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tree_and_leafThe next installment. Not got to the plot, as yet, but several of our heroes get varying kinds of surprises. I have also just realised that the fic will need some sort of prologue. Curse my inability to plan!
I am not JK Rowling, Sidney Newnham or Verity Lambert, or the BBC. I'm also not Dorothy L Sayers, though one person paraphrases Peter Wimsey at one point. As ever, con-crit welcome.
Moody might, although on the whole it was unlikely, have been cheered to know that the Brigadier was also not enjoying the day. He had politely requested, a courtesy which fooled no-one, that the two suspicious characters wait in the temporary control room under Benton’s guard and the supervision of Liz and the Doctor (“Try and get something out of them”). Then he had gone to telephone London and Geneva about Moody and Dawlish. He couldn’t understand, though it was the least important part of the puzzle, why he had had such difficulty in picking up their names, it wasn’t like him.
When he got through to London, the M.o.D said cryptically that the two “were the Home Office’s pigeon, really, though the situation is a little complicated.” The Home Office had, after a curious pause, confirmed that Alastor Moody and John Dawlish worked for them, though they were not willing to say in what capacity, and instructed him to offer them every assistance. If he required further guidance, he could make an appointment to speak to the Cabinet Secretary or the Prime Minister, “But that won’t be necessary, I’m sure.”
“Their identification was most irregular,” said Lethbridge-Stewart, and hesitated. He did not, somehow, feel up to explaining the ‘psychic parchment’. The whole thing stank to high heaven, though not in a way he could explain without sounding like a lunatic. It was bad enough dealing with MI6, which was what ‘The MoD’ and no further details usually meant, but the possibility of aliens masquerading as MI6 was unpleasant. The thought of a still more shadowy government agency being involved was almost worse. The Brigadier had all the regular soldier’s distrust of spooks, for all he grudgingly admitted their necessity, and the rumours he had heard about some of Her Majesty’s Secret Servants since he had joined UNIT had not made him any less so. There was what sounded like a particularly unpleasant mob called Torchwood, for instance; he wasn’t sure exactly what they did, but what he’d heard had made him very keen that they not find out that there was any more to his senior scientific advisor than a mildly eccentric scientist who came surprisingly cheap.
“Irregular? I should damn well think so. They are most irregular” said the Home Office, with a touch more fellow feeling. “But they’re quite kosher. Don’t get on the wrong side of Moody, he’s an excellent field operative from what one hears, but he’s supposed to be getting rather paranoid. Occupational disease of working in security, of course.”
“I don’t suppose you could tell me what sort of security?”
“Ah, no, I’m afraid not, old chap. Classified. They aren’t Torchwood, though, if that’s what’s worrying you.”
“Thank heaven for small mercies” said Lethbridge-Stewart, and hung up. He’d keep the Prime Minister in reserve for later.
The duty officer at UNIT HQ in Geneva was no more informative, though in this case from a genuine lack of information.
“We’ve got them in the file, but they’re code 13, and you know what that means.”
“ ‘Render all assistance necessary; everything connected with them or the incident to be regarded as classified at the highest level.’ ”
“Quite so. Ask no questions and you’ll be tellt no lies, in fact.”
“Are you sure they aren’t Torchwood?”
“Who?”
The Brigadier sighed. It was not going to be a good day.
It was then that he remembered one Old Year’s Night many years ago, a conversation in the library of his father’s house after a few too many whiskies, and began to understand at least part of the puzzle. It didn’t help with the disappearances, but it was a lot better than nothing. And it would be amusing, if he was right, to see both this Moody and the Doctor’s reactions.
Lethbridge-Stewart smiled, and lifted the phone again.
**
“So what do you think you’re investigating?” Liz asked Moody.
“A string of disappearances. Isn’t that what you’re looking into?”
“Well, yes. But do you have any, um, particular lines of enquiry? Any theories?”
“I don’t have theories. I look for facts and draw conclusions. I keep my eyes open and my mouth shut unless strictly necessary.”
“I don’t think we should discuss this with – them” said Dawlish. Moody, who had been thinking something similar, found himself, out of pure contrariness, reconsidering.
