Jones 2

6

“What? No. I haven’t seen him since yesterday. Leave me alone!” It was the day after the Chief’s visit and Roosha was still panicking because she couldn’t find the DEADs. Why had she been so stupid and put them on a shelf? There was enough dosage in that little bottle to kill the whole ship. What was the Chief going to say when he found out?

She swept the intercom off the bench, swore and started sorting and searching the room… not so much sorting as grabbing piles of stuff and stamping it into a bin. She was on the brink. Two post mortems in one day. What the heck was happening round here? Hell, was she getting stressed.

Roosha was on a knife-edge. One minute she was talking to the Chief like a mother and saying that things weren’t actually that desperate and the next she was pacifying a convict who was screaming blue murder, that the place stinks (‘agreed’, thought Roosha), and what were the officers trying to do, cause a revolution (‘probably’) and she was one of them (‘love you too’) so she could go to Hell too (‘don’t worry Sunshine, I’m already there’).

Sometimes she felt very, very alone. She screwed up her eyes, screamed and kicked a mortuary drawer. It was heavy. There was something in there. Or someone. It wasn’t the fitter; he’d floated through the Body Disposal Unit that morning and was drifting about outside somewhere. Roosha snapped out of her fury and stared at the drawer. Summoning all her courage, she pulled it out, ever so slowly.

Roosha’s hand trembled as she tried to grip the cold zipper tag. A body bag was bad enough when you knew who was in it. This was terrible. Tears welled when she recognised the braided arm over the face. She moved the clenched fist and saw the Chief’s eyes staring up at her. She examined the open mouth which glistened with frozen crystals of blood and saliva mixed with thin razor slivers of capsule glass. He must have lain down, pulled the drawer shut and taken a couple of DEADs.

Roosha clutched at her face and dug her nails into her skin. Hugging the operating table she let out a low, painful bellow. Rubbing her bloodshot eyes she suddenly thought desperate thoughts... She could see no end to her misery here so why not leave? Why not chalk up ‘Life’ as a rather unsuccessful experiment? Why not end the pain?

Prising the bottle from the Chief’s frozen hand, she poured the contents into her mouth. It’s why she’d kept them, after all…. just in case. Preparing to eat her last ever meal, she caught sight of herself in the mirror. Roosha. Medical Officer. The only one in the ship.

She mattered.

She spat the capsules into the sink. Three. There should have been four. She’d swallowed one. Putting her fingers down her throat, she regurgitated the contents of her stomach and saw a silver capsule floating in her vomit on the floor.

Shaking her head under the cold tap, she collapsed in a chair. After the rush of self-doubt, anger and panic, she felt numbed. She stared into the mirror again.

“I’m losing it.” Pressing the intercom, she spoke slowly and deliberately.

“This is Medical Officer Roosha. Two Disposal Operatives to the Medical Suite immediately. There has been an incident.” Pounding the capsules with the bottom of a drugs bottle she washed them down the sink.

7

Jones knew nothing about it. He was on a troop carrier heading for a Space Fire Station.

Locking himself inside the toilet, he carefully removed bandage from his leg. Getting past a strip search without anyone finding it was a miracle. Whatever Roosha had hidden, getting it out was going to take a couple of minutes, time he wasn’t sure he had.

Before long, a folded piece of paper fell to the floor. Then, as if on cue, a heavy bang made the cubicle door shake. A voice rang around the toilet walls.

“That piece of paper, Sonny. Hand it over immediately!” Think, Jonesy. Think quick.

He cleared his throat and called through the door.

“If you don’t mind, sir, I’d like to hang onto it. It’s slightly stiff and it protects my diseased scabs.”

“Well, er, just get a move on, laddie!” The door banged and Jones was on his own again, with no sound but the hum of the engines.

Close one, there. Better read it quickly. He held the warm, damp paper between trembling hands. It was from the Chief.

“Jones,

I am writing this because you are the last link I ever had with your father, a man who’s tragic death spared him the humiliation of witnessing this, the end of my sad, pathetic life.

I failed, Jones. This ship is the product of selfishness, violence and hate. I was supposed to be its hope. Unlike your father, I have not made the world a better place by passing through it. I am only alive because he saved me, an action that cost him his own life. The only way to escape the pain in my body and in my heart is to leave this world and go to the next.

You, Jones, are hopefully on the way to FS6. It will be hard there but you will do well. It is all I can do for you now.

