Jones 3
12
It was a week later and Jones and Chen took up their customary meeting place in one of the cubicles. They spent so much of their free time in there that there were rumours about them. That was good; it gave them the perfect alibi. Flushing the toilet to cover their talking, they turned on the receiver and listened.
"Argh!"
Jones and Chen winced at the tinny groan. It had been picked up by the bug in Mesh’s jacket. Looking at each other they raised their eyebrows. The sounds seemed to be scuffles and the bang of something against a metal cubical wall. They huddled together and moved in over the wristcom. They strained to hear it, but even using earphones they didn’t dare turn it up in case they were discovered.
“Blimey” said Jones. “That’s the third time Mesh has been roughed up in a week!” They had already heard him being threatened, but this sounded more serious and even Mesh didn’t deserve quite such a going over. It wasn’t fun to listen to but they had to find out what was going on.
"Look Mesh" said another tinny voice, "You sort Jones and we leave you alone. You don’t, and you float through space for the rest of eternity in a bag. We could sort him ourselves in five minutes, but that’s no fun and we’d feel so-o-o terrible about it. Anyway, some little jerk would track it back to us. So, little Meshy Weshy, we know you can do it. Anyway, we’re so pleased you could join in our little game. Just don’t cock it up or we won’t be bestest friends and you will be… no more. Geddit?"
"I really don’t think I can-"
"Oh, but you can, Mesh. Bye bye, now!”
A slap and a groan. The slam of a door. Sobbing.
"Heck", said Chen after a minute’s silence. "You’re really Mr. Popular, Jones. What’s it all about?" This was a new development and Jones grew very worried.
"I don’t know, Chen. I really don’t know".
13
The next morning, Jones woke with a start. The results. He had to see the results. Creeping to the study room, he snapped his fingers at the dead multiscreen on the wall. A face appeared and Jones whispered the word "Grading".
"Error" said the face. And smiled. In a sickening, smug kind of way.
"GRADING!" barked Jones. The multiscreen jumped to it, but he still had to endure the piped music and cheesy graphics while the computer thought about the order of cadets. Typical Fire Station Six: a Space Age heaven of science and technology but way behind the times when it came to having a bit of style. What he saw in front of him looked like an app, or worse.
Jones knew the grades would be in order, losers at the bottom and star cadet at the very top. If he came out at around average he’d be more than happy. He had never done that well in anything. Starting very low, he scrolled up. He smiled when he saw Blake’s name in the bottom four. The low placing was deliberate: Blake had to leave soon and get back to headquarters on Earth, so his reason for disappearing had to look convincing. He had been told by the State Secret Service to be as obnoxious as possible and get thrown out. He’d certainly managed that all right. He was a talented spy, though, and had probably found out more about the gang Whisper than anybody.
Scrolling up, Jones got impatient again. Where was his name? To speed things up he called it out and stared at the screen in disbelief. There were no names above his. He called out "scroll up" a couple more times. Nothing.
"Okay", he said slowly, “Don’t scroll. That’s just fine!" He let out a slow whistle and slapped his knee, only just managing to suppress a raucous laugh.
He went quiet. The computer was always fouling up. He checked Chen: up in the top five. Now, that he could believe. It had to be true, then.
Punching the air, Jones kissed the screen and ran back to Chen's bunk. Shaking him vigorously, he whispered hoarsely in his ear.
“Chen! Wake up! You came fifth out of the whole year!"
"Push off. Wake me at five O’- Chen sat bolt upright. "You sure?" Jones nodded, grinning. "OK, Jones. So where d'you come?"
"Oh, not so badly".
“Where, for goodness sake!”
"Oh, nowhere in particu-" What the heck. Chen was going to find out sooner or later. “third from top”, whispered Jones hoarsely. Chen was wide awake now.
The graduation parade was the following week. Jones, with two other top-graders, was in dress uniform. Although shaking like crazy, he tried to make it look as if it was no big deal. They went up on the platform and were presented with their medals and shoulder badges from the President of Jones’s home state. If only his mother had been there. He had contacted her and told her it would be on the local news. She in turn had probably mailed half the world. In fact, she was probably printing articles from the computer and creating one of her paper scrapbooks.
