I was pleased to see everyone else had proper stretchers – canvas between light tubular poles. The poor sods with my heavy wooden door had definitely drawn the short straw. I had a horrible feeling the officer on the front right-hand corner was the one whose thumb I’d dislocated last year. It was probably best not to mention that now.
The journey back seemed endless although they told me afterwards that our return trip was considerably quicker than our outgoing trip. Everyone just put their heads down and ran. The security teams ranged around us, shouting and waving their guns at anyone stupid enough to get close to us. Not many did. There was enough going on in Constantinople that day without taking on nausea-inducing black-clad strangers as well.
They did their best, but speed does not mean comfort. I think the others were unconscious, but I was wide awake for every bone-jolting moment of it. Ellis ran alongside, saying, ‘Sorry, Max. Just hang on,’ every now and then. They were all doing their best, so I stifled my groans, did as I was told, and hung on.
And then, just as I thought we’d made it – just when we were within sight of the pod, I heard a shout and my team ground to a halt.
One or two men appeared from a wrecked building. I could hear more men shouting and laughing. Someone inside was screaming. My group was at the rear of our column, moving slowly and awkwardly. The door was heavy and so was I. No one had an arm free. Even more men poured out of the door, swords in hand.
I was lying on my left side. I had a tiny sonic weapon clapped to the sticky patch on my leg, but the officer on the right-hand corner had a much bigger effort in a holster on his hip. I reached over, doing myself an enormous amount of hurt, pulled it free, aimed, and fired past him.
I heard nothing but something certainly happened.
The leaders stopped and staggered. One put his hands on his knees and began to vomit. Red wine by the looks of it. The others appeared to lose their balance and sat down suddenly. One turned and ran full tilt into the door jamb, hitting it so hard that he knocked himself unconscious and brought a hail of dust and small stones down on top of him.
‘Nice,’ said the Time Police officer appreciatively. ‘Tell me again about treating hostile contemporaries like fragile flowers.’
It hurt to speak, but in a low drone between short, shallow breaths, I told him to go forth and multiply.
We ditched my door outside the pod and thundered up the ramp which hissed shut behind us, shutting out the noise of a dying city. They lowered me gently and covered me with a blanket. I stretched out on the cold floor and tried to see what was going on.
There were only people’s boots. I could hear the medical teams, urgent but calm. Requests for drugs, instruments, readings. Bloody swabs fell to the floor like a colourful blizzard. The occasional instrument tinkled.
Ellis was demanding to know when we could jump.
‘In a moment,’ said a deep voice. ‘Nurse…’
‘Got it,’ said someone quietly.
The bustle continued.
I plucked at Ellis’s leg. ‘What’s … happening? Why … aren’t we … jumping?’
He crouched at my side. ‘We’re stabilising them. In case of a rough landing. Don’t worry, this is a portable hospital, they’re being well taken care of. This is standard procedure. And they’re all still alive. They have to be. We’re not allowed to die in here. It leads to additional paperwork and it makes the med team grumpy. Well, grumpier. They were grumpy when they got here.’
‘Leon?’
‘They’re all still alive. We’re working hard to keep them that way.’
My entire body was just one mass of pain, radiating out from my heart.
‘Am I … having … a heart attack?’
‘No, it just seems that way.’
I tried to look around him. To see what was going on.
‘Keep still, Max,’ he said sharply, pulling the blanket up to my chin. ‘Don’t try to move at all. We don’t yet know the extent of your injuries.’
‘Tell me … about Ian.’
‘We were able to retrieve his leg. It’s been preserved and we’re taking it back, but I’m making no promises. And there’s some damage to his eyes as well.’
I heard someone say, ‘Team Three – ready.’
‘Team Two – ready.’
‘Team Four – ready.’
Silence.
‘Team One?’
‘Just a minute.’ Another long pause. Team One was Leon. ‘OK. Team One – ready.’
‘Commence jump procedures.’
The world flickered.
Still disappointing.
We didn’t disembark immediately. From floor level I watched other people’s boots moving backwards and forwards. I lay very still, trying to hear what was going on. The ramp was down and medical people moved in and out, wheeling equipment around.
Worryingly, they moved Leon first. I watched his wheels disappear from my narrow view. Then Markham. Then Van Owen.
Guthrie had a huge number of medical personnel around him, but eventually, he too was wheeled away.
That left me, still lying on the floor. I opened my eyes to find I was surrounded by a number of Time Police boots. You would have thought that would have brought me to my feet but, somehow, I just couldn’t bring myself to care. I could hear disjointed phrases. ‘Blow to her spine … rib contusions … intercostals … damage … fractures.’ None of that sounded too serious. A little less pain would be good, though. A figure crouched alongside, syringe in hand, and smiled in what she probably thought was a reassuring manner.
It seemed I was about to get my wish.
I lay in a Time Police bed, wearing a Time Police hospital gown, staring up at a Time Police ceiling. I was experiencing difficulty in breathing. And standing. And sitting. And lying. And living. My ribs ached. It hurt to move. And it hurt not to move. Massive painkillers made me woozy.
I should have been panicking. What was happening with Leon and the others? How much damage had I sustained? Would I ever walk again? But the medication took care of all that. Which was probably their plan.
A deep-voiced doctor swam into view again.
I croaked, ‘Leon?’
‘No, I’m a doctor. Just lie still, please.’
There’s only one thing worse than a doctor without a sense of humour and that’s one with.
‘Is he dead?’
‘No. And before you ask, you’re not going to die, either. You have a bruise the size of a kitchen table all over your back and your bottom looks as if you’ve sat in a plate of blackberries.’
I wasn’t sure how comfortable I was with the Time Police peering at my bottom.
‘Will I walk again?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Pretty sure, yes.’ He still hadn’t looked at me. ‘We don’t have any particular treatment for you. Not that we’re just going to let you lie here and do nothing, of course. We’ll let you drift off into merciful, pain-free oblivion and then we’ll wake you up and make you take some deep breaths. Which will hurt. Then we’ll make you cough. Which will be excruciating. We need to keep your lungs working and prevent infection. We’ll keep at it until you either die or get better. We’re the Time Police, you know – this isn’t some girlie St Mary’s where you wake up between clean sheets and look forward to a happy ending.’
He lifted his eyes from his medical gizmo to look at me, which was probably a cardinal sin in the Time Police doctor/patient etiquette rules. Never look at the patient. It only encourages them to think they matter.
‘Where is Leon?’
‘Safe.’
‘But where?’
‘Here.’
For God’s sake … I was instantly suspicious. What was he hiding from me?
‘Tell me the truth. Will he die?’
He said very quietly, ‘I’m honestly not sure yet. But he’s still with us so try not to worry too much.’
‘Guthrie?’
He hesitated. ‘We have re-attached the lower part of his leg. Not sure yet how that’s going to turn out, but I’m reasonably optimistic. He has lost the sight of one eye.’
I closed my eyes. Ian, my friend…
‘And Van Owen?’
‘Pretty smashed up.’
‘That’s a medical term, is it?’
‘We tend to dumb things down for St Mary’s, but she’s stable. The other one, however…’
I panicked. ‘You mean Markham?’ I saw him again. Lying in the rubble. Broken, bloody … ‘What does “however” mean?’
‘Awake and talking.’
‘What?’