“Don’t you think it would be beneficial to pool what we know?” the Doctor cut in. “If, that is, we’re on the same side.”
“I don’t know about sides” said Moody gruffly. “But I want to find the missing if they’re still alive, stop the disappearances, catch who-ever is responsible, and see that justice is done. And – listening, Dawlish? – I’ll work with who-ever I have to to do so.”
“But the Ministry –“ bleated Dawlish.
“The Ministry?” and “What Ministry are you talking about?” said the Doctor and Liz almost simultaneously, and both in a remarkably similar tone of voice. Moody groaned, and muttered something that sounded like “Constant vigilance… never bloody listen.”
“The other Ministry, would that be?” At that, everyone – including Benton, who had hitherto been trying to avoid looking as if he wanted to be involved in something that smelled of Politics, or worse – looked round, as the Brigadier strode into the room, swagger-stick tucked under one arm, and looking more cheerful than he had done all day.
“How the devil do you know about that?” said Moody, roughly.
The Brigadier smiled cheerfully. “Well, as a matter of fact, I didn’t know until you confirmed it, but I guessed after the odd conversations I had with Geneva and London, and then I remembered a very drunken conversation I had with one of my Macmillan cousins one Hogmanay. He would never talk about it afterwards, but I hadn’t had enough whisky to forget the very interesting things he told me about his son’s new boarding school, even if he went back to claiming that the boy was at Gordonstoun as soon as he realised what he’d said. So, as long as you assure me that you are wizards and don’t work for Torchwood, I suggest we get down to business.”
There was a long silence, which was broken by the Doctor saying, in an almost indignant tone of voice, “Wizards?” and Liz saying “Torchwood?”
“A quasi-autonomous government agency with an unpleasantly proprietary attitude to anything alien that crosses their path, Miss Shaw,” said the Brigadier smoothly, “and I suggest that both of you – are you listening Doctor? – stay as far away from them as possible. They are most definitely not nice to know.”
Dawlish, frowning, said “Aliens? You mean foreigners? What’s this got to do with immigration?”
“They can’t be Torchwood, sir, even that bunch of incompetents would have thought up a better cover story than that,” said Benton, who couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing, but was happy to be able to make a contribution.
“Yes, thank you, Benton,” said the Brigadier, tetchily.
“Magic?” said Liz “Have you all gone completely mad?”
“Accio Queen’s Regs” said Moody, and the book sailed across the room, narrowly missing Benton.
“Good Lord!”
“Oh, it’s perfectly simple,” said the Doctor, with an air of superiority. “Clearly we’re dealing with a genetic subgroup, possibly combined with some sort of spontaneous mutation process – or perhaps it’s a matter of recessive genes re-emerging – which convey some sort of simple telekinetic power when focused with mental discipline through an amplifier. It would also, I imagine, be quite conducive to the development of a semi-concealed parallel society, for reasons of self-preservation if nothing else… I suppose you could call it magic if you liked, but it’s nothing to get superstitious about.”
“You old hypocrite!” exclaimed Liz. Lethbridge-Stewart shot her a quick, sympathetic look. Dawlish looked rather dazed.
“Well, since the kneazel’s out of the bag, shall we do some work rather than regarding each other with mutual suspicion?” suggested Moody peremptorily. “Dawlish and I will put our wands on the table, and you, Brigadier, can ask that young man to stop pointing his firearm at us, and then I suggest we get a map out and catch our kidnapper.”
“Or kidnappers” said the Doctor, pedantically.
Lethbridge-Stewart sighed. “Right. Benton, get that big map pinned up, and then put a brew on.”
“Don’t worry about the tea” said Moody gruffly. “Camilliensis!” An incongruously dainty set of china teacups and a steaming samovar appeared on the table. “Nothing personal, but I never drink anything I haven’t prepared myself. You can’t be too careful,” he said into the sudden stillness. Only Dawlish – not surprisingly – did not look rattled; he was rolling his eyes in the manner of one subjected to the tiresomely familiar whims of higher authority. Benton, for the first time, felt some sort of fellow-feeling for the man.
“Simply a matter of telekinetic powers, eh?” said Liz, pointedly. The Doctor pretended he hadn't heard her.
