Nothing Else but Change
Chapter One
"Man ... cannot learn to forget, but hangs on the past: however far or fast he runs, that chain runs with him."
Friedrich Nietzsche
12th January 2000
Jack tripped over the trolley for the fourth time that morning, spilling coffee on his fingers, which made him jump and spill more coffee, scalding his thumb as well. Swearing loudly, since it wasn't like there was anyone here to care, he shoved the trolley out of the way and looked for somewhere to put his coffee down. Wendy's desk was still half-covered in paper, but he managed to find a clear patch to put the mug down on, fishing in his pocket for a handkerchief.
He really should take the trolley back. The local teens might be content to just shove these things in the Bay and have done with it, but Torchwood spent that much time fishing things out of the water, Jack figured he'd just end up with it back on his plate in a hundred years. For now, he stowed it closer to the wall so it wouldn't be between his office and the kitchen.
Slightly reluctantly, he'd taken up residence in Alex's office. It wasn't like anyone else was using it, and he needed the files and papers that were in there. He'd already reset most of the security codes and destroyed the old notes. Torchwood regulations stated that all codes should be in writing somewhere, just in case the person who'd set them should become compromised. It was a really stupid rule, for all kinds of reasons, not least that if another member of staff should become compromised, it made it far too easy for them to break into whatever they wanted. On the other hand, Torchwood's systems were all but unhackable, unless you were inside and you knew what you were doing, and if Alex hadn't left his list, Jack would have had to take the mainframes apart physically to get into the system.
Apart from moving the computer from the desk to give himself more space, Jack hadn't changed anything in the office. Alex's rugby pictures from university were still on the wall, and his golf clubs were still in the corner. Out in the main Hub, everyone's desks still had their papers on, and the little toy on Tom's monitor bounced madly every time a lorry drove overhead. Everything would need clearing out, filing away, tidying up. Jack needed to erase their existences, gather up their things and put them in storage. No one got away from Torchwood, not even in death.
He told himself that getting to grips with the paperwork - never his strongest point - was more important right at this moment, and buried himself in a report from 1956. Why hadn't Harry ever told him about the bee invasion?
Hours ticked past, punctuated only with trips to the kitchen to get some coffee and throw something in the microwave when he got hungry. There was no day or night down here, just the endless glow from the lights and the occasional hum of the air cooling system, keeping the temperature steady. On a whim, Jack went over and adjusted the temperature, taking it up a few notches so that he felt more comfortable in just his shirt. Rolling his sleeves up to his elbows, he put the bee report aside (seriously, who cared about bees?) and began another review of security procedures. Despite his current hermitage, he'd have to leave the Hub at some point, and he'd need to be able to make it secure while still being able to get back in himself.
"Maybe I could just leave a key under the mat," he muttered to himself, smiling a little ruefully before getting down to work.
He emerged from the Hub into darkness this time, three hours of numbers and letters and codes still dancing around in his head. It had been two days since he'd spoken to anyone besides himself, and longer since he'd had an actual conversation. As he adjusted his coat, something crackled in the pocket, and he fished out the receipt from Monday, unfolding it to look at the phone number scrawled there. It was definitely tempting. The kid had to be half Jack's apparent age, but it wasn't like Jack had made the first move.
Had he?
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Jack tried to focus. He remembered the supermarket, and he vaguely remembered paying for his shopping. Everything else was a blur. With reluctance, he crumpled the receipt into a ball and dropped it into the next bin he passed. Names were overrated, but he did like to remember the faces of the people he talked to. If he couldn't, then it probably wasn't a good plan to pursue that particular dance any further. He'd just get a drink, then go back to work. There were desks to clear and personal possessions to pack up, and he wanted a little Dutch courage to face that task.
As it was, he got through three glasses of water before he even touched his whiskey, and the first sip burned fiercely enough to surprise him. He was out of practice. The pub wasn't exactly his local, but he wasn't unknown here either, and the girl behind the bar had brought his glasses of water without comment. Taking another cautious sip, Jack closed his eyes and just savoured the taste for a long moment, remembering the bottle of Laphroaig that they'd bought Greg when he'd got engaged, and the way Alex had given a ten minute lecture on the differences between Talisker and Glenfarclas.
"Excuse me?"
The nervous voice brought Jack back to the present with a bump, and he almost dropped his glass. Glaring up at the man standing in front of his table, Jack opened his mouth to say exactly what he thought of people who startled strangers in pubs. Then he closed it again with a snap.
