Human Rights 3
“Tyler, get in here!” was the bawled greeting that awaited Sam when he got back to the office. “Now!”
Sam went in to Gene’s room sullenly.
“Now tell me what the hell is going on,” Gene said before taking a swig from a hip flask. “Who’s that bloody yank?”
Sam shrugged, realising that he had not been acting like a police officer. He followed Jack Harkness because his instincts told him to, but he had failed to find answers to any of the questions he had. What was Torchwood? Who was Jack Harkness? Why was he interested in Jago Princep? And who exactly was Jago Princep?
“The bloody Super’s been down,” Gene continued. “He was preaching about how we have to help other organisations in their investigations. What the bloody hell is Torchwood?”
“All I know is that they deal in classified information, gov,” Sam said apologetically. “I know what organisations were working in the 1970s, so why have I never heard of them?”
“Classified bollocks,” Gene spat. “Go and see what you can find out, Sam. I don’t want bloody yanks interfering with proper police work.”
---
Sam had forgotten that he had banished Chris to the records room, but when he arrived there he was faced with a very grumpy DC sitting on the floor in the middle of several heaps of paper and cardboard files. “I don’t suppose you’ve had any luck with Princep then?” he asked half-heartedly.
“I haven’t found anything, gov,” Chris said. He threw another file sideways so that its contents almost spilled out and mingled with everything else.
“Well I hope you know how to put those back in order,” Sam said, horrified at the mess.
“Can’t we get one of the WPCs in to do that?”
“No, Chris, we can’t. You know what though?”
“What?”
“Women love a man who can tidy up, so I’d work on your skills.”
“Oh right, nice one!” Chris said, suddenly enthusiastic. Unfortunately his idea of tidying the mess he had created did not include sorting through the files and putting them into any sort of order, but Sam decided the DC’s further training in administrative duties could wait for a while.
Just as Sam was about to walk out, he turned back to Chris. “You haven’t seen anything about Torchwood while you’ve been going through files, have you?”
“Torchwood?” Chris repeated. “What’s that, a film studio?”
“Never mind,” Sam sighed. “What I wouldn’t give for a computer with a broadband connection right now...”
Just then, the was a sound in the doorway. “Why?” asked an unmistakable voice. Sam turned to see Jack Harkness leaning against the open door. “What are you trying to find?”
Sam and Jack looked at each other questioningly, before Chris piped up. “What are you talking about?”
Jack looked down at the inundated DC, whom he had not at first noticed. A smile crept across his face. “And who are you?”
“Er, I’m Chris Skelton... sir.”
“Nice to meet you, Chris Skelton,” Jack grinned.
---
“What are you doing back here?” Sam hissed when he and Jack were alone in the corridor, Chris having been locked in the records room with his filing to do.
“You sound like you’re not happy to see me,” Jack said. “And yet somehow I get the impression that you wanted to find out information about Torchwood.”
“Can you blame me? Noone here has heard of Torchwood, but you swan in like you own the place, asking questions and not giving any answers.”
“You sound a bit like your DCI,” Jack smirked, but then his expression became serious. “Look, I think we need to talk. Here’s the deal: you take me to the place where you found Jago Princep, and maybe I’ll answer some of your questions.”
Since he was hardly in a position to argue, Sam nodded reluctantly. He consoled himself that making a small concession like this would not give Jack too much ground, but it might make the world of difference to him.
---
Half and hour later, Sam found himself sitting inside the black Ford Cortina he had seen earlier. Whoever had been driving it then had disappeared, and he and Jack were alone. They pulled up with a screech of the tyres outside a boarded up brick building in a street on the edge of town.
“It was just through there,” Sam said, pointing at an alleyway.
Jack got out, and Sam followed, and soon they emerged from the alleyway into an open piece of ground with yellowish weeds growing up between patches of rubble. Sam knew it well: it was the place where he had woken up in 1973.
Jack strode forward, and seemed to be looking at his watch intently. But when Sam got closer, he could see that it was not a watch, but some sort of small machine built into a wrist strap. It was emitting a pulsing red light whose frequency was changing as Jack moved around. Then he stopped somewhere near the middle of the open ground.
“It was here,” Jack said, pointing down to indicate the spot where he was standing. “This is where you found him?”
Sam frowned. “How do you know that? What’s that thing you’re wearing?”
Jack was silent for a moment, but then he decisively closed the flap on his wrist strap. “I think it’s time we did some talking, Sam Tyler.”
