have expected, given his reputation. To begin with, he was relatively young - in his mid-forties at best, Lloyd thought. Beyond that, he looked decidedly English, with a vague likeness to a younger Paul McCarthy, slightly longish hair that ended at his jaw-line and pale, almost watery blue eyes.
He did wear a kilt with the traditional jacket and belt pouch, but that was about the only thing he happened to have in common with his fierce ancestors from the highlands. It was a known fact (among Torchwood agents, at least) that he drove a convertible and was very fond of cats.
He also appeared genuinely delighted to see Jenkins.
“Ross, me lad!” he exclaimed, enveloping the younger man in a bear hug that made Jenkins groan in protest; he must have been stronger than he looked. A lot stronger. “It’s good to see ya again.”
“And you, Cousin Archie,” Jenkins replied when he could breathe again. “I’m here on business, though.”
“I know; Jack’s phoned,” Sir Archibald released him, held him at arm’s length and gave him a thorough glare, as if looking for any signs of illness or injury. “Would you mind introducin’ us first, though? Kermit here I know,” he gestured at Owen who made a rude gesture in response, “but not the others.”
“I am wounded, Sir Archibald, I really am,” Trevor Howard commented. “I distantly remember having met you before - in this very place, in fact.”
Sir Archibald stared at him with a frown; then he grinned. “Oh, aye, the techie from One; now I reckon. Sorry for that, lad; I only tend to mark me the rude ones spontaneously. Like Kermit.”
“Up yours, Archie,” Owen said amiably.
They all laughed, save for Stevie who was mortified by the manner in which the others treated a member of the peerage - not that the nobleman in question would mind it. In fact, he appeared to enjoy being treated like anyone else, no matter how blue his blood might have been. That certainly explained his fondness of Captain Harkness who never seemed to be impressed by titles and such.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
After the proper introductions had been made, Sir Archibald insisted on having tea with them, which was served by an elderly woman wearing a long black dress and a white apron. She, like the butler seemed out of time and was, in fact, his wife as well as Sir Archibald’s cook.
With the tea, served in a tea service that would make any museum envious, they were offered the sandwiches, cakes and pastries already waiting on the coffee table, and they made small talk, as Sir Archibald refused to discuss business during tea - apparently, he held some traditions sacred. His guests didn’t mind, though, as he was an excellent and most entertaining host full of hilarious anecdotes about people the others only knew from the celebrity news, and so they were having a grand old time.
Until Harris happened to snap his fingers in reaction to one of the anecdotes, that is. The sight of Adam’s brain through the automatically opening infospike killed the mood instantly. The UNIT soldiers, who hadn’t been briefed about it, turned distinctly green, although Sir Archibald himself remained completely unfazed.
He, too, was Torchwood, after all, and had seen his fair share of odd - or even horrifying - things in his time.
“I see the need to keep out of the public eye,” he commented. “Is that why Ianto’s sendin’ ya to Torchwood House? You ain’t quite human, are you? At least not from this century.”
“Actually, I am,” Adam snapped his fingers to close the interface. “But I made a trip with the Doctor in the far, far future and was stupid enough to have this infospike installed.”
“The Doctor was not impressed,” Trevor supplied grimly. “So he dumped him unceremoniously back in the time he came from, without bothering to remove the infospike first. Which, if you ask me, was bloody cruel, as well as irresponsible.”
“All right, I get it that you don’t like my Dad,” the young blonde that had been introduced to Sir Archibald as Jenny Smith groused. “But do you really have to be such a bloody git about him?”
Trevor gave him a look that was almost compassionate. Almost.
“Jenny, sweetheart, we all love you to pieces,” he said. “But let’s face it, no-one of us has any reason to like your Dad. 'Specially not those of us who’ve survived Canary Wharf. And if we want to be brutally honest, he left you behind, too, without bothering to check if you’re really dead. He might have saved the world occasionally, I give him that, but he never cared about the aftermath.”
Sir Archibald looked at Jenny with interest.
“I never met the Doctor personally, of course, but Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart was tellin’ tales about him all the time,” he said. “He never mentioned Time Lords havin’ children, though.”
“Well, they bloody well had to, or else they’d have become extinct a lot easier,” Owen commented. “Jenny here is the result of the Doctor’s encounter with a cloning machine, though.”
“A progenitor machine!” Jenny corrected in a slightly offended tone. “I’m not a clone! I’m my own person!”
Owen waved off her protests. “Whatever. Now, Archie, if you don’t mind, let’s get Maggie here settled, and then we can go down to business. This is not a social visit, as you know.”
Sir Archibald grinned. Unlike most people, he actually found the abrasive manners of Torchwood Three’s medic refreshing; for the same reason he liked Jack Harkness, too.
“I see your people skills haven’t improved much,” he said. “It’s a good thing that your patients are usually dead.”