The man shifted a little. "Er, sorry. It's just. This is going to sound silly, but. Er. Do I know you?"
Yes. "No," Jack said, twisting his mouth into the best smile he could manage. "Not yet anyway." The words were half-instinct, half-wishful thinking, he knew, and there were wholly unwise. Not that that had ever stopped him before.
"Oh." There was disappointment on the man's - Ben's - face now. "I really thought, when I saw you with all these glasses of water? You reminded me of someone. Maybe."
"Are you sure?" Jack managed a genuine smile this time, getting over his initial panic.
"No." Snorting a little, Ben shrugged. He returned the smile, though, which was probably a good thing. "It sounds corny, but I lost big chunks of my memory a year or so ago. Sometimes I see things and don't know whether I remember them or not, so I end up making an idiot of myself. Better than not asking and missing out, I guess. Sorry to bother you."
This was a really, really bad idea. "You're welcome to join me," Jack said, stamping on the small part of him that was screaming in protest. "I mean, I might not be who you think I am, but it's not like I'm doing anything better." He gestured to the empty chair on the other side of the table. Torchwood had always claimed that Retcon was irreversible. Now was a perfect opportunity to test that.
Ben hesitated, indecision on his face. For a moment, Jack thought he'd been a little too quick with the offer and was actually going to scare the other man off. He was more relieved than he cared to admit when Ben finally nodded and sat down, putting his drink on the table. There was nothing really wrong with this, he lied to himself, finishing his water so quickly that he had to wipe a trickle from the corner of his mouth. He was just inviting someone else who was out on their own to share his table and maybe a few drinks. It was harmless, and possibly even a good deed.
Yeah, right, and tomorrow he was ordering flying goggles for the pigs.
If Ben noticed Jack's silent argument with himself, he showed no outward signs of it, drawing lines in the condensation on his pint glass. "Nice not to be the only one trying to drink my way under the table on a Wednesday night." He eyed the empty water glass next to Jack's whiskey. "Or are you just trying to drown?"
Laughing despite himself, Jack tipped his head to one side. "Let's just say I prefer to take my time about these things."
"Fair enough." It was so strange seeing Ben like this. Not that he hadn't liked to drink, it was just that he generally preferred clubs or bars to this traditional kind of pub, with its carpeted floor and dark wood trimmings. He had preferred them, Jack reminded himself. Damn, this had been a really bad idea.
"So," he said, taking a long slug of whiskey just to feel it burn, "amnesia, huh? What happened?"
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you." When Jack just raised an eyebrow, Ben shook his head and drained his pint. "Another?"
"I'm good, thanks." Jack watched Ben carefully as he went over to the bar. His steps were still steady and he didn't sound drunk yet. He always could hold his alcohol. But he was thinner than Jack remembered, sharper at the edges, and when he came back, Jack could see that his eyes had dark circles under them. "Tell me about the amnesia," Jack said softly, shrugging when Ben glanced up. "I didn't invite you to join me just because you improve the scenery."
That got him a short laugh before some of the hauntedness returned to Ben's face. "What is there to tell?" Another laugh. "I don't remember most of it."
"What happened?" Jack asked, more urgently than he'd meant to.
"Blow to the head," Ben said simply. "I used to be in the police. Can you believe it? Me?" He held out a hand, palm down, and Jack could see it shaking. "Special Branch. We were on a raid or something, and the next thing I know, I'm waking up in a gutter with no idea where I am or even what my name is. Ben Powell, sorry." He turned his hand in a belated introduction, and Jack shook it.
"Jeff Harris." Lying to a man who hadn't even known his own name was probably a bad thing to do, but Jack couldn't take the risk.
"Anyway," Ben said, going back to his drink and his story, "someone picked me up, took me to the hospital, where they told me I was Benjamin Powell, although they had to take my fingerprints to figure that much out. Apparently I'd been working for Special Branch for four years, but no one could tell me where, what, why or how. They did find a hell of a lump on my skull though, so they think that must have caused the amnesia."
There were about a hundred questions that came easily to Jack's lips, so he made himself take another stinging mouthful of his drink before saying, "That sucks."
"No kidding." Dropping his head, Ben ran his fingers round the rim of his pint glass. "I get disability, a pension from the police although no one there will even speak to me or tell me what I used to do."
"So what do you do now?" A closer examination was telling Jack that things like shaving and clothes shopping weren't really on Ben's list any more. And that stung almost as much as his drink.
