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Story: Faithful
Author: Love! Slash! Angst!![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
loveslashangst
Beta: the pitbull-on-the-arseophymirage
Characters: Ianto Jones, Captain Jack Harkness, Gwen Cooper, Captain John Hart, Rhys Williams, Janet the Weevil, & a cast of (literally) thousands.
Rated: Adult for implied slash, canon bisexuality, mature content, language, Weevil cultural studies, and lots and lots of sex (various pairings and kinds)
Disclaimer: I don't own 'em, 'cause if I did, Torchwood 3 would be a much more crack-tastic place.
Spoilers: If you haven't seen the first two series of Torchwood, you WILL be spoilered. I like to mess with canon, especially when it pisses me off.
Summary: AU. OT3 ZOMG Jack/John Hart/Ianto. Captain Hart is back in town. The Weevils are acting weird. It might be the end of the world. Let the crack-tastic smut ensue.
Okay, so here's the dealio...
RL stuff is going well. Lots and lots of appreciation and mad squoobles for all those who wished me well. It’s been very gratifying to have so many new faces on my pages, and to have a few new FAITHFUL fans come out of the woodwork.
So, the bad news is that I didn’t win the CoT awards. (I can’t say I’m completely surprised, as I’m still one of the new kids in town.) BUT! The good news is that I’m very happy with what I have written, what I am writing, and the fen who’ve shown their appreciation again and again, even when I’m pants at thank-yous.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: O and I do a LOT of world-building. One of our fave pastimes is talking out the hows and whys of this crack!tastic AU we’re building. And undoubtedly the crack!-iest part of the crack!tastic world are the Weevils.
So with that in mind, on with the show...
“Who can I turn to,
When nobody needs me?
My heart wants to know
And so I must go
Where destiny leads me.”
“With no star
To guide me
And no one beside me
I’ll go on my way
And after the day
The darkness will hide me.”
“And maybe tomorrow
I’ll find what I’m after
I’ll throw off my sorrow,
Beg, steal, or borrow
My share of laughter...”
“But who can I turn to
If you turn away?”
(Leslie Bricusse & Anthony Newley, from THE ROAR OF THE GREASEPAINT, THE SMELL OF THE CROWD, 1964)
(In which the Kapo gets a new name, John gets a new ally, Jack gets the run-around, Ianto gets the reference, and Gwen gets the double-entendre.)
After an hours-long dialogue with “Janet”, the Kapo is now positive that the beautiful heretic next door is as mad as the humans she claims as “friends”. (Strange concept, that.) Arguing with her about the place of Weevils in the universe seems pointless, as she is as dedicated to her vision of the future of their people as any zealot. She will not be swayed from her lunatic credo that Weevils are destined to find a world of their own. He can only pray that she will escape before the inevitable befalls her.
If the Cythraul were to hear even the slightest hint of this, all of them would be...
He’d rather not think about it.
The humans come in as a group, led by the Little Fierce One. Though he lacks his pretty red coat, he still carries himself like a worthy adversary. He survived hand-to-hand combat with a Kapo, and shrugged off wounds that would be mortal to a lesser male. The Kapo can speak to this human, for he has honour.
The Kapo stands, ignoring the nagging pain of his wounds.
“Ohai,” he says formally.
“Ohai U,” the Little Fierce One replies, much to the Kapo’s relief. (Humans tend to be unpredictable; it’s reassuring to find this one has decided they are on speaking terms.)
Heretic Janet hums encouragement, though he pointedly ignores her when she mentions the homeworld prophecy again.
For the past few hours, he’s been gathering the words he needs. Yet it seems so impossible. Weevils serve. Weevils fight. Weevils die. They do not demand, they obey. And much as he would love to please the pretty heretic in the cell next door, Weevils do NOT now, nor will they ever, have a homeworld.
The Little Fierce One rocks onto the balls of his feet, as if he too would rather fight than talk (an honorable impulse).
“U hrt nao?” he asks Little Fierce One. More a courtesy than anything, as it’s obvious the human has regrown his arm, but his captor’s reaction will tell him more about where he stands with this odd creature who is Overlord-and-yet-not.
Little Fierce One bares his teeth. The Kapo snarls in return, but he doesn’t flinch, nor does he retreat from the glass.
“U hrt myi guud.” The human demonstrates his now-healed arm. Wiggles the blunt-ended fingers. “Btr nao.”
The Well-Dressed One (who Heretic Janet claims is much more dangerous than he appears) prods Little Fierce One and says something in the human babble of this time.
A brief verbal scuffle ensues. Man in the Swishy Coat appears all but useless. (That Heretic Janet favours him at all is an unfortunate indication of how mad she’s gone, poor thing.) Little Fierce One shrugs eventually and releases a golden cloud from a subdermal panel in his arm.
Nanogenes. He snarls. Backs away from the wall. Hits the button to activate his personal shield. Nothing. Little Fierce One’s concussion weapon has rendered him helpless for at least a few more hours. No way out. He roars defiance as the nanogenes seep through the chinks in his armoured skin.