He then turned to his new personal assistant, hired for him by Ianto. “Kermit is right, though. Yer rooms have been prepared, lass; Jeeves will show ya where they are. We’ll be meetin’ later in the afternoon and discuss things in detail.”
He rang and his time-displaced footman - dressed in the same style as the butler but at least a decade younger - came to show the young woman to her rooms. He waited for the door to close behind them, and then looked at Jenkins.
“Well, now that we’re among us, lad, what about tellin’ me why you and your pals are here? Yer not Torchwood, after all.”
“No,” Jenkins agreed. “Actually, we were sent by Colonel Mace. It seems that some new, top secret UNIT lab has been established at Forgill Castle, and what little we know about it makes both the Colonel and Captain Harkness worried.”
Sir Archibald became eerily still, the name of the place clearly having some significance for him.
“Forgill Castle, ya’re sayin’?” he then said. “Have ya asked yer godfather about it?”
“Of course,” Jenkins replied. “But he told me that he isn’t allowed to speak about what happened there, back in the 1970s, under the orders of the Brig. Which is why he sent me to you. Said you weren’t bound by the same orders.”
“It’s not that simple,” Sir Archibald said slowly. “I’m not UNIT, true, but I cannae just talk about it freely, either.”
“I was given the password and the authorization code,” Jenkins said.
“I see,” Sir Archibald thought about that for a moment. “I believe we better discuss this in private, lad: you, me, Kermit and the techie from One. McTavish can give the others a tour of the house and the gardens in the meantime.”
“And don’t forget to pay Yggdrasil a visit,” Jenkins added, grinning.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
“Who is Yggdrasil?” Jenny asked, a bit offended that she and Adam were ushered out into the extensive gardens, together with the two UNIT soldiers.
Granted, she wasn’t exactly Torchwood, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t trustworthy, was it? She made a mental note to complain by Captain Harkness about her treatment. The fact that Lloyd joined them voluntarily, even though she had been offered to remain with the other Torchwood people, didn’t placate her one bit.
“It is a nickname for the Pollok Park beech, which is thought to be two hundred and fifty years old,” McTavish explained.
“I thought Yggdrasil was an ash tree,” Private Harris commented.
“The one of Norse mythology certainly was,” Adam said; having an infospike also meant having a great deal of unnecessary trivia stored in his head. “Why would anyone nickname a beech after it?”
“You will see, young master, as soon as you've met him,” the butler replied, leading them through a veritable sea of rhododendron shrubberies, sectioned into compartments by mature yew hedges. “Our Yggdrasil is no ordinary tree.”
The unquestionable truth of that statement became clear for them as they went down the Woodland walks, in the centre of which they finally found the immense tree. It did resemble a beech - the Faqus sylvatical, in fact - but it had an unusual form with a swollen trunk that measured a seven metre girth at grade and a ten metre girth at ten metre height, and a gnarled mass of branches.
“This may not be an ash tree,” Lloyd said quietly, “but it isn’t a beech, either. In fact, I seriously doubt that this tree is from Earth at all.”
“Indeed, he is not,” McTavish admitted. “Yggdrasil was sold to the Torchwood Institute as a sapling some two hundred and fifty years ago by alien space smugglers. He originates from the planet Cheem, where his kind is kept by the tree people like… like we keep pets, apparently. Accordin' to Sir Archibald, he’s about as intelligent as a dog or a horse, only that he cannot move away from this place, of course. Fortunately, he seems to like it here.”
“If he was originally planted by the Forest of Cheem, he must be aware of our presence,” Jenny said and McTavish nodded.
“He does that. Sir Archibald is his favourite, of course, but he also recognizes us and greets us… not in the presence of outsiders, though,” he looked at Jenny. “He will probably react to you, though. Lay your palm on his bark.”
After a moment of hesitation Jenny did as she’d been told - and nearly snatched her hand back as she could feel the faint tremors under the surprisingly smooth skin of the enormous tree, like a slow heartbeat. At the same moment thoughts flooded her mind, ancient and too alien even for somebody with Time Lord knowledge in her head, in a brilliant and confusing kaleidoscope, until they crystallized into a wordless greeting.
She returned the sentiment mutely, humbled and amazed by the friendliness of the ancient creature.
The elderly butler smiled at her. “He likes people who are different. I knew he would like you.”
“Are there any other alien plants in these gardens?” Lloyd asked, completely fascinated by the mere thought of it. The recently arranged alien greenhouse of Torchwood Cardiff was one thing, but having something as enormous as Yggdrasil under free sky was stunning, simply stunning.
“Let’s just say that not all these rhododendrons here are truly rhododendrons,” McTavish answered slowly. “Some of them ain’t even plants.”
“What are they then?” Lloyd asked, excited by the chance to meet new alien species; ones that weren’t trying to kill them for a change.
“People,” the butler said simply. “Let me show you somethin'.”