"Hang around." Ben shrugged, half-draining his drink. "Pick up work when I can. They're doing plenty of building down by the Bay right now, so there's usually something going down there. You know. Stuff." He looked away, towards the window, his eyes wide and clear for the first time. "Try to remember."
Jack probably shouldn't ask, but this was more than just idle curiosity now. "How much do you remember?"
There was a long silence. Ben didn't move, keeping his gaze on the window for so long that Jack thought he hadn't heard the question. Then he blinked, slowly, and said, "I remember my parents, stuff from when I was a kid. I remember going to their funerals, and my sister's." He blinked again, turning towards Jack. "There's some stuff from college, but nothing after that. I don't know where I worked, I don't know who I knew, I don't remember anything about what I was doing for the past four years."
"You thought you remembered me," Jack said softly, not looking away from that steady stare.
Ben shook his head. "I do that a lot. The doctors said my brain would play tricks on me, trying to construct memories out of nothing to fill the holes. Mostly I end up scaring people in the street." He snorted again, that almost-laughter tearing right through Jack. "Pathetic."
"I'm sorry." Judging by the look on Ben's face, the words sounded as useless as they'd felt in Jack's mouth.
"Yeah." Ben drained the rest of his drink in three long gulps, then dropped the glass back onto the table. "Everyone's sorry." There was so much bitterness in the words that Jack had to finish his own drink to stop himself saying something stupid. Every time he blinked, all he could see were the bodies of his team lying around the Hub, and the scent of the whisky was smokey, mixing with gunpowder and the metal-strong smell of blood. He took a long gulp, fighting back the anger. Everyone else was dead and Ben was here with most of his life missing. It wasn't fair on someone, he just wasn't sure who.
When he could trust himself, he said, "At least you're alive. Whatever hit you could have killed you."
"You think this is better?" Spreading his hands in a helpless gesture, Ben almost jumped out of his chair when Jack grabbed his wrist, slamming it onto the table.
"Yes," he hissed, feeling the last of his self-control snapping, "yes, this is better. You're alive. That's better than the alternatives."
Now he was over his initial shock, Ben met Jack's eyes without flinching. "Do you really believe that, Jeff?"
Swallowing hard, Jack relaxed his grip, sitting back on his own seat and letting the moment of anger pass. He took another moment to get himself back under control, getting himself ready to lie. Once he could trust his face to show only what he wanted it to, he looked back over at Ben, who was watching him intently.
"Yes," Jack said simply. "Yes, this is better than the alternatives."
For a moment, he thought he was going to have an argument on his hands, then Ben sagged a little, hunching over his glass again. "I guess," he muttered, the fight apparently having gone out of him. "It just doesn't feel like that sometimes, you know?"
Still not entirely trusting himself, Jack just nodded. "I know." He made a show of looking at his watch, getting to his feet and pulling his coat on. "It was nice to meet you, Ben," he said, hearing his voice rasp more than it should. "I hope things get better for you soon."
Ben nodded. "Thanks for, you know. Not thinking I was a nutter or something."
"Sure." Jack stuffed his hands in his pockets as he left, resisting the urge to pull Ben into a hug or even just squeeze his shoulder. That was probably way over the line for a guy he'd just met in a pub. It wasn't until he was out on the street that he let some of the anger out of its box, the desperate grief flooding over him faster than he'd expected and leaving him shaking. He strode back to the Hub blindly, his mind full of red mist that didn't clear until he was back inside the newsagents, safe and home where no one would care if he took the time to have a small breakdown.
Of course, by that point, he'd walked off the worst of the fury, and was left with the emptiness again, the hollow feeling that had grown since he'd buried his team more than a week ago. He'd lost them to one man's fear and madness; they'd all lost Ben before that, and it had nearly torn the team apart.
Slowly, Jack climbed the stairs down to the Hub, hearing the arguments in the rattle of each metal step. Alex had been adamant that Ben had to be Retconned, that he couldn't be allowed to just walk away from Torchwood, knowing what he knew. The others had disagreed, still too lost in their own grief to think things through properly. It had been Jack who'd had the clear head, Jack who'd tracked Ben down to the dingy bar on the other side of town, Jack who'd bought him his next drink and dropped the palmed Retcon into it. Half a pint and four years of Ben's life, gone in ten minutes.
