Jones 4

15

The next morning was bizarre. Jones was this season’s accessory and Roosha and Chen were legends by virtue of the fact that they hung round with him. It amused them to have gone from oddballs to celebrities overnight. One minute Jones was being ridiculed for his accent and Roosha and Chen for their appearance... The next, young female cadets were twisting lights in their hair when going off to The Slammer and boys were looking at their short spiky hair and wondering how long it would take for it to grow into a pony tail. Bomb Bomb Mixer girls were particularly quick to claim Roosha for their own, conveniently forgetting that they had shunned her for 'getting involved with a Wire Boy.'

In the boy’s cabin, things were not going entirely smoothly.

"Chen?" Jones looked at his friend and pondered. "What on earth are you wearing?"

"Underwear. Haven’t you ever seen a pair of these before?"

"Can't say I have. What happened to the regulation issue bumrubbers that mere mortals like me have to wear?"

"So who hasn’t looked in his little black pack yet?" Chen gave a slow knowing smile and pointed with mock impatience at the dark, insignificant-looking little bag in the bottom of Jones’s trunk. "And what do you have on, Jones?"

Jones, puzzled, rubbed his chin and looked thoughtfully at the cabin ceiling.

"Just the usual. You know, good old cottonpickin' firecheatin' sandpaper smalls".

"And just how many blazing spaceships do you think we’ll have to put out on this little jaunt? So fireproof knickers are the latest essentials? Dammit, trust me to be the last to know."

"Oh, mock me then!" Jones laughed and pointed at his friend’s nether regions. "So those are what real people wear?"

"If they have any savoir faire at all, yes".

"OK, then." Jones took a pair out and held them up against the light. "Hmmm. Sexy! And I thought it was a first aid kit."

A knock and a muffled voice asked if everything was satisfactory and did they knew that the flight left in twenty minutes?

"No problem!" Ten minutes later Jones was admiring his new uniform in the mirror out in the corridor and watched as their trunks were wheeled away to be loaded onto the shuttle. "Pretty smart those boxes, Chen. Perhaps we’ll get a chance to rootle round in them on the flight. Did you see the civilian clothes? No chance of looking scruffbags, talking of which", he mused, looking up the corridor, "have you seen Madam?"

"Cheeky chappie. I heard that!" A raucous laugh was followed by a cuff on the back of the head.

For someone who usually threw on the first thing she could find, Roosha had spent quite a while getting ready. When they saw her, they realised why.

"OK, OK. Haven’t you poor deprived little boys seen a girl’s knees before?" Roosha pulled her skirt down a little but seemed to be running a losing battle with the hemline.

"Not a bad pair of pins, girl. What do you reckon, Chen? Do we want to be seen with her or not?"

"I don’t know. There is, however, something illogically alluring about the combination of the tattoos and the tie."

"Thanks a bunch. I don’t know what I’d have done if Captain Mbutu hadn’t offered to stay behind and give me a hand. I can’t say it’s the most comfortable stuff I’ve ever worn."

Putting a tie on had been no big deal for Chen or Jones. Chen, a well brought-up young man, had first clipped one on at the age of two and Jones had had part-time jobs in New City restaurants as a waiter. For someone who had spent her early life hiding in the desert with her renegade parents to avoid the law – not to mention being second in command of a gang - it was all a bit of a culture shock.

"Seriously, boys, do I look, as my granny would have said, a bit of a dork?"

"You look great."

Scanning herself in the mirror, she wondered. Yes, she was pleased but had her parents still been alive would they have approved? Would they have felt she’d ‘sold out’? Of course not. She blinked a tear into submission and smiled; she’d done that years ago. She remembered Captain Mbutu as she had helped her get dressed; Fire Captain Mbutu I.F.S. with her tribal scars above a crisp, braided officer’s collar and tie. A uniformed Captain but still a Tanangori and no one had taken that away from her. Roosha stood up straight and told herself to get a grip: after all, it was only clothes.

"OK, guys?” she said, looping her arms into theirs and steering them down the corridor. "Shuttle’s warming up in the docking bay. Time to go!”

