Chapter Nine
Harvest
Tom Boylan's face is a picture of disgust as he counts a disconcertingly large pile of terras onto the bar in front of a rather jubilant Mark Reynolds. No one - except for the lovelorn soldier, of course - had taken the 'Will Malcolm get it together with Max' betting ring all that seriously, so while the sums laid down had been small, the numbers laying them had been cheerfully large. Consequently, his guess 'dating before harvest festival' has proved to be correct, while the more facetious suggestions such as 'possibly in six years if he's good enough at brainwashing', 'only if he drugs her' and 'doesn't she have better taste than that?' have been rewarded with nothing more than rather mean snorts of laughter. Even Malcolm has figured out by now that his primary role in the social life of the Colony is to be roundly mocked for being a pompous twit.
"So," Josh asks, leaning on the bar alongside his boss, "What're you gonna spend it on, or my sister?"
"Did you ask that for effect?" Boylan drawls, his annoyance largely a pretence, as he is as charmed as everyone else by the rather cute manner in which Mark is courting Maddy.
"Of course." He leans closer, "There's a nice leatherworked bag on Casey's stall that she's been looking at a lot. He's not sold it yet because he's waiting to see if she bites."
Mark shakes his head, "I'm going to treat her to dinner."
"That suits me fine." Boylan grins, cheerfully, "I get my money back."
"Not if it's on the house." Skye interrupts, having walked in on their conversation.
"You wouldn't." He warns.
"Maybe not - but you would, you hoary old romantic, you." She wheedles, slyly.
"Fair enough," he concedes, with a dramatic roll of the eyes, "Slap up feed: on the house. Go get her that bag, Reynolds."
Yseult sits in the shade of a tree near the orchards and retrieves a packet of sandwiches from a basket that Judith, her lone basket-weaver, made for her birthday a year ago. In her determination to adhere to the appropriate cliché, she has even found a red and white checked table cloth to spread out on the grass.
They have managed quite well to keep their relationship quiet - it was almost two weeks before anyone noticed - a time that was theirs and theirs alone. No loaded comments, no knowing glances; just the assurance of a warm presence that even now still has a sense of unreality. She never thought she would feel like this ever again.
Needless to say, she has been ribbed quite mercilessly by her colleagues since they found out that Malcolm kissed her - and that she didn't just accept it, but responded; once she'd got over the shock of his utterly unexpected - and entirely impulsive - move. What an idiot - why did she let it slide for so long? Too shy: too fearful of a knock back. The only time she had attempted a relationship in the years after Niall died had been rather disastrous; she soon realised that she was on the rebound, and the whole thing just fizzled out. With that extra label of 'the widow', most men seem to make the immediate assumption that she's a harpy on the hunt for a mate, and back off accordingly. Only her team don't seem to see her that way - or at least it was only them until she met Malcolm.
The rustling sound of footsteps on grass captures her attention and she looks up, smiling to see him approaching, bottle in hand, "Not alcohol today, I'm afraid," Malcolm advises as he sits down beside her, "I've got another appointment with that scorpion this afternoon, and I can't really do that drunk."
"I don't think my new section of pipe will hammer out very well either." She smiles, offering him a sandwich, "Though I think it would make the piping system look suitably Heath Robinson."
As Malcolm leans back against the tree trunk, she almost instinctively leans against him, her head on his shoulder. His response is to wrap his arm about her shoulders and rest it there, as though they were meant to fit together like that. Her family were always quite tactile when showing their affection, something that Niall struggled with. That Malcolm seems not to mind when she rests her hand on his arm, or leans close to him, reminds her of her childhood, and her home. She had assumed that he would be as standoffish as Niall used to be if she got too affectionate, if not more so. But he has neither objected nor shown any discontent - not even in public once people found out about them. Far from it, in fact. It seems to her that he has been as in dire need of that simple human contact as she has.
"I like it here." Malcolm observes, a little drowsily, after they've eaten, and sat in companionable silence for a while, "No one complaining at me, or expecting me to side with them in some stupid argument. And I get to spend time with you without having to try and think of something else that I can get you to bring to the labs for me to test."
"I certainly like having you at my beck and call. It's a hell of a lot easier than it was when I was rootling around for something else to introduce to your mass spectrometer. I imagine it must be quite relieved not to have to be a matchmaker anymore."
He catches a glimpse of his watch, and sighs, "Blast. I have to get back. That scorpion hates me enough as it is."
The kiss they share before he departs is warm, and she looks up at him as they break apart, "Is it too soon to say that I think I'm a bit in love with you?"
"After how long it took me to get to this point?" Malcolm asks, "I don't think so. I still can't believe I was too much of a coward to act sooner."
"Thank God for school journalists and excessive soot."
Taylor stands alongside his desk and takes a deep breath, "Sit down, both of you." His expression is neutral, but somehow neither Malcolm nor Yseult feel that it will stay that way for long. Their burgeoning relationship was bound to get back to him eventually, and the fact that she is now dating her boss - with all the attendant problems of assumed favouritism and conflicts of interest that are sure to follow like a bad smell - means that he is likely to have some rather sharp words to say about the whole business.