Marching back down the steps, he resumed his place in the platoon of cadets and stood to attention. Meeting Chen’s glance he allowed himself the tiniest of smiles.
Within half an hour all the pomp and ceremony was over and Jones was ushered into a cabin laid out with white cloths and the kind of food which is not so much there for pigging out but to say "This is a very important occasion." This, thought Jones, was definitely a cut above the canteen. He was surveying the room in a smug, self-congratulatory, shoulders-back kind of way when he suddenly felt out of his depth. Apart from a few waiters, he was the only cadet there. He felt awkward in the middle of a laughing, backslapping fraternity who seemed totally unaware of his presence.
It was then that he felt a hand squeeze his elbow. An elderly gentleman tottered round to face Jones and pointed to the orange and grey medal ribbon on his tunic.
“Well done, my boy." He smiled, but then suddenly looked very serious. "There are jealous people around. It won’t be long before someone wants to catch you out". He held up a hand and displayed two missing fingers. "That's what happened when this particular "Star Cadet" got his hand caught in the hatch of a burning ship. I was left for a gonner and it seemed that some were quite disappointed to see me back".
Great, thought Jones. And this was going to be the highlight of his day. The old gentleman grabbed him by the arm.
"Sorry, son, I didn’t mean to spoil this. He looked down and bit his lip. "Look, it’s quite simple. Get yourself a good crew. You know loyal, skilful, brave and all. Get that and you’re there." He smiled at Jones hesitantly to dispel the awkwardness.
"Can you still pick your own team, son? Still a top cadet’s privilege?" Jones nodded.
The veteran laughed and slapped Jones on the back.
"Heck boy, I made it and so will you if you’re half as smart as you look." He raised his drink. "Here's to you, young rascal!" He chinked his glass against Jones’s tumbler of orange juice.
"You must excuse me Jones for not introducing myself. It’s about time I got used to the fact that no one recognises me round here anymore. The name’s de Montfort, General de Montfort. I was commander-in-chief of the Interplanetary Fire Service until, ooh, near on twenty years ago." Jones gulped his mouthful of juice and stiffened to attention.
"Sorry, sir. I didn’t realise you were a Gen-“
“Hey, relax! Why should you?" grinned the General. "I haven’t worn a uniform since his inauguration." He nodded in the direction of the President. The President saw him and, excusing himself from a group of officers, walked over. Jones was beside himself. Did he want the whole world to witness this or did he want the earth to swallow him up?
"Hank, you old reprobate!"
"President! Looking good, sir. Just chatting with your guide. Is it OK if I come along on the tour this afternoon? I haven’t seen a fire tender since they were a spacebuggy with a hosepipe on top".
"Sure, Hank." The President nodded and turned to Jones. "That OK with you, young man? Not too many for safety regs?" Jones was gobsmacked. The President asking his permission? "Will you excuse us, Jones? The General and I have a bit of fat to chew." Watching them disappear into the throng, Jones heard a voice behind him, a voice he recognised.
“Well! He won’t want to speak to the likes of us now, will he?"
"You bet your sweet granny he won’t. Another drink, sir?" Jones turned round very slowly. He took the drink from the oriental waiter with the ponytail and put his old glass on the tray held by the waitress with the auburn hair in braids and lights. Jones had to admit that even they managed to look reasonably smart in catering uniforms.
A few minutes later, Jones was talking to an officer when his wristcom vibratoned. He ignored it. It vibratoned again. And again. Whoever it was (as if he couldn’t guess) was pretty determined. As it went for a fourth time, Jones tried to sneak his other hand over it to turn it off.
"Go on!" laughed the officer. "You'd better answer it". She gave Jones a sly smile. "It's probably one of your admirers." Jones hid in a corner and glowered at his wristcom.
"JONES YOU ARE BLUSHING. SIGNED: THE HOSTESS WITH THE MOSTEST".
