A/N: And I'm back! It's been along time getting this off the ground, but here is the first chapter of my sequel to 'A Valuable Commodity'. I'm afraid this one will be going up v-e-r-y-s-l-o-w-l-y as it's being written as I go; unlike 'Commodity' which was completed before I began posting it.

We pick up about a year after the events of 'Commodity', and that wooden elephant-in-the-room, the ship's figurehead, finally makes an appearance in my version of Season 2.

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing of Terra Nova other than the bits that have come from my imagination.

Reviews are welcome. I hope you enjoy!


PART ONE

LIFE IS GOOD

Chapter One

A Bouquet of Wild Flowers

The air is warm, a soft mist rising from the trees as a startlingly ancient sounding dawn chorus commences - remarkable chiefly for its lack of recognisable birds.

Out in the growing sunlight, alone amidst the headstones of Memorial Field, Commander Nathaniel Taylor is seated alongside one that remains a permanent reminder of a loss that seems unlikely ever to heal. He has said nothing yet - sometimes he finds much to say to the occupant of that quiet grave, but at other times the words dry in his throat. Today looks like being one of those times.

The irony is that he has so much to say. In the year that has passed, the harvest has been good, people have pulled together and his little piece of heaven looks set to prosper, despite being populated by barely more than a thousand people. Perhaps the balance is more right than he realised.

He looks down again at his clumsily assembled bunch of flowers; the selection is always better at this time of the year - which is appropriate given that the commemoration is almost upon them again. Terra Nova: New Earth - a pipe dream to some, but a reality to him. If only he could have shared it with her.

Alicia.

It seems pointless to go over it all yet again - what does it achieve? She is still gone - he is still obliged to talk to her headstone rather than to her. Warm, breathing, living…then snatched away from him by his own son. A son that is now also dead - ironically by his own hand.

The interval of months between that moment when Lucas impaled himself upon that sword blade that he had not even raised yet to parry his son's furious approach seems not to have lessened that hurt - or his uncertainty that his act was as unintentional as it seemed to him at the time. Was it an accident? Did he hold it there even as the sharp edge sliced into Lucas's abdomen? The passage of time has served only to blur his memory of that moment - such memory as it is - and he is no more sure of his motives now than he was when he did it.

Above his head, he can hear the sound of a light breeze stirring the leaves of the trees that surround their cemetery. When he is feeling particularly credulous, he can almost imagine that the whispering sound is Alicia, comforting him in his grief and loss. When he lost Ayani, he had Lucas - or at least he did for a while - but now that Alicia is gone, and Lucas too, he has no one to ease that pain.

No - that's not quite true. He may no longer have a son, but he still has Skye - albeit in more surrogate terms. They still occasionally play chess together, and he is always welcome at the Tate table over Solstice, or on any other occasion that might arise. He has certainly forged a friendly relationship with Deborah, Skye's mother; but it goes no further than that. There is only one woman to whom he would happily pledge himself; and she is here. In a grave.

"It's stupid, isn't it?" he says, suddenly, "I should be better than this. You deserve better than this."

He rearranges the flowers, yet again, "So much to live for. So much to be proud of - if you were here now you'd be swatting me over the head and telling me to get with the plan. We're safe from interference - safe from everyone who wanted to take away what we created here. God, I'd rather be doing this with you at my side, Wash. You'd be in your element now - the only dangers we have to see off are the dinos. Everything I could've wanted out of this place is coming true; even if we don't have anyone new coming to us, at least we have enough of a community to survive and prosper. Everything's working just how I hoped."

Except for her, of course.

Taylor sits back and looks up at the clearing sky. Another fine day - though Carol, the head meteorologist, is convinced that there'll be storms later. If that happens, then they'll hold the commemoration in the large hall. Not that there's anyone new to add to that ceremony - no one died during the course of this year; though a foraging team came rather close to it three months ago when they accidentally disturbed a carno over its dinner.

Closing his eyes, he spends a few moments concentrating on that insistent whispering of the leaves as the breeze sets them to dancing.

Time to go, Nathaniel…you can't stay here all day, you know.

He smiles to himself. Even if he is imagining her words, he knows that she's right. Not that he's done his usual trick of hiding himself away over the last few days: he can almost imagine her laughter at him if he still did it.

