Chapter Six
Distant Strife
Jim sits quietly, an arm about the shoulders of his weeping daughter. Much as he wishes he could've kept Reynolds safely in the compound, he knows he couldn't. Maddy might be grateful, but Mark wouldn't be. To be wrapped in cotton wool and protected by his girlfriend's dad? He'd never live it down - nor would he thank anyone for it.
That, of course, is doing nothing for her nerves. That she's held it together for four weeks now is immaterial - there is no news of Guzman and his expedition, regardless of whether or not Taylor is keen on the 'no news is good news' focus. She has no idea where her fiancé is, and no idea if he's even going to come back alive from an environment where it's not just the enemy that might kill him. In most respects, she is a calm, collected young woman at the start of her adult life. At the moment, however, she's a little girl who needs her dad.
Eventually, the tears dry; no one can cry forever, after all, "I'm sorry, Dad."
"What for? Having feelings?" he asks, "I wish I could've kept him here for you - but we both know that wouldn't have worked."
Maddy nods, and blows her nose, "He's a soldier. It's what he does, right?"
"Right."
"No news is good news." She adds, firmly; as though trying to tell herself that as much as make a comment to her father.
"Exactly."
Sitting at his desk in the Research Lab, Malcolm reads through a set of results, and sighs inwardly. He's running out of things to test.
So far, he's run analyses on numerous samples of steel, iron, wood, charcoal, hemp fibres, ginned cotton, root samples, various clays and even bloody apple juice. Anything he can think of to keep Yseult coming back to the labs so that he can spend time with her. He hasn't dared to venture to her end of the compound - the scornful stares of her colleagues when they see him are more than enough to keep him away. They consider him to be nothing more than some wimpy lab-rat who won't do anything to get his hands dirty. It would be far too humiliating.
It's not just how she looks: yes, she's pretty - though not exactly Helen of Troy - but she's interesting, knows things that he doesn't, listens with interest to the things he knows that she doesn't, and he feels an almost palpable sense of disappointment when she has to leave - or she's not coming in to see him.
But she's a widow. There was a man to whom she was married once, until his work party was ambushed by nykoraptors five years ago. From what he knows, they were very close - and a man like that casts a long, long shadow. He has no idea how to counter that. Besides, if he did ask her out, where on earth would he take her? He wouldn't be seen dead in Boylan's bar, and there isn't really anywhere else to go. Inviting her to his home seems utterly out of the question - what if she thinks he's expecting her to stay the night?
What if she says 'no'?
Sitting at a table in the shed that serves as her 'office', Yseult reads through a set of results, and sighs inwardly. She's running out of things for Malcolm to test.
She's provided him with samples of steel bloom, straightforward iron, wood, charcoal, hemp fibres, cotton, roots, clays - and even various apples on Pete's behalf to help with what he is now calling 'Project Scrumpy'. Anything she can think of to get herself up to the labs and spend time with him. He seems not to want to come to her end of the compound, though she can understand why he finds her colleagues intimidating. They're taller, and stronger, than he is and he probably knows to some extent that they regard him with a degree of scorn; particularly the robustly muscular Pete and Mike.
It's not just how he looks - he is, to her mind, handsome: not ridiculously muscular, which she doesn't like much anyway, sandy hair that can shift from fair to almost fox-red depending on the light, blue eyes and a neat, compact mouth betwixt a carefully tended crop of facial hair. He listens to her with interest when she witters on about her projects, takes the time to explain the things he does that she doesn't understand, and she feels an almost palpable sense of disappointment when she has to go, or there's no reason to visit him.
Is it because of Niall? She can't deny how close they were; nor how much his loss devastated her after the nykos ambushed his work party. He had been horribly wounded; and, despite Commander Taylor's determined efforts to get him back to the compound alive, he hadn't made it. Regardless of the five years that have passed, and her gradual acceptance of his loss, she is still very much regarded as 'the widow'. Perhaps that, and the sword she made for Taylor to thank him for trying so hard, are too much of an obstacle for Malcolm to want to cross.
Why is she too shy to ask him out? She knows he never goes anywhere near Boylan's bar - someone once joked that, if he did, the world would end. She daren't ask him to come round to hers. What if he thinks she's expecting him to stay the night?
What if he says 'no'?
Josh fetches another batch of cups from the dishwasher and sets them aside. Nearby, Tom Boylan is going through the latest sets of results with Pete. Josh has no idea what 'Scrumpy' is, but it sounds rather cool, so he's not going to interfere in the naming of their joint project to create a decent alcoholic beverage from apples.
