by Jodi Taylor
We simulated missions where we were attacked by hostile contemporaries. That happened a lot.
We simulated missions where we became ill with something unpleasant. That happened a lot too.
We simulated missions where the pod caught fire.
And everyone’s favourite, missions where we all died. These were usually scheduled for a Friday morning so we finished in time for the afternoon exams. Nothing good ever happened on a Friday morning. Enough could go wrong without tempting Fate. Or History. And for non-trainees, Fridays afternoons were usually reserved for the weekly bloodbath (or friendly football match, as it was officially known) between the technical and security sections – an event often resulting in only marginally fewer fatalities and ill-will than Culloden.
The final exams loomed ever closer. Not long to go now – the culmination of all our hard work. Unless you were Sussman of course, in which case, you’d barely worked at all. They posted the exam schedule. Every single one had a pass mark of 80% and we had to pass every single one.
First was Weapons Expertise on the Monday. I laid about me happily, smiting hip and thigh with enthusiasm. I got Big Dave Murdoch and not only could I hold him off, but I managed to land a couple of good blows as well. I felt pretty pleased with myself and he winked at me.
Archery was a doddle, as was target shooting. Guthrie scribbled away and I hoped this was a good sign. They gave me a pile of miscellaneous tat and fifteen minutes to fashion a weapon. In the absence of any fissionable materials, I came up with a pretty good slingshot that David himself would have been proud of and when asked to test fire, I took out the small window in the gents’ toilets on the second floor. Much more scribbling happened.
Fire fighting was easy. Electrical, chemical – you name it, I doused it. There was good scribbling for Fire Fighting.
Wednesday was Self Defence. I made no headway at all with Weasel as he none too gently chucked me around all over the place, grinning his stupid head off all the time. I waited until a particularly heavy fall then placed my hand on my lower stomach, curled into a ball and uttered, ‘Oh God, the baby!’
Weasel stopped dead, saying, ‘What …?’ and I hacked his legs out from underneath him, leaped to my feet, ran across his chest and rang the bell, which was the whole point of the exercise. Weasel shot me a filthy look and, at this point, there was no scribbling at all. Major Guthrie threw down his clipboard and walked off.
‘Oh dear,’ I said to a watching Murdoch.
‘No, you’re OK. He’s gone round the corner where no one can see him laugh.’
So I felt quite pleased with myself and then on Thursday, it was Field Medic Test time and I got Barclay.
At first, it was theory; plague, cholera and typhoid symptoms, how to treat simple fractures, shock, resuscitation, no problems at all. In fact, I enjoyed it. Then, in the afternoon, we had to go out and find ourselves a body. A number of volunteers lay scattered around the place and we had to find one. They had a label tied to one arm with a list of symptoms and injuries so we could diagnose and treat. With my usual luck, I fell over Izzie Barclay.
We didn’t like each other. I never forgave her for Stevens and she definitely didn’t like me. Physically, we looked alike; maybe that was it. Maybe because I didn’t find her as fascinating as she thought I should. I don’t know.
She lay stretched out near the entrance to Hawking, muffled up to the eyebrows against the cold and reading Computing for Geniuses, or some such thing. Her label said she’d been in an explosion. With dear old Mr Swanson from R & D looking on, I questioned her closely and got to work. Severe head trauma, broken limbs, burns; I worked away, bandaging, improvising splints and doing a good job. Mr Swanson scribbled away again. I sat back on my heels, satisfied and then the sackless bint said, ‘Oh, by the way, I’m on fire!’
My heart stopped. I’d failed.
I checked her label.
‘No, you’re not.’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘You didn’t say.’
‘You didn’t ask.’
I took a deep breath. She was smirking. Everyone knew this was our examination. Everyone cut us some slack, Murdoch falling over more times than he had to, Guthrie rounding people’s scores up instead of down. I bet Professor Rapson held up his broken limbs for bandaging without even being asked. And I’d got Bitchface Barclay and she’d screwed me.
