Risk Assessment by James Goss Page A

dissolved plastic trailing down.
    ‘What?’ gasped Gwen.
    ‘I don’t know, my dear,’ said Agnes, coldly. Her gun was drawn. ‘I am presuming this is not a usual phenomenon?’ Gwen shook her head. ‘What is supposed to be there?’
    ‘Polystyrene,’ said Gwen. ‘Polystyrene ceiling panels.’
    Agnes looked blank.
    ‘Er. . . a plastic. . . derived from oil. . . a. . .’
    ‘Like celluloid, I see.’ Agnes sniffed dismissively. ‘I understand. An artificial material. And it’s been consumed. Fear not. I am familiar with plastic.’
    The wall behind her vanished, and she scrambled hurriedly for cover.
    She turned rapidly to the worried-looking scientist.
    ‘Let me see if I understand you correctly, Professor Jenkins,’ she gasped, dragging him through the spinney, aware of the disagreeably autumnal smell of burning privet in the air. ‘This Torchwood training camp is almost entirely composed of—’
    A plastic nun swung across their path and Agnes removed its head with a single shot.
    ‘— entirely composed of plastic mannequins?’
    ‘Er, yes,’ gasped Jenkins. ‘You’re not supposed to shoot the nuns. Strictly speaking. And these experiments have the approval of Mr Chamberlain.’
    Agnes sighed. ‘Someone clearly bullied that out of him. So, these are here for the purposes of training operatives? And something has taken control of them?’
    ‘Yes,’ wailed Jenkins. ‘They’ve killed everyone!’
    They turned a corner and were confronted by a dead end in the maze. Behind them came an ominous stepping noise. They turned, and were confronted by the sight of a plastic milkman staggering towards them, blank eyes searching the air.
    ‘Dead end!’ cried Jenkins.
    She tutted. ‘One does not always play by the rules,’ she said.
    The plastic milkman fired at them, but they had ducked. The shot blew a hole in the wall of the maze. They ran for freedom.
    Agnes glanced around. ‘Anything else wrong?’
    Gwen looked ahead of them. It was dark and she could just hear dripping. ‘No lights. . . not even emergency ones.’ She went over to the receptionist’s desk. All that remained of a computer and monitor were a few electrical components embedded in a plastic toffee.
    Agnes leaned over. ‘How efficient,’ she said. ‘Have you a lantern?’ Gwen passed her a torch, and Agnes clicked it on expertly. ‘Fascinating,’ she said. ‘It’s a long time since I studied protein strings and polymers, my dear. And I’m sure at the dawn of Torchwood we were scientific infants compared to you. It’s simple, isn’t it?’
    Gwen shrugged, slightly embarrassed. ‘Owen and Tosh did most of the science stuff. I nearly did Biology A level, but Mrs Stringer was a nightmare. So I did French instead.’
    Agnes tilted her head. ‘I see. This is a school qualification? Well, you really mustn’t feel embarrassed. You’ve worked for Jack Harkness for over two years and are still alive. A commendable achievement in itself.’ She smiled and gestured with her torch. ‘We have evidence something devoured that computer most efficiently. All that remains could not be digested. Which tells us that metal is thankfully of no interest to it. This plastic. . . is it now of ubiquity?’
    Gwen was still looking at the computer. ‘Er. . . well, yeah. Kind of. I mean it’s everywhere.’
    ‘Oh dear,’ said Agnes, looking smugly pleased. ‘Then Harkness has got himself into a pickle. He’s allowed a plastic-eater loose into the world. Let’s hope it’s not like an airborne bacterium. If it has a physical form, if it has to do work to find its prey, then humanity still has a chance.’
    ‘What do you mean?’ asked Gwen.
    Agnes swung the torch around so that it was shining into Gwen’s face. ‘It has a varied diet, my dear. Along with some ceiling panels and a microcomputer, over a dozen people have been reported missing. If it is an airborne flesh-eater, then it is already too late for us. But we both appear intact. I