He led them back to the gardens, turning into a narrow path that led to a less frequented part of the area, with a shrubbery of white and orange rhododendrons almost hidden in a well-protected corner. There he pulled something resembling an ocarina out of his pocket and played a short, high-pitched melody.
Reacting to that, one of the shrubs unfolded itself and a slender, pale creature stared at them from huge dark eyes that were surrounded by a splash of dark spots like freckles, swaying gently in the light breeze.
It was vaguely humanoid with small, vertical slits where a human nose would be and with a thin, lipless mouth. Its head was shaped like a six-pointed star, framed with a short orange fringe that resembled that of corals. It released a trilling sound, not unlike the short melody the butler had played on his ocarina and half a dozen similar creatures unfolded themselves nearby.
“Fascinating!” Lloyd breathed. “I never imagined that non-green photosynthesizers could even survive on Earth!”
“Er… would you mind to explain what you mean, Doctor Lloyd?” Harris asked warily.
“There are theories stating that, although photosynthesis on Earth generally involves green plants, a variety of other-coloured plants could also support photosynthesis, which is essential for most life on Earth, and that other colours might be preferred in places that receive a different mix of stellar radiation than Earth,” Lloyd explained excitedly. “These studies indicate that, although blue photosynthetic plants would be less likely, yellow or red plants are plausible. It was never postulated that mostly white ones could exist, though."
“But these guys are people, not plants,” Stevie pointed out. “Mr. McTavish said so.”
“The two aren’t mutually exclusive,” Lloyd replied. “Theoretically, plant-based intelligent life-forms are possible. They just don’t naturally exist on Earth,” she looked at the butler. “They aren’t from Earth, are they? What are they?”
“We call them the Coral People, even though they ain’t livin’ in water,” McTavish said. “They crash-landed with theirs hip in the North Sea, near the Scottish coast, some sixty years ago. Torchwood Two used to have a proper team back then; they fished the ship out of the water - I’m told it was a right small one - and brought these fellows here. Sir Archibald’s family has been takin’ in alien fugitives since the foundation of Torchwood House.”
“Which is probably the reason why Glasgow was the only Torchwood branch where aliens weren’t killed at first sight; at least until Captain Harkness took over in 2000,” Adam added, the information popping up in his head, unasked-for.
“I thought Queen Victoria founded the Torchwood Institute to fight alien threats,” Stevie said uncertainly.
The butler shrugged. “Do they look like a threat to you? They cannae even walk around that much. Once they’ve found a place they like, they put down roots and stay there. They’re nocturnal, too; during the day they rest in this nice, shadowy place, but as soon as it’s dark, they wake up and start singin’.”
“Singing?” Lloyd echoed in surprise.
McTavish nodded. “It’s beautiful, too. Now, let me put them to sleep again; then we can continue the tour. There’s a lot worth seein’ I haven’t shown you yet.”
He played another short melody on his ocarina, and the bizarrely beautiful aliens folded themselves into shrug-like formations again. He then led the visitors back to the house to show them the gallery and the other sights tourists were usually interested in.
Following the old man at the rear of their little group, Lloyd began to suspect that there was more to Sir Archibald than Captain Harkness would give him credit for.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Ross Jenkins had known that already, of course. But even he was surprised by the depth and detail of knowledge Sir Archibald had about the Doctor in general and the forty-year-old events at Forgill Castle in particular. The others were completely baffled, too.
“Still, what can all this have to do with the secret UNIT lab that has been recently opened up there?” Owen asked, speaking out loud the question hat was ghosting in everybody’s head.
Sir Archibald shrugged. “I cannae say. Perhaps a lot. Perhaps nothing’. You wannae be able to tell until you’ve gone to Forgill Castle and taken a look.”
“We can’t go to Forgill Castle right away,” Trevor protested. “We have business to do at Torchwood House first.”
“That you do,” Sir Archibald agreed, clearly knowing more about the whole thing than the Cardiff team themselves. “If for nothin’ else then ‘cause you’ll be findin’ help at Torchwood House.”
“What kind of help?” Owen asked. “Is the new custodian trustworthy? Who is it anyway? The Palace was very tight-lipped about their identity; not even Prince William would tell Teaboy anything, and they usually get on quite amiably.”
“That is ‘cause Prince William isnae allowed to discuss it, either,” Sir Archibald said. “No-one but the Brigadier and Her Majesty can do so.”
“And you,” Jenkins added.
Sir Archibald nodded. “’Course I can, lad. Torchwood House is in my territory and is, as a result, my responsibility.”
“I thought you answered to Jonesy,” Trevor said, his tone just a tad hostile.