And then, the pain subsides. The burns heal. The lacerations close. His suit’s still a lost cause, but he can now walk without the limp. Amazing.
“Y U hel?” Perhaps it’s foolish to question his good fortune, but he can’t figure out these strange humans. Why hunt him one minute and heal him the next?
“I maak trtyi.” Little Fierce One recalls his tech to its place in his subdermals. “Wyi hel U, U no keel, ja?”
Too soon. Too quickly. If these were Cythraul, he would be as good as napped to question them again, but humans appear to have a different way of working. (Heretic Janet may not be so mad as he’d thought.)
“Y U hel?” he asks, more carefully this time. “I no taak nap 4 U.”
“Taak nap wut?” Little Fierce One asks, annoyed.
So he finds himself explaining the simplest of traditions. Only a handful of males are required to propagate his species. Most breeding males are Kapos, but every so often a clever Cull will survive childhood. Some sneak a stud or two, but when rations are low on the longer voyages, it’s only reasonable (and civilized) for a useless male to sacrifice himself so the females may live and fight. Even a Kapo makes better fodder than the females, for to kill them is to kill the species. Long voyages are deadly dull and cramped. Weevils sleep. Limit their movements. Conserve what few resources they have. (Chief of which is poo.) Often, there isn’t enough nutritious poo to go around. Then, whatever males survive (starting with the Culls) “take a nap” from which they never wake, and the survivors can eat again.
And he can’t help the contemptuous look at the Big-Eyed One. Heretic Janet claims this female is now all alone with all these males, selfishly keeping them for herself instead of sharing with her sisters and cousins and female relatives. (It’s a wonder no one has challenged her, though Heretic Janet suspects she ate the other human females who dared try to cohabitate.)
Man in the Swishy Coat questions him in the silly babbling tongue of this time. Not comprehensible speech at all. And spoken too quickly.
He snarls and charges forward. He has no use for cowardly Culls.
Man in the Swishy Coat backs up a pace or two, though he postures for the other males as though he doesn’t believe the Kapo would rend him from pelvis to sternum and pull his still-living entrails from his abdominal cavity. (Even the Well-Dressed One showed more courage in single combat.)
Little Fierce One seems to share his amusement. “Kept Jak Dumbass--“
“RKNIS!” says Swishy Coat hotly.
Little Fierce One turns back, shrugging his apology for his fellow human’s lack of intellect.
“Is cul, ja?” the Kapo replies, sympathetic.
Little Fierce One bares his teeth, though the expression seems more in mirth than aggression. “Ai-ja,” he says.
“Ni-nai is cul!” says Swishy Coat.
Little Fierce One shushes him. The Kapo snarls to support that.
The Well-Dressed One says something. He can almost pick out the archaic words, but the accent is so alien and humans have such high-pitched voices that it’s hard to be sure.
Whatever was said, Little Fierce One seems unconvinced.
Well-Dressed One insists.
Little Fierce One sighs deeply. Presses a hand to the glass. “Jon.”
A name? Cythraul do not give their names. They are gods made flesh, and dangerously unknowable. Moreover, the gesture would seem to indicate this human wants to know the Kapo’s name.
This would be a touching gesture, if the Kapo had a name, one he thought the humans could pronounce. He settles for a halfway greeting. Presses his own hand to the glass. Repeats, “Jon.” He takes a deep breath and commits himself to this insanity. “Jon Kapo.”
Well-Dressed One murmurs something.
“U cn has naam?” says Litt-- Jon. The human is called “Jon”. Strange to think of his captors as named beings.
He shakes his head no.
“U cn has naam Bradwyn?” offers Well-Dressed One. The words are clumsy and inelegantly accented, but comprehensible. The Kapo and Jon purr approval for his effort.
Jon looks at him again. “Is guud, ja? Brdwn?”
The utter bizarreness of the situation cannot completely dull his fascination at the thought of being given a human name. “Ai-ja. Brdwn. Ai-ja. Guud.”
Swishy Coat makes some other remark.
Jon shushes Swishy Coat again. Bradwyn himself punctuates again with a snarl, unnerved at how easy it is to rally to the defence of his fellow Kapo.
He is beginning to like Jon Kapo in spite of himself. That he has honour and courage beyond what one might expect of a human makes him that much more appealing. Bradwyn Kapo asks what will become of him and the other Weevils. “Wyivls U do wut?”
“Wyi hel U.” John Kapo moves closer. “Sithral lot keel wyi. Sithral lot keel U. Sithral hyir whn?” That the human asks not “if” but “when” the Cythraul will attack is comforting. (Good to know his captors aren’t complete idiots.)
Bradwyn (definitely an acceptable name) Kapo explains that because he’s been out of contact with the Cythraul for almost twenty-four hours, his Overlords will assume he has failed. “Sithral keel U soon. Daa mebe. 2 daa, ja?” He makes full eye contact, part earnest, part challenge. “I fiit saav Wyivls. I fiit U, saav Wyivls.” If they are treating for peace, it’s only fair to warn Jon Kapo where his loyalties lie.
“U fiit Sithral, saav Wyivls?” Jon Kapo asks.