"No more hiding away, Wash." He says, firmly, "You deserve better than a week of stupid, maudlin sentiment, and I've done enough of that. Hope you don't mind one last bit of it," He adds, with a slightly self-mocking grin, "You're still with me - in here." He taps his chest, "And that's small enough to carry with me everywhere."

Idiot. He can almost imagine her laughing tone of voice. Rising to his feet, he smiles at the headstone, "I'll see you next week."


Back in his office in the Command Centre, he reviews his plans for the Commemoration on his plex. Over the last year, he's changed his view of how they should remember the colonists they've lost; it's always been sober, sad and reflective - rather like his grief, in fact.

Not this year, though. Now that they are free from the threat of the Phoenix Group, the collective mood of the Colony seems altogether more upbeat, and he wants the ceremony to reflect that instead. Not being one for cheery songs and dance - his mood has always been far too serious for such frivolities - he has been rather pushed towards it by the altogether more optimistic members of his senior staff. No surprise, of course; they have much more to be chipper about - the Shannons being grandparents, and the Wallaces having just celebrated their daughter's first birthday. He may not have a family to celebrate with - but the time for imposing his own sadness upon everyone else is done. It's time to start looking more overtly towards the future, rather than wallowing in the past.

Abandoning his plex, he steps out onto his balcony to watch the market coming to life. The Terra Nova economy is a rather odd one: the produce might be grown collectively, but it's bought wholesale by stallholders and sold on through the market alongside additional items that are made by the colonists themselves. Thus those who do not work in the fields, or the labs, or elsewhere in the colony, can still derive an income for themselves. Egalitarian principles are all very well; but he has learned from experience that nothing brings a sense of purpose more than the satisfaction of honestly earned accomplishment. Without that sense of purpose, how long would they last?

His eye is caught by two people sauntering together along the outer boundary of the market, and smirks to himself. Of all the things he never expected to see - that one is most certainly right at the top. Still grinning, he heads back inside to his plex.

They've been working together as a team for a year now - but still people stare at them in bemusement. The colonists have welcomed Jim Shannon's security patrols for a long time; he is not part of the military units and thus has more of an air of 'one of us' than any of Guzman's colleagues. His companion, on the other hand, still causes slightly nervous expressions and a remarkable eagerness to be getting on with other things.

Her eyes narrowed slightly in the bright sunlight, Mira is still a singularly imposing figure - even though her rough garments have been exchanged for newer apparel that looks far less warlike - and her history still maintains that aura of uncertainty that keeps people very much on their toes when she's around. She speaks rarely when out in public, but there's no denying she enjoys that moment when people who might have been on the verge of an argument seem remarkably keen to make up and be friends as soon as they spot her. That alone has brought the numbers of people needing treatment for black eyes down to a very respectably low level. The colonists might well consider Jim to be rather easygoing when interrupting one of their spats - but certainly not Mira.

Sometimes, Jim wonders to himself if she's bored. Major incidents are very rare in Terra Nova, after all; and she once commanded what amounted to a guerrilla unit out in the forests. The most they've had to deal with over the last year are some minor thefts and a few drunken fights; and, while he appreciates the freedom from the life of a narcotics cop, he has no idea if her new role is too quiet and dull for a woman of her skill and intelligence.

"I want to check that surveillance camera out by the perimeter." She says, suddenly, as they exit the marketplace, "The undergrowth is getting too close to it again - and it was a favourite sneaking-in point."

Jim nods, "Sounds good to me." He decides not to ask about the sneaking-in comment - the implications are rather too obvious for that. Besides, a 'sneaking-in' point easily doubles as a 'sneaking-out' point, and he's not forgotten that awful incident when half the teens in the colony sneaked out for a midnight swim and nearly ended up as slasher food. Given that one of them was Josh, he is particularly keen to ensure that there's no risk of Zoe doing something similar when she's old enough.

"I read that story that Zoe wrote." Mira continues, rather more conversationally, "She's a talented writer."