The shuttle was certainly a surprise. Jones wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but it certainly hadn’t been a com amusement arcade. He looked at the retro-fashioned pinball machines in the living area and somehow felt that his own childhood spent in a high-rise slum hadn’t quite matched up to this. The thick cream carpet was immaculate and the walnut trimmed soft drinks bar was the stuff of dreams.

Life-size holograms of sports stars decorated the walls and there were multiscreens in every direction. Every few metres of wall were interrupted by a fridge, a games console or a sofa, bean bag or chair. The only rule on the trip was seatbelts on take-off and landing. These were in a section at the front of the living area near the cabin. Able to be sealed off, it separated from the rest of the shuttle in an emergency and had its own engines to get it back to Earth.

The ship was being co-piloted by the President’s own son who shook their hands limply before take-off and was obviously in two minds about sharing it with a "strange chap with a pony tail", a Wire Boy and a rather dippy, tattooed girl who seemed to forget she was wearing a tie and was having trouble keeping it out of her coffee. Jones was the first to have the nasty feeling that the President’s eighteen-year-old was being given flying lessons and that this was the perfect practice trip.

His worse suspicions were confirmed when the shuttle’s wing clipped the side of the exit door of the fire station on the way out. All three of them had to stifle a laugh as the shuttle glided out of the hatch and started to spin slowly in the weightlessness of space.

"So this is what these things round our necks are for!" choked Roosha hoarsely as she stuffed her tie into her mouth to stop the giggles. Chen reminded the others that none of them had ever driven something the size of a large house through an opening with barely two metres clearance either side and, more importantly, that there was an intercom with the flight deck and what they were saying was probably being monitored by at least one person back at Earth.

The welcome to the ship was a hologram of little brother Desmond who, Jones guessed, was probably about eleven. He explained where the toilets were and pointed from the large, communal screen in front of them in the direction of the best games.

"And you guys better practice 'cause I’m going to thrash you when you get here!" He signed off with a laugh and a wave. "Looking forward to meeting y'all. Seeya!"

"Aah," said Roosha, clasping her hands. "Isn't he cute?" Jones turned to her expecting to see her raise her eyes to the ceiling. She didn’t. He leant towards her seat.

"That uniform’s having a serious effect on your critical faculties, young lady. Since when did a Bomb Bomb Mixer use the word 'cute'?"

“What's up? jealous or something? I can’t wait to meet him: such a bright lad!" She prodded the air furtively at a camera above their heads, scribbled urgently on a paper napkin and put it on the table in front of him. He read it and passed it on to Chen.

"Yes”, he whispered. “They've probably got one in the loo to make sure you’re not writing anti-government slogans on the wall or using too much paper. What do you expect? Privacy?"

Roosha laughed with the others and then her face fell. Making her way to the toilet she locked the door, sat down and then fumbled through the drawers in the wall. Of course they wouldn’t have any, stupid girl: a ship built for three boys? She hadn’t brought her own; they were still in her locker. She opened the last but one drawer and drew out a small, hermetically sealed tube. Man, she was impressed: they really had thought of everything.

Sitting down in her seat again she smiled peacefully at the others.

"Better now?"

"Yes thank you, Jones."

"Some of us were a bit more organised and went before we took off didn’t we, Chen?" Jones threw his friend a smug smile. "Bet you’ve been crossing your legs praying you could get out of your seat during the launch!" Roosha was livid.

"Oh I see, smartarse. Well, there are some things in life that I have to worry about and you and Chen don't!"

"Oops.” Jones sank lower in his seat as the penny dropped.

"In case you’ve forgotten, Mr. Star blooming Cadet, I’m a girl, woman, female, call me what you damn well want. You know, one of those weird aliens." She slammed the arm of her seat up and made her way to the front of the shuttle. Pausing at the cockpit door she knocked tentatively, opened it and went in. It glided to and Jones and Chen soon heard laughter through the small gap. Moments later they saw a tattooed hand reach from its braided uniform arm and slam the door shut.

"Well, Jones. Guess that’s taught us. You ready for a game?" Jones sighed. What a gaffe.

"She's right, Chen. She drinks litres and swears like a trooper but she’s a bit more complex than that: we all are. You don’t know the half about me and I don’t about you." He picked absently at the piping on the cream leather seat. How could he be so dumb? So insensitive? Chen punched his arm and got up.