It’s a difficult question: In betraying the Overlords, might he save some of his people?
“Ja?” Jon presses.
“Ai-ja,” he says, and is afraid to think too hard whether he means it.
Jon nods. “Y U taak myi Sithral?”
“U gif tiim.” He doesn’t mean to be cryptic, but that single sentence was all the explanation his masters gave him. (And he didn’t care to court death or displeasure by being too nosy.)
Jon says a string of things, several of which Bradwyn Kapo understands, and all of which would get John punished for blasphemy, were he a Weevil.
Eventually, Jon refocuses and calms himself. “Nao U no cn has muv tiim, nai?”
“Ni-nai.” He is dead when the Overlords find him, so there is little motivation to lie. He assures Jon that the Cythraul’s journey here was accidental.
The human’s relief transcends the ugliness of his flat face. “Ai-ja. Is guud.”
Well-Dressed One murmurs something to John. Another conversation in that irritating, babbling tongue that’s almost comprehensible.
Jon Kapo is serious again when he turns back. “U duu wut maak Wyivls fryi?”
The pretty heretic trills her prediction, almost as though she could understand the words. She urges him to ask the impossible. (Free our people.)
He reminds Jon that Weevilkind can never be truly free. Other races have homeworlds. Weevils sprang from the laboratories of their Overlords. There would be no place for them to go, thus “freedom” is another word for “death”.
Jon looks him square in the eye, Kapo to Kapo. “Wyi cn has ship. Wyi cn has go nuu wrld. Hoomwrld 4 Wyivls.”
That’s when Bradwyn knows the humans lie; were such transport available, surely the Overlords would’ve told him about it. It would’ve been part of his mission to find and destroy it.
Jon assures him there is such a ship. Reminds him that his life too depends on his not being found by the Cythraul. Asks Bradwyn Kapo again if he wants to transport all of his brethren off this barbaric planet. (Which, in its defence, does have perfectly lovely sewers. Nice and stinky.)
And Bradwyn Kapo is tempted. Oh, how he is tempted. Janet purrs persuasion. Jon waits, not with the impatience of a master, but with the patience of a peer.
“Wyi hel U, ja?” says Jon. “Wyi cn has trtyi, ja?”
Bradwyn takes another deep breath and a leap of faith. “Ai-ja.”
What follows next is a slow advance-retreat of negotiations. Jon will not free every Weevil until the ship is prepared. Bradwyn Kapo will not be armed. The world Jon will transport them to will not be inhabited by any other sentient species. (Jon projects a hologram of UW 1350, an outlying planet near Altair, from his wrist-comp. After Jon identifies climate and ecology, Bradwyn deems it acceptable.) This planet will have bogs and be full of fermenting plant and animal waste, a Weevil paradise. The transport will be a single voyage. No records will exist of the trip, neither among Weevils, nor among humans.
And all the while, his lovely, mad heretic trills her joy. Janet tells him she has known this day would come from the moment the Thin-Lipped One returned to them as the first Weevil Messiah.
Jon will give them only the most basic of tech to survive. Bradwyn Kapo assures him that Weevilkind have existed for centuries by scavenging the waste from hundreds of worlds. Given the chance (and a bit of selective breeding) they will be able to make their own way. “Wyivls fiit. Wyivls liv. U gif wrld, wyi gif trtyi.”
The unpleasant thought occurs to him that it’s one thing to promise a world and quite another to deliver it. “U r huu gif wrld 2 Wyivls?”
Jon Kapo presses his hand to the glass. Recites what must be his bloodline. He is an heir to one of the families of Serenissima, a powerful human world. John assures him that, among his people, he is Kapo of Kapos. Overlord among humans.
It doesn’t make sense. “Y U hyir?” he asks.
“I fiit 4 huumani,” Jon says simply. “I keel Sithral.”
“U taak nap 4 huumani, ja?” If the human says yes, he is a creature of honour. If not, he’s completely mad.
A hint of humour in this baring of teeth. “I keel Sithral. Ai-ja.”
And for one mad moment, Bradwyn Kapo believes that if anyone can free his people from the Cythral, it must be this fierce little Kapo of Kapos.
“Ai-ja,” Bradwyn agrees.
He presses his hand to the glass again, matching Jon’s. Though he has no name that humans or Overlords can pronounce, he recites his own bloodline back to the seventh dam and sire. His is a powerful legacy too, and for the first time since an accident of timespace led him and his Overlords here, Bradwyn Kapo has hope for victory. And freedom.
“Brdwn Kapo, I gif liif. Gif hnr. Gif al 2 Jon Kapo. Maak trtyi guud all tiim.” Even as he speaks the words of his new oath of loyalty, he trembles down to what used to be his shoes at the thought of the blasphemy and treason he’s embracing.
“Y U duu?” asks Jon, impressed.
Bradwyn Kapo looks to Janet, who rises off her haunches, purring her joy and vindication.
“U guud 2 shi,” he says. “U gif hr guud hoom. N U guud Kapo, liik myi.”
Jon draws his hand back. Gives a deep, ceremonial bow.