“I do,” Sir Archibald replied. “This is my way to tell him things: the only safe way don’ it in these days. You’ll have to tell him everythin’ you’re goin’ to see durin’ this trip. ‘Cause these are things Director Jones needs to know.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
CHAPTER 03 - A SHORT VISIT TO TORCHWOOD TWO
Two days after Ianto’s meeting with Colonel Mace a nondescript grey van, driven by Private Harris, turned into the parking lot of the Hub. Jenkins and Grey, also in civilian clothes, climbed out of the vehicle and looked around with interest… well, with slight trepidation in Stevie Grey’s case. Neither of them had ever been to the Torchwood Three Headquarters, and they knew this was as close as they would even get.
It was only half past seven, but part of the Torchwood Three team was already gathered around a leased van, fairly similar to their own. Jenkins recognised Captain Harkness - he’d have been hard to mistake for anyone else -, their young boss in his impeccable three-piece suit, and the bald-headed, bespectacled bloke who was their Number Two scientist. Trevor-something was his name, and he had to be an old pal of their boss, as he always called the Torchwood Director simply Jonesy.
No-one else did that, although they were all on first-name basis with each other, including Jones.
The tall, no-nonsense blonde with the ponytail, whom everyone called Lloyd, was an ex-SOCO and actually had a PhD - or several PhDs, Jenkins wasn’t entirely sure -, and the weasel-faced, ill-humoured bloke was the head doctor of the Torchwood team, Owen Harper. The sweet-faced, innocent-looking blonde girl in the oversized black leather jacket and the obviously troubled young man who seemed more skittish than Stevie Grey facing the colonel on a bad day were new, though. At least Jenkins had never seen them before, and he was the one with the most previous contact with the Torchwood gang.
They were introduced as Jenny Smith and Adam Mitchell, which didn’t tell Jenkins a thing. Mitchell had a slight Manchester accent, with some American smudge thrown into the mix, and the girl sounded very vaguely Scottish, but that wasn’t much help, either. He’d have to watch them carefully if he wanted to find out more.
With the introductions out of the way, it was decided that Dr Howard (the bespectacled scientist) and Dr Lloyd would ride with the Torchwood newbies, since Dr. Howard (“just call me Trevor”) had already been to Torchwood Glasgow before and knew the way. Dr. Harper was supposed to play the same role for the UNIT soldiers.
“We don’t use a GPS, as a rule,” Director Jones explained. “They can be tracked, and most of the times we can’t take that risk.”
“Especially not now,” Captain Harkness added grimly. “If Colonel Oduya catches us red-handed, sniffing around his top secret lab, being unfit for armed duty would be the least of your problems.”
There was something in his eyes, the reflection of something truly horrible that spoke about very unpleasant past experiences with the freshly minted commanding officer of UNIT’s British division but Jenkins knew better than to ask. Not yet anyway. Perhaps Dr. Jones would be able to tell something about it; she usually had a very similar reaction to Colonel Oduya’s name.
If he could get her to talk.
“So be careful and don’t dawdle,” Captain Harkness continued brusquely. “Get Maggie and her stuff to Archie, then go on to Torchwood House and do your jobs. From there you’ll be able to reach Forgill Castle and whatever else is there in a matter of hours.”
“And keep in touch,” Director Jones said. “Report in once a day. Use the satellite connection, but sparsely. We can’t know how safe it still is; not before you’ve checked out that secret lab… if there is one in the first place.”
“Yeah, yeah, don’t get your pants in a twist, Teaboy,” the Torchwood medic said impatiently. “We know what we’re doing.”
“I hope so,” his boss replied grimly - and was that the proper way to address one’s superior? Jenkins couldn’t see Stevie’s face but he was sure it would be grey with shock. “Otherwise we could count ourselves lucky when we only get killed.”
With those sobering parting words the two vans got on their way to Scotland.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The journey to Glasgow was long but not entirely unpleasant. Harris was a good driver and now that no authority figures were present, Stevie regained his composition, too. Soon he was engaged in some very excited conversation with the tall blonde named Lloyd about football and twentieth century B-movies, ignoring the sarcastic comments of Dr. Harper who appeared to despise both.
Jenkins didn’t know Glasgow very well but he did know Sir Archibald and had visited him before, so he wasn’t particularly surprised when the other van turned into Pollok Park in front of them. The jaws of the others, however, hit the ground simultaneously at the sight of the veritable mansion waiting for them - save that of Dr. Harper, of course.
“That is the headquarters of Torchwood Two?” Stevie started getting ash grey with shock again.
“That is Pollok House,” Jenkins corrected, “which serves both as the location of Torchwood Two and the private residence of Sir Archibald. It has been the property of the McAllisters since it was built in 1752; the family has owned the estate for about seven hundred years.”
“Impressive,” Lloyd judged, taking in the heraldic lions on the gate piers, the huge, semi-circular white staircase that led up to the main entrance of the house and the extensive gardens behind it. “Sir Archibald appears to interpret the idea of hiding in plain sight differently from both One and Three.”