In spite of himself, Jim beams, "Thanks. She's doing a great job in school." Being a cop, he's never been a creative type, and is generally convinced that all the talent genes in his kids were inherited from their mom. Maddy is proving to be an excellent biochemist, while Zoe's talent with words is growing to the point that even the adults are noticing how good she is. Josh, while he lacks those creative skills, is equally showing ability as a businessman, having turned Boylan's Bar into a well run and remarkably profitable enterprise, "She certainly didn't get any of that from me."

Mira snorts with amusement. She knows how much teasing Jim can take before it becomes offensive; and there are even occasions now when she is capable of making a joke. That she is even able to discuss Jim's kids is proof of how far she has come since she was obliged to re-assimilate herself into the Colony, knowing that she would never see her own daughter again. The pain's still there, of course - but she seems now to have accepted it to the point that it's a general background sadness, rather than a stinging torment. Either that, or she punches the hell out of her cushions when she gets home.

The undergrowth is looking a little close to the fence line, as expected, and Jim calls it in so that the maintenance crews can come and cut it all back again. Then they turn their attention to the residential areas, on the off chance that they might catch a burglary in progress, or something of interest. That they do so seems pointless given that such a limited population makes detection almost a certainty given that even Casey Derwin doesn't take stuff onto his stall if its origin can't be identified. Why steal something if you can't sell it on? The only fences in Terra Nova surround it to keep the dinosaurs out.

As always, they see nothing untoward, and continue their patrol out towards the agricultural barns and storage silos where the grain and soya beans are held prior to conversion into bread, cooking grains, milk and - Jim's particular bugbear - tofu. Thanks to the foraging teams who bring in fresh wild-meats, he has effectively banned the vile stuff from his kitchen - though Elisabeth is still inclined on occasion to sneak some in given that Zoe adores it. Something else she didn't inherit from him, then.

He is roused from his introspection by almost crashing into Mira as she pulls to a sudden halt, "What?"

"That's something new." She observes.

Following her gaze, Jim sees that they are facing a long wall of a vegetable storage shed, upon which a short phrase has been rather roughly painted:

DEMMOCRASY NOW!

"What the hell does that mean?" he asks, rather blankly.

"Only that someone can't spell 'democracy'." Mira snorts, dismissively.

"Wow. I thought that was just Malcolm."

"What, Malcolm can't spell democracy?"

He's about to respond, then sees her smirk. It's unavoidable that, owing to their beginnings, the Colony is hardly run along democratic lines - and Malcolm has always been singularly vocal about his opposition to what amounts to military rule. That Taylor is so careful to ensure that his senior staff are civilians goes some way to mitigating the lack of elected representatives, but perhaps it's inevitable that some of those who live here would be more appreciative of a larger council of some sort.

"I've not seen any overt protest before." Mira continues, more contemplatively, "Whether you like it or not, Taylor's doing a good job running this place. Even I can see that; but it does beg the question - if they can't spell it, do they really understand what democracy means?"

"Come on, Mira - even I know what it means."

"I don't mean a definition, I mean how much work it takes. People can be damned lazy when it comes to governance - they want someone to do their thinking and organising for them. Democracy takes a lot of effort - not just to get people involved, but to put the brakes on people who want to get too involved. How many people here want to be on a governing council? Would they want to spend their time sitting in on meetings that cover crop yields, security issues and how much a terra's worth - or would they want people to be impressed because they're on a council?"

"Ah." Jim nods, "I get what you mean - I've seen it myself in Chicago; one of the guys on my team used to say that the more someone wanted to rule, the less fit they were to do it. He was talking about promotion, but the principle holds, doesn't it?"

"I'd say so."

Jim frowns as he re-reads the misspelled slogan. Seems like it's not just Malcolm who has a bee in his bonnet about now the colony is governed; best to keep an eye out over it, then. Hell - why is it that, just when they've got themselves safe from external trouble, internal trouble raises its head?

"I'll get one of the maintenance crews to clean it off." Mira says, reaching for her comm unit, "Either that, or I'll leave them marks out of ten for their spelling."


"Da."

"Da?" she smiles at the simple word, "Where's Da?"

"Da! Da!" it's the only word she says at the moment - being, after all, only just over a year old - though Yseult Wallace is quite convinced that there's been at least one attempt at a 'ma' in the last few days. Despite the intellectual brilliance of her father, Erin Leyna Wallace is still only a baby.