Bradwyn matches him. “Jon Kapo.”
“Bradwyn Kapo.”
And the human smiles.
*****************
John can’t stop grinning as they head down the hall to the entrance to the bunker he’s not supposed to know about.
“So? What?” says P.C. Slow-On-The-Uptake. “Now you’re mates?”
“Yup,” he says. “That last exchange? Pure genius. Couldn’t have written a happier ending. He swore loyalty to me because of my family ties. I’ll be boasting about this for years to come… That is, assuming we can fix the future so I’ll HAVE years to come.”
“You’re completely insane,” says Jack.
“You’re just upset because I let him think you’re a cull,” he says.
“That too,” says Jack. “But now we’re naming him and promising transport across the cosmos for an entire SHIP of homicidal monsters?”
“Don’t be so dramatic.” John enters the security codes he’s not supposed to know. “You had to know what we were up to when we shagged the intel on the ship out of you. Now get over here -- I need your retinas.”
Jack looks to Ifan, no doubt expecting the dear boy to rush to his aid. But John can’t help the gloat when Ianto shrugs eloquently. “It’s mad, sir, but it’s also our best plan. And I’m inclined to trust the homicidal monster.”
“I like him too,” says John.
“I was talking about you,” says Ifan.
He makes kissy noises at the dear boy.
Ianto smirks.
Jack goggles, mouth working silently.
Ifan shrugs again. “Bradwyn did try to kill us, sir, but he also gave us a sporting chance and he hasn’t lied to us yet.”
“You are BOTH insane,” says Jack.
John folds his arms and glares the kind of warning Jack should recognize as the one that shortly precedes a well-deserved thrashing. (And not necessarily the fun kind.) “Retinas, Jack.”
Huffing and puffing his best Drama, Jack submits to the retinal scan. The lock disengages. Ianto tugs hard. Jerks the door open.
Ahhhhhhhh. The sea. No matter how far one goes forward or backward in time and space, there’s a sameness to that half-rotted-fish, mildew-y salt stink. (Jack’s showing his Outworlder roots again -- leave it to a man who grew up among sailors and fishermen to hide a spaceship at the bottom of a bay.) Oddly comforting that some things never change. John heads down the passageway, relying on the blueprints the symbiont has tucked away in its half-pickled little brain.
“Don’t suppose anyone wants to clue me in?” says P.C. Tagalong.
“The big monster,” he says in a tone he usually reserves for his four-year-old nephew, “and all his shiny, happy monster friends want to get off this rock. The big monster promises that if we get said shiny, happy monster friends safely off this rock, he will be BFFs with us.”
“BFFs?” says Gwen.
“Best Friends Forever,” murmurs Ifan.
“JACK,” he continues, “has a ship big enough for the big monster and all his shiny, happy monster friends to ride away to the stars, where they can live happily ever after in a galaxy far, far away.”
“UW 1350 is in this galaxy,” says Jack.
How he puts up with the stupid is beyond him. (Though a universe-class arse and skilled mouth do make him more inclined to try.) “Spare me the literal, Big Boy. UW 1350 is the closest uninhabited world that will make our big monster friend happy. It’s isolated. It’s primitive. It’s got the kind of all-terrain outhouse ecology that will make a Weevil go verklempt with nostalgia.”
“Excuse me,” says Ifan, so shyly that John almost misses the sardonic twinkle. “But how can Weevils be nostalgic if they’ve never had a homeworld?”
It’s a very good thing Ifan is adorable.
“By the by, why’d you name him Bradwyn?” Gwen asks Ifan.
“Thought we could call him ‘Brad’ for short.” Ifan avoids her eyes. “It seemed apropos.”
Then the reference strikes him. “Oh god. Brad and Janet.”
Jack loses the sulk long enough to grin. “Was that a Rocky Horror Picture Show reference?”
Ifan gives a noncommittal shrug that tells John his young lover’s sense of humour is every bit as quirky as the rest of him.
“Don’t mean to be a spoilsport,” says Gwen. “But how are we to know that this Kapo or Bradwyn or whatever we’re calling him now won’t just turn around and have his three thousand Weevils eat us?”
“He wants off of this rock,” John says. “His Evil Overlords will kill him when they find him because he’s failed in his mission. Swearing loyalty to me also makes him a very wanted Weevil, and not in the biblical sense.”
“Won’t he turn you in to bargain for his own life?”
Gwen might not be as stupid as he’d thought. (How annoying.) “Possibly,” he concedes, “but we’re going to arrange things so his troops won’t be in the mood for much action.”
“How are you...?” Gwen blushes a satisfying shade of crimson and answers her own question. “By getting action of your own. Yes, I see.”
He waggles his eyebrows at Ifan, who also turns a satisfying shade of crimson.
Jack tries valiantly to hide the anticipatory grin behind a suitably Dour and Disapproving look. (Not very convincing when those khakis aren’t loose enough to hide the proof of what he’s really thinking.) “This will never work, John.”
He does his best Yoda. “So certain are you?”
He’d almost forgotten how much fun it is to make Jack glare like that.