"That's your problem, I think, Tom." Pete says, "The sweet apples are being kept for eating - while yours are entirely bitter because they're no good for eating or cooking. You need to balance out the varieties more. Sweet alone would be too bland, but you have to add them so that they counter the acid and tannins in the sharps and the bitters."
"Somehow I don't think Taylor's going to allow me to raid the dessert apple stores." Boylan grouses, "Using a food source to make liquor isn't going to float his boat."
"We could go for a single variety cultivar." Pete muses, "The selection's pretty tiny - but if we can find one, it would solve the problem of finding a suitable blend. Most Cider apples are largely inedible because they're so fibrous - but that makes them easier to juice. Something like a Dabinett would be ideal."
"I'll take your word for it." Boylan drawls, not having a clue what Pete's talking about.
"I'll see if Max can grab some time with the Eye. She can track down some analyses. If we can find an apple that has a similar composition, then we've got ourselves onto the route to a single variety cider."
Boylan snorts with amusement, "Are she and Doctor Wallace still fart-arseing about?"
"In what context?" Pete asks, a little warily. Unlike his more 'macho' colleagues, he has also noticed how Yseult is behaving around Malcolm, and even that he is doing much the same with her. He was not, however, aware of the extent to which their continued failure to become 'an item' is a source of interest around the compound. Not until now.
"If it's any interest," the laconic Aussie adds, more confidentially, "I'm running a book on how long it'll take him to man up and grab her."
They turn at the sudden clatter of Josh dropping a saucer.
With the dawn of the sixth week, nerves are on edge across the Compound. Nothing stays a secret in Terra Nova for long - not these days, at least - and everyone knows why the expedition went out. That they've been gone almost the entire time allocated to them suggests that there is something out there that they must've found, and everyone is very keen to know what it might be.
None more so than Taylor, who fights with himself not to head up to the watchtowers beside the gate. They'll be back when they get back. Guzman knows what he's doing. What if they were caught? He's damned good and looks after his soldiers, what if they got trapped in the badlands and thirst got them? Reilly is the staunchest second in command he could hope for, did something attack them on the way out, or while they were there? And as for Dunham and Reynolds - they've proved their worth over and over again, what if they don't come back?
He looks down to see Jim climbing the steps to join him, "Before you ask, Shannon, I got nothing."
"Then I won't ask." He comes up to stand alongside Taylor at the balustrade, "Maddy's on tenterhooks."
"I don't doubt it. It's tough to love a soldier."
"So you keep saying."
They stand in silence for a while. What else is there to say? The expedition will either return, or it won't. It's that simple. And that complicated.
"Vehicle approaching the gates!" a voice hollers from the nearer of the watchtowers.
"There's no-one else OTG. It's gotta be them." Taylor is already moving.
The pair race down the steps and cross to the gate, "Can you see who it is?" Jim bawls up at the guard.
There's a pause, someone is scoping it, but it's taking time, then finally, "It's them, Sir!"
Taylor needs no prompt, "Open the gates!"
Guzman is seated in the Command Centre, on the other side of a hot shower and a change of clothes. Other than looking tired, and a bit battered, he seems largely unscathed, unlike the rhino, which had a portion of the back bashed in, "We encountered a Carno on the way back in." He explains, as he reaches for the cup of coffee that has been provided for him, "We just kept on going - and we managed to get away from it before the power cell gave out and we needed to change it. That put us onto our last one."
"Just as well you were coming back." Jim observes.
There are no significant injuries beyond bumps and bruises thanks to the rough chase through the forest tracks with a whopper dinosaur on their tail. Dunham and Reilly have probably crashed out, while Reynolds, on the other hand, is being obliged to submit to the endless questioning of a rather over-relieved fiancée. Guzman is less fortunate, in that he has to make his report before he can hit the sack.
"We managed to track them down - and we got in pretty close." He begins, "They're way out - right out into the near-desert."
"Any guesses as to why they're so far out?" Taylor asks.
Guzman shakes his head, "They've set up an encampment of their own; them and the Sixers. They must've run through most of their supplies by now - they're relying on the Sixers for food, judging by the hunting parties that were going out. There are a few prey animals out there. They're using condensers and recyclers to keep their water supplies going. There's no fresh water for miles - just a few brackish pools that they don't bother with - they're too small. Our pump filters worked okay with those."
"Could you see what they were doing?"