I said, ‘Oh dear,’ deliberately omitting the ‘ma’am’ she so coveted. ‘This is an emergency. I must deal with it at once.’
I stepped away to the outside tap, filled a bucket with ice-cold water and emptied it all over her. She screamed and shot to her feet, soaked to the skin. It was bloody excellent. I didn’t dare look at Mr Swanson. She had to drip her way past a small crowd of interested techies who had turned up to see who was screaming. Someone sniggered. I swear it wasn’t me.
I waited all evening to hear I’d been failed.
‘Don’t panic,’ said Sussman. ‘Why would they fail you for something so trivial? They’ve invested hugely in us. And it’s not as if you actually set her on fire, which is what I would have done. You put her out. Don’t expect any gratitude from the rest of the human race.’
And so we came to the dreaded Outdoor Survival, appropriately scheduled for Friday and all over the weekend. It was November! It was freezing! It was pissing down! I was going to die!
I had already made some plans. Actually, I’d been making provisions since they first told us. We would be dropped off separately and make our way back somehow, to arrive before Sunday lunchtime. That wasn’t going to be a problem because I planned not to leave the building in the first place.
I acquired (!) a black jumpsuit, one of Barclay’s. She was such a Grade A bitch that I had no qualms at all. People see what they expect to see. Take away the greys and I was no longer a trainee. If I put on a techie-style baseball cap, grabbed a clipboard, slipped my scratchpad in my knee pocket and looked as if I knew what I was doing, then I might just get away with it.
Next, I needed to avoid getting on the transport. I slunk into admin, brought up the lists, deleted my name and re-printed. Hopefully, each driver would think I was with one of the others. We weren’t the only ones to have this inflicted upon us. Qualified historians had to complete a session every eighteen months and security once a year. Always try to get lost in the crowd. Whenever anyone asked me which transport I was on, I said vaguely, ‘The other one.’
So far, so good. Now I needed somewhere to hide for two and a half days. I planned to use the time studying for my pods exams, which followed immediately afterwards, so it couldn’t have worked out better. I started poking round in odd corners. Obviously, I wanted to avoid the main building, the Staff Block and the public areas.
I remembered the dark corridor opposite the Sick Bay lift and went for a wander one evening. The best bet was at the end, in the paint store. The badly lit room, cluttered and dusty with disuse, had a large, empty area at the back, cordoned off by yellow and black tape.
A notice on the wall said:
NO STORAGE IN THIS AREA.
L. FARRELL (CTO)
It wasn’t visible from the door, which made it ideal.
I started stockpiling. Sleeping bag, water, chocolate, torch, batteries, pods revision notes and backpack. Food I would get the night before, pack it all away and hide the backpack in the store. So long as I kept quiet, I should be OK. After all, I would be revising. It was practically my duty to cheat.
Talking to the others, they were strangely evasive about their own plans. I suspected they all had their contingencies stashed away around the countryside. I could only hope they weren’t planning something similar. It would be a bit of a bugger if no one at all got on the transports.
I breakfasted ostentatiously in woodland camouflage gear, making sure I packed away enough to keep me going for the day, then slipped quietly away. Years of bunking off at school had finally paid off. I never thought I’d say this, but nothing you learn at sc
hool is ever wasted! In the toilets, I stood on the cistern, bundled my greens up into the false ceiling and pulled out blacks, a cap and a clipboard.
I wandered slowly down the long corridor, consulting my clipboard, occasionally peering at a fire alarm point and making a tick on my paperwork. I felt horribly vulnerable, but no one so much as looked at me. No one came racing down the corridor shouting my name, so presumably I’d not been missed at the transports, either.
I strolled into the paint store and closed the door behind me. Retrieving my backpack and stuff from behind the cobwebbed tins of Battleship Grey at the back, I made my way to the empty corner.
And a door opened in the middle of nowhere and Chief Farrell stepped out.
It would be hard to say who was the most gobsmacked. I stood rooted to the spot, waiting for him to realise where I should be, compare it to where I actually was and fire me on the spot.