Too right he was. He played the other message.
"CORRIDOR. NOW! SIGNED: NINJA WAITER".
He smiled and sidled through a door. Someone grabbed his arm and pulled him through.
“Hey, look at this, Chen!"
Roosha stroked Jones’s hair and blew him a kiss. "Mmm. Such a smart boy!” She laughed and tweaked his cheek. "Get you, Jones. Hobnobbing with the great and the good, eh?"
Chen smiled and flicked Jones’s medal with his finger.
"Plastic, Jones. Very sensible. You won’t have to polish it."
“Solid silver actually, old buddy." Jones put Chen’s bow tie straight and patted his cheeks. "So what's with the glad rags?"
“Well…” said Roosha.”We wanted to bask in your reflected glory, oh Supremo, so we offered to do Morendo's and Flannigan's catering duties. It’s the only way we could sneak in. Tell you what though, it was worth lugging tucker around just to see you getting off with Captain Morrison." Roosha puckered her lips and looked at Jones through half-closed eyes. "I reckon you’re in with a chance there, lover boy."
"Just to be serious for a minute, I -"
"Ooh, isn't he masterful, Chen? I can see what Old Ma Morrison sees in him now!"
"She's not old!" said Jones indignantly. Roosha nudged Chen. Seeing how much Jones was getting annoyed, she forced a serious expression. "You were saying, Jones?" She tried to look attentive.
"Look, just listen, birdbrain! Part of the deal is that I get my own ship for a trial period and I’d need another crew member and a medic. That’s two plus me. The trouble is, who’d be dumb enough to volunteer? It'd be dangerous work."
"Mmmm," said Roosha thoughtfully. "That's a toughie, finding someone sufficiently stupid to work with you. There’s this strange guy with a ponytail who’s probably dumb enough."
"Hmm," said Chen. "Don’t forget Jones… what you need is some tramp medic!" Jones grinned.
"Of course, Chen! There’s that witch in Emergency. Do you think she’d do it, Roosha?"
"I'd watch it, Buster. It’s hard to fly a space ship when someone’s turned you into a frog. You know… little arms… trying to reach the steering wheel… tricky!" Roosha gave a mock cackle and then smiled.
"Jones, I’m sure she’d be delighted."
14
"This way, sir". Jones held a hatch open and waited for the President and his entourage to pass through before he closed it. He cleared his throat and began.
"And this, Sir, is the bridge. This is where the cap-"
"Yes, Mr. Star Cadet, I think we know what a bridge is." The voice slurred from the corner where one of the bodyguards was propping himself up against the wall. The President looked at the man pointedly. This wasn’t the first interruption and the further the tour went on, the less guarded the remarks became.
"All right Mr. President, I’m going. So sorry to have caused embarrassment. Sir." He made his way to the cabin where the entrance hatch was. The President turned and spoke to the guards next to him. They escorted the bodyguard off the brig. Jones went over to where the man had been standing. Whatever he had been pouring down his neck it certainly hadn’t left much of a smell in the air. Probably vodka, or at least something similar.
The next chamber was the equipment locker and, being small, was really only big enough for the President, the general and Jones. Perhaps it was just as well that the guards had gone. With one of them drunk and the other two seemingly bored by the whole affair they were better off without them. The stupid man had even left his bag behind. Jones put it next to the door to pick up on the way out. The President turned to Jones and coughed.
"Look, I hope you weren’t offended by Officer Zabriski. He’s had a hard time recently, been on too many missions. Obviously found the sauce in the officers' mess a little too tempting. He’s a good man and extended leave will do him good." Jones pretended he hadn’t heard and tapped on an instrument panel, peering at the reading. The President smiled. This Jones was going to be OK. He’d handled the situation well.
"Shall we continue, Sir? General?"
"Lead on, Cad-"
An explosion ripped the hatch door off its hinges and hammered the President against the opposite wall. Jones stared at the blood-soaked figure from beneath a pile of twisted control panels and molten wiring.