**
I am not JK Rowling, Sidney Newnham or Verity Lambert, or the BBC. I'm also not Dorothy L Sayers, though one person paraphrases Peter Wimsey at one point. As ever, con-crit welcome.
Moody might, although on the whole it was unlikely, have been cheered to know that the Brigadier was also not enjoying the day. He had politely requested, a courtesy which fooled no-one, that the two suspicious characters wait in the temporary control room under Benton’s guard and the supervision of Liz and the Doctor (“Try and get something out of them”). Then he had gone to telephone London and Geneva about Moody and Dawlish. He couldn’t understand, though it was the least important part of the puzzle, why he had had such difficulty in picking up their names, it wasn’t like him.
When he got through to London, the M.o.D said cryptically that the two “were the Home Office’s pigeon, really, though the situation is a little complicated.” The Home Office had, after a curious pause, confirmed that Alastor Moody and John Dawlish worked for them, though they were not willing to say in what capacity, and instructed him to offer them every assistance. If he required further guidance, he could make an appointment to speak to the Cabinet Secretary or the Prime Minister, “But that won’t be necessary, I’m sure.”
“Their identification was most irregular,” said Lethbridge-Stewart, and hesitated. He did not, somehow, feel up to explaining the ‘psychic parchment’. The whole thing stank to high heaven, though not in a way he could explain without sounding like a lunatic. It was bad enough dealing with MI6, which was what ‘The MoD’ and no further details usually meant, but the possibility of aliens masquerading as MI6 was unpleasant. The thought of a still more shadowy government agency being involved was almost worse. The Brigadier had all the regular soldier’s distrust of spooks, for all he grudgingly admitted their necessity, and the rumours he had heard about some of Her Majesty’s Secret Servants since he had joined UNIT had not made him any less so. There was what sounded like a particularly unpleasant mob called Torchwood, for instance; he wasn’t sure exactly what they did, but what he’d heard had made him very keen that they not find out that there was any more to his senior scientific advisor than a mildly eccentric scientist who came surprisingly cheap.
“Irregular? I should damn well think so. They are most irregular” said the Home Office, with a touch more fellow feeling. “But they’re quite kosher. Don’t get on the wrong side of Moody, he’s an excellent field operative from what one hears, but he’s supposed to be getting rather paranoid. Occupational disease of working in security, of course.”
“I don’t suppose you could tell me what sort of security?”
“Ah, no, I’m afraid not, old chap. Classified. They aren’t Torchwood, though, if that’s what’s worrying you.”
“Thank heaven for small mercies” said Lethbridge-Stewart, and hung up. He’d keep the Prime Minister in reserve for later.
The duty officer at UNIT HQ in Geneva was no more informative, though in this case from a genuine lack of information.
“We’ve got them in the file, but they’re code 13, and you know what that means.”
“ ‘Render all assistance necessary; everything connected with them or the incident to be regarded as classified at the highest level.’ ”
“Quite so. Ask no questions and you’ll be tellt no lies, in fact.”
“Are you sure they aren’t Torchwood?”
“Who?”
The Brigadier sighed. It was not going to be a good day.
It was then that he remembered one Old Year’s Night many years ago, a conversation in the library of his father’s house after a few too many whiskies, and began to understand at least part of the puzzle. It didn’t help with the disappearances, but it was a lot better than nothing. And it would be amusing, if he was right, to see both this Moody and the Doctor’s reactions.
Lethbridge-Stewart smiled, and lifted the phone again.
**
“So what do you think you’re investigating?” Liz asked Moody.
“A string of disappearances. Isn’t that what you’re looking into?”
“Well, yes. But do you have any, um, particular lines of enquiry? Any theories?”
“I don’t have theories. I look for facts and draw conclusions. I keep my eyes open and my mouth shut unless strictly necessary.”
“I don’t think we should discuss this with – them” said Dawlish. Moody, who had been thinking something similar, found himself, out of pure contrariness, reconsidering.
“Don’t you think it would be beneficial to pool what we know?” the Doctor cut in. “If, that is, we’re on the same side.”