"Come on, Jones. Best of three!" Another sigh and he got up to join Chen at the pool table. They were beginning to operate in a tight framework where they all knew their functions and acted their roles. This trip was a leap into the great unknown, an unknown that made the mysteries of space look as simple as the safety instructions on the lockers above their heads. It was going to be make or break as far as they were all concerned, and he was determined the team was going to work. At that very moment it meant having a game of pool with his friend.

"Coming, Chen. You’d better chalk that cue, boy, and say your prayers!"

16

Roosha had calmed down a little by the time the meal came around and actually deigned to sit with them and eat.

"So did you have a good chat with the nice man flying the shuttle, Roosha?" Groaning, she raised herself as if to leave them but was restrained by an urgent touch from Jones.

"Sorry, Roosha. Not funny." She raised her eyes and very slowly lowered herself back into her seat.

"There are others in this solar system besides you and Chen, Jones. You don’t have a monopoly on my time, so just remember that!"

"Er, yes, Roosha. So is he-“

Don't you ever learn? Just shut it. It’s none of your business!" Jones was all too aware that his dirty linen was getting a good public airing, not least in front of the pilots but probably in front of a whole bunch of headphoned officials on the ground as well.

In a desperate bid to change the subject, he pointed out the stunning view of the Earth out of the window. Cloud enveloped it, making it appear even more fragile. It looked as if a finger pushed through the wisps of vapour would crack the delicate crust, make the planet cave in and let some beautiful filling ooze out. Roosha read Jones and rubbed his sleeve. It was as if the vision in front of them put it all into perspective and they both suddenly had a desperate urge to make peace.

"I'm sorry I had a little paddy, Jones. This is your trip and I hope I haven’t spoilt it for you." Jones smiled his own apology, held her arm and pointed out the land mass as it got nearer and bigger. Roosha was far more fascinated by Jones’s hand and watched it move as she squeezed and turned it in hers. She groped for words to describe the person on the end of it. Brother? Father? Son?

Perhaps it was safer to just stick to words like 'colleague’ for now and not to delve too deep. As a medic she knew more about him than his mother did, but this was too close: he was a friend now, not a patient. She slowly withdrew her arm and leant her head on the luxurious cream leather, turning to watch Chen as he dispatched the Orgs of Garth with one last record-breaking score. Before long, all three of them felt the judder of the craft as it landed at the Presidential terminal.

Nick - the Presidential offspring and embryonic pilot - helped Roosha down the steps to the tarmac. The gesture would, an hour before, have made her blush but it now struck her as a little patronising and irritating. She had the grace though to smile politely, watching Jones cautiously to gauge his reaction. He in turn gave the intrepid Nick a warm handshake, having decided that a salute would have been a little over the top- not that the FireService Manual actually covered the eventuality of one of the Presidential family trying to get off with one of your crew members.

A uniformed member of staff met them on the runway in a tracked vehicle. A pennant flapped in the breeze: ah yes, a breeze. Jones and the others breathed in the air and closed their eyes in bliss. Real air, not recycled, second-hand oxygen which had been in and out of gas compression chambers (and people) umpteen times. The breeze felt strange, wild, untamed. No, the wind bowed to no one. The horizon was distant and vast, butyou could reach it given a few hours walking. On a space station, one looked into infinity but the distance was meaningless: a light could be a star millions of light-years away or a flashing hazard lamp on a satellite.

"The ground Jones, the ground!" Roosha stamped on the tarmac and laughed. "It's not moving!" They watched Chen as he turned cartwheels into the distance and flipped his way back again.

After a couple of minutes, the driver coughed and opened the passenger door.

"Sorry to be boring, you guys, but we are a teensy bit behind schedule. The President was expecting you a little over an hour ago".

"Oh, right." Schedule. Of course. Was it all going to be "schedule”, Chen wondered? Not if they could help it, thought Jones.

Two bodyguards slammed the door of the hover car behind and came over to put the trunks in the tracked carrier. The three felt a bit awkward and weren’t used to being waited upon, but it was obviously something they would have to get acustomed to. Getting in was an experience: outside was a standard army grey-green but inside the carrier it was all the same walnut trim and cream leather as the Presidential shuttle. The driver smiled as he looked at their faces.

