Author's Note: Hello, and welcome to my story! Before I begin, I'd like to start with a huge thank you to Female Fogbank, whose magnificent epics 'Displaced' and 'Game Change' inspired me to write this. I'm a bit of a late arrival in this universe, so any errors of placement, story logic or characterisation are down to misremembered episodes and/or off-beam research on my part.
I think people have commented elsewhere about the lack of stories which focus upon Malcolm - though, where he does appear he's well considered and/or very hilariously rendered (TNSN, anyone?). That said, as he has almost no back-story at all, he's a great character upon which to construct one, so I have. The back-story I've created is probably quite surprising - and I'm afraid you'll have to wait for a few chapters until it turns up, but I promise when we get there that there's method in my madness.
Finally, apologies to Washington fans - I'm sorry that I haven't found a way to bring her back, but her absence drives something of a bittersweet edge for Commander Taylor, so I opted for that part of the Occupation to stay intact.
I shall now shut up and get on with the story. Hope you enjoy - please let me know what you think!
DISCLAIMER: I own nothing except that which has originated from my imagination.
PART ONE
TWO YEARS ON
Chapter One
Reflection
The sun has been up for nearly an hour, lifting the wisps of mist from the thickly leaved canopy and bathing the forest clearings with light. Amidst the gradually shortening shadows, Jim Shannon stands on his porch and breathes in deeply, still savouring the novelty.
Air that doesn't choke - a sky that isn't brown. Even now, he revels in the ability to indulge in the simple pleasure of going for a morning run; something that would have been utterly impossible back in Chicago - with or without a rebreather - and, if he is truly honest with himself, something he probably still wouldn't be doing if he hadn't been inducted into the habit a couple of years back.
Stepping off the porch, he eases into a gentle jog. Always the same time, always the same route; partly because he can't switch off his security hat and wants to check things on a daily basis, partly so he doesn't have to concentrate too much on where he's going. He doesn't, strictly speaking, need breathers either - but there are several points along the route that he stops to make his daily checks rather than glancing as he passes by. Even that is now habit, and he doesn't need to think about it.
As he goes, he sees the usual people who are up and about at such an hour; stallholders heading to the marketplace to set up, security personnel going off, or on, duty. He is such a fixture that people claim to set their watches by him - and he exchanges a wave now and again with a fellow regular. On occasion, he likes to pretend that he's in some hokey movie musical - and merely needs an orchestra to start up so he can break into song. And possibly a small chorus of cartoon gallusaurs dancing about nearby to do the backing vocals. Preferably in tuxedos and spats.
Jim is not normally one for reflection; once it was pointless, now it's unnecessary. That said, with the approach of their Commemoration ceremony, the Colony of Terra Nova always seems to sink into a collectively reflective mood, and he is no exception.
Until two years ago, it seemed such a benign thing - an annual festival of contemplation for those that they have lost; they observed it quietly and simply alongside the altogether more brightly celebrated Harvest Festival and the Solstices. But then the forces of corporate greed viewed their new world with eager eyes, determined to plunder it for resources to take the place of those that had been stripped from the old one. Wresting their colony back cost thirty lives, and damaged many more through bereavement and loss. Rather than institute another day to remember the occupation, they have simply added it to the day that they already have. Thinking it over, he might well have completely severed their ties to the future - but given what the future was trying to do to them, he doesn't regret it for a moment.
He pulls up beside the boundary fence - one of his 'breather' stops. Being close to the encroaching forest, it is inclined to be damaged more frequently by the thorny brush; but today it's in good condition, and he doesn't linger. Resuming that same, steady lope, he moves on to happier thoughts.
Today is the day that his son formally opens the hitherto seedy bar run by Tom Boylan as a rather more upmarket hangout. While Jim has never been overjoyed at Josh's acceptance of a job at the place, he has proved to be such a useful employee that the cynical Australian has handed the bar over to him to run as manager while he does what he can to overcome the rather awkward issue of having a bar, but no booze. Lacking Taroca root thanks to a blight a year ago and with no more pilgrimages for the foreseeable future - if ever - Boylan has lost access to any renewed supplies, and the last of his alcoholic beverages ran out nearly a month ago. Thus, he is intent on brewing his own beer - assuming he can persuade Commander Taylor to let him grow the requisite botanicals to do it. His attempts to use other fruits have, so far, proved rather disastrous.