It had also been Jack's idea to leave Ben in an alleyway with a nasty blow to the head and no identifying documents. He hadn't told Alex about that, any more than he'd asked permission to go ahead with the Retcon in the first place, and not just because it was easier to ask forgiveness than permission. There were some burdens that even Alex shouldn't have to carry. Jack could handle them. He always handled them.
Down in Alex's - Jack's - office, he went through the filing cabinet, looking for one personnel file among the hundreds. When he found it, he put it carefully on his desk, then went to pour himself another drink. He hadn't had two in a row since VE day, but it wasn't like there was anyone here to notice.
Sitting down, he opened the file at the first page.
Jessica Richenberg. 1972-1998. Killed in the line of duty. Next of kin: Benjamin Powell, husband.
14th January 2000
Jack was in the kitchen when the phone rang, and as he made a mad dash for his office, he sent the trolley rattling across the floor of the Hub again. He heard it splash into the water as he grabbed the receiver. They really needed cordless phones in this place.
"Hello?"
"Captain Harkness?" The voice on the other end was clipped, brusque. The speaker was also the only person he knew who could make his rank sound like an insult.
"Nice to hear from you, Yvonne. Oh, and lovely flowers you sent to the funeral by the way."
As usual, the jibe went right over Yvonne's head, or at least bounced off her patented ice-queen armour. "It's been a fortnight, Jack. We need Three back on the grid."
"What does that even mean?"
"Torchwood Three is in Cardiff for a reason, Harkness, and if you are not going to take on its responsibilities then I will send someone who will."
Jack grinned. He liked Yvonne. At least he always knew where he stood with her. "Don't get ahead of yourself, Director." The promotion was pretty recent, and Jack wanted to make it clear how unimpressed he was by titles. "We're not just a field branch here, you know."
"We?" Yvonne's voice dripped with sarcasm. "As far as I am aware, Captain, you are currently the only member of staff at Torchwood Three. If that situation has changed-"
"It hasn't," Jack said flatly, glaring at the wall. "Just me and the ghosts down here at the moment."
"I'm sure you have plenty of those to keep you company."
Apparently Yvonne was playing hardball today. That promotion really had gone to her head. "What do you want, Yvonne?" he asked, tired of this game for now.
"I want you to reply to our emails. I want you to do your job."
"Funny, I don't think what I do with this job is any of your business." In this, at least, Jack was on firm ground. "Each Torchwood Institute is independent of the others, which means, Director, you have no authority here. If you're nice, I'll let you come around and play every now and then."
"Don't be an idiot, Harkness. You're on your own, you have no team and a city sitting on a Rift in space-time. Do you really think you can handle everything by yourself?"
Jack answered quickly, before he could let the truth in what she was saying reach his brain. "Wouldn't be the first time. And don't worry, Yvonne. You're on my speed dial." He hung up, keeping his hand on the receiver for a moment and trying think. Of course, what he was really doing, he knew, was trying not to think, but sometimes that took more effort than thinking did. It was probably true that he needed help, and it was definitely true that the Hub was too big for him to run on his own long-term. Neither of those things meant that he had to do something just yet. He'd give it another few weeks, get January over with, get a bit of distance, then he'd start recruiting.
As though it had heard him, the Rift alarm chose that moment to start wailing like a banshee.
He kept his hands firmly over his ears as he went out into the Hub, promising himself that one day, he was going to get the volume turned down from 'ear-splitting' to 'attention-grabbing'. Wincing against the noise, he took one hand away from his head long enough to turn the audible alarms off, although all the Rift monitor lights were still flashing on and off at apparently random intervals. Grabbing the nearest computer, he started tracking the readings, following the time-spikes back to their point of origin.
"Okay, so that makes no sense whatsoever." There were spikes right across the board, but as far as he could tell, the Rift had only actually opened in one place.
Here.
Jack just about had time to see the rest of the alarms come on at the same time and the massive spike on the screen before everything around him exploded in an unbearable flash of light. For a horrible moment, he thought the Rift had opened completely, which he knew had to be a Bad Thing, and he tried to get to the computer, see what was happening. Then the second wave swept over him with enough pressure that he thought his eyeballs were going to burst.
Throwing his arm over his face was a largely useless gesture, but it at least cushioned his head as he fell to the ground, wanting to scream but not able to draw enough breath for even a groan. The explosion was fire and ice in his mind, then in every cell of his body, flaring and blossoming into unbearable pain before dropping back into merciful darkness.