A Trail Through Time (The Chronicles of St Mary's)

by Jodi Taylor

  Around me, heads bobbed up sharply and Peterson said, ‘Um …’

  ‘So what I’m saying is, the first one to shoot their six nips back and puts the kettle on.’

  There was a startled silence, then someone laughed and Mrs Partridge (wonderful woman) raised her arm and said, ‘Milk and two sugars please.’ There was more laughter and then, suddenly, this was it.

  An amplified voice boomed from outside.

  ‘Dr Bairstow. This is the Time Police. You are no longer in control of this unit. Please instruct your people to lay down their weapons and surrender.’

  My com crackled. Dr Bairstow was broadcasting to all of us.

  ‘Good morning. This is Dr Bairstow. Our pods and archive have been removed. You will get nothing from us. You should leave now, while you still can.’

  ‘Members of St Mary’s. We understand that you are acting on the instructions of your Director. Do not allow him to imperil your lives. Lay down your weapons and exit the building. We wish you no harm.’

  Silence.

  ‘Dr Bairstow, you are outgunned and outnumbered. There is no other option other than to surrender immediately.’

  There was a long pause and then Dr Bairstow said, ‘Very well, I am willing to discuss terms of surrender.’

  A murmur ran around the building.

  ‘There are no terms. Simply lay down your weapons, exit the building, and await instructions.’

  ‘I’m terribly sorry; I seem, quite inadvertently, to have given you the wrong impression. It was your surrender I wished to discuss.’

  Hardly had the words left his mouth than the whole world exploded. The front doors imploded. Someone, Guthrie, I think, bellowed, ‘Enemy at the gates! Good luck everyone.’ This was it.

  We crouched behind our barricades and opened fire. Everyone performed perfectly. We laid down a continuous barrage and nothing got through the shattered doors. I kept firing until empty, passed for reloading, picked up my second weapon, and did it again. And again. And again. And again.

  Guthrie yelled, ‘Cease fire!’ and silence dropped like a lead weight.

  I shook my head to clear the ringing in my ears.

  I could hear shots firing outside and around Hawking. We took advantage of the pause and shifted our position slightly. Mrs Partridge passed me two fully loaded weapons. I checked my unused blaster was still within reach and flexed my fingers, arms, and shoulders.

  Markham turned his head and whispered, ‘Everyone all right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Don’t say it like that, Andrew. This is a military situation. You must strive to convey your information with the utmost speed and accuracy. Like me.’

  I said, ‘So, you’re OK then, Dr Dowson?’

  ‘Oh, yes, yes, my dear. Never better.’

  I avoided Markham’s eye.

  We couldn’t hold them back. I don’t know why we ever thought we could. Dieter’s team fell back from Hawking and into the Hall in good order. Markham and I moved forward to give them as much cover as we could while the other teams covered us.

  I fired until my head ached with the noise of it. My hands were burning. Occasionally, Mrs Partridge would hand me a reloaded weapon. I hadn’t realised she had moved forward with us. Thinking about it, I would have been more surprised if she hadn’t.

  I could hear fragments of chatter in my ears.

  ‘Evans! To your right! To your right!’

  ‘Ritter’s down!’

  ‘Cover me! Moving forward!’

  ‘Pull him back! Pull him back!’

  Slowly but surely, Dieter got his people away. I caught a brief glimpse of him, supporting someone whose face I couldn’t see.

  Markham tapped me on the shoulder and indicated I should withdraw. Mrs Partridge was already gone. The barricades were opened and Dieter and his team were dragging their wounded through. The other teams upstairs continued to lay down fire so I turned, and keeping low, ran back towards the stairs. Throwing myself through the gap, I was seized by Professor Rapson and hauled in. Dr Dowson replaced the barricade.

  Mrs Partridge was crouched over Ritter, her hands pressed hard over a horrifying chest wound. Her hands, bloodied to the elbows, were inside his chest. I couldn’t even see if he was still alive. She shouted, ‘Medics!’ and we got him away. The rest of the team dispersed to join the others around the gallery and on the floor above.