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jackxianto, torchwoodslash
Author: Love! Slash! Angst!
loveslashangstBeta: the pitbull-on-the-arse
ophymirageCharacters: Ianto Jones, Captain Jack Harkness, Gwen Cooper, Captain John Hart, Rhys Williams, Janet the Weevil, & a cast of (literally) thousands.
Rated: Adult for implied slash, canon bisexuality, mature content, language, Weevil cultural studies, and lots and lots of sex (various pairings and kinds)
Disclaimer: I don't own 'em, 'cause if I did, Torchwood 3 would be a much more crack-tastic place.
Spoilers: If you haven't seen the first two series of Torchwood, you WILL be spoilered. I like to mess with canon, especially when it pisses me off.
Summary: AU. OT3 ZOMG Jack/John Hart/Ianto. Captain Hart is back in town. The Weevils are acting weird. It might be the end of the world. Let the crack-tastic smut ensue.
Okay, so here's the dealio...
RL stuff is going well. Lots and lots of appreciation and mad squoobles for all those who wished me well. It’s been very gratifying to have so many new faces on my pages, and to have a few new FAITHFUL fans come out of the woodwork.
So, the bad news is that I didn’t win the CoT awards. (I can’t say I’m completely surprised, as I’m still one of the new kids in town.) BUT! The good news is that I’m very happy with what I have written, what I am writing, and the fen who’ve shown their appreciation again and again, even when I’m pants at thank-yous.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: O and I do a LOT of world-building. One of our fave pastimes is talking out the hows and whys of this crack!tastic AU we’re building. And undoubtedly the crack!-iest part of the crack!tastic world are the Weevils.
So with that in mind, on with the show...
“Who can I turn to,
When nobody needs me?
My heart wants to know
And so I must go
Where destiny leads me.”
“With no star
To guide me
And no one beside me
I’ll go on my way
And after the day
The darkness will hide me.”
“And maybe tomorrow
I’ll find what I’m after
I’ll throw off my sorrow,
Beg, steal, or borrow
My share of laughter...”
“But who can I turn to
If you turn away?”
(Leslie Bricusse & Anthony Newley, from THE ROAR OF THE GREASEPAINT, THE SMELL OF THE CROWD, 1964)
(In which the Kapo gets a new name, John gets a new ally, Jack gets the run-around, Ianto gets the reference, and Gwen gets the double-entendre.)
After an hours-long dialogue with “Janet”, the Kapo is now positive that the beautiful heretic next door is as mad as the humans she claims as “friends”. (Strange concept, that.) Arguing with her about the place of Weevils in the universe seems pointless, as she is as dedicated to her vision of the future of their people as any zealot. She will not be swayed from her lunatic credo that Weevils are destined to find a world of their own. He can only pray that she will escape before the inevitable befalls her.
If the Cythraul were to hear even the slightest hint of this, all of them would be...
He’d rather not think about it.
The humans come in as a group, led by the Little Fierce One. Though he lacks his pretty red coat, he still carries himself like a worthy adversary. He survived hand-to-hand combat with a Kapo, and shrugged off wounds that would be mortal to a lesser male. The Kapo can speak to this human, for he has honour.
The Kapo stands, ignoring the nagging pain of his wounds.
“Ohai,” he says formally.
“Ohai U,” the Little Fierce One replies, much to the Kapo’s relief. (Humans tend to be unpredictable; it’s reassuring to find this one has decided they are on speaking terms.)
Heretic Janet hums encouragement, though he pointedly ignores her when she mentions the homeworld prophecy again.
For the past few hours, he’s been gathering the words he needs. Yet it seems so impossible. Weevils serve. Weevils fight. Weevils die. They do not demand, they obey. And much as he would love to please the pretty heretic in the cell next door, Weevils do NOT now, nor will they ever, have a homeworld.
The Little Fierce One rocks onto the balls of his feet, as if he too would rather fight than talk (an honorable impulse).
“U hrt nao?” he asks Little Fierce One. More a courtesy than anything, as it’s obvious the human has regrown his arm, but his captor’s reaction will tell him more about where he stands with this odd creature who is Overlord-and-yet-not.
Little Fierce One bares his teeth. The Kapo snarls in return, but he doesn’t flinch, nor does he retreat from the glass.
“U hrt myi guud.” The human demonstrates his now-healed arm. Wiggles the blunt-ended fingers. “Btr nao.”
The Well-Dressed One (who Heretic Janet claims is much more dangerous than he appears) prods Little Fierce One and says something in the human babble of this time.
A brief verbal scuffle ensues. Man in the Swishy Coat appears all but useless. (That Heretic Janet favours him at all is an unfortunate indication of how mad she’s gone, poor thing.) Little Fierce One shrugs eventually and releases a golden cloud from a subdermal panel in his arm.
Nanogenes. He snarls. Backs away from the wall. Hits the button to activate his personal shield. Nothing. Little Fierce One’s concussion weapon has rendered him helpless for at least a few more hours. No way out. He roars defiance as the nanogenes seep through the chinks in his armoured skin.