Goodbye.

Jones was stunned. He went back to the hold, back to his place on the slatted bench next to Chen. Turning away, he wiped a tear from his cheek. Chen leant forward to shield Jones from the others.

“Say it, Jones.”

“What?”

“Whatever. Anything. You can say anything to me. Even nothing.”

“Chief’s dead. Suicide.” Jones wiped his face with his hands.

He felt himself jolt against the cold of the troop carrier. They’d arrived. The engines stopped and Jones and Chen picked up their bags and followed the others down to the flight deck of Fire Station 6. They were met by half a dozen fire crew who shepherded them through security scanners. Jones had counted twenty other chosen elite on the troop carrier by the time it had visited all twelve Transition Centres.

He looked round and saw spotless silver and grey surfaces. Tiny lights flickered coded messages to orange-suited operators. The air smelt clean and had the heady aroma of brand new electronic equipment just out of the box.

“Geddin line!”

The bellow came from a short man with a metal cane. His tunic fell open to reveal a tattoo of the Fire Service initials beneath the sparse hairs on his chest. Twitching his large, dark moustache he ran a hand over his pale, stubbly chin and looked thoughtful. Jones watched him move slowly down the line towards him. Chen screwed up his face and bent over the cane pushed in his stomach.

“Geddup straight, Freak!” The yell came with a sharp yank at Chen’s ponytail.

Now the bully was in front of Jones. He read Jones’s name and sneered.

“I’ve been waiting for you, Jones. You know that?” He walked round and dug his cane into Jones’s back. “Ooh, you’re lucky, Son. VIP treatment and no mistake.” He walked round and looked Jones in the eye. Ah, been crying have we, Little Boy? Such a shame about poor li’l Chiefy Weefy, don’t you think?” Jones was stunned. How did he know about that? The Sergeant pushed his face into Jones’s.

“I know more about you, Sonny, than you probably want to know yourself. Geddit?” Jones read the name on the uniform. Fire Sergeant Mesh. Were they all like this?

Once Mesh had got tired of shouting at them, the new cadets were marched in single file to the Stores. The polished, brashly lit warehouse smelt of new clothes and Jones watched open-mouthed as pale, sun-starved operatives milled from shelves to rails and from racks to boxes. It was the first time that he had been surrounded by so many new things. All his clothes and toys had been either handed down or got from swap-and-share sites.

Unlike a Rust Monkey, a fire cadet needed reliable gear that fitted like a glove. A girl behind the counter scanned Jones’s body bulk and weight. She sighed, shook her head and glanced up and down a column on her computer. So gorgeous. Jones just smiled shyly. Heck… he was blushing. He could feel it.

“Yup!” she beamed. “Got one. Over there and get your kit off!” Jones stared at her in amazement.

“Oh, come on!” she bossed. I’ve seen more naked fellers than anyone round here.” She looked around. “Probably most of the station, actually. Cadets are just funny shapes that have to be covered in bits and pieces the same shape as they are. However,” she said, giving him a sideways look through half-closed eyes, “I must admit you are rather sweet!”

“Right. Er, thanks.” Jones climbed out of his clothes and joined a shivering line of youths. Going to a conveyor belt, he saw a silver and orange trunk with his name and number on. Blimey. That was quick.

He opened it. A vacuum package held some underwear printed with his Government Central Office bar code. It seemed that everything else was named, too. Then there were the orange t-shirts, the orange trousers, the orange socks and the silver and orange canvas shoes.

Right at the bottom was a brand new, Thirtieth Generation, state-of-the-art wristcom. He had seen them on the news, but he never thought he’d ever touch one, let alone wear it. Pressing the ‘on’ button he almost jumped when he heard Chen’s voice through his ear device.

“Earth to Jones, Earth to Jones”….. How had he done that? Oh, yeah. Of course. Jones kept forgetting that Chen was – had been – very rich. He probably had one already.

Jones finished dressing and caught sight of himself in a mirror. Not bad. He glanced over to the girl in the hope that she would notice him. She was going through exactly the same patter with another new cadet and telling him he was rather sweet, too. Oh well.

He thought of his mother. He would post a clip of himself in his new uniform. Perhaps she’d feel a little proud of him now instead of just ashamed? It occurred to him that she probably didn’t know that he was off the convict ship and on a Fire Station. Would she be pleased? Would she be even more worried? There was only one way to find out. He’d mail her just as soon as Chen had figured out how to contact ‘jones235574.earth’.

