Free 1. Just One Damned Thing After Another by Jodi Taylor Page B

appeared from nowhere, entered the pod, and shut the door. Dieter began to clear the hangar. We helped Black to the bar and waited silently for Peterson, who trudged in an hour later, looking pale and with a stitched gash over one eye. Sussman and I sat huddled together for warmth and support, the stuffing well and truly knocked out of us.
    Kalinda said, ‘What happened?’
    There was a long silence and then he said quietly, ‘He was inexperienced. I didn’t supervise him properly.’ He touched his head gingerly. ‘The Yeomanry were drunk. A woman and her two kids went down in the panic. He ran over to them. Picked up the two kids. Tossed them out of the way. Grabbed the woman. Took a sword to the back of his head. His brains fell out. His body got kicked about all over the place. It took ages for me to get to him. I was shouting and cursing. I heaved him over my shoulder, dodged the Hussars, and got back to the pod but it was far too late. He never stood a chance.’ He turned to us. ‘You two think about today and learn the right lessons.’
    We nodded.
    In my mind, I saw snapshots: Grant on our first day, filing papers. Grant sitting alongside me in a classroom, his face frowning in concentration as he built his data stack. Grant with his head close to Nagley’s as they laughed over something on his scratchpad. I remembered his calm good nature and his willingness to help Stevens. But mostly I membered him bursting with pride at being the first away – the solid workhorse who somehow got to the prize before the flashier Sussman and Maxwell. And much good it had done him. I felt a pricking behind my eyes, but tears wouldn’t bring him back.
    Peterson reached for his drink. ‘Kevin Grant,’ he said.
    ‘Kevin Grant,’ we said.

    That was bad, but the next was worse. A week later, Lower and Baverstock came back from 1389, the Peasant’s Revolt. They were Senior Historians and I didn’t know them that well. There were only the four of us to meet them now and two of us were certainly a little quieter and more thoughtful than we had been a week ago.
    This time, there was no messing. The Chief, alerted by something unknown to us, went straight in and stayed in. A minute later, Dr Foster and two medics flew down the hangar and went in. And stayed in. Thirty minutes later they were all still in there.
    ‘No,’ said Peterson softly. ‘No, no, no, not again.’
    ‘They’re not clearing the hangar,’ said Sussman. ‘It might not be too bad.’
    But it was.
    Baverstock was dead. An accident. He’d fallen under a horse in the chaos following the death of Wat Tyler and been trampled, dying shortly afterwards on the floor of his own pod. He and Lower had been together a long time. It was more than a working relationship. His death finished her. She couldn’t let him go. She held him while silent tears poured down her cheeks. When they tried to move her she lost control, screaming incessantly, unable to stop. They tried to sedate her but she fought them off and people were slipping in all the blood, so they had to leave it and Dr Foster and the Chief sat with her and Baverstock for nearly two hours before they were able to get them both out quietly. We never saw Lower again. I did ask Dr Foster once and she just said, ‘She’s taken care of,’ and I knew to leave it alone.

    Sussman and I were quiet for a few days, but St Mary’s carried on around us and after a while, so did we. It wasn’t that we were uncaring and I’m sure many other people grieved as well, but we did it in private. We attended the service and Grant’s and Baverstock’s names went up on the Boards of Honour and then we moved on.
    So there we were; only four of us historians in an organisation established for twelve. Normally, Sussman and I would undergo a series of small, unimportant, bread and butter jumps to give us experience and work the excitement out of our systems. Roman Bath was scheduled, together with a jump to eleventh-century