"Staying alive, mostly. Whatever they were trying to do, I don't reckon it's worked - why would they still be there? I'm amazed they've stayed, Sir. Something's keeping them there - but we couldn't see what it was. It's like, they know they can't stay much longer, but they can't go, either. If they don't move soon, then they're all gonna die."
"It's that bad?" Jim asks, astonished.
"I'd say so. The Sixers've just about had enough of it. From what I could see, Mira's getting to the point where she's gonna abandon the place. They're the real reason that colony's not dead - but they get treated like hangers on. All they do now is go out hunting, and looking for water - and they get the dregs of what they bring back. If things keep going the way that they are, then we could have neighbours again - and the Phoenix soldiers'll all be dead. The Sixers could walk out if the vehicles are dead: they've built shelter stations - concealed and stockaded, with water on standby - so I'm amazed they're not gone given that the soldiers aren't going anywhere. We only came across one or two of them - they're brilliantly hidden - but there's bound to be more. It wouldn't surprise me if there's a run of them all the way back to the forest. And the Phoenix soldiers probably don't know they even exist. It's like they're just sitting and waiting to die out there."
"Sounds like one mass outbreak of stupid to me."
"I've seen it happen." Taylor muses, "Carrying out orders to the point where doing so becomes unviable, but still doing it, and finding you've left it too late to turn back. Whoever's in charge must have a plan that they're so keen to push that they've lost track of the bigger picture."
"We couldn't figure out what it was, Sir. I'm sorry." Guzman apologises.
"Don't apologise, Son." Taylor commiserates, "You've given us a lot more than we had when you went out. We know they're alive - that they're running out of options and that they're not moving. Chances are, they won't be a problem for much longer. Go on, hit the hay. You've earned it."
"Thank you, Sir." Stifling a yawn, Guzman rises from his seat, "I'll get a full report to you tomorrow." With a brisk salute, he departs.
Malcolm looks up from the report, "This was definitely all that he was able to see?"
"The whole shooting match." Taylor confirms.
"Well, given what we have, all I can really do is offer some speculative thoughts. There's no way to be certain - short of actually going into the camp, which I imagine was completely out of the question, there isn't much for me to go on."
"It was out of the question."
"Given that we have that figurehead, and we know that it's come from our past - the best conclusion we could come up with is that there is something particular about the badlands that attracts time fractures like the one between here and our world. I think that was the general consensus."
Taylor nods. This much, they all know.
"The only thing that I can think of that's keeping them there is a hunt for one that'll get them home again - which is, frankly, pointless given that there's nowhere in 2149 to anchor to. If they're not leaving, then something - or possibly someone - is making them stay. Whether that's because they have specific orders and their Commander is ensuring they stick to them, or said Commander has gone bats and is making them stay regardless of whether it's the right thing to do, is anyone's guess." He looks up, "Do we know if they still have the terminus?"
Jim shakes his head, "Guzman didn't mention it - so if they do have it, it wasn't somewhere he could see it."
"On that basis, I'd assume that they do. Not that it matters: it's completely buggered anyway, so it's not like they can use it. They'd need to come back here for parts and labour, and they're not having them." He frowns, "They can't anchor a fracture at either end - and they're still there? Their Commander must've gone nuts. There's no point in them being there - they might as well give up and try and talk their way in here. Assuming you'd have them."
"That's debatable." Taylor growls.
"Sorry I can't be more helpful, Commander." Malcolm sighs, "Whatever they're doing, they've hidden it very well."
"It's a start, Malcolm." Taylor nods as his Science Officer departs.
"What do you reckon?" Jim asks, once they are alone.
"Much as I hate the Sixers, I'm praying that they'll come back. If the Phoenix exiles don't have them to rely on, then they won't be a problem for much longer. God alone knows why they're still where they are - maybe they think they can find a way back to the future."
"Not without a working terminus, they can't." Jim looks across at Taylor, "D'you think they'd be desperate enough by now?"
"To do what?"
"To get that terminus working. Even if they can't anchor at the other end, they still need a starting point, don't they? Get that repaired, and they've got one. They've had all the time in the world up to now, so they've not needed to hurry - but if things are as bad as Guzman reckons, what about that old saying about desperate times?"
"You think they'd try to snatch Malcolm?"
"He's the only person on the planet who could fix that damned terminus. Wouldn't you?"
It's a very disconcerting thought. Suddenly, Malcolm Wallace has become a very valuable commodity indeed.
