She stood at the console, arms folded, disapproval radiating from every pore and turned a frosty glare on them as they entered. Nothing personal – an ancestor of Officer North’s had once resigned from the court of Queen Victoria citing its frivolity and reckless informality – frosty disapproval was her family’s default state.
‘Right, first thing on entering a pod – always check your weapons are in safe mode. You can shoot yourselves and each other outside the pod, but I don’t want any accidents in here.’
‘We don’t have any real weapons,’ said Parrish, resentfully.
‘You have sonics, I presume?’
Awkwardly, they drew and checked their sonic guns.
‘Safe,’ said Parrish.
‘Safe,’ said Farrell.
‘Um . . . yes, safe.’
‘Try to sound more confident, Lockland.’
‘Um . . . yes, all right.’
‘Um, yes, all right, what?’
‘All right, ma’am.’
‘Better. All of you go and stand over there. Do not touch anything.’
Since Lockland appeared to be paralysed with anxiety, Farrell took her arm and the three of them shuffled into a corner out of the way.
Major Ellis entered the pod and nodded at North. ‘All set?’
‘All systems green, sir.’
‘Coordinates?’
‘Not yet, sir.’
‘Right – who wants to lay in the coordinates? Don’t all rush at once.’ He eyed the trainees. Lockland closed her eyes. Don’t let it be me. Don’t let it be me.
‘Lockland, what about you?’
Some people enjoy being the centre of attention. Parrish, for example, had no problems in that area. For Jane Lockland, this sort of thing was her very worst nightmare. Everyone was looking at her. Automatically her hand reached for the safety of her notebook. North cleared her throat in a manner that could halt armies in their tracks and so, taking a deep breath, and telling herself she could do this, Jane stepped up to the console. North moved aside to make room. ‘Here. Sit down.’
Lockland seated herself and ran her eyes over the console. This pod was different to the training simulator she was most accustomed to. Nothing appeared to be in the right place. Nothing was as she remembered. And everyone was watching. Panic was making her blind.
She took a deep, controlling breath. I can do this. I can do this. I’ve done this in training. Many times. I’ve watched other teams do this. I can do it. Just stop. Slow down. Stop and think. There must be something I can recognise. There’s the chronometer. Those are the camera controls. Which means this must be the . . . The silence dragged on as she worked her way around the console, conscious of the seconds remorselessly ticking by.
Parrish sighed loudly and shifted his weight impatiently.
‘Take your time, Lockland,’ said Ellis, quietly. ‘There’s no rush. I think I speak for us all when I say we’d rather you were slow and correct than fast and flashy.’
For some reason his eye fell on Parrish, who scowled.
Hands shaking, she laid in the coordinates. She could imagine Parrish behind her, fidgeting impatiently as she went through the final checks, all ready to shoulder her aside and do it himself in a fraction of the time. Her heart felt as if it were about to leap from her chest. She knew her face was bright red – it always was when she became anxious – but there was nothing she could do about that. In fact, she realised with a sudden revelation, the only thing she could control was herself as she performed this small test. All right, she was slow and fumbling, but how much worse would it be to be slow, fumbling and wrong?
Eventually, when she was certain everything was correct, she sat back and said, not without a tremor, ‘Coordinates laid in, sir.’
‘All right,’ said North, quite gently for her. ‘Let’s have a look.’
She ran an experienced eye over the console.
‘Everything correct, sir.’
‘Well done, Lockland.’
Lockland, whose face was just beginning to return to something of its normal colour, flushed again but this time with pleasure.
‘All right. Positions, everyone. When you’re ready, Lockland.’
Oh my God . . . what?
A tiny, trembly voice she vaguely recognised as her own said, ‘Pod – commence jump procedures.’
The pod’s AI responded. ‘Jump procedures commenced.’
The world flickered like a broken film and they were gone.
3
They landed with just the tiniest bump.
Matthew Farrell, accustomed to the St Mary’s scramble to the cameras to ascertain their landing time and place and then allocate blame accordingly, was rather surprised when nothing happened. In fact, Ellis sat back and stretched. ‘Well, it’s all rather up to you three now, isn’t it? Don’t just sit there looking gormless.’
There was a moment’s frozen silence and then, predictably, Lockland fumbled for her notebook.
‘Put it away,’ said North, without even bothering to look round.
The three of them clustered around the screens.
‘Where are we?’ demanded Parrish, staring in disbelief. ‘Where the hell have you dropped us, Lockland?’
She flushed again, feeling the familiar panic. Had she got it wrong after all? No. No, she hadn’t. The coordinates were all correct. She said, as firmly as she could manage, ‘Exactly where and when we should be. 1996. The small town of Lower Spurting in the county of Rushfordshire. Pod – please provide brief details of Lower Spurting.’
Parrish sighed impatiently. ‘You don’t have to say “please”, Lockland. It’s a machine.’
The pod responded in a pleasant, female voice. ‘Lower Spurting. Created in the early 19th century as an overspill town for industrial Whittington. While Whittington prospered, Lower Spurting did not.
‘There are no buildings of historical or architectural interest.
‘Population approximately seventeen thousand five hundred.
‘For every one hundred females there are eighty-seven point four males.
‘Thirty-eight per cent of the population are over sixty-five.
‘Thirty-three per cent of the population are under sixteen. Of those aged between sixteen and twenty-five, thirty-six point three per cent have no academic qualifications and twenty-seven per cent are unemployed.
‘Overall unemployment is seven per cent higher than the national average at this time.