"Gets the passengers every time! Chipped and rusty on the outside, limo on the inside. It’s deliberate: keeps the public guessing and probably stops Whisper taking pot-shots at us. Soon be there," he said cheerily. "Hang on to your dinner!" Well clear of the airport he swerved off the road and went across a rubble-strewn area of empty ground.

"This here below us was a state office block once… finance or something… anyway, Whisper didn’t like having their bank accounts frozen so they tried killing a few officials and when that didn’t work they just bombed the place. There are quite a few empty holes in the landscape because of them." He paused and read the concern in the back.

"Oh, you'll be fine where you’re staying. There’s not a lot gets past Presidential Security!" They turned a corner and were suddenly on an immaculate piece of tarmac. The carrier stopped. "This is where we get our rubber tyres down. Won’t take a second." The carrier tilted slightly from one side to the other and then started again.

"Heck, this is quiet!" said Jones. "I guess it’s kinder to the road surface?"

"Yes. It’s running on inflatable tyres now. The President has his own craftsman who makes them from original antique moulds in the carriage workshops."

The Presidential palace was inside an ancient coastal fortress, the white stone stained with rust marks from old iron mooring rings and chains. The driver pointed out the private beach and the presidential yacht moored at the quayside. The road climbed a steep incline and they entered the outer perimeter razor wire fence.

Stopping at an electric gate, they waited for a guard to stamp to attention and march over to them. Chen looked at the machine gun and smiled.

"My father collected old weapons. That one looks old, possibly twentieth century. It’s an AK47. It would have fired bullets."

"What… little bits of metal?"

“Yep.”

"Primitive."

"It's weird, but these had no electronics, not even an on-board computer, which meant you always had to aim the gun yourself. Does that one still use bullets?"

"Not any more," said the driver. "It's been adapted for laser. He’s really just the ceremonial, public side of security. Some guards love that duty. It gets them a chance to dress up in old uniforms and have their pictures taken with the tourists. Just a little piece of history, really. We’re going through a couple more checkpoints before we get to the inner compound." As they reached the main gates, a scanner fired a minute red beam at the carrier and opened the gate.

"You're joking!" exclaimed Roosha. "Presidential Security, and still scanning barcodes?"

"That's when you know a civilisation really understands its Technology: when it’s not afraid of using old solutions" said Chen. Typical, thought Roosha - a great guy, but the smartarse always had an answer.

17

The palace had been a Governor’s house. A large stone and brick building, it looked good for its three hundred years as it sat in the middle, a venerable old aristocrat and the magnificent residence was surrounded by barracks, guard rooms and offices, precocious young whippersnappers in glass and steel. The other old building had been officer’s quarters and still had cannon either side of its sweeping stone steps. This was where senior staff had their living quarters, cheek by jowl with V.I.P. guest suites.

Three orderlies were waiting by the steps to show them to their rooms. The apartments were all next to each other and overlooked the parade ground. Each had a bathroom and a balcony which looked out beyond the barracks and parade ground to the sea. Inside, there was a welcoming note to each cadet propped up against a fresh vase of flowers, and the fridges contained chocolates and various soft drinks.

Jones was bouncing up and down on the mattress when he heard a knock on his door. Roosha barged in, grabbed him by the arm and dragged him along the corridor.

"Hey Jones, you just gotta see this: it’s really gross!" Shoving him through the door she waved her arm at the wallpaper. "It's got to be freshly done. Heck, it might even have been done just for me. That’s one scary thought!" Jones surveyed the riot of pink roses splattered all over the wall.

"Hmm."

"Is that all you can say? Just 'Hmm'? Here I am in the middle of a Horticultural Armageddon and all you can do is go 'Hmmmmmmmm'?"

“Well, I think you're very lucky. This room’s much bigger than mine."

"You haven’t seen the bathroom yet. Lordy, lordy me!"

"I haven’t seen mine, either. Tell you what; come along in ten minutes when I’ve had a shower. I’ll make you a cup of tea and you can tell me all about it".

Back in the corridor Jones saw a sight that made him freeze to the spot.