Jenkins shrugged. “He is wealthy and eccentric, which is as good a disguise as any. The gallery on the ground floor is even open to the public on certain days - it is a large collection of Spanish paintings, including El Greco, Goya and Murillo - as well as the rhododendron gardens. Torchwood Two is situated downstairs, where once the servants’ quarters were.”
“Next to the gift shops,” Dr. Harper added, grinning. “I bet it drove Yvonne Hartman crazy.”
“But this is a huge mansion,” Lloyd said. “How does Sir Archibald manage it?”
“He doesn’t,” Jenkins replied. “The National Trust of Scotland does - which is why it has to be open to the public, at least partially. Still a clever solution, though; and the parts that are private or Torchwood are more secure than Fort Knox.”
He walked up to the ornamental entrance and rang the bell. Several minutes later a small, almost invisible side door opened and out looked a butler as if straight out from some historical drama, wearing a black jacked and black and white striped trousers, with a dress shirt and highly polished dress shoes.
Only that he didn’t really look like an actor. He was small and slightly bent, as people of earlier times had often been, and there was an air of… well, genuineness about him that made those who’d never visited Pollok House before wonder.
“Temporal displacement?” Adam familiar with the phenomenon from first-hand experience, asked in a low voice.
Jenkins nodded. “Edwardian era; an entire household showed up somehow in the middle of the Scottish highlands twenty or so years ago. The Brigadier found them, shocked out of their minds and without a clue how they’d got there, and since there was no way to bring them home to their own time, he entrusted them to Sir Archibald. It turned out a partnership made in heaven.”
He raised his voice ever so slightly as he turned to the elderly man. “Good morning, McTavish. How are things going?”
“Fine, Master Ross,” the butler, who had clearly known Jenkins since his toddler years, answered. “Come on in, Sir Archibald is waiting for you in the library. Jeeves will take your vehicle to the garage.”
“Thank you,” Jenkins said; then he added for the others. “Jeeves is Sir Archibald’s footman and yes, that’s his actual name. I kid you not. Now come, it would be rude to make Sir Archibald wait.”
Now that he was back in the surroundings he grew up with, his speech patterns changed ever so slightly, and a posh public school accent emerged. The butler nodded in approval and led them to a lift, cleverly camouflaged as a time-worn cupboard door.
The lift, too, appeared to be a relic from earlier times, but they soon spotted the surveillance camera cleverly hidden in the ornate ceiling lamp. The walls were covered with gold-embroidered brocade in a deep burgundy red, and there was an opaque glass surface next to the door, probably just part of the decoration, framed with copper. Like a small mirror, only that it didn’t seem to reflect anything.
Jenkins laid his palm on the opaque surface briefly and leaned closer to the bulkhead, as if looking for something in particular. A diaphragm opened in the wall, with a short beam shining right into his left eye, and the glass under his palm flashed green.
“Identity confirmed,” an artificial voice announced. “Please give destination.”
“Torchwood, main library,” Jenkins said and the lift smoothly began to sink.
Way too smoothly for such an apparent relic, in fact.
“Cool!” Stevie blurted out in open-mouthed awe. “Very Star Trek!”
“A lot better, actually,” Jenkins grinned with almost proprietary pride. “But if you want to compare it to campy sci-fi shows, Sanctuary would be a much better analogy.”
“Why?” Harris, a great fan of said show (and of Amanda Tapping, especially) asked with interest.
Jenkins laughed; they hadn’t seen him so carefree since before the Sontaran invasion. It was a nice sight.
“Wait until you’ve seen the library,” he replied, “Or Yggdrasil, for that matter.”
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
He refused to say more, but that wasn’t really a problem, as in the moment the lift stopped, opening its doors to the most amazing room any of them had ever seen outside of the library of the British Museum in London.
It was sparsely lit, presumably to protect the ancient, sensitive tomes that filled the floor-to-ceiling shelves made of dark, polished wood, which lined the walls so that its true dimensions could only be guessed rather than seen in detail. Here and there the homogenous wall of shelves was broken by narrow doors, leading to other rooms of unknown function, or tall windows that opened to the famous rhododendron gardens, though those were currently obscured by heavy, tobacco-coloured velvet curtains.
A long oakwood table with matching, high-backed chairs stood in the middle of the room, for those who wanted to read or probably for conferences as well. Further back, in front of a beautifully carved ancient fireplace with its holographic flames glowing gently in the semi-darkness, a coffee table was placed, with four large, comfortable leather armchairs around it. The required paraphernalia for high tea were already laid out on the onyx-plated table, including several three-tiered cake stands laden with dainty crust-less sandwiches and an array of very appetizing cakes and pastries at the sight of which their mouths began watering at once. It was definitely too early for tea, but it appeared that the master of the house held hospitality for more important than following tradition.
Speaking of the master of the house, he was now gracefully emerging from one of the overstuffed leather armchairs to welcome his visitors.