“VERY smart, boys!” Jones was beginning to recognise the irritating voice. He turned round to se Sgt. Mesh tapping a boot with his swagger stick. “My friends and I would like to show you to your suite, Jones. Isn’t that right, chaps?”

“Oh, yes, Sarge. In fact we wish to avail ourselves for the carrying of the young gentleman’s trunk.”

“Boys, boys, your generosity of spirit does you much credit. Follow me, Mr. Jones sir… if you would, please!” Sergeant Mesh bowed low and beckoned Jones to proceed. Jones followed Mesh and kept a wary eye on his cronies.

But not wary enough. A foot swung sideways and sent Jones sprawling. His trunk followed, its contents spilling all over the floor.

“Mmm,” said Chen later. They were sitting in the canteen and Jones was viewing everybody who came through the hatch with great suspicion. “I saw it happen, Jones, old chap. I weighed up the pros and cons of interfering and I’m afraid the option of staying alive until tomorrow morning was far too attractive a one to ignore.”

“Right, thanks!”

“Yes,” said Chen. “I’m a coward, but deciding not to take on four gorillas and a sadist might be construed by some to be reasonably sensible.”

“But it’s-“

“Oh yes”, said Chen, calmly as he savoured the current mouthful of his vegetarian lasagne. The food wasn’t at all bad. “Oh yes, the whole episode was positively obscene!” Jones was gobsmacked. Was that it? Was that all the wise, the all-knowing Chen had to say on the matter?

“But Chen, these people get away with it!”

“Yes.” Chen nodded and looked at Jones as if he had just imparted the very secret of Life itself.

“I give up!” grimaced Jones, his teeth clenched together to stop himself blurting out something he really would regret.

“Best way, old chap. For now, anyway.” After the meal, Jones lay on his bunk and brooded. Chen had already bagged the top one and Jones looked at the creaking springs reproachfully as the lump above him shifted around to get more comfortable.

Huh. The perfect end to the perfect day.

8

The following days were better. All Jones had to do was steer clear of Mesh and his friends.

Mesh was about giving people a hard time. Mesh was about keeping the lower ranks in line. Nobody really liked Mesh, but he was an effective, brutal persecutor of troublemakers and that suited the officers very nicely, thank you. Jones definitely felt picked on though, and anyone could see that nobody else got it quite like he did.

It was his third day and he was having a couple of minutes before getting up. Lying in bed, he was marvelling at the fact that he was still alive. He had been lowered into a tank of burning oil, gassed and almost ‘killed off’ in a simulation of an exploding spaceship. Of course, some of it was pretend, but Jones wasn’t going to let a little thing like that stand in the way of feeling a bit of a hero.

He was really looking forward to the jet pilot training. Jones (along with Chen and a couple of the girls) had passed the Spatial Aptitude Test with flying colours and been offered places on the Bubblejet training course.

The Bubblejet was a small, rounded craft which could be flown in and out of space and had become the aerial equivalent of a high-speed hovertruck. It had the capability to hover and to fly at very great speed. If necessary, it could pull in its wings and drop into a space only centimetres wider than itself. The inventor had been stumped for a name until he saw a display of antique writing implements at his local museum. There, among the quills and the fountain pens, was an old-fashioned machine for printing from a computer. He liked the name ‘Bubblejet’ and it stuck.

Jones heard the second siren. Surely not? He’d been dreaming and he hadn’t noticed the time. He fumbled with the lock on his trunk. Three, nine, seven. Or was it six? No, seven. He yanked it open and threw on his uniform. Underwear, trousers, boots. The boots were really tight. He grabbed his tunic about him. He’d leave the stud under the beltpack: nobody would notice.

Getting into line, Jones noticed that Mesh had a new toy. It was a robot. Mesh was determined to test it out, and on Jones too. After all, the little brat was late, wasn’t he? Oh, joy! This was going to make Mesh’s day.

Jones felt a vibration in his beltpack: the robot had latched on to him. It was coming towards him. What wasn’t right? It had to be something, because an android didn’t go in for idle chit-chat.

“Stud undone! Stud undone! Disgrace! Disgrace!” A whining metallic voice in Jones’s ear.

Sergeant Mesh strolled along the deck and grinned at Jones. He hummed casually and prodded Chen as he passed him. Mesh yawned theatrically, did up a couple of studs on his uniform but let the rest of it flap around. He spoke into his wristcom and the robot loosened its grip on Jones’s jacket. Mesh smirked. Jones reckoned he’d smirk too if he had an android attached to his wristcom.