Jim's jog takes him on past rows of houses - all single storey, all the same - on the outside, at least. More people are about now as the agriculture teams are going out to the fields to prune, check, or whatever it is that growers do in fields that seem quite capable of looking after themselves without any assistance whatsoever. Having the blackest thumbs in the world, Jim avoids anything to do with agriculture - he is quite convinced he'd kill the entire harvest just by standing next to it.
The rest of his run is entirely uneventful, other than the brief inconvenience of a stone flipping into one of his shoes, and by the time he returns home, the rest of the family is emerging. He exchanges a brief kiss with Elisabeth, his wife, dodges around Zoe, his youngest, and bags the bathroom for a shower.
Elisabeth is setting out fruit and soya yogurt for breakfast by the time he returns, while Maddy, his elder daughter, carefully slices at some spelt-flour bread. The supplies of wheat flour that they were used to dried up at the same time Boylan's booze did, and, while the soya has proved to be highly successful, no modern strains of wheat have thrived at all; so instead someone has been experimenting with the local grains, and the results are surprisingly good. It seems that, no matter what they have lost in terms of supplies, there's always a handy gift from the Cretaceous to replace it.
Zoe, now a robust seven year old, is busy with her plex, checking over the homework she did last night, "What're you doing?" Jim asks her, conspiratorially, as he sits beside her at the table.
"I want to make sure my math is right, Daddy." She advises, solemnly, perusing a sequence of simple calculations. She has come a long way from pretending to have stomach aches so she can stay with her Mom instead of going to school.
"When's your newspaper coming out?" a guaranteed favourite topic. She has won the coveted job of editing her school-year's newspaper - admittedly an online affair distributed wirelessly via plex rather than a proper printed broadsheet - but to be granted the editorship is a sign of a well-regarded student. She may not have her elder sister's brilliance, but she is smart, hard working, eager to learn and absorbs every opportunity without hesitation.
"On Wednesday," she says, looking up at him as Elisabeth sets a dish of fruit and yogurt in front of her, "I just need to ask Commander Taylor if he'll let me take a picture of him."
"Ah yes," Elisabeth smiles, "the interview. He was very pleased when you asked him, you know. I think he gets a bit worried that people think he's a bit scary."
Zoe laughs, "He isn't, Mommy!" she says stoutly, "he's nice, and I like him a lot!"
"You like everyone." Maddy advises, cheerfully, as she flicks through pages on her own plex.
"Where's Josh?" Jim looks about, suddenly realising that his son is not present.
"At the bar." Elisabeth says, sitting down with some toast, "He wants to make sure tonight's launch goes well."
"Mainly because he hasn't got any alcohol." Maddy adds, cheekily.
A very solid looking vivarium sits on a bench in a locked office, well secured in the middle of the Research Laboratories. On the other side of the door, grateful to be two hours from her breakfast, Maddy looks through the window at the occupant, and shudders slightly with mild nausea.
"An ancestor of Hottentotta tamulus, the notorious Indian red scorpion." She turns to see Malcolm Wallace standing nearby, "Nasty little bug…sorry, thing." He corrects himself, hastily, "We nearly lost someone to one of those in the orchard last year. Never seen anything quite that toxic before - or that aggressive." He crosses to the door to stand beside her, looking through the window, "They seem to be getting more common - hence the specimen in there. We're trying to develop an antivenin."
"Trying, Doctor Wallace?" Maddy asks.
"'Trying' being the operative word - in every context. It's never been easy to find an effective antivenin to any scorpion venom - but if these things are moving in, then your Mother wants to make sure the agri-teams have emergency supplies in the fields in case more people get stung. Oh - and please call me Malcolm. Everyone does."
She nods, though she feels most uncomfortable looking away from that scorpion, even though it's behind thick glass and a locked door.
"I'm told that you've become particularly proficient in biochemistry." Malcolm continues, conversationally, "So I'm hoping that you'll take this on. The analysis, that is. I'm not going to introduce you to the specimen; he's too dangerous. If we need any venom, I'll be the one collecting it."
"Is it really that dangerous?"
"Yes, it is. That scorpion packs a serious punch: the only venom I've come across that's comparable is tetrodotoxin."
"From puffer-fish?"
Malcolm nods, "It's not quite the same, but very similar in composition. A lot of scorpions have neurotoxic venoms, but not all - I suppose this one either went extinct, or its venom changed its composition as it evolved. This one is quite unique - we were lucky that it was, though: it doesn't seem to cause any long-term damage, but as the initial paralysis eventually causes respiratory failure, that's rather irrelevant. The only treatment we have at the moment is to put a sting victim on life support until they metabolise the toxin. Once they do, then they're fine - but if we don't get to them in time then it's something of a moot point."