18

"Mum!"

Jones ran towards his mother and they spent the next two minutes locked in an embrace, just standing there in the middle of the corridor. They were oblivious to the rest of creation, a lone satellite in the vast, deep carpeted space of the corridor and their sobs were the only sound to be heard.

Jones’s mother stroked his tears away with her dressing gown sleeve and slowly. She winced as she gently touched the scar on his cheek.

"It's OK, mum. I’m alright. I’m fine. Really, I am!" He looked at her dressing gown and laughed. "Have you wandered across the city in that or did you get a taxi?"

She laughed as she blinked away tears. “I've wandered precisely ten metres, dear; my suite is just there." She pointed to the door next to his. He pointed to his own door a few metres further down.

"I'm not a million miles away, either!"

"I don’t believe it! They said I wasn’t going to have any trouble meeting up with you so I thought "Super, perhaps he can come and visit". She held him away from her and beamed. "This is incredible!" As she spoke, she saw a girl with damp hair and dressed in silk trousers turn out of a doorway into the corridor and call to him.

"Jones! Haven’t you showered yet, you smelly individu-" Roosha saw Jones’s mother, gave out a small "Oops" and turned tail back to her room. Tapping her wristcom she whispered hoarsely at its silver dial.

"Chen. Jones is grappling in the corridor with some woman in a dressing gown!"

"Dressing gown? I didn’t realise Jones was so domesticated."

"Not him, you idiot, her!"

"Lucky chap. I suppose if you’re a woman he would have a basic sort of charm."

"For goodness’ sake, shut up and listen! She’s old enough to be his mother."

Two heads slid surreptitiously out of their doors and watched. Jones and the woman were still there. Roosha and Chen gasped as the two figures went into the woman’s room.

"Ugh!" grunted Roosha. "That's gross! Ten minutes later, Roosha summoned the courage to tap her dial again and she heard laughter and the clinking of china.

"That you Jones? Whaddyou up to with that woman, you filthy little pervert?" Putting her ear to her wristcom she heard more clattering and then a guffaw which nearly deafened her.

"Well, my dear, I’m taking some tea with my sainted mama. Perhaps, Sherlock, you and Doctor Watson would do us the honour to partake of some of this excellent beverage with us. Mater would find it so amusing to hear what you think of her!"

"Oh. Sorry, Jones. I just didn’t know... um... Roosha heard more laughter and then a click as the com went dead. Jones was watching his mother make the tea when he heard a timid knock on the door.

"Perhaps this one of your friends? I’m dying to meet them, they sound an awful lot of fun!"

"That's one way of looking at it. Actually, that’ll be Holmes and Watson now."

"Who?"

"Er, nothing, mum. Shall I let them in?”

"But of course, dear!" Roosha and Chen slunk in and were sat down on a sofa. Jones’s mother scanned their faces intently and beamed at them.

"So, you’re Roosha and you’re Chen. I’ve heard so much about you. I’m so glad to meet you at last and have the chance to thank you for all you’ve done for my son. I know what a horrible ordeal it must have been at times - for all of you - and I thank you both." She turned to pour the tea from the silver service. They all stared at each other and then turned their heads towards the placid figure at the sideboard. In the still calm they felt a long, relentless turmoil lift itself from their lives.

There was no awkward silence, no embarrassment, just a feeling of peace in the room. For once, there were no wisecracks, only Roosha, tears in her eyes, staring at Jones and mouthing "you lucky, lucky bastard" across the room. She hunched forward on the sofa, her knees clasped in her arms, a lost little girl staring intently at the floor.

"Tea OK for everyone?" Jones’s mother looked round and paused. She put the teapot down and hugged each of them in turn. She stroked Roosha's head and kissed her cheek. Staring into Roosha’s eyes she spoke softly.

"I'm afraid there’s one thing I need to know, dear. It’s rather personal."

"Ye-es," croaked Roosha hesitantly, pushing back her disheveled hair.

"The thing is... how can I put this... Do you take milk and sugar?" Roosha laughed.

"Just milk, please. So what do we call you? 'Jones's Mum'?"