And then, the pain subsides. The burns heal. The lacerations close. His suit’s still a lost cause, but he can now walk without the limp. Amazing.
“Y U hel?” Perhaps it’s foolish to question his good fortune, but he can’t figure out these strange humans. Why hunt him one minute and heal him the next?
“I maak trtyi.” Little Fierce One recalls his tech to its place in his subdermals. “Wyi hel U, U no keel, ja?”
Too soon. Too quickly. If these were Cythraul, he would be as good as napped to question them again, but humans appear to have a different way of working. (Heretic Janet may not be so mad as he’d thought.)
“Y U hel?” he asks, more carefully this time. “I no taak nap 4 U.”
“Taak nap wut?” Little Fierce One asks, annoyed.
So he finds himself explaining the simplest of traditions. Only a handful of males are required to propagate his species. Most breeding males are Kapos, but every so often a clever Cull will survive childhood. Some sneak a stud or two, but when rations are low on the longer voyages, it’s only reasonable (and civilized) for a useless male to sacrifice himself so the females may live and fight. Even a Kapo makes better fodder than the females, for to kill them is to kill the species. Long voyages are deadly dull and cramped. Weevils sleep. Limit their movements. Conserve what few resources they have. (Chief of which is poo.) Often, there isn’t enough nutritious poo to go around. Then, whatever males survive (starting with the Culls) “take a nap” from which they never wake, and the survivors can eat again.
And he can’t help the contemptuous look at the Big-Eyed One. Heretic Janet claims this female is now all alone with all these males, selfishly keeping them for herself instead of sharing with her sisters and cousins and female relatives. (It’s a wonder no one has challenged her, though Heretic Janet suspects she ate the other human females who dared try to cohabitate.)
Man in the Swishy Coat questions him in the silly babbling tongue of this time. Not comprehensible speech at all. And spoken too quickly.
He snarls and charges forward. He has no use for cowardly Culls.
Man in the Swishy Coat backs up a pace or two, though he postures for the other males as though he doesn’t believe the Kapo would rend him from pelvis to sternum and pull his still-living entrails from his abdominal cavity. (Even the Well-Dressed One showed more courage in single combat.)
Little Fierce One seems to share his amusement. “Kept Jak Dumbass--“
“RKNIS!” says Swishy Coat hotly.
Little Fierce One turns back, shrugging his apology for his fellow human’s lack of intellect.
“Is cul, ja?” the Kapo replies, sympathetic.
Little Fierce One bares his teeth, though the expression seems more in mirth than aggression. “Ai-ja,” he says.
“Ni-nai is cul!” says Swishy Coat.
Little Fierce One shushes him. The Kapo snarls to support that.
The Well-Dressed One says something. He can almost pick out the archaic words, but the accent is so alien and humans have such high-pitched voices that it’s hard to be sure.
Whatever was said, Little Fierce One seems unconvinced.
Well-Dressed One insists.
Little Fierce One sighs deeply. Presses a hand to the glass. “Jon.”
A name? Cythraul do not give their names. They are gods made flesh, and dangerously unknowable. Moreover, the gesture would seem to indicate this human wants to know the Kapo’s name.
This would be a touching gesture, if the Kapo had a name, one he thought the humans could pronounce. He settles for a halfway greeting. Presses his own hand to the glass. Repeats, “Jon.” He takes a deep breath and commits himself to this insanity. “Jon Kapo.”
Well-Dressed One murmurs something.
“U cn has naam?” says Litt-- Jon. The human is called “Jon”. Strange to think of his captors as named beings.
He shakes his head no.
“U cn has naam Bradwyn?” offers Well-Dressed One. The words are clumsy and inelegantly accented, but comprehensible. The Kapo and Jon purr approval for his effort.
Jon looks at him again. “Is guud, ja? Brdwn?”
The utter bizarreness of the situation cannot completely dull his fascination at the thought of being given a human name. “Ai-ja. Brdwn. Ai-ja. Guud.”
Swishy Coat makes some other remark.
Jon shushes Swishy Coat again. Bradwyn himself punctuates again with a snarl, unnerved at how easy it is to rally to the defence of his fellow Kapo.
He is beginning to like Jon Kapo in spite of himself. That he has honour and courage beyond what one might expect of a human makes him that much more appealing. Bradwyn Kapo asks what will become of him and the other Weevils. “Wyivls U do wut?”
“Wyi hel U.” John Kapo moves closer. “Sithral lot keel wyi. Sithral lot keel U. Sithral hyir whn?” That the human asks not “if” but “when” the Cythraul will attack is comforting. (Good to know his captors aren’t complete idiots.)
Bradwyn (definitely an acceptable name) Kapo explains that because he’s been out of contact with the Cythraul for almost twenty-four hours, his Overlords will assume he has failed. “Sithral keel U soon. Daa mebe. 2 daa, ja?” He makes full eye contact, part earnest, part challenge. “I fiit saav Wyivls. I fiit U, saav Wyivls.” If they are treating for peace, it’s only fair to warn Jon Kapo where his loyalties lie.
“U fiit Sithral, saav Wyivls?” Jon Kapo asks.