“I don’t know about sides” said Moody gruffly. “But I want to find the missing if they’re still alive, stop the disappearances, catch who-ever is responsible, and see that justice is done. And – listening, Dawlish? – I’ll work with who-ever I have to to do so.”
“But the Ministry –“ bleated Dawlish.
“The Ministry?” and “What Ministry are you talking about?” said the Doctor and Liz almost simultaneously, and both in a remarkably similar tone of voice. Moody groaned, and muttered something that sounded like “Constant vigilance… never bloody listen.”
“The other Ministry, would that be?” At that, everyone – including Benton, who had hitherto been trying to avoid looking as if he wanted to be involved in something that smelled of Politics, or worse – looked round, as the Brigadier strode into the room, swagger-stick tucked under one arm, and looking more cheerful than he had done all day.
“How the devil do you know about that?” said Moody, roughly.
The Brigadier smiled cheerfully. “Well, as a matter of fact, I didn’t know until you confirmed it, but I guessed after the odd conversations I had with Geneva and London, and then I remembered a very drunken conversation I had with one of my Macmillan cousins one Hogmanay. He would never talk about it afterwards, but I hadn’t had enough whisky to forget the very interesting things he told me about his son’s new boarding school, even if he went back to claiming that the boy was at Gordonstoun as soon as he realised what he’d said. So, as long as you assure me that you are wizards and don’t work for Torchwood, I suggest we get down to business.”
There was a long silence, which was broken by the Doctor saying, in an almost indignant tone of voice, “Wizards?” and Liz saying “Torchwood?”
“A quasi-autonomous government agency with an unpleasantly proprietary attitude to anything alien that crosses their path, Miss Shaw,” said the Brigadier smoothly, “and I suggest that both of you – are you listening Doctor? – stay as far away from them as possible. They are most definitely not nice to know.”
Dawlish, frowning, said “Aliens? You mean foreigners? What’s this got to do with immigration?”
“They can’t be Torchwood, sir, even that bunch of incompetents would have thought up a better cover story than that,” said Benton, who couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing, but was happy to be able to make a contribution.
“Yes, thank you, Benton,” said the Brigadier, tetchily.
“Magic?” said Liz “Have you all gone completely mad?”
“Accio Queen’s Regs” said Moody, and the book sailed across the room, narrowly missing Benton.
“Good Lord!”
“Oh, it’s perfectly simple,” said the Doctor, with an air of superiority. “Clearly we’re dealing with a genetic subgroup, possibly combined with some sort of spontaneous mutation process – or perhaps it’s a matter of recessive genes re-emerging – which convey some sort of simple telekinetic power when focused with mental discipline through an amplifier. It would also, I imagine, be quite conducive to the development of a semi-concealed parallel society, for reasons of self-preservation if nothing else… I suppose you could call it magic if you liked, but it’s nothing to get superstitious about.”
“You old hypocrite!” exclaimed Liz. Lethbridge-Stewart shot her a quick, sympathetic look. Dawlish looked rather dazed.
“Well, since the kneazel’s out of the bag, shall we do some work rather than regarding each other with mutual suspicion?” suggested Moody peremptorily. “Dawlish and I will put our wands on the table, and you, Brigadier, can ask that young man to stop pointing his firearm at us, and then I suggest we get a map out and catch our kidnapper.”
“Or kidnappers” said the Doctor, pedantically.
Lethbridge-Stewart sighed. “Right. Benton, get that big map pinned up, and then put a brew on.”
“Don’t worry about the tea” said Moody gruffly. “Camilliensis!” An incongruously dainty set of china teacups and a steaming samovar appeared on the table. “Nothing personal, but I never drink anything I haven’t prepared myself. You can’t be too careful,” he said into the sudden stillness. Only Dawlish – not surprisingly – did not look rattled; he was rolling his eyes in the manner of one subjected to the tiresomely familiar whims of higher authority. Benton, for the first time, felt some sort of fellow-feeling for the man.
“Simply a matter of telekinetic powers, eh?” said Liz, pointedly. The Doctor pretended he hadn't heard her.
**
(no subject)
Date: 2007-11-04 10:29 pm (UTC)