“Eyes front!” bellowed Mesh in Jones’s face. “Gedover there. March! Updownupdownupdown! C’maan, MOVE!”

Poor old Jones, thought Chen. His friend was five minutes carrying a fire extinguisher above his head, an hour on his hands and knees picking minute pieces of dirt off the deck by hand and ten minutes going up and down stairs with a fully laden pack on his back.

Jones didn’t feel too hot that evening. Stiff as a rusty hinge, he made his own way down to The Slammer: he was fed up with waiting for Chen to finish his meditation.

The Slammer wasn't ruled by the strict codes of the rest of the ship. It was an escape, a safety valve for cadets, a place where they let off steam and forgot the job. It was monitored (of course), but it just didn't feel like it.

Following the signs, Jones entered a jagged door and was surrounded by a riot of purple, orange and red. His senses were then hit on the rebound by the coloured lights and the pounding music. The whole place was decorated with graffiti and murals, and some creative cadets had created 3D cartoon space ships and aliens which hung from the ceiling like crazed insects.

The decor changed all the time. Bubblewrap and cardboard featured quite often since the artists were limited to scrounging packaging from Supplies. The night Jones was there, a giant gorilla stood on top of the bar and leant forward as if about to swing down on a rope of black and yellow safety tape.

Fighting his way through the crowd, Jones managed to get to a table. It was a strange contraption: lime green, orange and purple pipes hung down to the middle of it from the ceiling. It was also a table for one. That was fine. He didn't feel like being sociable and getting to know someone at the moment just seemed like too much bother.

All the same, if only Chen was there…Chen who seemed to spend his whole time with his head up his bottom. Then there was Roosha back in the other ship. She'd have perked him up a bit. He sighed and looked at the list of drinks on the tabletop screen. He touched the one he wanted and watched with horror as green liquid splurged all over the table and onto his trousers. He heard someone laughing. That was it. He got up and swung round.

"What the – Roosha?!” Jones stared at her, amazed.

"Hello, Jones. My, we are stressed out aren't we? I can recommend number sixteen... Moon Juice I think it's called. Great for the nerves. Good for washing trousers, too. Boring people tend to put a glass under the nozzle."

"Very funny. But why are you here?"'

"It's a long story, Jonesy Boy. Budge up! She looked at Jones and raised her eyes. "Perhaps not this one, eh? A totally drenched table for one is not really my idea of sophistication. Let's hit that spot over there".

"Fantastic!" thought Jones, a broad grin all over his face. A real person at last. He'd only had known her for two days at the medical centre, but she had made quite an impression on him. He suddenly went serious again. Why did she get out? How?

"Why? I'd have thought that was patently obvious, Jones. How? I borrowed a convict suit from a corpse and stole aboard a transporter. Sure, a couple of operatives recognised me but I saved quite a few hides on that rust bucket and even a prison guard can feel gratitude. It was a combination of that and my irresistible charm, wit and overall lusciousness!"

Roosha batted her eyelashes at him and did a silly face. He laughed. He hadn’t done that for a while. "Actually Jones, it was more to do with me being able to drop any one of them in the soft and smelly if I so chose”.

"Ok Roosha, So what are you doing here? Are you doctoring or something?"

"I’ll be doctoring, as you so expertly put it. I'll be on standby to go out with fire teams as a paramedic. I'm quite lucky, really. One of the last things the chief did was to copy a letter of commendation about me to all space establishments." She went silent and looked into her drink. Jones leant forward.

"Tell me what happened, Roosha."

So she did. She told him about the bottle of capsules, the burial in space, seeing the body bag float out of the hatch into infinite nothingness and the feeling that her life was taking the same route.

"Anyway", she said, brightening. " It's your first emergency simulation tomorrow. You must be excited!"

"How do you know it is?"

"Because, choochy face, I'm on the same team. So that's you, me and that weird friend of yours. What's his name?"

"Chen. And he's not weird."

"I know that. Anyway, I've seen his... oh, you know what I mean..." She said, grappling for the right word.

"I do," said Jones. “Being a medic you've probably seen most people's."

"Very funny, young man. His merit record, that's it. He's a star. He's almost got as many points as you." Her thoughts were cut short by a sudden cry.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAARRRGH!"