"Doesn't tetrodotoxin have some potential medicinal applications?"
Malcolm looks pleased at her interest, "As an analgesic, yes - though whether this could have the same effect isn't something we've had the chance to find out. Are you interested?"
"When can I start?"
He regards her with mild amusement, "You are so like your mother was at your age. Eager to get started on a project. I imagine you'll be just as determined to get to the end of it, too."
Maddy is not embarrassed; she is well aware of her mother's history with the Chief Science Officer, and that the entire business is thoroughly and absolutely in the past where it belongs. Instead, she follows him to a cleared workbench, "This is your workstation." Malcolm advises her, "Everything you'll need is close by; if you can't find something, just let me know. You won't be able to get into the room where I'm keeping the scorpion - only your mother and I have the code, and you need it to open the door in either direction."
"Mom has it?" Maddy asks, surprised.
"In case I get stung. I message her when I'm planning to open the vivarium, so she's ready to drop everything and come running with respiratory equipment if I do." He smiles at her consternation, "I'm probably being over-cautious; well, I'm almost certainly being over-cautious, but that venom acts surprisingly quickly. I think it takes probably about half an hour from initial sting to the diaphragm and intercostal muscles grinding to a halt - give or take another fifteen to twenty minutes or so. We've only had one incident, so no one's quite sure."
"Then I'm glad I'm not going in there."
"I imagine your Dad will be, too."
Commander Nathaniel Taylor is sitting at his desk, staring off into space while his plex sits untouched on the glass tabletop. As he enters the Command Centre, Jim doesn't need to ask why Taylor is distracted. He knows exactly why.
He doesn't need to speak: Taylor slowly rejoins reality unassisted, "Two years, Shannon. It's been two years." He shakes his head, as though in disbelief at how time has flown since they reclaimed their home and cut themselves off from the one they'd left.
"Two years in which we've done pretty well." Jim reminds him.
The Commander nods, "That, I can't deny. The way everyone came together to make this place work has been inspirational. I just wish that certain people had been here to see it."
"So do I." Jim admits, drawing up a chair and sitting down, "She'd be so proud of what you've achieved with this place." He knows that it's a sore point, so he changes the subject, "Coming to the grand launch tonight?"
"If you think I won't scare people away." Taylor looks cynical.
"I doubt it. Josh is going for the non-violent clientele, so they'll have no issues with you. There aren't gonna be any fights if no one can get drunk." Jim drawls.
"Something I never thought I'd see. Family night at Boylan's."
"Worth the admission price alone. Be there or be square." Jim signs off and heads back out again. As he gets to the bottom of the stairs, he sees a lone figure standing nearby.
"If you want to go up, he's not busy, Skye." Jim advises, quietly.
She looks uncertain, "I don't want to bother him."
"Come on - he's still practically your dad."
"I know; but with Commemoration next week…" her voice trails off.
"Not going up, then?"
"Maybe not." She sighs.
"How about you come with me and we go see if Josh is running around like a headless chicken?" Jim offers.
She smiles, just a little, "Now that sounds like an offer I can't refuse."
At first glance, the bar seems no different from the way it's always been, except for the lack of alcoholic beverages. Rather than looking panicked, Josh is behind the bar and seems almost unnervingly relaxed, "Hi Dad." He nods cheerfully at Skye in greeting, and she smiles back.
"What - no emergencies?" Jim asks in mock disappointment.
"Only if Sal can't get the grills alight." Josh nods through to an outside courtyard, where one of the food vendors from the market is setting up under a canvas awning, "She's the best grill cook in the colony, and she was looking for somewhere to run a stand in the evenings. I can't believe Boylan wouldn't let her."
"What - and share the profits?" Skye asks, scandalised. She smiles and looks around the bar, "Need a hand with anything?"
"Not unless you like mixing juices."
"I love mixing juices." She says, only half jokingly. Their relations might still be tentative, but even Jim can see there's still something there. He is surplus to requirements, then.
"I'll leave you to it." He says, pretending to sound miffed that they don't need his help, "See you later."
"She's working with a scorpion?" Jim asks Elisabeth as they change in their room ready to go out, his expression highly dubious.
"Don't speak about Malcolm like that." Elisabeth chides, jokingly, "He's not that bad."
"Come on Elisabeth - if it's that thing that nearly killed Paul Toms last year then I think I have a right to be concerned." Jim persists, protective to the last, "Is that why you didn't tell me what she was going to be doing?"