'Da' is not currently at home, being busy in his laboratory, and Yseult is in the process of dressing her daughter for her first day at the nursery. To say that she has been rather dreading this moment is something of an understatement; for, much as she is keen to return to work, Yseult is not at all keen to relinquish her child into the hands of relative strangers. That Malcolm has promised to come over and accompany them is a slight comfort, but nonetheless her wish to remain with the little girl for as long as possible is astonishingly strong.

Everyone is noticing just how much she's toned down his more annoying qualities. For as long as he has lived in Terra Nova, Malcolm Wallace has been fussy, demanding, self-absorbed and quite thoroughly tiresome. Much of it stems from a life lived almost exclusively in educational establishments - either as student or teacher - and the loss of his parents at a relatively young age; but until arriving in the Colony, and being surrounded by people who are not academics, it had been his way of life. Consequently, it was hard to eradicate those most annoying traits.

Yseult, of course, has been responsible for the most deep-seated changes. Even she recognises that. Her own academic field - archaeology - is vastly different from his, as was her obligation to abandon her work before she could achieve the doctorate that she had originally sought when she first headed to Cologne to study. Once that might have caused him to pay almost no attention to her - as he was always astonishingly fixated upon how well qualified people were - but a stripe of smudged soot across his nose knocked that out of him, and she has always been grateful for it.

She looks up as the front door opens, smudging tears from her eyes. God, it's embarrassing - she's only taking Erin to nursery for the afternoon. Once utterly oblivious to the feelings of others, Malcolm has learned to become very astute to his wife's moods and quickly enfolds her in his arms as she weeps. She's had Erin all to herself for a year - an astonishingly long maternity leave for a colonist - and now she has to leave her baby while she returns to work. The perennial dilemma of the working mother.

"It's only for three hours," She sniffs, "but I feel like I'm abandoning her."

Malcolm says nothing. He has gained a far greater degree of self-awareness as a result of living in Terra Nova, and he knows that he is a true master of saying utterly the wrong thing and making a difficult moment even worse. Instead, he cuddles her tightly, and lets her tears dry by themselves - as they eventually do.

"Sorry." She says, as she disengages from his hug, "I'll get used to it eventually."

"Do we have time to make you a cup of tea?" He asks, unsure of the time she agreed to drop Erin off.

"Not really." Yseult looks up into his eyes, "But this cuddle will do as an alternative."

Malcolm watches fondly as his wife tends to their daughter. There was a time when he lived in a happy family home - until it was torn away from him by the machinations of politics when he was a mere ten years old. To regain that happiness was not something on his agenda when he decided to escape the dying world into which he had been born; but then he looked into Yseult's eyes as they discussed something as mundane as carrying out a spectroscopic analysis of a steel bloom - and that had led him to a new home, and that happiness had followed in its wake.

He prefers to avoid thinking of the hardships that came with it; that's done and in the past. He confronted the bad memories, accepted them and moved on. Mostly. There are still occasions when his nightmares engulf him in a multitude of scorpions - but he always fights awake to find Yseult beside him, and that in itself is enough to banish those lingering horrors away.

"Come on." He says, "Let's go - we can take it slowly."

She nods, "The last thing I want is to have her freaked out by us rushing." He is not surprised at the sound of reluctance in her voice. Maddy was just the same when she first enrolled Elisabeth Rose into the nursery.

Despite their destination, she enjoys the simple pleasure of walking out with her husband and daughter. Malcolm is carrying Erin, as his return to work has prevented him from having as much contact with her as he would have liked, and she is as close to him as always. The pair of them have perfected a means of walking so close together that people who see them wonder how it is that they don't trip each other up - and it seems sensible to keep in practice.

Maddy is arriving as they reach the doors of the nursery; though Elisabeth Rose has been there for some time now and is generally resident all day. She does not say so out loud; but it's clear to Yseult that Malcolm has asked her to come to offer some moral support, having already gone through this particular parental wrench. She may be considerably younger, but in terms of motherhood, she has at least a small degree of seniority and experience. Besides, any opportunity to meet little Erin is always welcome.