It’s a difficult question: In betraying the Overlords, might he save some of his people?
“Ja?” Jon presses.
“Ai-ja,” he says, and is afraid to think too hard whether he means it.
Jon nods. “Y U taak myi Sithral?”
“U gif tiim.” He doesn’t mean to be cryptic, but that single sentence was all the explanation his masters gave him. (And he didn’t care to court death or displeasure by being too nosy.)
Jon says a string of things, several of which Bradwyn Kapo understands, and all of which would get John punished for blasphemy, were he a Weevil.
Eventually, Jon refocuses and calms himself. “Nao U no cn has muv tiim, nai?”
“Ni-nai.” He is dead when the Overlords find him, so there is little motivation to lie. He assures Jon that the Cythraul’s journey here was accidental.
The human’s relief transcends the ugliness of his flat face. “Ai-ja. Is guud.”
Well-Dressed One murmurs something to John. Another conversation in that irritating, babbling tongue that’s almost comprehensible.
Jon Kapo is serious again when he turns back. “U duu wut maak Wyivls fryi?”
The pretty heretic trills her prediction, almost as though she could understand the words. She urges him to ask the impossible. (Free our people.)
He reminds Jon that Weevilkind can never be truly free. Other races have homeworlds. Weevils sprang from the laboratories of their Overlords. There would be no place for them to go, thus “freedom” is another word for “death”.
Jon looks him square in the eye, Kapo to Kapo. “Wyi cn has ship. Wyi cn has go nuu wrld. Hoomwrld 4 Wyivls.”
That’s when Bradwyn knows the humans lie; were such transport available, surely the Overlords would’ve told him about it. It would’ve been part of his mission to find and destroy it.
Jon assures him there is such a ship. Reminds him that his life too depends on his not being found by the Cythraul. Asks Bradwyn Kapo again if he wants to transport all of his brethren off this barbaric planet. (Which, in its defence, does have perfectly lovely sewers. Nice and stinky.)
And Bradwyn Kapo is tempted. Oh, how he is tempted. Janet purrs persuasion. Jon waits, not with the impatience of a master, but with the patience of a peer.
“Wyi hel U, ja?” says Jon. “Wyi cn has trtyi, ja?”
Bradwyn takes another deep breath and a leap of faith. “Ai-ja.”
What follows next is a slow advance-retreat of negotiations. Jon will not free every Weevil until the ship is prepared. Bradwyn Kapo will not be armed. The world Jon will transport them to will not be inhabited by any other sentient species. (Jon projects a hologram of UW 1350, an outlying planet near Altair, from his wrist-comp. After Jon identifies climate and ecology, Bradwyn deems it acceptable.) This planet will have bogs and be full of fermenting plant and animal waste, a Weevil paradise. The transport will be a single voyage. No records will exist of the trip, neither among Weevils, nor among humans.
And all the while, his lovely, mad heretic trills her joy. Janet tells him she has known this day would come from the moment the Thin-Lipped One returned to them as the first Weevil Messiah.
Jon will give them only the most basic of tech to survive. Bradwyn Kapo assures him that Weevilkind have existed for centuries by scavenging the waste from hundreds of worlds. Given the chance (and a bit of selective breeding) they will be able to make their own way. “Wyivls fiit. Wyivls liv. U gif wrld, wyi gif trtyi.”
The unpleasant thought occurs to him that it’s one thing to promise a world and quite another to deliver it. “U r huu gif wrld 2 Wyivls?”
Jon Kapo presses his hand to the glass. Recites what must be his bloodline. He is an heir to one of the families of Serenissima, a powerful human world. John assures him that, among his people, he is Kapo of Kapos. Overlord among humans.
It doesn’t make sense. “Y U hyir?” he asks.
“I fiit 4 huumani,” Jon says simply. “I keel Sithral.”
“U taak nap 4 huumani, ja?” If the human says yes, he is a creature of honour. If not, he’s completely mad.
A hint of humour in this baring of teeth. “I keel Sithral. Ai-ja.”
And for one mad moment, Bradwyn Kapo believes that if anyone can free his people from the Cythral, it must be this fierce little Kapo of Kapos.
“Ai-ja,” Bradwyn agrees.
He presses his hand to the glass again, matching Jon’s. Though he has no name that humans or Overlords can pronounce, he recites his own bloodline back to the seventh dam and sire. His is a powerful legacy too, and for the first time since an accident of timespace led him and his Overlords here, Bradwyn Kapo has hope for victory. And freedom.
“Brdwn Kapo, I gif liif. Gif hnr. Gif al 2 Jon Kapo. Maak trtyi guud all tiim.” Even as he speaks the words of his new oath of loyalty, he trembles down to what used to be his shoes at the thought of the blasphemy and treason he’s embracing.
“Y U duu?” asks Jon, impressed.
Bradwyn Kapo looks to Janet, who rises off her haunches, purring her joy and vindication.
“U guud 2 shi,” he says. “U gif hr guud hoom. N U guud Kapo, liik myi.”
Jon draws his hand back. Gives a deep, ceremonial bow.
