A Symphony of Echoes by Jodi Taylor Page A

thirsty.
    ‘We have a problem.’
    ‘Of course we do,’ I said. ‘It wouldn’t be us if we didn’t. What heroic deeds do we have to perform now?’
    He put the glass down. ‘Conditions in the basements were unbelievable, Max. Most of their senior staff are dead. Those that are still here are so young. Just trainees and junior members of staff. It’s hard to see how they can carry on. They just don’t have the experience. Many of them may not have the will.’
    ‘They must,’ I said. ‘They’ve got to get their pods back for one thing. Is their Chief still alive?’
    ‘She is. She’s nearly as tough as this one here. It must be the breed.’
    Suddenly I thought I knew where he was going with this. This was a unit in trouble. Their Director was almost certainly dead – God knows what they had done with him or her. Their Chief Officers were almost all gone. Their historians and experienced staff were gone. Even their pods were gone. If they were to stand any chance of survival, they needed a leader; someone experienced, mature and competent – a rock on whom they could lean while they got themselves back together again. There was only one obvious candidate and he was unconscious on the bed in front of me.
    It was so inevitable. He was perfect for the job. The only possible choice.
    I was going to lose him.
    Guthrie said nothing but looked closely at me. ‘We’ll talk about this later,’ he said. ‘You must be tired.’
    At that moment, the doctor came in.
    He looked in need of treatment himself. Battered and blood-stained and exhausted. He looked at me and his tired face lightened. God knows why.
    ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘You must be Max. You’ve been in the wars a bit, by the look of you.’
    ‘Don’t worry about me. I looked like this when I got here. What about the Chief? Can you wake him up?’
    ‘Yes, I’ll start tonight. Come and see him tomorrow morning. Don’t expect him to know you. He won’t know who he is either, or even where he is, but that will pass. Now, will you go downstairs and show yourself? It would benefit them to see someone in charge.’
    They were all grouped in the dining room. Stitched, bandaged, and worryingly quiet. I felt so helpless. I didn’t know what to do for them. We sat down and someone found us some tea. I took another ice pack for my face.
    ‘What’s going to happen to us?’ asked one.
    ‘Nothing. It’s all over now.’
    ‘No, I mean what’s going to happen to the unit?’
    Well, this was encouraging. They were thinking of the future.
    ‘Now,’ I said, swallowing my fears about who would do it. ‘Right now, the unit pulls itself together, gets its pods back, and moves on.’
    ‘But how can that happen?’
    ‘Not sure yet, but it will. Let’s get ourselves something to eat.’
    ‘Will they come back?’
    ‘No, never. Your own people saw to that. Everyone here is safe now.’
    ‘But there’s hardly anyone left. And our Director’s gone. They could come back and do it all again.’ They all looked over their shoulders.
    ‘Look,’ I said, suddenly feeling very tired. ‘You can’t let this be the defining event of your lives.’
    They stared at me.
    ‘This time last month, you were enjoying your lives, your jobs (I’m assuming), and everything was just fine. Now, it’s not and that’s understandable. But we can all get through this. Not now. Not tomorrow, either, but one day. We can’t let this one thing finish St Mary’s or we’re doing their job for them. If we can’t get past what’s happened to us, then they’ve won, even if they are dead or locked away for the rest of their lives. Would you rather they were thinking, ‘ Hey, look at us! We’re the people who finished St Mary’s! ’ Or, would you rather they knew that nothing they did had any impact at all and that you all went on to do great things? It’s no good moaning about what evil bastards they were. Men like that would see that as a compliment. Far better to regard them