The nursery is run by a brisk but kindly Canadian by the name of Sharon, who is married to one of the construction engineers. She has seen this scenario many times - both here in Terra Nova and back in her establishment in one of the Domes just outside Ontario - and has learned from experience that the best move is to effect the handover as quickly as possible. That she has been visiting Erin at home on a weekly basis for the last three months also helps; something that would have been impossible before she came to the Cretaceous.

Yseult's expression as Malcolm carefully hands their daughter over is as familiar to Sharon as that of any other mother seeing their child consigned to nursery care. She knows that Erin will be well cared for, will be safe and have lots of fun with the other children and the nursery staff - but nonetheless it still feels like a betrayal, "She'll be fine Max. Don't worry - well, try not to." She adds, smiling kindly, "I've got all your instructions on her likes and dislikes. Any problems and I promise I'll call you." She forestalls the inevitable request. She's heard that one more times than she can count, too.

"Come on, Max." Maddy intervenes, as Yseult dithers rather, "I'll take you for a coffee and you can offload onto someone who's been there." She turns and smiles at Malcolm, who nods gratefully. It's nothing like as hard for him, of course - he's been back at work from paternity leave for nearly nine months. Watching them depart, he turns briefly to see through the doors that Sharon has already introduced Erin to Elisabeth - as close to a best friend as a small baby can have - and the two are busy with large plastic building blocks under the watchful eye of a nursery assistant. Clearing a rather choked throat, he turns and heads back to the labs.


Sitting at a table in the former bar, which now serves as a form of office, Mira turns over her thoughts about who scrawled that illiterate demand for voting rights on the wall of the barn. Having been obliged to forcefully lead a disparate group of men and women in a far harsher environment than this one, she is well aware of the considerations involved in governing a bunch of people who resent being led and are quite convinced that they could do a better job themselves. The remarkable misspelling of the word 'democracy' seems odd to her - no one who came here in the pilgrimages would have been lacking in education - lottery or no. Results of the draws were kept under wraps until those who were selected had been carefully evaluated to be sure that they would thrive in a vastly different world. For all its benefits, the Cretaceous is not a place for the lazy, weak or faint-hearted. Clean air, clear water and good produce compensates for a multitude of things - but the work required to obtain the produce is hard, and the effort involved in keeping everyone safe is equally onerous. Not even Taylor sits in a metaphorical ivory tower, ruling from upon high; he works just as damned hard as anyone else - if not harder.

She has always been highly observant of those around her, and learned even in the short time that she lived in the colony before her departure into the forests that most accepted the form of martial law that governs life in Terra Nova. Yes, Malcolm was known to whinge about it, but even so, he never pushed it beyond that low-level griping. What if someone had said 'think you can do better? Go on then!'? Some might think they could - but regardless of his rather inflated ego, Malcolm was never one of them.

She looks up as Jim sets down two mugs of coffee, "God know what this is like," He advises, "Josh says that it's another experimental blend courtesy of Pete and Louis. No one could get it right except Geoff - but they're trying."

Taking a sip, she grimaces, "They need to keep trying. There's far too much robusta in this."

"Is there anything you don't know?" Jim bristles, sitting down.

"Never had much success with Russian." She grins at him, which startles him almost as much as the admission. He's so used to her looking downcast or scowling that a smile is still a solid rarity, "Talking of the coffee blenders, when are they going to get their act together and make it official? They've been practically joined at the hip for nearly eighteen months now."

"God knows; but I'm not the best man to ask." Jim admits, taking a slug of coffee and nearly choking over its rough bitterness, "Jesus - that's harsh."

"Like I said; too much robusta." She turns back to her plex, "I took a picture of that graffiti. God alone knows who did it - but they're either dyslexic, uneducated or trying to pretend they are. I'm amazed they didn't use a K instead of the first C."

"That'd be taking the distraction too far." Jim suggests, leaning over to look at the picture, "Deliberate misspelling only works if it's at least vaguely subtle. I've seen enough semi-literate spelling in my time - and most don't spell every single word wrong."

"It might be worth raising it with Taylor. Just so he's aware that someone's got a grudge of some sort."

"I'll bear it in mind." He looks up then to see Maddy arriving with Yseult. From the metalworker's expression, it's clear that something monumental has just occurred.

