‘Six weeks’ basic training, then six months of what they call “gruntwork”. Dealing with minor problems, sorting out naughty people, probably not shooting anyone, that sort of thing. Then I can select my speciality. IT, or admin, or one of the active squads – whatever.’
‘Have you thought about yours?’ enquired Mum.
‘I want to work with the Time Map,’ I said, and could see their relief immediately. I must remember to tell Major Ellis his plan had worked. To get them believing and expecting the worst, and then tell them I wanted to do something benign with the Time Map.
‘Your parents will be so relieved,’ he’d said, grinning at the thought of putting one over on Mum, ‘they’ll agree to anything.’
And it looked as if he’d been right.
1
Marietta Hay, commander of the Time Police, settled herself at her desk, fired up her scratchpad and gazed at her adjutant.
‘Well, Charlie, what do you have for me today?’
Captain Farenden opened his first file.
‘Not a lot, ma’am. The finance section has the budget figures you requested.’ He passed them across. ‘Visitor figures are slightly down on last month but not by enough to cause concern; maintenance on the North Chimney has been completed and we lost four officers last month.’
‘Did they run away?’
‘One invalided out and three resignations. They think they can earn more money in the private sector.’
‘That’s the official reason,’ she said. ‘What they mean is they don’t like the direction in which I’m leading this organisation.’
Captain Farenden had not achieved his position without mastering the use of massive tact.
‘It’s a difficult time, ma’am. People don’t like change. They’re bound to feel a little . . . unsettled.’
She sighed. ‘If we don’t get a grip – if I don’t get a grip – if I can’t turn them around and get them facing the threats of today rather than those of yesterday . . .’
‘But you are making progress, ma’am.’
‘Not quickly enough. We’re an organisation of two halves, Charlie.’
‘Yes, ma’am. The old and the new.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with the old, Charlie. Just as long as they’ll let me lead them into the realms of the new. Sadly, there are those who just won’t be led.’
‘Albayans, ma’am.’
‘After the late and very unlamented Colonel Albay, yes. Getting rid of him is about the only useful thing St Mary’s has ever done.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
She sighed. ‘Well, if these . . . Albayans won’t come around, then they’ll have to be induced to leave. Somehow.’
‘Or you could just shoot them, ma’am.’
She brightened. ‘Very true. Before they shoot me.’ She paused. ‘You’re supposed to say, “It will never come to that.” Seriously, Charlie, I sometimes wonder if you’ve quite grasped the full extent of your role as my adjutant.’
‘I beg your pardon, ma’am. I was giving you a moment before diverting you with the next piece of bad news.’
‘Thoughtful of you.’
‘Simply part of my role as your adjutant, ma’am.’
‘Go on then. Divert me.’
‘Sadly, it’s only a very small piece of bad news.’
‘Well, never mind. I’m sure we’ll manage to turn it into a crisis by the end of the day.’
Captain Farenden sighed. ‘Our trainees.’
‘What about them?’
‘It’s their last day of basic training today. Graduation ceremony on Friday.’ He looked pointedly at her scratchpad. ‘It’s in your diary, ma’am.’
‘Can’t you shunt it on to Major Callen?’
‘Er . . .’
‘He shunted it on to me, didn’t he?’
‘Er . . .’
‘Recruitment and Training is part of his remit. Why isn’t he addressing the proud parents and relatives?’
‘Recruitment drive, ma’am.’
‘In Outer Mongolia, no doubt. Some place so remote and with such primitive travel links that he can’t possibly get back here in time.’
‘Glasgow, ma’am.’
‘Oh, yes – that would do it. So, what’s the bad news you think you’ve successfully distracted me from?’
‘The trainees, ma’am.’
‘Yes?’
‘We’ve lost one.’
‘Dead or mislaid?’
‘Dropped out.’
Commander Hay picked up her paper knife. Never a good sign.
‘Well,’ said Captain Farenden mildly, ‘we do tell them they can leave at any point before they formally complete their training.’
‘That doesn’t mean they should. Or that I have to be happy about it.’ She had a sudden thought. ‘Which one? Please tell me it was Parrish.’
‘Larsson, ma’am.’
‘Bugger. He was . . .’ She pulled herself up.
‘The normal one?’
‘They’re none of them normal, but he was . . .’
‘The closest, ma’am.’
‘Exactly. And the point you’re dancing around is . . . ?’
‘We no longer have enough people to form two teams, ma’am. We have one team and . . .’
‘And three left over. And we both know which three, don’t we?’
‘Well, I do, ma’am.’
‘Matthew Farrell, Jane Lockland and Luke Parrish.’
‘And so do you.’
She sighed. The Time Police traditionally work in teams of four. There had been eight trainees – now there were seven. One complete team and three . . . misfits.
‘It would be those three, wouldn’t it?’
‘I’m afraid so, ma’am. And they’re a weak team. Farrell is very young, Lockland is very wet and Luke Parrish is – despite intensive efforts by his instructors – still Luke Parrish.’
She nodded. Notwithstanding their reputation as an organisation that firmly believed in strict control and discipline, the Time Police had realised quite early on that recruits are best left to form their own teams. Attempts to impose their own preferences never ended well. The best and strongest teams were those who selected each other. One team had already sorted itself out – which left three remaining.