  I turned back, found my line of sight, and the next minute they were appearing in the shattered doorway, firing as they came. I know fear increases numbers but it struck me we were outnumbered a good deal more than six to one. I wouldn’t be getting my cup of tea anytime soon.

  My gun was so hot I could barely keep my grip. Sweat ran down into my eyes and blurred my vision. Despite my best efforts, my wrists and forearms trembled with the effort. My mouth was so dry I could barely swallow. Casings flew around me, pinging off the floor.

  After what seemed like an entire ice age, the firing ceased. I craned my head to see why. Yes, we’d held them, but they had only to keep pressing their advantage. It was surely only a matter of time. I looked at Mrs Partridge’s seriously depleted stock of ammo. She shook her head.

  I checked my weapons. Both were empty. My blaster was still charged, but that wouldn’t last long.

  For some reason the Time Police had withdrawn back through the doors again. Had they retreated? Surely, it couldn’t be that easy?

  The Hall was littered with casings, pieces of barricade, lumps of plaster, and splintered wood. Thick, blue smoke stung my eyes and rasped my throat. The whole world smelled of cordite, burning wood, and dust. I was desperately thirsty.

  I rolled over and lay on my back to catch my breath, staring up through the lantern at the dawning day. We’d been at this less than an hour. It felt like years.

  Then, suddenly, they were back. I heard Guthrie’s voice raised in warning.

  ‘Incoming!’

  A hail of something ripped across the Hall. Plaster cracked and was instantly vaporised into dust. The lovely old wooden bannisters disintegrated. Lethal splinters of wood ricocheted across the gallery. The noise was ear bleeding. I had no idea what sort of weapon it was, but whatever it was pointed at just flew apart in a shower of death and destruction. Around the gallery, people couldn’t move. Like me, they were completely pinned down. There was nothing we could do.

  ‘Heavy fire! Heavy fire! Take cover!’

  It wasn’t just here in the Hall. Beneath me, I felt the building shudder. The blast doors were opening. Hawking was breached.

  I was conscious of huge disappointment. I thought we would have lasted longer than this. We’d tried so hard. But, although I personally wouldn’t care to tangle with a bunch of tea-crazed historians, there was no getting around the fact that we were amateurs. They were about to roll straight over the top of us just as the Persians eventually rolled over the Spartans, all thanks to that treacherous bastard Ephialtes.

  Why did I keep thinking of the Spartans?

  I became aware that the sounds of gunfire were dying away. I risked a quick look around. Were we out of ammunition?

  ‘Attention,’ said Major Guthrie, in my ear. ‘All civilian staff withdraw. This is not a suggestion. Hand over any weapons and ammo remaining and get yourselves to safety. That’s an order.’

  I felt, rather than saw movement around me. They were reluctant to go and I didn’t blame them. They were being cleared out of the way for the final act. I wouldn’t have gone, myself, and I was surprised they took it so quietly. I expected at least a murmur of protest from Professor Rapson, but one at a time they pulled back into the shadows and disappeared.

  Guthrie spoke again. ‘We can wait to be cut to pieces, or we can take as many as possible with us. Load up. We move in thirty seconds.’

  St Mary’s’ last charge.

  I thought back to the day I first walked up the drive of that other St Mary’s, all those years ago. I n
ever thought I’d end my days here, in a strange world, caught up in someone else’s war, about to die with my boots on.

  Beside me, Markham rammed home his last clip and grinned at me. I turned my head to Peterson. ‘Still no regrets?’

  ‘No,’ he said, checking his stun gun was still on his belt. ‘You?’

  I did not think of Leon. If he was dead then nothing mattered very much anyway. ‘No,’ and left it at that.

  The barricade was in splinters. There was nothing to stop them getting in and we’d never hold them. The best we could do was a final all-out blaze of glory. Typical St Mary’s. When the chips are down we don’t whine and we don’t run – we do some damage.

  ‘Right,’ said Guthrie. ‘On my mark. Straight down the stairs – fan out to each side of the Hall, and nail the bastards as they come through the vestibule. Everyone set?’