"Heck!" said Jones. "What was that?" He turned on his stool. "Hey look, Roosha. Over there on the stage!" She looked round and saw the commotion around the 3D-movie karaoke platform. A beautiful robed girl slowly appeared, transparent but apparently solid. Equally ghostly gangsters faded into view and hacked at the air with knives and swords. Around this bizarre scene, a large group of cadets were stamping their feet, whooping and cheering. Kicking and punching in the middle of the holographic "baddies" was Chen, every inch the "Shadow of Hong Kong". This clip had to be Chen's party piece, probably from his favourite film. Jones could imagine Chen having one of these at home. The scene over, the gangsters, the street market and the swooning heroine all faded away and left Chen alone on an empty platform. He bowed and blew kisses to the ecstatic audience.

"Well!" called out Jones. "Hidden depths, eh, Chen?" The frustrated Kung Fu film star came over and sat down at their table.

"Go on!" said Roosha. "Your go, Jones!" Smiling at the challenge, he looked her straight in the eye.

"OK. You're on. Where's the list?" He activated the table top, touched the menu on the glowing surface and scanned its contents. "There we are. Tall Boy live at The Astro Bowl. I’m feeling in a retro mood."

"Great concert" said Chen. Of course, you had to see it live." Oops. That sounded a bit flash. Roosha stepped in.

"So what are you going to be, oh maestro? Blistering guitar or wailing lyrics?"

"Guitar. I used to play one at school".

"OK then," she laughed. "I'm in too. I'll be wailing lyrics! Which one shall we do? I probably know 'Firewall' best".

Jones jumped onto the stage, grabbed a guitar from a rack and stood where the lead guitarist had been. Roosha grabbed a microphone and stood in the middle. Cherry Orchard had been wiped out and Paramedic Roosha was going to give her a good run for her money. Looking round at the holographic musicians she announced the song, imitating Cherry Orchard's accent perfectly. A few laughs: good.

The rhythm guitarist started the song and Roosha started to belt out the words. In the second verse, Jones came in with a blistering guitar. The audience cheered and screamed with excitement. It had been a long time since the Slammer had seen anything like this.

It took quite a while to reach their table again because people kept stopping them. Chen was waiting with two more drinks. Roosha looked at Jones and beamed.

"Better now?"

Jones grinned. "Ooh, a little bit."

"Is that it?" Laughed Roosha. "You ungrateful-"

"Yes? interrupted Jones, "ungrateful...what?" His hand moved quickly. Too quickly for Roosha.

They were laughing as they left, Jones's drink still dripping from Roosha's hair.

"Children!" Chen watched Roosha go up the metal steps to the Emergency Centre and let Jones walk on ahead a little as they returned to the barrack. Tonight had been good. Chen was very shy and it had taken a lot to do the karaoke, but it was worth it. Even he, modest as he was, had to admit that it had paid off. A little bonding had happened, perhaps?

9

Jones was a bit worse for wear the next day. There was no alcohol in the drinks, so it wasn’t a hangover. No, it was more to do with lack of sleep. He had lain in bed last night wondering if the three of them would get on if they were going to hang round together. What did Chen think of Roosha, or, Roosha of Chen? He had always been a bit of a loner in the past and wary of the idea of friends, but there again he had always had his mother as a safety net, a companion.

It was a shame she wasn’t there now. He wanted her to be proud of him, just as she’d been so proud after his first day at nursery. He’d been so into everything then, so proud of his other world. He’d shown her round with sheer glee, pointing his little finger at every single pot of staples and brushes and making her examine every piece of work on the walls. He wanted to do that now.

He imagined himself explaining every piece of protective clothing as he put it on. He also had a twinge of guilt as he realised that he hadn’t mailed her.

Ouch. Guilty.

Lost in his thoughts, he went back to his reverie and imagined himself talking to her as he put on layer after layer of protection.

"This, mum, is the first protective barrier. It’s made from carbon fibre and is so fine that the whole suit can be pulled through a ring. It is impregnated with antiseptic, which means that if you are wounded there’s little chance of infection. This one here, this is the next layer. Look, it’s woven silk and surgical steel and do you know what? No one’s found a synthetic substitute for it yet". He shook his head and awoke from his dreaming.

Dammit. He’d been talking aloud. Lost in his little world, he didn’t realise how loud until a voice bellowed from behind.