Sir Archibald McAllister, Torchwood Two’s famously eccentric leader, was not what one would have expected, given his reputation. To begin with, he was relatively young - in his mid-forties at best, Lloyd thought. Beyond that, he looked decidedly English, with a vague likeness to a younger Paul McCarthy, slightly longish hair that ended at his jaw-line and pale, almost watery blue eyes.
He did wear a kilt with the traditional jacket and belt pouch, but that was about the only thing he happened to have in common with his fierce ancestors from the highlands. It was a known fact (among Torchwood agents, at least) that he drove a convertible and was very fond of cats.
He also appeared genuinely delighted to see Jenkins.
“Ross, me lad!” he exclaimed, enveloping the younger man in a bear hug that made Jenkins groan in protest; he must have been stronger than he looked. A lot stronger. “It’s good to see ya again.”
“And you, Cousin Archie,” Jenkins replied when he could breathe again. “I’m here on business, though.”
“I know; Jack’s phoned,” Sir Archibald released him, held him at arm’s length and gave him a thorough glare, as if looking for any signs of illness or injury. “Would you mind introducin’ us first, though? Kermit here I know,” he gestured at Owen who made a rude gesture in response, “but not the others.”
“I am wounded, Sir Archibald, I really am,” Trevor Howard commented. “I distantly remember having met you before - in this very place, in fact.”
Sir Archibald stared at him with a frown; then he grinned. “Oh, aye, the techie from One; now I reckon. Sorry for that, lad; I only tend to mark me the rude ones spontaneously. Like Kermit.”
“Up yours, Archie,” Owen said amiably.
They all laughed, save for Stevie who was mortified by the manner in which the others treated a member of the peerage - not that the nobleman in question would mind it. In fact, he appeared to enjoy being treated like anyone else, no matter how blue his blood might have been. That certainly explained his fondness of Captain Harkness who never seemed to be impressed by titles and such.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
After the proper introductions had been made, Sir Archibald insisted on having tea with them, which was served by an elderly woman wearing a long black dress and a white apron. She, like the butler seemed out of time and was, in fact, his wife as well as Sir Archibald’s cook.
With the tea, served in a tea service that would make any museum envious, they were offered the sandwiches, cakes and pastries already waiting on the coffee table, and they made small talk, as Sir Archibald refused to discuss business during tea - apparently, he held some traditions sacred. His guests didn’t mind, though, as he was an excellent and most entertaining host full of hilarious anecdotes about people the others only knew from the celebrity news, and so they were having a grand old time.
Until Harris happened to snap his fingers in reaction to one of the anecdotes, that is. The sight of Adam’s brain through the automatically opening infospike killed the mood instantly. The UNIT soldiers, who hadn’t been briefed about it, turned distinctly green, although Sir Archibald himself remained completely unfazed.
He, too, was Torchwood, after all, and had seen his fair share of odd - or even horrifying - things in his time.
“I see the need to keep out of the public eye,” he commented. “Is that why Ianto’s sendin’ ya to Torchwood House? You ain’t quite human, are you? At least not from this century.”
“Actually, I am,” Adam snapped his fingers to close the interface. “But I made a trip with the Doctor in the far, far future and was stupid enough to have this infospike installed.”
“The Doctor was not impressed,” Trevor supplied grimly. “So he dumped him unceremoniously back in the time he came from, without bothering to remove the infospike first. Which, if you ask me, was bloody cruel, as well as irresponsible.”
“All right, I get it that you don’t like my Dad,” the young blonde that had been introduced to Sir Archibald as Jenny Smith groused. “But do you really have to be such a bloody git about him?”
Trevor gave him a look that was almost compassionate. Almost.
“Jenny, sweetheart, we all love you to pieces,” he said. “But let’s face it, no-one of us has any reason to like your Dad. 'Specially not those of us who’ve survived Canary Wharf. And if we want to be brutally honest, he left you behind, too, without bothering to check if you’re really dead. He might have saved the world occasionally, I give him that, but he never cared about the aftermath.”
Sir Archibald looked at Jenny with interest.
“I never met the Doctor personally, of course, but Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart was tellin’ tales about him all the time,” he said. “He never mentioned Time Lords havin’ children, though.”
“Well, they bloody well had to, or else they’d have become extinct a lot easier,” Owen commented. “Jenny here is the result of the Doctor’s encounter with a cloning machine, though.”
“A progenitor machine!” Jenny corrected in a slightly offended tone. “I’m not a clone! I’m my own person!”
Owen waved off her protests. “Whatever. Now, Archie, if you don’t mind, let’s get Maggie here settled, and then we can go down to business. This is not a social visit, as you know.”
Sir Archibald grinned. Unlike most people, he actually found the abrasive manners of Torchwood Three’s medic refreshing; for the same reason he liked Jack Harkness, too.
“I see your people skills haven’t improved much,” he said. “It’s a good thing that your patients are usually dead.”