"Anything you like, as long as it doesn’t scare the Secret Service." She pointed at the minute microphones on the ceiling. She passed Chen his herbal tea and lemon. "It's OK," she said nonchalantly, “I’ve told them to turn them off."

"Excuse me," said Jones, gobsmacked. He pointed at his mother and then at the ornate plasterwork above their heads. "You ordered them?"

"Mm. That’s right." She hummed softly as she gave her son his tea.

"Oh, come on, mum... You’re holding something back here. What is it?"

"How does one put it? Let’s just say they’ve apologised. Yes, that’s it. You weren’t supposed to know before tomorrow, so act surprised when they tell you, there’s a dear."

"Apologised for what?"

"For FS6, prison, everything. They know you’re innocent. Your little friend Justin is telling us everything, apparently. All we have to ascertain is what that 'everything' is."

"Hold on: you said "us'."

"Hmmm." She turned to Chen and Roosha. "Oh, call me Margaret, by the way." She turned back to the polished antique mahogany sideboard and poured herself a cup.

"MUUUUUM!" You’re driving me up the sodding wall!"

"Don't swear, dear. It’s not nice." She looked at his anguished face and said "Well... alright then. I’ll tell you everything."

Roosha was impressed. She’d known Jones for a while and even she’d never managed to get him this riled. Hwe frind's mother beamed at them all and continued.

"To cut a long story short, I’ve been given my old job. I’m back in the military."

"The military? Old job? Is it a good one? What is it? Secretarial? Cleaning? I didn’t know anything about this, mum!"

"I'm sorry, dear. It was all very hush hush. I decided that it wasn’t fair on you to have to harbour a secret that meant life or death. When your father died, our past life was covered up and we were sent to live in the back of beyond, as you know only too well. To make it convincing, the State moved an agent into one of the other flats to pose as a bit of a busybody and spread rumours about me. That bit was quite fun: we’d get on our secure lines and plot the next bit of malicious gossip. In the end we decided I was a single mother who’d murdered her boyfriend."

Jones felt uneasy that he was learning this in front of his friends.

"Sorry, dear. I wish I could have told you before. Anyway, I didn’t mind the rumours too much if it meant safety for both of us: you and me, that is." She looked into the bottom of her bone china teacup and chuckled. "Poor woman. Sympathy was so much on my side that she had to leave in the end. That undercover agent, a veteran of countless deadly missions against Whisper, ended up being hounded out of the block by ferocious neighbours who had obviously heard one too many slanders against my name. There may have been excrement smeared on the inside of the lifts and a mugging rate that made Whisper look like a Sunday school class, but when one of their own was in trouble they were incredibly supportive and loyal." She paused and tutted at a minute smear on the silver teapot.

"The thing is, one had to be somewhere where one could just be lost in a crowd. What better than a cleaning lady in a tower block? It meant I could have a reasonably unpredictable work pattern and a very anonymous one at that. Who notices a cleaning lady? We were paid a huge amount of compensation, but we can’t touch it just yet." She put her cup down and rose to her feet. "If you’ll excuse me, I’d better go and change. It’s positively the last thing I could possibly want to do at the moment, but I’ve got to dash. Don’t you three rush off. Just stay and drink your tea and chat." They watched her go into one of the other rooms. As soon as she was out of sight, Roosha and Chen leant forward on the sofa to interrogate the hapless Jones.

"So why didn’t you tell us?"

"Look, I had no idea. I seem to know as much about my mother as you do!" They were still sitting there in stunned silence when his mother reappeared, dressed and with her brief case.

"If you’ll excuse me, I’d better go for my briefing with the President. You can let yourselves out."

"Blimey, mum!" He looked at the gold braid on her uniform and her smartly knotted tie with the Presidential Personal Staff pin. "Look, I can’t take any more surprises."

"You're not the only one. By the way, it’s Colonel Jones to you if you see me on site, OK? A nice smart salute too, there’s a good boy!" She kissed his awe-struck face and waved to the others. Checking her wristcom for instructions, she spoke into it briefly and gave one last wave. They watched her disappear only to see her reappear outside and stride decisively across the gravel as her driver saluted and held open the passenger door of a large, shiny staff car. They stared goggle-eyed as it disappeared towards the Presidential Palace.

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