****
Authorial Note: The other instalments of this story can be found by consulting my 'human rights' tag, just in case you missed any.
Sam went in to Gene’s room sullenly.
“Now tell me what the hell is going on,” Gene said before taking a swig from a hip flask. “Who’s that bloody yank?”
Sam shrugged, realising that he had not been acting like a police officer. He followed Jack Harkness because his instincts told him to, but he had failed to find answers to any of the questions he had. What was Torchwood? Who was Jack Harkness? Why was he interested in Jago Princep? And who exactly was Jago Princep?
“The bloody Super’s been down,” Gene continued. “He was preaching about how we have to help other organisations in their investigations. What the bloody hell is Torchwood?”
“All I know is that they deal in classified information, gov,” Sam said apologetically. “I know what organisations were working in the 1970s, so why have I never heard of them?”
“Classified bollocks,” Gene spat. “Go and see what you can find out, Sam. I don’t want bloody yanks interfering with proper police work.”
---
Sam had forgotten that he had banished Chris to the records room, but when he arrived there he was faced with a very grumpy DC sitting on the floor in the middle of several heaps of paper and cardboard files. “I don’t suppose you’ve had any luck with Princep then?” he asked half-heartedly.
“I haven’t found anything, gov,” Chris said. He threw another file sideways so that its contents almost spilled out and mingled with everything else.
“Well I hope you know how to put those back in order,” Sam said, horrified at the mess.
“Can’t we get one of the WPCs in to do that?”
“No, Chris, we can’t. You know what though?”
“What?”
“Women love a man who can tidy up, so I’d work on your skills.”
“Oh right, nice one!” Chris said, suddenly enthusiastic. Unfortunately his idea of tidying the mess he had created did not include sorting through the files and putting them into any sort of order, but Sam decided the DC’s further training in administrative duties could wait for a while.
Just as Sam was about to walk out, he turned back to Chris. “You haven’t seen anything about Torchwood while you’ve been going through files, have you?”
“Torchwood?” Chris repeated. “What’s that, a film studio?”
“Never mind,” Sam sighed. “What I wouldn’t give for a computer with a broadband connection right now...”
Just then, the was a sound in the doorway. “Why?” asked an unmistakable voice. Sam turned to see Jack Harkness leaning against the open door. “What are you trying to find?”
Sam and Jack looked at each other questioningly, before Chris piped up. “What are you talking about?”
Jack looked down at the inundated DC, whom he had not at first noticed. A smile crept across his face. “And who are you?”
“Er, I’m Chris Skelton... sir.”
“Nice to meet you, Chris Skelton,” Jack grinned.
---
“What are you doing back here?” Sam hissed when he and Jack were alone in the corridor, Chris having been locked in the records room with his filing to do.
“You sound like you’re not happy to see me,” Jack said. “And yet somehow I get the impression that you wanted to find out information about Torchwood.”
“Can you blame me? Noone here has heard of Torchwood, but you swan in like you own the place, asking questions and not giving any answers.”
“You sound a bit like your DCI,” Jack smirked, but then his expression became serious. “Look, I think we need to talk. Here’s the deal: you take me to the place where you found Jago Princep, and maybe I’ll answer some of your questions.”
Since he was hardly in a position to argue, Sam nodded reluctantly. He consoled himself that making a small concession like this would not give Jack too much ground, but it might make the world of difference to him.
---
Half and hour later, Sam found himself sitting inside the black Ford Cortina he had seen earlier. Whoever had been driving it then had disappeared, and he and Jack were alone. They pulled up with a screech of the tyres outside a boarded up brick building in a street on the edge of town.
“It was just through there,” Sam said, pointing at an alleyway.
Jack got out, and Sam followed, and soon they emerged from the alleyway into an open piece of ground with yellowish weeds growing up between patches of rubble. Sam knew it well: it was the place where he had woken up in 1973.
Jack strode forward, and seemed to be looking at his watch intently. But when Sam got closer, he could see that it was not a watch, but some sort of small machine built into a wrist strap. It was emitting a pulsing red light whose frequency was changing as Jack moved around. Then he stopped somewhere near the middle of the open ground.
“It was here,” Jack said, pointing down to indicate the spot where he was standing. “This is where you found him?”
Sam frowned. “How do you know that? What’s that thing you’re wearing?”
Jack was silent for a moment, but then he decisively closed the flap on his wrist strap. “I think it’s time we did some talking, Sam Tyler.”
****
Authorial Note: The other instalments of this story can be found by consulting my 'human rights' tag, just in case you missed any.