He then turned to his new personal assistant, hired for him by Ianto. “Kermit is right, though. Yer rooms have been prepared, lass; Jeeves will show ya where they are. We’ll be meetin’ later in the afternoon and discuss things in detail.”
He rang and his time-displaced footman - dressed in the same style as the butler but at least a decade younger - came to show the young woman to her rooms. He waited for the door to close behind them, and then looked at Jenkins.
“Well, now that we’re among us, lad, what about tellin’ me why you and your pals are here? Yer not Torchwood, after all.”
“No,” Jenkins agreed. “Actually, we were sent by Colonel Mace. It seems that some new, top secret UNIT lab has been established at Forgill Castle, and what little we know about it makes both the Colonel and Captain Harkness worried.”
Sir Archibald became eerily still, the name of the place clearly having some significance for him.
“Forgill Castle, ya’re sayin’?” he then said. “Have ya asked yer godfather about it?”
“Of course,” Jenkins replied. “But he told me that he isn’t allowed to speak about what happened there, back in the 1970s, under the orders of the Brig. Which is why he sent me to you. Said you weren’t bound by the same orders.”
“It’s not that simple,” Sir Archibald said slowly. “I’m not UNIT, true, but I cannae just talk about it freely, either.”
“I was given the password and the authorization code,” Jenkins said.
“I see,” Sir Archibald thought about that for a moment. “I believe we better discuss this in private, lad: you, me, Kermit and the techie from One. McTavish can give the others a tour of the house and the gardens in the meantime.”
“And don’t forget to pay Yggdrasil a visit,” Jenkins added, grinning.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
“Who is Yggdrasil?” Jenny asked, a bit offended that she and Adam were ushered out into the extensive gardens, together with the two UNIT soldiers.
Granted, she wasn’t exactly Torchwood, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t trustworthy, was it? She made a mental note to complain by Captain Harkness about her treatment. The fact that Lloyd joined them voluntarily, even though she had been offered to remain with the other Torchwood people, didn’t placate her one bit.
“It is a nickname for the Pollok Park beech, which is thought to be two hundred and fifty years old,” McTavish explained.
“I thought Yggdrasil was an ash tree,” Private Harris commented.
“The one of Norse mythology certainly was,” Adam said; having an infospike also meant having a great deal of unnecessary trivia stored in his head. “Why would anyone nickname a beech after it?”
“You will see, young master, as soon as you've met him,” the butler replied, leading them through a veritable sea of rhododendron shrubberies, sectioned into compartments by mature yew hedges. “Our Yggdrasil is no ordinary tree.”
The unquestionable truth of that statement became clear for them as they went down the Woodland walks, in the centre of which they finally found the immense tree. It did resemble a beech - the Faqus sylvatical, in fact - but it had an unusual form with a swollen trunk that measured a seven metre girth at grade and a ten metre girth at ten metre height, and a gnarled mass of branches.
“This may not be an ash tree,” Lloyd said quietly, “but it isn’t a beech, either. In fact, I seriously doubt that this tree is from Earth at all.”
“Indeed, he is not,” McTavish admitted. “Yggdrasil was sold to the Torchwood Institute as a sapling some two hundred and fifty years ago by alien space smugglers. He originates from the planet Cheem, where his kind is kept by the tree people like… like we keep pets, apparently. Accordin' to Sir Archibald, he’s about as intelligent as a dog or a horse, only that he cannot move away from this place, of course. Fortunately, he seems to like it here.”
“If he was originally planted by the Forest of Cheem, he must be aware of our presence,” Jenny said and McTavish nodded.
“He does that. Sir Archibald is his favourite, of course, but he also recognizes us and greets us… not in the presence of outsiders, though,” he looked at Jenny. “He will probably react to you, though. Lay your palm on his bark.”
After a moment of hesitation Jenny did as she’d been told - and nearly snatched her hand back as she could feel the faint tremors under the surprisingly smooth skin of the enormous tree, like a slow heartbeat. At the same moment thoughts flooded her mind, ancient and too alien even for somebody with Time Lord knowledge in her head, in a brilliant and confusing kaleidoscope, until they crystallized into a wordless greeting.
She returned the sentiment mutely, humbled and amazed by the friendliness of the ancient creature.
The elderly butler smiled at her. “He likes people who are different. I knew he would like you.”
“Are there any other alien plants in these gardens?” Lloyd asked, completely fascinated by the mere thought of it. The recently arranged alien greenhouse of Torchwood Cardiff was one thing, but having something as enormous as Yggdrasil under free sky was stunning, simply stunning.
“Let’s just say that not all these rhododendrons here are truly rhododendrons,” McTavish answered slowly. “Some of them ain’t even plants.”
“What are they then?” Lloyd asked, excited by the chance to meet new alien species; ones that weren’t trying to kill them for a change.
“People,” the butler said simply. “Let me show you somethin'.”