"Ah. She's dropped Erin off at the nursery for the first time." Mira observes. Jim stares at her; how the hell does she figure that sort of stuff out?

"Is that some sort of women's intuition?" he hazards.

Mira glances at him, pityingly, "Max told me she was due to start nursery today. Maddy's been through it, so she's offering moral support." She translates, not quite using very slow words - but almost. That said, he can see that she herself is looking rather pained. Her own daughter is stranded in the future, and there's no reunion on the cards for them. Rather than withdraw, however, Mira rises to her feet, "Excuse me." Leaving her coffee behind, she crosses to join the two arrivals.

That is, perhaps, the most surprising thing: everyone else in the colony seems to regard her with the conviction that it's only a matter of time before she does something precipitous and deadly, but Yseult has done the exact opposite. While his own relationship with the woman who came in on the Sixth has transformed into one of equal respect, though not quite friendship, the two women have forged a remarkable bond - and Yseult is probably Mira's only real friend in the Colony. How Malcolm takes that, Jim can't begin to know - after all, he has a whole stack of bad memories associated with the woman - but he loves and trusts his wife, and that must give him the will to ignore his animosity towards Mira.

He can see from where he's sitting that Mira is welcome, and joins Maddy and Yseult at another table for a while. Considering it to be none of his damned business to watch any further, he transfers his attention back to Mira's plex and that bizarre photograph.

"Democracy Now." He says to himself. He'll need to keep his ear to the ground; though it's likely that Mira will have more success at that - her fellow exiles are thoroughly assimilated into the community now, and the faltering of their association with her might give them access to those underground rumblings that always feed painted sentiments on walls. Jesus - why do these people think that graffiti is a valid means of protest? Taylor is many things, but he's no demagogue - he wants to know if people aren't happy. After all, you can't solve a problem if you don't know it exists.

He sighs to himself. He's no politician, and has no time for politics - besides, in what way does Terra Nova need politics? There's a solid line of reporting and command; Taylor is the only military figure in the senior team - everyone else who heads up the departments is a civilian. Okay, they haven't been voted in - but nonetheless, they represent the interests of those who report to them. He himself looks after the security matters that Guzman provides to him, while Elisabeth covers health matters. Malcolm looks after the science and agriculture side of things, while Yseult deals with the low-tech industrial stuff. Taylor's even asked her to be the go-to person for the construction teams given her knowledge of metalwork and engineering. She might be an archaeologist by training, but most of her work these days is based on experimental reproduction of older technology, so who better?

Shrugging to himself, he shuts off the plex to conserve its power - no point in annoying Mira by running her plex's battery down. He'll keep an eye out for any more outbreaks of discontented paint daubings, but for the time being, he has other things to think about.


"Thanks for the tea, Mira." Yseult says, wrapping her hands around the mug.

She shrugs, "It was either that or some of the worst coffee ever brewed. You need to persuade Pete to find someone else to do the coffee blending - he's terrible at it."

Yseult laughs, "I keep telling him to stick with Geoff's recipe - Josh has got the roasting down to a fine art, but it was Geoff who knew which beans worked best." She looks up again, "This can't be easy for you."

Mira pauses, "Perhaps not - but I can't change what happened. If I can't see my girl again, at least I can step up and be a godmother to yours. If nothing else, just to wipe those shocked expressions off everyone's faces." Her lip curls into a skewed smile.

Yseult laughs, "Oh yes - we caused quite a stir with that, didn't we? Everyone was expecting to see Pete take on that responsibility - but when I asked you as well…"

"I thought Taylor was going to choke." Mira looks a little more sober, "I'm still surprised that Malcolm didn't fight you over it."

"I didn't push him into it, Mira." Yseult says, "It took a fair bit of negotiation - but he suffered the consequences of someone blaming him for the decisions of other people, and I think that helped him to see that you were in something of the same boat."

"He's still struggling though."

Yseult nods, "Yes - I know. He'll come round in the end - he's rather better at adjusting his opinions that most are. I think it's something of the scientist in him - he works on the basis of empirical evidence. If the evidence tells him something opposite to what he thought to be the case, then he changes his opinion. He's still in the process of doing that with you."

"He's a good man."

"He is."

"Irritating as hell - but a good man."