We simulated missions where the pod caught fire.
And everyone’s favourite, missions where we all died. These were usually scheduled for a Friday morning so we finished in time for the afternoon exams. Nothing good ever happened on a Friday morning. Enough could go wrong without tempting Fate. Or History. And for non-trainees, Fridays afternoons were usually reserved for the weekly bloodbath (or friendly football match, as it was officially known) between the technical and security sections – an event often resulting in only marginally fewer fatalities and ill-will than Culloden.
The final exams loomed ever closer. Not long to go now – the culmination of all our hard work. Unless you were Sussman of course, in which case, you’d barely worked at all. They posted the exam schedule. Every single one had a pass mark of 80% and we had to pass every single one.
First was Weapons Expertise on the Monday. I laid about me happily, smiting hip and thigh with enthusiasm. I got Big Dave Murdoch and not only could I hold him off, but I managed to land a couple of good blows as well. I felt pretty pleased with myself and he winked at me.
Archery was a doddle, as was target shooting. Guthrie scribbled away and I hoped this was a good sign. They gave me a pile of miscellaneous tat and fifteen minutes to fashion a weapon. In the absence of any fissionable materials, I came up with a pretty good slingshot that David himself would have been proud of and when asked to test fire, I took out the small window in the gents’ toilets on the second floor. Much more scribbling happened.
Fire fighting was easy. Electrical, chemical – you name it, I doused it. There was good scribbling for Fire Fighting.
Wednesday was Self Defence. I made no headway at all with Weasel as he none too gently chucked me around all over the place, grinning his stupid head off all the time. I waited until a particularly heavy fall then placed my hand on my lower stomach, curled into a ball and uttered, ‘Oh God, the baby!’
Weasel stopped dead, saying, ‘What …?’ and I hacked his legs out from underneath him, leaped to my feet, ran across his chest, and rang the bell, which was the whole point of the exercise. Weasel shot me a filthy look and, at this point, there was no scribbling at all. Major Guthrie threw down his clipboard and walked off.
‘Oh dear,’ I said to a watching Murdoch.
‘No, you’re OK. He’s gone round the corner where no one can see him laugh.’
So I felt quite pleased with myself and then on Thursday, it was Field Medic Test time and I got Barclay.
At first, it was theory; plague, cholera, and typhoid symptoms, how to treat simple fractures, shock, resuscitation, no problems at all. In fact, I enjoyed it. Then, in the afternoon, we had to go out and find ourselves a body. A number of volunteers lay scattered around the place and we had to find one. They had a label tied to one arm with a list of symptoms and injuries so we could diagnose and treat. With my usual luck, I fell over Izzie Barclay.
We didn’t like each other. I never forgave her for Stevens and she definitely didn’t like me. Physically, we looked alike; maybe that was it. Maybe because I didn’t find her as fascinating as she thought I should. I don’t know.
She lay stretched out near the entrance to Hawking, muffled up to the eyebrows against the cold and reading Computing for Geniuses, or some such thing. Her label said she’d been in an explosion. With dear old Mr Swanson from R & D looking on, I questioned her closely and got to work. Severe head trauma, broken limbs, burns; I worked away, bandaging, improvising splints and doing a good job. Mr Swanson scribbled away again. I sat back on my heels, satisfied, and then the sackless bint said, ‘Oh, by the way, I’m on fire!’
My heart stopped. I’d failed.
I checked her label.
‘No, you’re not.’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘You didn’t say.’
‘You didn’t ask.’
I took a deep breath. She was smirking. Everyone knew this was our examination. Everyone cut us some slack, Murdoch falling over more times than he had to, Guthrie rounding people’s scores up instead of down. I bet Professor Rapson held up his broken limbs for bandaging without even being asked. And I’d got Bitchface Barclay and she’d screwed me.
I said, ‘Oh dear,’ deliberately omitting the ‘ma’am’ she so coveted. ‘This is an emergency. I must deal with it at once.’
I stepped away to the outside tap, filled a bucket with ice-cold water, and emptied it all over her. She screamed and shot to her feet, soaked to the skin. It was bloody excellent. I didn’t dare look at Mr Swanson. She had to drip her way past a small crowd of interested techies who had turned up to see who was screaming. Someone sniggered. I swear it wasn’t me.