"Hey guys, reckon the Sarge needs to know about this. Jonesy's talking to himself!" Great thought Jones; one of Mesh's little friends. He felt his arm being pulled up behind his back and a voice, slow and menacing in his ear. Jones turned his head to avoid the stench of alcohol in his nostrils.

"Don't struggle, Jonesy boy... Just checking to see if our resident nutter has got hairy palms. It’s not the first sign of madness; it’s the first sign of a loser. Don’t forget, you grass us up and you’re dead. Goddit? D.E.A.D.!" he said, yanking Jones's arm even higher as he spelt it out. "It's just a shame that mummy won't be here to see it, isn't it?" Throwing his victim to the deck he swaggered off back to Mesh. He snorted as he passed the rows of silent cadets standing motionless next to their bunks.

"Look at you lot. Pathetic! Better stand by, hadn’t we?" The cadets, embarrassed, coughed and pretended to sort their belongings. They neatened imaginary creases in blankets and put rows of equipment straight.

10

When on standby, the first two layers of clothing went on and the time was spent playing computer games, chatting or contacting home. Protective gear wasn’t allowed in The Slammer, so a fizzy cocktail was out. There was always the machine at the end of the dormitory but that was either out of action or so chemical that no one touched it unless they were absolutely desperate.

Jones looked at his friend.

Chen, God bless him, was smiling benignly. Chen the incredibly calm-and-together person. His advice to get in touch with one’s inner self was probably really sound, but that was relatively easy for Chen: he didn’t have four thugs gunning for him.

A siren suddenly wailed from nowhere and the place went wild. Silver and orange fire suits were dragged on and zippers pulled. Cadets who could get kitted up half asleep now stood at their bunks, fumbling and panicking. They watched the rest of the team disappear down the corridor, boots clanking against the stainless steel floor.

Mesh was on the flight deck waiting for the brig to be positioned. The brig was a small craft and usually carried a fire crew of ten along with their equipment. It might have been just another trip out for Mesh, but Jones had the awful feeling that he wouldn’t have missed this one for anything.

The cadets' carbon fibre boots now clipped the stairs and the sound echoed through the station. Part of their route to the flight deck was high up on slender aerial gantries, then through the narrow, gleaming aluminium tunnels along which were tied swags of multicoloured cables. Now and then they would pass a blue-overalled maintenance operative with a tool kit. Jones stared with awe as a slight girl nimbly disassembled and renewed complex bundles of fibroptic filaments with equally slim fingers.

A corporal lined them up by a barrier and scanned each cadet's bar code tag. This, along with the fire brig number and departure time, was stored instantly in a database back on Earth.

Everyone stared at the hanger door. Grinding and screeching open, it revealed a widening band of lights, wires and glowing monitors: these were attended by fire maintenance operatives in orange overalls. Accompanied by shouts, waving arms and the smell of rocket fuel, the brig revolved on its turntable and glided out of the docking bay on rails. Shuffling into order, the cadets climbed the ladder into the hold. Once sat down, they strapped themselves in.

One of them, a large cadet called Hazard, started shaking his head and wringing the fingers of his gauntlets. Through his visor, Jones could see the boy’s face screwed up in anguish. Hazard had been finding it hard. Unlike some of the other cadets, Jones wasn’t embarrassed at whimpering. He’d seen too much pain in his life to be shocked. Mesh stomped up to Hazard, grabbed his arm and yanked him to his feet.

"Cadet- Stand up! Geddout!" Mesh pointed imperiously down the steps and Hazard hunched up, squeezed past the other cadets and climbed down to the glaring floodlights of the flight deck. Reassuring pats made his failure all the more painful. The cadets fell silent: they all knew that in three days he’d be forgotten by the State and back begging on the streets. This had been Hazard’s escape from Iron Valley Estate and he’d blown it.

Jones sensed the mood of the others. It was a kind of superstition, the feeling that if they weren’t nice to someone who had failed then someone - or something - would have it in for them, too.

Looking across, Jones spotted Roosha. Just visible behind her medic's pack, she looked back at him and slowly shook her head. The rings through her eyebrows looked incongruous through the narrow visor of her fireproof helmet. Jones quite admired her, really: she was pretty much a law unto herself as Medics were a sought-after rarity. Even Mesh wouldn’t confront her over uniform.

Sergeant Mesh stood at the front and faced them. Signalling, he ordered them to press the intercom buttons on their helmets. The cadets could hear his breath. It was tinny and scratchy like a wire inside a tin can.