  Peterson slapped my helmet and I slapped Markham’s. I picked up my blaster. We rose to a crouch – ready to go.

  ‘Steady,’ said Guthrie. ‘Mark!’

  I leaped to my feet, took one pace forward, and crashed heavily to the ground as someone grabbed my ankle. At least two people ran straight over the top of me. What the hell …?

  I rolled over and very nearly blew Mrs Partridge’s head off. Why was she still here? Why was she hanging on to my ankle?

  We glared at each other as people ran past.

  I tried to pull my leg away, desperate to be with the others in their last moments. ‘Let me go.’

  She shook her head and pointed down the gallery.

  I saw just the slightest flicker of movement in the gloom on the other side of the gallery. Bitchface Barclay. I hadn’t given her a thought. What was she up to? Could be anything. She could be taking a message. Or going for fresh ammo. Or looking for a better position. Even running away.

  No, she wasn’t doing any of those things. Now I knew why I kept thinking of the Spartans and betrayal. She was making sure that whatever happened to anyone else, she came out a winner.

  I hesitated.

  Below, down in the Hall, I heard the battle roar – ‘St Mary’s!’

  Ian Guthrie led the charge, firing as he went. Markham was at his shoulder. Peterson, Van Owen, Dieter, they were all there. No one held back. My heart broke with pride and grief. The noise was overwhelming. Like the Thunderchild, St Mary’s was going down with all guns blazing. I should be down there with them. It wouldn’t make the slightest bit of difference, but that wasn’t the point.

  I kicked out again. ‘Let me go.’

  I must have hurt her, but she wouldn’t release me.

  I heard her clearly over all the racket. ‘You wanted to know why you are here. You are here for Justice.’ I could hear the capital letter.

  Now? Now she tells me …?

  She relinquished her hold and crawled away into the shadows before I could say anything. Her calm assumption that I would abandon my colleagues and friends to do her bidding was breathtaking. Who did she think I was?

  I was the person who would sort out Isabella Barclay, that’s who she thought I was.

  I handed my blaster to Prentiss as she ran past, because her need was greater than mine. She grabbed it and was gone.

  I moved around the gallery, hugging the wall, crunching over the remains of the banisters, shattered doors, and lumps of plaster. Glancing down into the Hall, I could see there was nothing I could do. My presence would not have made the slightest difference.

  The Time Police were pouring in through the vestibule.

  I saw something arc through the air and with a clap that hurt my ears, Ian Guthrie was blown backwards. He hit the wall with tremendous impact and lay very still. The same blast flattened Evans who disappeared under a pile of rubble.

  On the other side of the room, Markham, who had escaped the worst of it, flung himself at an enormous black figure. He was casually batted aside. The last I saw of him, three more Time Police were converging on him.

  Peterson got the furthest, nearly reaching the doors before a hail of something spun him around, and he fell to the floor.

  I had to move. I could do nothing for anyone down there, but up here …

  Trying to combine speed and invisibility, I slipped into R & D. Some of the wounded had been brought in here. Hunter was working on someone and shouting instructions to someone else at the same time. She saw me, paled, and said, ‘Markham?’

  I couldn’t find any words, so I just nodded. She’d find out soon enough.

  All these old rooms had connecting doors. I worked my way through Wardrobe, finally emerging in the short corridor that led to the Boss’s office.

  Below me, I could hear gunfire, people shouting, and the crump of another explosion. I hesitated, still feeling I should be back there, standing with the rest of St Mary’s and defending my unit as they went down one by one.

  ‘You are defending your unit,’ said the stupid voice in my head. ‘Something’s not right. Stop pissing about and find out what it is.’

  Mrs Partridge’s office was still empty. Bare shelves, bare tables. With typical Mrs Partridge thoroughness, she’d even emptied the waste bin. Moving as silently as I could, I eased around the door. Barclay was talking. Of course she was talking. She was always bloody talking.

  Dr Bairstow stood at his desk in front of the window. Sounds of battle came up through the floor. Why was he here instead of with his unit?