He led them back to the gardens, turning into a narrow path that led to a less frequented part of the area, with a shrubbery of white and orange rhododendrons almost hidden in a well-protected corner. There he pulled something resembling an ocarina out of his pocket and played a short, high-pitched melody.
Reacting to that, one of the shrubs unfolded itself and a slender, pale creature stared at them from huge dark eyes that were surrounded by a splash of dark spots like freckles, swaying gently in the light breeze.
It was vaguely humanoid with small, vertical slits where a human nose would be and with a thin, lipless mouth. Its head was shaped like a six-pointed star, framed with a short orange fringe that resembled that of corals. It released a trilling sound, not unlike the short melody the butler had played on his ocarina and half a dozen similar creatures unfolded themselves nearby.
“Fascinating!” Lloyd breathed. “I never imagined that non-green photosynthesizers could even survive on Earth!”
“Er… would you mind to explain what you mean, Doctor Lloyd?” Harris asked warily.
“There are theories stating that, although photosynthesis on Earth generally involves green plants, a variety of other-coloured plants could also support photosynthesis, which is essential for most life on Earth, and that other colours might be preferred in places that receive a different mix of stellar radiation than Earth,” Lloyd explained excitedly. “These studies indicate that, although blue photosynthetic plants would be less likely, yellow or red plants are plausible. It was never postulated that mostly white ones could exist, though."
“But these guys are people, not plants,” Stevie pointed out. “Mr. McTavish said so.”
“The two aren’t mutually exclusive,” Lloyd replied. “Theoretically, plant-based intelligent life-forms are possible. They just don’t naturally exist on Earth,” she looked at the butler. “They aren’t from Earth, are they? What are they?”
“We call them the Coral People, even though they ain’t livin’ in water,” McTavish said. “They crash-landed with theirs hip in the North Sea, near the Scottish coast, some sixty years ago. Torchwood Two used to have a proper team back then; they fished the ship out of the water - I’m told it was a right small one - and brought these fellows here. Sir Archibald’s family has been takin’ in alien fugitives since the foundation of Torchwood House.”
“Which is probably the reason why Glasgow was the only Torchwood branch where aliens weren’t killed at first sight; at least until Captain Harkness took over in 2000,” Adam added, the information popping up in his head, unasked-for.
“I thought Queen Victoria founded the Torchwood Institute to fight alien threats,” Stevie said uncertainly.
The butler shrugged. “Do they look like a threat to you? They cannae even walk around that much. Once they’ve found a place they like, they put down roots and stay there. They’re nocturnal, too; during the day they rest in this nice, shadowy place, but as soon as it’s dark, they wake up and start singin’.”
“Singing?” Lloyd echoed in surprise.
McTavish nodded. “It’s beautiful, too. Now, let me put them to sleep again; then we can continue the tour. There’s a lot worth seein’ I haven’t shown you yet.”
He played another short melody on his ocarina, and the bizarrely beautiful aliens folded themselves into shrug-like formations again. He then led the visitors back to the house to show them the gallery and the other sights tourists were usually interested in.
Following the old man at the rear of their little group, Lloyd began to suspect that there was more to Sir Archibald than Captain Harkness would give him credit for.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Ross Jenkins had known that already, of course. But even he was surprised by the depth and detail of knowledge Sir Archibald had about the Doctor in general and the forty-year-old events at Forgill Castle in particular. The others were completely baffled, too.
“Still, what can all this have to do with the secret UNIT lab that has been recently opened up there?” Owen asked, speaking out loud the question hat was ghosting in everybody’s head.
Sir Archibald shrugged. “I cannae say. Perhaps a lot. Perhaps nothing’. You wannae be able to tell until you’ve gone to Forgill Castle and taken a look.”
“We can’t go to Forgill Castle right away,” Trevor protested. “We have business to do at Torchwood House first.”
“That you do,” Sir Archibald agreed, clearly knowing more about the whole thing than the Cardiff team themselves. “If for nothin’ else then ‘cause you’ll be findin’ help at Torchwood House.”
“What kind of help?” Owen asked. “Is the new custodian trustworthy? Who is it anyway? The Palace was very tight-lipped about their identity; not even Prince William would tell Teaboy anything, and they usually get on quite amiably.”
“That is ‘cause Prince William isnae allowed to discuss it, either,” Sir Archibald said. “No-one but the Brigadier and Her Majesty can do so.”
“And you,” Jenkins added.
Sir Archibald nodded. “’Course I can, lad. Torchwood House is in my territory and is, as a result, my responsibility.”
“I thought you answered to Jonesy,” Trevor said, his tone just a tad hostile.
“I do,” Sir Archibald replied. “This is my way to tell him things: the only safe way don’ it in these days. You’ll have to tell him everythin’ you’re goin’ to see durin’ this trip. ‘Cause these are things Director Jones needs to know.”