Trainee cadets never went far on their first trip, and they had barely floated in space five minutes before Mesh called for their attention. He pointed to a derelict container ship in the starboard monitor. He tapped the ‘Ignite’ logo on the screen. The container’s dark portholes suddenly glowed orange in the darkness of the void around it.

"See that? It’s on fire now and it’s your job to put it out. There are four passengers to save. They’re dummies, fake. The fire isn’t, though: that's real this time."

Jones felt slightly sick. As he watched the freighter through the open rear hatch he peered at the black heavens and was all too aware of the infinite abyss which was just a step away. The burning freighter glowed in the moonlight like a vast, weightless office block hanging in space. One by one they gasped as they hesitantly stepped off the ramp and floated in nothingness, their silver suits joined together by a communication chord like a necklace drifting in water. On one side was the brig, on the other the colossal container ship.

Mesh unclipped a charge from his belt and it clunked onto a hatch. Seconds later, a small explosion swung it open. Panting, the cadets hauled bulky equipment through the buckled entrance and looked around. Jones soon realised that they were at the end of a corridor which ran the entire length of the ship. Mesh stood them in a line and paired them off. Jones was put with Blake. Jones recognized him as the man who had bullied him in front of the others. Great, thought Jones. Just great.

He and Blake picked up two foam tanks and put them on each other’s backs. Locking on hoses, they checked gun pressures and ran down the metal tunnel towards an orange glow.

It soon got hotter. A lot hotter. Turning a corner, they saw a figure burning in a swivel chair. Too late for that one. As the fire took, the plastic flesh melted and dripped from its metal skeleton like burning wax. It groaned, bent double and collapsed onto the floor. Jones and Blake fired cartridges of foam and chemicals at the blaze.

Controlling the fire, they went further down the corridor. Jones was getting edgy: the heat and the smoke didn’t worry him half as much as Blake did. What was going on inside that guy's head?

He didn’t have long to wait. Blake suddenly leapt on Jones and grappled him to the floor. Sitting on Jones’s back he yanked his head up and, adjusting his intercom, whispered to Jones.

"Listen, Jones, I’m undercover. No time to explain. Pretend I’m bashing you up and stay down or we both cop it!"

With his head on the floor, Jones couldn’t see what was going on. Mind you, he thought, he didn’t have to look far. He recognised the heavy boot that tapped the floor near his head. Its owner spoke.

"OK, Blake? Was our young friend in need of a lesson? Seems as if you’ve knocked him out cold. Hopefully you scared him. Be great if he just got off my patch.” Mesh gave Jones’s helmet a shove with his boot and sighed.

“Time to get him back, though. It’s tempting to leave him. You know, died in active service, all that kind of guff. Not this time, though… you don’t know who saw you." Mesh opened another pouch in his belt and tossed Blake a drugshot. Blake snapped off the needle cover and jabbed it in the back of Jones’s neck through his suit.

Heck, thought Jones. This Blake liked it real. Mustn’t move. Supposed to be unconscious. Head held down on the floor, he wondered how long a dose like that should take to react. This had to look good for both Blake’s sake and his. If Mesh suspected the truth they were probably both done for.

"Oh, come on Jones!" said Mesh after a while. That was Jones’s cue. He counted to ten, wobbled to his feet and rubbed the back of his neck through his suit. Taking an elbow each, Mesh and Blake steered him back to the hatch.

All the others had made it back. They stared at the three figures as they staggered down the corridor.

"He's fine", snapped Mesh. "Stop gawping. Wouldn’t be a proper trip without someone coming over all pathetic. Attach the line and let’s get back to the brig!"

On the journey back, Roosha sat next to Jones. They couldn’t communicate but she sensed something else had happened. Why hadn’t she been commed to help Jones? She gently pressed the back of her gauntlet against his space suit but he recoiled nervously. He was dreading an interrogation from her later on. This was his battle and only he could fight it. Cursing himself he turned back to her almost immediately. A weak smile was all that he could muster as an apology. Giving her arm a playful punch, he was relieved to see her smile back.

11

Jones was given the next day off to recover. He wasn’t going to take it but Blake got wind of this. Swaggering into the dormitory he grabbed Jones by the collar and threw him to the ground. Yelling at Jones to get up, he bundled him into the toilet block and banged the door shut. Jones let out a dutiful shout of agony. Blake’s bully-boy scowl relaxed into an apologetic smile.