What was that? Jones screwed his face up, his eyes smarting from the toxic fumes of burning plastic. He was trapped and the brig was on fire. Pulling his arm he managed to squeeze it free and manoeuvre it round in front of his face. He trembled as he saw shards of glass protruding from his wrist. Carefully - ever so carefully - he pulled each one out with his teeth and spat them as far away from his bruised and aching face as possible. Moving his head was painful, as every movement grazed his face on the glass fragments on the floor.
He soon discovered that if he pushed up with his legs he could gradually move from under the panel on top of his body. Free, he aimed an extinguisher at the base of the flames.
Jones staggered over to where the President was lying under the door. Groaning, Jones managed to lift it free. Raising the tattered, suited arm he felt the pulse. Fine so far. Fumbling around the President’s inside pockets he found the Diagnostic Body Scanner. A flash piece of kit, the DBS. Only bigwigs got those. He passed it over the President and was relieved to find no broken bones or internal bleeding. Head next. The scanner flashed and Jones read the screen. 'UNCONSCIOUS'. Well, well, wasn’t that a surprise? He passed it over himself and read the display. 'ABRASED FACIAL TISSUE. BRUISE: RIGHT BUTTOCK.'
"Tell me about it." He applied a dressing to the President’s leg to help stop the bleeding. Jones noticed it was getting worse. Moving a piece of debris, he put it under the President’s leg to raise it and restrict the flow of blood to the wound.
Satisfied that the President was OK, he spent the next few moments checking the hatches since the vessel was docked on the outside of the space station and hanging there in space. It was totally blitzed, but thankfully still airtight.
He looked for the general and found him thrown between two piles of cylinders. Jones shed the first tears of a long, emotional day. The wise old face looked as peaceful in death as it had looked kind and animated in life.
Poking around, he realised why no one had rushed to their rescue. This was the only area to be seriously damaged. Unless you were actually inside the craft, everything must have looked normal. Jones guessed that a Packer had been used. Dead clever, Packers - forces of implosion and explosion working together to make sure that the area of devastation was deadly but limited. That, and the fact that all the blast-proof doors were locked meant that anyone watching the ship from the outside would only have seen a momentary turbulence as it swayed gently on the end of its docking tube on the outside of the ship.
The strangely violent peace was disturbed by torches cutting through hatches. Rescuers were met by the sight of Jones applying a fresh dressing to the wound in the President’s leg. Roosha wasn’t on duty, but Medic Hazram reported back and she felt rather pleased that her tips on First Aid before Jones took his exam weren’t entirely wasted.
Jones had two visitors in sick bay the next day. One was Chen who tapped on the overhead screen and searched for ‘recent space disasters’. This wasn’t quite as tactless as Jones first thought as it contained news about the previous day. He watched an interview with his proud (but extremely worried) mother and a State official standing outside the gates of the presidential palace giving a half-hourly report on the President’s health. Jones’s case was a little more low-key than the President’s: he was just in for observation since he had escaped pretty well unscathed.
His poor mother. Two lots of interviews on the same day. Jones grabbed a tablet and composed a mail to her. As he wrote, he looked at the black night of space outside his window and longed for grass, a street, the graffiti even of a New City tower block. He suddenly felt claustrophobic and homesick.
Roosha marched in purposefully with a pretend frown on her face.
"Well, how’s our little patient today, Medic Hazram? Not too much of a pain in the butt, I hope? These prima donnas can be such a drag when they’re ill. They look so full of pathos when they’re all tucked up doing their little jigsaws. Honestly, anyone would think he deserved time out. Talking of poor sick boys, Jones, El Presidente wants you to get on Channel zero zero one, PRONTO. I think you’ll find it interesting”.
"Yeah, sure he does, and Napoleon’s on the other line wondering if I want to come round and shoot some pool."
"Oooh, Doubting Thomas! And that’s all the thanks I get, Hazram. A couple of DEADS and a body bag would be about right, don’t you think?" She put her face up to Jones’s and gave an evil cackle. “And look here Sunny Jim, no one would be any the wiser!"