Bradwyn matches him. “Jon Kapo.”
“Bradwyn Kapo.”
And the human smiles.
*****************
John can’t stop grinning as they head down the hall to the entrance to the bunker he’s not supposed to know about.
“So? What?” says P.C. Slow-On-The-Uptake. “Now you’re mates?”
“Yup,” he says. “That last exchange? Pure genius. Couldn’t have written a happier ending. He swore loyalty to me because of my family ties. I’ll be boasting about this for years to come… That is, assuming we can fix the future so I’ll HAVE years to come.”
“You’re completely insane,” says Jack.
“You’re just upset because I let him think you’re a cull,” he says.
“That too,” says Jack. “But now we’re naming him and promising transport across the cosmos for an entire SHIP of homicidal monsters?”
“Don’t be so dramatic.” John enters the security codes he’s not supposed to know. “You had to know what we were up to when we shagged the intel on the ship out of you. Now get over here -- I need your retinas.”
Jack looks to Ifan, no doubt expecting the dear boy to rush to his aid. But John can’t help the gloat when Ianto shrugs eloquently. “It’s mad, sir, but it’s also our best plan. And I’m inclined to trust the homicidal monster.”
“I like him too,” says John.
“I was talking about you,” says Ifan.
He makes kissy noises at the dear boy.
Ianto smirks.
Jack goggles, mouth working silently.
Ifan shrugs again. “Bradwyn did try to kill us, sir, but he also gave us a sporting chance and he hasn’t lied to us yet.”
“You are BOTH insane,” says Jack.
John folds his arms and glares the kind of warning Jack should recognize as the one that shortly precedes a well-deserved thrashing. (And not necessarily the fun kind.) “Retinas, Jack.”
Huffing and puffing his best Drama, Jack submits to the retinal scan. The lock disengages. Ianto tugs hard. Jerks the door open.
Ahhhhhhhh. The sea. No matter how far one goes forward or backward in time and space, there’s a sameness to that half-rotted-fish, mildew-y salt stink. (Jack’s showing his Outworlder roots again -- leave it to a man who grew up among sailors and fishermen to hide a spaceship at the bottom of a bay.) Oddly comforting that some things never change. John heads down the passageway, relying on the blueprints the symbiont has tucked away in its half-pickled little brain.
“Don’t suppose anyone wants to clue me in?” says P.C. Tagalong.
“The big monster,” he says in a tone he usually reserves for his four-year-old nephew, “and all his shiny, happy monster friends want to get off this rock. The big monster promises that if we get said shiny, happy monster friends safely off this rock, he will be BFFs with us.”
“BFFs?” says Gwen.
“Best Friends Forever,” murmurs Ifan.
“JACK,” he continues, “has a ship big enough for the big monster and all his shiny, happy monster friends to ride away to the stars, where they can live happily ever after in a galaxy far, far away.”
“UW 1350 is in this galaxy,” says Jack.
How he puts up with the stupid is beyond him. (Though a universe-class arse and skilled mouth do make him more inclined to try.) “Spare me the literal, Big Boy. UW 1350 is the closest uninhabited world that will make our big monster friend happy. It’s isolated. It’s primitive. It’s got the kind of all-terrain outhouse ecology that will make a Weevil go verklempt with nostalgia.”
“Excuse me,” says Ifan, so shyly that John almost misses the sardonic twinkle. “But how can Weevils be nostalgic if they’ve never had a homeworld?”
It’s a very good thing Ifan is adorable.
“By the by, why’d you name him Bradwyn?” Gwen asks Ifan.
“Thought we could call him ‘Brad’ for short.” Ifan avoids her eyes. “It seemed apropos.”
Then the reference strikes him. “Oh god. Brad and Janet.”
Jack loses the sulk long enough to grin. “Was that a Rocky Horror Picture Show reference?”
Ifan gives a noncommittal shrug that tells John his young lover’s sense of humour is every bit as quirky as the rest of him.
“Don’t mean to be a spoilsport,” says Gwen. “But how are we to know that this Kapo or Bradwyn or whatever we’re calling him now won’t just turn around and have his three thousand Weevils eat us?”
“He wants off of this rock,” John says. “His Evil Overlords will kill him when they find him because he’s failed in his mission. Swearing loyalty to me also makes him a very wanted Weevil, and not in the biblical sense.”
“Won’t he turn you in to bargain for his own life?”
Gwen might not be as stupid as he’d thought. (How annoying.) “Possibly,” he concedes, “but we’re going to arrange things so his troops won’t be in the mood for much action.”
“How are you...?” Gwen blushes a satisfying shade of crimson and answers her own question. “By getting action of your own. Yes, I see.”
He waggles his eyebrows at Ifan, who also turns a satisfying shade of crimson.
Jack tries valiantly to hide the anticipatory grin behind a suitably Dour and Disapproving look. (Not very convincing when those khakis aren’t loose enough to hide the proof of what he’s really thinking.) “This will never work, John.”
He does his best Yoda. “So certain are you?”
He’d almost forgotten how much fun it is to make Jack glare like that.
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