"Sorry, Jones. It won’t be for much longer. I tell you, there are times when I wake up and really hate this job. I just pray for the day that my next mission calls for a nice quiet chap who washes his hoverbike on Sunday and is into yoga and meditation!"

"Sorry to change the subject," said Jones "but I got the impression you wanted to tell me something."

"Er, yes... sorry. I think it would be a jolly good idea for you to take the day off. You know, to make it convincing. The very last thing we need is Mesh rumbling us and blowing my, sorry, our cover. Changing the subject, Jones, Your friends don’t seem to be very loyal. If anyone treated my friends like I’ve treated you I’d have had a go at them by now."

“What? Do you realise how you come across? Ten miles wide and the personality of a stuck rhino!” Blake smiled apologetically. Then he looked worried.

"They don’t know that it’s all fake, do they? You haven’t told them, have you?"

“Don’t worry. I can guess the situation you’re in." He paused. “It must be so amazing being an undercover agent!”

"Yeah. Right.” Blake paused and looked thoughtful. “As for your friends, I’m afraid they can’t even know when I’m gone: the State reckons I’m still useful for a couple of years yet. Mind you, I’m a marked man for ever. That’s why I’m not married. Can you imagine the danger for a wife and kids?"

"Still," smiled Blake. "Not much longer now and back on Earth. Three month’s blissful, peaceful leave and then, well, who knows?"

“What are you going to do with it, your leave?"

"Well, the first thing when I get back is a family do. It’s my great-grandmother’s one hundred and tenth birthday party. It’s quite funny, really: my folks all think I teach martial arts!"

Jones laughed. "You're joking, right?"

“Oh no, the State thought it up. Quite clever, really when you think of my skills." Blake went silent and serious. “I’m actually here to protect you, Jones.”

"But why are you telling me these things? And why protecting me?"

"You'll find out one day." Blake paused. "I know more about you than you do."

They heard the outside door handle turn ever so slowly. That was odd. Blake’s little outbursts generally had the effect of suddenly creating a no-go area. Blake hit his own leg and Jones fell through the door. Chen was on the other side, hands raised and stock-still. Blake had seen him in action in the gym. Pretty impressive. He knew what he was in for if Chen turned nasty: they all knew that he didn’t have a chance. One word from Jones would let Chen in on the secret. If Jones kept quiet then the secret was safe but he, Blake, could get pulverised.

Tricky, but on balance Jones decided not to spill the beans. Chen grimaced, chopped the air with his hand as if to strike and then suddenly relaxed and smiled. He reached out and retrieved a minute black dot from under Jones’s lapel. Letting him go, Chen spoke into the speck and pressed a button on his wristcom. They all listened: the same speech played back. Chen smiled triumphantly at them. Blake looked on, open-mouthed.

"So wha'd'you know?" said Blake, cautiously.

"A lot of it."

"You know the situation, then?"

Chen nodded. "Hadn't we better go back?" Blake nodded and then stopped in his tracks. "By the way, no one, and I repeat no one, has got to know about this and that includes Roosha. Sorry, but that’s just the way it is."

Roosha was probably a hundred percent but Blake didn’t know that yet and he had enough worries at the moment. Reluctantly, Jones and Chen nodded an agreement. Blake smiled with relief.

"OK, then. Let’s split!"

The next step was to bug Mesh. This proved to be ridiculously easy. Jones apologised to Mesh for 'acting a little too confident' and wondered if there was anything he could do. After a week or so had passed, Mesh showed Jones a modicum of trust. One job that Jones eagerly volunteered for was making sure that Mesh’s uniform was brushed and pressed. He didn’t insert the bug in Mesh’s coat straight away but left it another week: Mesh was bound to check Jones’s handiwork.

One day Mesh was really jittery. Asking what was wrong, Jones realised he had overstepped the boundary, been too familiar. Mesh turned on him.

"Just go away, Jones. You’re beginning to irritate me big time. You really think I want you around? Haven’t you learnt yet what an annoying little twat you are? Get back to your pit and tell your precious little friends to get that dormitory straight!”

As Jones left the cabin, he saw a look of panic in Mesh’s eyes. Perhaps he know about Blake? He turned on his wristcom to check the microphone in Mesh’s coat. He could hear sobbing.

No. Stupid idea. Of course Mesh wasn’t crying. Turning into the toilet block where Chen was waiting, he banged the door twice to announce his arrival.

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