  One of the big blasters was propped against the wall behind him, just out of his reach. He was in full battle kit and by the expression on his face, in no mood to take prisoners.

  I slid further into the room, desperate to see what was going on and hidden, I hoped, in shadow.

  Another explosion brought part of the ceiling down somewhere behind me. I heard lumps of plaster clatter to the floor but I didn’t dare take my eyes from the scene in front of me.

  She held a gun on him. Behind her, the safe door stood ajar. Whatever was going on here, I was too late.

  As I watched, she reached into the safe and twisted something. Behind her, on the wall, a small panel snicked open. She moved carefully across the room, trying to cover him and retrieve whatever was in there at the same time.

  He stood perfectly still. I saw his eyes drift towards his blaster. She saw it too, saying sharply, ‘No. Put both your hands flat on the desk.’

  ‘What are you doing, Miss Barclay?’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake! What does it look as if I’m doing?’

  ‘It looks as if you are taking advantage of the situation to make your long-planned move to assume control of this unit.’

  ‘Well done. And?’

  ‘And what?’

  ‘Aren’t you going to say “Over my dead body” or something equally ludicrous and dramatic?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Shame,’ she said. ‘Come in, Maxwell.’

  I didn’t move.

  ‘Come in – or I shoot him now instead of later.’

  I walked slowly into the room. I had nothing – no weapon and no plan, but I wasn’t going to leave Dr Bairstow to face this alone. If, somehow, I could buy him a few vital moments, I would do it gladly. I couldn’t care less what happened to me, but I did care what happened to Dr Bairstow and to St Mary’s. If, somehow, I could take this bitch with me …

  ‘Gun on the floor.’

  ‘I’m not armed,’ I said, regretting now that I’d given my blaster away and holding up my hands.

  ‘Stand over there. Right over there. By the window.’

  I complied.

  ‘Now,’ she said. ‘I’m going to remove the data stick. You cannot prevent this. The only thing I have to do then is decide whether I shoot you both now, or later.’

  Not at all would be my first choice.

  ‘Give it up, Izzie. You’ll never get out of the building alive.’

  ‘I don’t intend to get out of the building at all. While everyone is battling it out downstairs, I’m up here heroically defending Dr Bairstow from assassin
ation. I find you trying to steal vital data concerning our remote site. Bravely, I intervene. We will struggle. The gun will go off, tragically killing Dr Bairstow. I wrest it from you, and in the struggle, I shoot you dead. Who will blame me? I shall be a heroine. Should the Time Police prevail, possession of this information will render me more than acceptable to them. Should St Mary’s win, I fought to defend Dr Bairstow from someone half the unit still considers an imposter. In either case, I shall be appointed Director of St Mary’s. Which will be very pleasant, but not half as pleasant as killing both of you.’

  Doctor Bairstow raised his head.

  ‘Whatever did we do to you, Isabella? As far as I know, we welcomed you here. You were one of us and yet you’ve been selling us out for years. You’re how they knew that Maxwell had returned to St Mary’s.’

  Her face twisted. Deliberately or not, he’d touched a nerve.

  ‘She’s not Maxwell. Maxwell is dead. Why can’t any of you believe that? We all saw the body, for God’s sake. She’s dead, I tell you.’

  The gun swivelled to me. ‘I don’t know who you are, but you’re not Maxwell. You’re just some tramp Leon picked up from somewhere, when he should have been looking at me.’

  Below us, the sounds of battle redoubled. I had to finish this quickly. People were dying out there. I needed to provoke her into doing something stupid and then when she shot me, with luck, Dr Bairstow could shoot her. Not my favourite plan, but better than nothing.

  I said wearily, ‘Oh, we’re not back to that again, are we? He’s not interested, Izzie. You said it yourself. He’d rather be with some tramp off the street than with you. Anyone would.’

  I really must try for a career in the Peace Corps.

  She was too angry to speak. In her world, I should be begging for my life and I wasn’t. I swept on.

  ‘You’re wasting your time. He never even sees you if I’m in the room. You could drape yourself naked at his feet and he’d still step over you to get to me.’