It didn’t happen. Long seconds ticked by with nothing happening and it slowly dawned on me that he looked as guilty as I felt. And where had he come from? He just appeared. There was nothing. Then there was an open door. Then he stepped out. And here he was. In the middle of the room. We stared at each other.
‘Miss Maxwell,’ he managed, eventually, ignoring the fact I appeared to be disguised as the unit’s IT officer.
‘Good morning, Chief,’ I said politely.
What now? While we were grappling with this social crisis, I heard sudden voices in the corridor outside. Panic gripped me and I stared wildly around for somewhere to hide. He grabbed my arm.
‘Come with me. Door!’
Four strides and I was inside a pod. I could tell that with my eyes shut. The smell was unmistakable. I looked around. This one was small. Maybe a single-seater. The layout was different, with the console on the left-hand wall. The colour was different – a boring beige instead of the standard grim grey. Everything was different, not least the fact it appeared, from the outside, to be invisible.
I couldn’t think of anything to say that wouldn’t get me into even deeper trouble, so I shut up. I suspect something similar flitted through his mind and he was a man of few words anyway.
Eons passed. My backpack slid off my shoulder and hit the floor with a thump that made us both jump. At last, he said, ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Looking for somewhere quiet to do my pod revision,’ and pulled out a folder, as if that would convince him.
‘Shouldn’t you be …?’
I cut him off with a gesture and a complicated, ambiguous noise intended to convey – if you don’t ask then I won’t have to lie and you won’t have to take any action we might both regret, because, let’s face it, I’m not the only one up to no good here.
We both paused to contemplate the massive rule-breaking going on here.
‘Would you like some tea?’
‘Oh. Yes, please.’
We’re St Mary’s. If hitting someone doesn’t cure the problem, then drinking tea will. There was only one seat so we sat on the floor and sipped.
‘You picked the wrong day to … study … in the paint store. It’s inventory day and people are going to be in and out all day, counting things.’
Bloody typical. It had been such a good plan, too.
He sighed. ‘You can stay here.’
I looked around.
‘In my pod.’
I looked at him.
‘This is my pod. My own pod. I keep it here out of the way.’
I carried on looking at him.
‘It’s experimental.’
‘Ah. That accounts for some of its more unusual features.’
‘Yes, I use it as a prototype. If things test OK then I incorporate them into the mainstream pods.’
I nodded.
‘Only it’s not generally known.’
I nodded again.
He turned and looked at me directly. ‘Is this likely to be a problem for you?’
‘No.’
‘Edward mentioned this.’
‘Edward?’
‘Dr Bairstow. The Boss. He said he found it one of the most unusual things about you. He said the more extraordinary things he told you, the quieter and calmer you became. You’re doing it again.’
‘I’m sitting here in an invisible room!’
‘Only from the outside and invisible is not a good word.’
‘Don’t tell me we’re “cloaked”.’ I did the hooked fingers thing.
‘No, it’s camouflage. Simply a combination of high def. cameras and a sophisticated computer putting it all together and projecting the images back again. It works well against simple backgrounds like plain walls, less so against complex subjects – a leafy jungle for example.’
I nodded and looked around. A small telephone-like object resting on a stand caught my eye. ‘You have a telephone?’
‘Funny you should pick up on that. It’s a remote control. Someday you’ll be using one yourself.’
I nodded again, having no idea what he was saying.
‘I’ll leave you then to get on with your … revision. You’ll probably find around six thirty on Sunday morning will be the best time to finish and take a walk in the woods, coming in through the East Gate.’
‘Ok. Thanks.’
‘Leave the place tidy,’ he said, paused as if to say something else and then left. I made myself comfortable in his chair and pulled out my pod files.
He was right about the inventory. People wandered in and out all day, including Polly Perkins from IT and a small, dark girl and they had a very interesting conversation. They were counting tins of Sunshine Yellow, which is, apparently, the colour of the cross-hatching outside the hangar, when the Chief stuck his head round the door and without even a glance in my direction, asked them to count Lamp Black as well.