"OK, you are a hero for coming in here on your day off, you are wonderful, you are marvellous and the sun shines out of your stethoscope!"
"That's more like it! They’re OK if you know how to handle them, Hazram. A bit like poodles." She looked imperiously down her nose at Jones and dropped a remote onto his bed-top tray. "Would Sir like me to operate this or is he capable of doing it himself?"
"I think I might possibly be able to summon the strength but thanks, anyway." Roosha blew him a raspberry and laughed.
"Thanks for coming in, Roosha".
"S'alright, you poor, poor boy. Seeya! Oh, and by the way, Mesh has disappeared off the face of the Earth – well, the face of Space, anyway. Yup… Gone... Vanished. He’s nowhere on the ship and all fire service craft are accounted for so he isn’t in a Fire Service shuttle. The word on the street is that he jumped ship with the guard who disappeared from the brig when you were showing the President around. Looks like he’s a marked man!”
Jones played the message. Then he stared at the multiscreen newsflash about the state of the President’s health. The outside world was waiting for a reason why the President had been attacked. The news channels were either exceedingly stupid, thought Jones, or playing dumb. Whisper had to be behind it somewhere. There were certainly a few things he could tell the authorities. Take for example a gang which will go to untold ends to try and take out a young cadet who had never done anything worse than stand at the bottom of a building while he waited for Burglar Justin to stop messing about.
He listened to the President's message again. It was as if he couldn’t quite believe what the President (yes, the President himself, not one of his staff) was saying and that playing it over and over again would make it more real. He was, unusually, in the room by himself at this point and he put on a small portable multiscreen by his bed. To make sure of a little privacy he turned the screen towards himself and used phones instead of the speakers. He watched the bruised face of the President as he delivered his message.
"Jones. How can I thank you for what you did for me? While you think about that, let me tell you what would give me great pleasure. There is someone in the Presidential compound who would love to see you. My aide will take care of logistics.
President Murphy
As the image of the President faded another filled the screen. A smartly dressed woman in a military uniform with her hair tied neatly back took over.
“Good Morning, Cadet.
A shuttle craft is rendezvousing with you 10 am your time tomorrow. Do not concern yourselves with packing. A new dress uniform is arriving on the same flight for Cadet Jones, Cadet Chen and Medic Roosha who will be accompanying you. You will be presented with your replacement medal the following day. Have a good flight back to Earth.”
Switching off the machine, Jones lay back and tried to take it in. Earth. That’s what she said. Sky, grass, buildings, dogs and cats, rain and sunshine. It had to be several months since he’d eaten proper, fresh food. Putting the screen back, he wondered how much the others knew. His wristcom vibrated and he listened carefully. A rather strange voice was coming over the ether and he had an inkling who it was, too.
"Hello. Is that Mr. Jones? This is your courier speaking. We hope you enjoy your stay at the Presidential Palace. Everything is laid on for your delight and delectation. Breakfast is at 8 a.m. The entertainment will be a presentation by the presidential hamster hoverbike display team on a dining table near you. If you enjoy it, tell your friends. If not, tell us. Have a nice day!"
"Very good, Roosha. Without the laughing it would have been quite convincing." Jones paused a moment while Hazram came in to take readings and check that Jones was OK. Hazram smiled knowingly as he went out. So how much did he know? Was this common knowledge or not? He returned to his wristcom.
"So you knew about it already? I just can’t believe it! Is Chen OK about it?"
"I tell you, Jones, he’s already drawing up a list of clubs and galleries to visit. Right little culture vulture, eh?"
"Still no sign of Mesh?"
"Still no sign of Mesh. Play back the half-past news on your multiscreen. There’s a sort of 'Wanted' poster of him. He looks a right dodgy character on it. There’s quite a price on his head, too... around 2 billion Dollars. Look, must dash, I’m meeting Sue in The Slammer. Oh, and the Chief says mum’s the word. See you tomorrow. Bye!"
"Bye."