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Where the thing’s eyes should have been, there was a pulse of dull yellow.

The three men threw themselves sideways into Davey’s yard as a roaring cone of heat rushed down the narrow lane and demolished two outhouses and part of a wall.

Small lumps of brick and fine grit sprinkled down.

Owen rolled over and inched himself backwards until he was leaning against the yard wall. ‘That’s twice that’s happened to me,’ he said. ‘I’ve decided not to risk a third try.’

James looked at Jack. ‘You know what it is, don’t you? You’ve got that look.’

‘I’m pretty sure I know it. I’ve seen pictures.’

‘Pictures?’

Jack crawled back to the gateway and took a quick look out. The thing was walking away down the back lane slowly.

Jack ducked back in. ‘It’s Melkene tech. A Serial G, I think. Yeah, Serial G. I’m sure of it.’

‘Go on.’

‘What can I tell you? The Melkene were a pretty advanced race. Particularly good at manufacturing artificials, or what Owen would call robots.’

‘That thing’s a robot?’ asked Owen.

‘It’s a soldier,’ said Jack. ‘About five hundred years ago, the Melkene found themselves in a hot war with a rival species. They were losing. Their soldiers — all artificials — were too predictable. They lacked, how can I put it? Uh, the balls for serious warfare. Just point-and-shoot mechanicals, with no killer instinct, no passion.’

‘So?’ asked James, fairly sure he wasn’t going to like the rest of the story.

‘So they manufactured the Serial G. Removed all the logic inhibitors and algorithmic compassion restraints they had traditionally equipped their artificials with. The sort of fundamental safeguards any advanced civilisation with a conscience would have insisted on installing in their artificials. The Melkene were desperate. Their backs were against the wall. They gave the Serial G ungoverned sentience, a ruthless streak and absolutely no compunction whatsoever about committing atrocities. The build remit was: whatever it takes, no matter how cruel or abominable, these things must be capable of doing it, in the name of victory. Put simply, in order to win their war, the Melkene created your basic… regiment of psychotic, homicidal artificials.’

‘They deliberately made mad killer robots?’ Owen asked.

‘Well, that’s a huge oversimplification,’ said Jack.

‘But essentially on the money?’ asked James.

Jack nodded. ‘Yup. They deliberately made mad killer robots.’

The three of them sat there in silence for a moment.

‘Sometimes,’ said Owen, reflectively, ‘you have to wonder why you ever turn up for work, don’t you?’

‘How did things go for the Melkene, Jack?’ James asked.

‘Oh, they won.’

‘Well, that’s nice for them.’

‘Not so much. There was a huge outcry in the Galactic Community. Outrage at what the Melkene had done. In remorse, the Melkene decided to recall the Serial G units. The Melkene were extinct about, oh, six weeks later.’

‘I’ve seen this film,’ said Owen.

‘God, I wish it was a film,’ said Jack. ‘Because of their ungoverned sentience, the Serial Gs were judged responsible for their actions. They were impeached on about 16,000 counts of war crime and genocide. They scattered and went to ground.’

‘And one’s walking about here?’ asked James.

‘Yes it is.’

‘In Cathays, on a Thursday?’

‘Seems so.’

‘A genocidal robot war criminal?’ asked James.

‘That’s also completely bullet-proof?’ asked Owen.

Jack looked at them both. ‘Repetition’s good, but, guys, we’ve got all the facts together now, right?’

James nodded. ‘Things are as bad as they look.’

‘Oh, God, no,’ said Jack. ‘Things are much worse than they look, my friend.’ He held up the heavy service revolver clenched in his hand. ‘You know what this is?’ he asked.

‘Uh, no?’ Owen replied.

‘Absolutely useless, is what it is,’ answered Jack, putting the gun away. He got up and hurried to the gate, head down. ‘It’s gone,’ he reported. ‘It’s moving.’

‘What do we do?’ asked James.

‘Not much,’ said Jack. ‘We follow it. See where it’s headed. Try to keep it contained away from population centres. Think hard and pray for miracles.’

‘It’s probably heading back to my shed.’

They looked around. Davey Morgan stood outside his ruined backdoor, gazing at them. Toshiko hovered behind him.

‘What did you say, sir?’ asked Jack.

‘Yank, are you?’ asked Davey.

‘Kinda,’ admitted Jack.

‘Got to know a lot of your sort, back then,’ said Davey. ‘Good old boys. Tough as old boots, they were.’

‘Thanks,’ said Jack. ‘What were you saying about a shed?’

‘Mr Morgan has been talking with the machine,’ said Toshiko gently. ‘They have an understanding, of sorts.’

‘Old soldiers together,’ said Davey.

‘Is that right?’ asked Jack, walking over.

‘I tried to make Mr Morgan wait out front,’ whispered Toshiko to Jack. ‘He wouldn’t be moved.’

‘You could have smacked him silly and dragged him,’ Jack whispered back.

‘Yes, I could have, but I’m a nice person,’ whispered Toshiko.

Davey Morgan looked at them both. ‘It’s not polite to whisper,’ he said.

‘No, it’s not,’ said Jack, turning to him. ‘Mr Morgan, wasn’t it?’

‘Davey.’

‘OK, Davey. I’m Cap’n Jack Harkness. Tell me about this shed.’

‘It’s up on my plot,’ said Davey. ‘On the allotments, I mean. I kept your smart weapon there after I dug it up. I think it likes it there.’

‘Where is this shed exactly?’ asked Jack.

‘I’ll show you,’ Davey said. ‘Hang on a mo.’ He turned, and limped back into the kitchen.

‘Does he realise there’s some degree of urgency?’ Jack asked Toshiko.

‘He can help us, Jack,’ Toshiko insisted.

Jack pursed his lips. He pulled out his phone and tried to dial. Dead.

‘We’re still inside that thing’s jamming range,’ he said. ‘Serial Gs are fitted with a comprehensive suite of communication counter-measures.’ He tossed his phone to Owen. ‘Take that, and get walking. I don’t care how far you have to go. As soon as you’ve got a signal, call Ianto and tell him to go to the Armoury, book out catalogue item nine-eight-one, and bring it here as fast as is humanly possibly. Got that?’

‘Armoury. Nine-eight-one. Right,’ said Owen, and hurried off through the house.

Davey re-emerged from the kitchen, a cap on his head. He was buttoning up a threadbare jacket. ‘Off we go, then,’ he said. ‘I just had to get my digging jacket.’

‘Well of course you did,’ said Jack.

Davey Morgan led the way down the back lane behind the houses to the allotment path. Jack, James and Toshiko followed him. It was slow going. Davey had a pronounced limp that was obviously troubling him.

The sky had blackened. The sporadic rain had turned into a shower, and worse was undoubtedly coming. The wind had picked up. Choirs of alarms were singing across the backyards, punctuated by the whoop of a police klaxon.

‘Gwen’s dealing with the police,’ Toshiko told Jack. ‘She’s keeping them back, clearing people from the houses here.’

Jack nodded.

‘A lot of them don’t want to go,’ Toshiko added. ‘A lot of them want to see what’s going on.’

‘They’ll die then,’ said Jack.

‘I suppose they might,’ said Toshiko. ‘Let’s hope the police are persuasive.’

‘Yeah, let’s hope.’

‘Jack?’ asked James.

‘Yeah?’

‘What’s catalogue item nine-eight-one?’