After he’d gone, they put down their paperwork and prepared for a good gossip.
‘Is he shagging Barclay?’
I turned up external audio and stared at the screen.
‘No, that never really got off the ground, although not for want of trying on her part. She did everything she could and at the last Christmas party, it was just plain embarrassing. But fun to watch.’
‘Whatever did he do?’
‘Nothing. He was polite but distant. You know how he can be.’
‘Yeah, and I know how she can be as well. Don’t tell me she’s given up.’
‘She might as well. The word on the street now is that he’s very interested in someone else.’
‘Oh? Who’s that then?’
‘Can’t you guess?’
‘What? Her? You’re having me on!’
Her? Who’s her? Why does everyone always know what’s going on but me? Come on, ladies! Clarify for the confused eavesdropper.
‘Well, she’ll lead him a merry dance.’
‘Already is by the sound of it.’
Why was I so upset?
‘No wonder Barclay’s so pissed.’
‘Yeah, great isn’t it?’
‘And they say,’ she continued, ‘that cocky git Sussman’s sniffing around as well.’
What? Who?
‘Did you hear she chucked a bucket of cold water over Barclay the other day? Apparently they all nearly wet themselves trying not to laugh and old Swanson doubled her score on the spot.’
Wow! I never saw that coming. An inner voice said, ‘He’s not interested in you. Who would be?’ But inside, a little warm glow spread.
It went well. I had nearly forty-eight hours solid revision time in this oasis of peace. I un-jangled my nerves, gave my aching body a rest, made sandwiches, ate chocolate, slept and revised big time. And spent some time thinking about what I’d overheard. I did try to concentrate on operations, procedures and protocols but snippets of that conversation kept intruding. Occasionally, I grinned to myself.
I eased myself out of the building at six thirty on Sunday. He was right; it was a good time. Hardly anyone was up and paying attention at that time on a Sunday morn
ing. The night watch, in their last hour of duty would be thinking of breakfast and writing their logs and everyone else was still in bed. I changed back into greens and strode confidently towards the woods. The rain bucketed down; thus confirming my decision to give the whole exposure and hardship thing a miss. It was three long miles to the East Gate. By the time I’d hacked my way through wet woodland, tripped over roots, fallen into boggy patches, had my face whipped by branches and been splattered with mud, it looked as if I’d been out there for a fortnight. I was soaked to the skin.
I got lost twice – I’m not good with direction, eventually arriving at the East Gate. They laughed at me but gave me a slurp of hot tea while I signed in. They must have rung ahead because Major Guthrie was waiting for me. I knew he was suspicious, but I looked so authentic, wet, muddy, bleeding, limping and I’d only gone three miles.
‘How did you get back?’
‘Found a stream and followed it down.’
‘How did you find the stream?’
‘Fell in it.’
‘How did you get in?’
‘East Gate.’
‘How did you find the East Gate?’
‘I was looking for the South Gate.’
‘Where were you dropped?’
‘Some God-forsaken, windswept, rain-lashed, barren landscape not previously known to man.’
‘I can’t seem to find your name on the transport list.’
‘Bloody hellfire, sir, does that mean I didn’t have to do this?’
Long, long pause. I returned his stare with a look of blinding innocence and batted mud-clogged eyelashes at him. I’d cheated. He knew I’d cheated, but I stood before him, authentically bedraggled and there wasn’t a lot he could do.
‘Go and get cleaned up and get something to eat.’
‘Yes, Major.’
Yay!
Afterwards, I said to Sussman, ‘How did you do?’
‘I paid a guy to follow the transport at a discreet distance. He picked me up and I spent the weekend clubbing in Rushford.’
‘What? Baby seals?’
‘Very funny.’
‘What about Grant and Nagley?’
‘They planned ahead, planted two mobile phones in the transports, used the GPS, rang for a taxi, booked into a small hotel and shagged themselves senseless for forty-eight hours.’