Chris Lee Jones [Jones - Frank Wasdale- First Mission

T hey shouldnt make boys do what Im about to do. Thats what Dr Babbage says. Not that he ever does anything about it. But hes a clever man, and he tries to be kind. Hes looked after me ever since I became me, and hes the one that makes sure I get my magic juice, every single day.

Dr Babbage is standing beside me now, out on the practise range, the other side of the barracks. Hes rubbing his beard and staring out through the barbed wire perimeter fence towards the snow-capped mountains. Next to Dr Babbage, and standing about a foot shorter, is Colonel Stump. I dont like Colonel Stump. He hits me with things, and when hes not hitting me, hes shooting at me, or dropping me from cranes, or immersing me in vats of stinking, bubbling fluid. You get the picture. Today, Colonel Stump has organised yet another trial for me. Hes promised me the recovery time wont be too long.

Theres a low thumping in my ears. A helicopter. Twin rotors. Appearing from nowhere, flattening the grass and sweeping over the burning tank thats been set up for me in the middle of the range. A dark figure appears from the hatch near the gun turret, flames flicking at him like serpents tongues. The figure flaps about, then struggles and slips, bouncing off the panels and falling with a bump to the scorched ground. Colonel Stump takes a few paces forwards.

Are you still up for this? asks Dr Babbage, out of the Colonels earshot. I nod, then remember the promise he gave me before we set out this morning: a double helping of his blueberry crumble and a few days rest. The man who fell from the tank has picked himself up now, and is hurtling towards us, his silver suit alive with the reflection of flames. Hes holding one of the red batons. God how I hate those things. The soldier reaches us, pulls off his mask and cylinder, and throws the baton to the ground. His breaths are short and laboured. How did I do? he asks the Colonel.

Three minutes and ten seconds, says the Colonel. Could have been better."

Colonel Stump tells the soldier to go take a shower, and we all watch him stroll across the range towards the barracks. When hes out of sight, the squint on the Colonels little red face transforms into a sneering grimace as he turns towards me. Now its your turn, he says.

Underneath my tattered combat gear, Im wearing just a T-shirt and shorts. On my feet are a scuffed pair of trainers that are three sizes too big for me. I dont have a mask, breathing apparatus, or shiny suit like the soldier had on. And Im about half his size.

The colonel looks across the range to where a solitary figure is standing, as still as an Easter Island statue, and just as forbidding. I can tell its the Mannequin, even from this distance, her slender form silhouetted against the blue-grey sky. The Mannequin is always present during my trials - she and Colonel Stump never lose sight of each other.

Stump gives me a countdown, and Im off.

Despite by lumbering gait, I reach the tank quickly, and begin to climb up its metal skirt, pushing through the flames. I cant see a thing; my world becomes a disorientating swirl of colours; yellows and reds and blues. I reach the turret, feeling around with my fingers, probing the bolts and panels, searching for the hatch. The soldier left it open. With as much caution as my time limit allows, I push myself head first into the cramped bowels of the tank. Squirming, I find my way into the gunners seat. The visibility is slightly better in here, as if the flames are afraid to enter. Scanning the dials and knobs and handles, some of which are beginning to melt, I begin my search for my baton. Where would someone as sick and twisted as Colonel Stump hide such a thing? The minutes tick by. I dont want to fail this task, because I know that would make Stump and the Mannequin angry , and theyd take their anger out not only on me but on Dr Babbage as well. That wouldnt be fair.

The skin on my knuckles is beginning to tighten. My eyes have dried out and I cant seem to blink, which explains why my vision is starting to fog up. This happened once before, during the exploding barrels trial. It took me ages to get over that - I had to have bandages over my eyes for a week. Hopefully I can get through this one quicker. Theres a great tightness in my chest, as if my lungs are filled with hot sand. If I dont find the baton soon, Im in trouble.

I stretch out my legs beneath the instrumentation, kicking around for anything loose at my feet. There are levers and wires, big rivets and peddles, but nothings rolling around. I try reaching my hands down into the narrow gaps at the sides of the seat. Nothing. Panicking, I kneel up on the seat and reach over the back, and at last I find the baton, wedged between a couple of bolted canisters. In one swift move I tug on the baton and heave upwards, out of the hatch. My vision is still fuzzy and narrowed by eyelids that are stuck as if by glue. As I jump from the turret, I try to shout out, just to see if I can. Nothing comes out. My only thought now is to get away from the flames and back towards where Dr Babbage and Stump are standing. To see if I have passed this test.

Two minutes fifty! shouts Colonel Stump as I stumble and fall over at his feet, gasping for air. And a saving of twenty thousand dollars on gear! Goddammit, Babbage, hes outperformed our regulars in all the tasks. Just imagine the money we could make selling a whole platoon of these freaks. If this doesnt convince our friends in high places, then nothing will. The least you could do is look enthusiastic!

Dr Babbage looks far from enthusiastic. In fact, I dont think hes even listening to Colonel Stump. Instead, hes kneeling next to me, prodding my face and my arms and my neck. Give me some noise, Frank, he says, but I cant. All that comes out is a gassy croak. Dr Babbage puts a hand on my forehead and reaches into his pocket for a handkerchief.

Dont you go soft on me, Babbage! barks the Colonel. Just pick the boy up and get the hell out of here. Take a few days off if you need. Leave me to finish the negotiations with...her...

Dr Babbage pushes his hands under my back and lifts me off the ground with some difficulty, almost toppling in the process. A stretcher would be nice, he barks at Colonel Stump, but the little man is already walking away, striding towards the Mannequin.

Dr Babbage grumbles as he carries me across the range, muttering through his thick grey beard about the pains in his back, and how hes too old for all this. In an effort to stay conscious and alert, I try to count the spruces that line the edge of the parade ground. I get to twelve, but then the darkness comes, and I feel my world shutting down.

*

I wake up in my room. It takes a while for me to come around, to piece together what has happened to me. My curtains are open and through the window I can see the camps perimeter fence in the distance, spider-black against a reddening sky. At least my eyes are working properly again - I can be thankful for that. After an hour or so, Dr Babbage comes in and sits by my bedside. His face looks older than ever.

How are you feeling? he asks.

I lean across to where my pen and notepad are lying on my bedside table. A bit stiff, I write, almost illegibly.

Would you like something to eat?

I can smell roast beef, so I write that Id like some of that, and for a while he looks all ponderous and confused. But then he says:

Ahh. Thats not beef you can smell, its your skin. You got a bit charred yesterday morning, remember?

I do remember. But yesterday morning? I must have had one hell of a sleep. The smell has sparked my appetite, though, but perhaps not enough to eat my own cooked flesh.

Ill bring you some blueberry crumble, like I promised. Cream or custard?