"I didn't tell you what she was going to be doing because I didn't know until today." Elisabeth soothes him, "Believe me, she's not going to be working with the scorpion itself - she's not even allowed into the room where it's being kept. Only Malcolm and I have the key code. The only other people who would be able to get in would be you and Commander Taylor."
"Is that supposed to make me feel better? It's poisonous!"
"I know that - so does Malcolm. Maddy's not a little girl, Jim; she's ready for the responsibility of taking on a research project, and this one suits her abilities and interests. She might be too squeamish to be a doctor, but she still wants to have some impact on what we do in the infirmary. If she can't access further education any more, then this is the next best thing. Regardless of your opinion of Malcolm, he's a good teacher and he knows what he's doing. The only person he's putting at risk with that creature is himself."
"Yes, but he's a pompous English a…" he gets no further, as she silences him with a kiss.
"Stop worrying, Jim." She smiles as she breaks from him, "Maddy's more than capable of completing this project, and I could do with a worthwhile antivenin. Even if we can't synthesise one, there are still some clinical applications for that venom, so we could get our hands on a highly effective analgesic."
He grins cheekily, "I love it when you talk dirty."
"Which is Jim-speak for 'I haven't the first idea what you're talking about but I think you sound dead sexy when you say it'?" She prompts, teasingly. Then she laughs, "Talking dirty or not, we've got a party to get to."
Jim sighs, theatrically, "Down, boy."
The bar still known as Boylan's is alive with light as the Shannons cross the marketplace, and there are already a surprising number of patrons present: chatting, sipping at vividly colourful drinks and grazing on grilled morsels of marinated Xiphactinus. Across from the bar, a small folk band is playing a jaunty tune, which immediately attracts Zoe, Maddy in tow, to bounce happily on the open space in front of their stage.
"What's in this?" Jim asks, reaching for a glass of something very pink.
"Blood orange juice, lime and mint." Skye advises, apparently now also bar staff, "There are sweeter mixes - but that one's quite tart, a bit like fermented taroca juice."
"Which I seriously do not miss. Not when people are completely blasted on it." He takes a sip, and blinks, surprised, "Hey, this is good."
"And it won't give you a hangover, Mr Shannon."
Pink drinks in hand, Jim and Elisabeth find themselves a corner to sit and watch as Maddy is danced into the ground by Zoe. Jim smiles fondly as the smaller girl bounds about with such energy - something that could never have happened had he not smuggled her into this new world. Whatever regrets he might have in this life, he does not regret that.
The bar starts to become busier as more people arrive. Perhaps it is no surprise that the more boisterous clientele have opted not to bother - but it has instead made space for people who wouldn't normally consider coming to Boylan's punch-up emporium. There are several youngsters now bouncing about to the music of the little band, and Maddy has been evicted from the dance group, much to her relief, as she has noticed the arrival of her boyfriend.
"Don't look, darling." Elisabeth jokes, smiling. Jim's relationship with Mark Reynolds is as traditionally 'protective dad' as it's possible to get, though she is quite convinced that he's not overly serious about it. Mark has proved to be such an exemplary gentleman with Maddy that a proposal seems almost inevitable. Assuming he can summon the courage to ask, of course.
"Mr Shannon." Mark greets him, formally.
"We're not on duty, Mr Reynolds," Jim reminds him, yet again, "I'm only 'Sir' or 'Mr Shannon' when you're in uniform. If I have to, I can formally order you to call me 'Jim'."
Elisabeth fights with herself not to laugh as Mark visibly tries to force the word 'Jim' from his lips, "Yes…Jim." He finally spits out.
"That wasn't so hard, was it?" Jim tells him, "Now, go dance with my daughter."
"Yes…Jim." Mark is a little less hesitant the second time, leading Maddy to the dance floor as Taylor approaches, a glass of something green in his hand.
"Commander," Elisabeth smiles, standing to give him a peck on the cheek, "You made it."
"Please, Elisabeth - if Reynolds can call your husband 'Jim', do me the favour of calling me 'Nathaniel' while we're off duty." Taylor sits down, "I probably won't stay long; just wanted to see your boy rub Boylan's nose in it. He thought tonight would bomb."
"It's the first night." Jim admits, "The novelty might wear off."
"Not if Sal keeps grilling." Elisabeth smiles, waving a handful of denuded skewers.
Taylor is true to his word, and stays only for a short while. By the time he departs, however, the bar is busy, the music is lively and everyone seems to be having the night of their lives. Sitting back, Jim reaches for Elisabeth's hand and squeezes it tightly, "If I ever think we did the wrong thing coming here. Kick me."
She smiles at him, "With pleasure."