"First of all, let me make it clear that I do not consider either of you to be children, and I have no interest in what the two of you get up to in your private lives. My only concern is the future wellbeing of this colony."
"Commander, let me be the first to assure you…" Malcolm begins.
"What?" Taylor interrupts, "That it won't impact on your work? Of course it won't - we've had to watch the pair of you blundering around each other like lovesick teenagers for weeks, and that didn't impact on your work. As far as I can tell the productivity that came out of it is pretty astonishing. But I think we all know that things can't continue as they are, don't we?"
Yseult's eyes widen, while Malcolm shakes his head, "Are you suggesting that we not see each other?"
Taylor rolls his eyes, "Don't be such an ass, Malcolm - of course I'm not suggesting that. Like I said, you're not kids, either of you - at least not all the time. If you're a couple now, then you can't be Max's boss, can you? I'll get it in the neck every time you allocate resources to one of her projects instead of someone who thinks they've got a new way to split an atom. No; that's never gonna work, so she's not reporting to you anymore. You report to me from now on, Max - and I'll give you full control of your resources."
"Seriously?" Yseult asks, "You don't mind that we're seeing each other?"
Taylor suddenly breaks into a humorous smile, "I like your priorities, Max. I pile a heap of paperwork responsibilities on you and all you care about is your boyfriend."
She reddens, but nonetheless looks at Malcolm and snatches at his hand almost jubilantly, before getting up to cross to the conference table to await the arrival of Elisabeth and Jim for their weekly briefing.
"Malcolm." Taylor comes to stand beside his Chief Science Officer as he watches her fondly, "If you hurt her, I swear to God I'll skin you alive and hang you outside the gates for the Carnos."
Malcolm shakes his head, his eyes almost fixed upon her, "You wouldn't need to. I'd have walked out and found one myself."
"There's no sign of any unwelcome neighbours other than the usual ones with teeth and claws," Jim reports, "Now that we know where the Sixers used to hang out, I have patrols scope it out now and again - but all they're doing is spotting more stuff that's fallen down from the trees."
Taylor nods, "Keep the area under surveillance. If Mira's as close to the end of her tether with the Phoenix soldiers as Guzman reckoned, they could come back at any time. Even if we know they're there now, it'll be easier to rebuild what they've got rather than start from scratch."
"Do you think they'd make contact with us?" Elisabeth asks.
"Mira knows what'd happen if they did." Taylor growls, "We're secure here, and she knows it. Besides, she'd rather chew out her own liver than come grovelling to me."
Yseult listens to their conversation, but says nothing, as the occupation had so little impact upon her or her team. They were there for one purpose: to create a two-way portal to 2149 and use it for the financial gain of a greedy corporation. A bunch of people messing about with ancient technologies was of no interest to them. Others suffered far more than her team did, and she always feels something of a fraud if she talks about the incident. Beside her, however, Malcolm has gone very quiet, and he seems resolutely determined not to think about the possibility of the Sixers returning. Yseult turns to see that Elisabeth has also noticed, and they share a sad glance: he must be thinking about the murder of his assistant again. She rests her hand on his, gently, and he turns to her for a moment, grateful for the gesture.
Taylor turns to Elisabeth, "Anything to report?"
She nods, "I'm afraid we had another scorpion sting a few days ago. The victim was one of the horticulturalists in the spelt fields. Fortunately we've just finished establishing an emergency protocol for this eventuality, so we had a trained emergency medic on hand to deal with it. She's still in the infirmary, but she's making a good recovery. The antivenin isn't ready yet - the venom is proving to be incredibly stubborn - but we've made some progress with it, so we're hopeful to have something that I can run clinical tests on fairly soon."
"Where are these damned things coming from?"
"We think there must've been a population boom in the last two years or so, Commander." Malcolm says, apparently now fully back in the room, "the weather's been particularly benign, so insect levels were high. We don't know if these creatures have any particular predators, but either way, their numbers have increased, so they need more territory to expand into. I can't find anything that seems to actively repel them, and they're not yet really numerous enough to warrant any form of a cull. Since these things are ground based, I think the best means of preventing any further stings is to require people to avoid wearing shorts or maybe wear gaiters of some kind to protect their lower legs. And gloves to protect their hands if they're working at ground level."
"We could probably help with that." Yseult adds, "We've had some success tanning slasher skins, and one of my leatherworkers could design something - though supply would be a problem; we've only used pelts recovered from fresh carrion. I wouldn't advocate hunting slashers purely for leather."
"I would." Taylor mutters, only half seriously, "What about crop yields?" he changes the subject briskly: slaughtering the local wildlife purely for skins goes against his ethos for the colony.
Malcolm checks through some figures on his plex, "Very good, Commander. The only failure we had was with an experimental crop of tubers that might, or might not, be precursors of potatoes - that blight that killed off the local supply of Taroca hit that as well. Chris is already assigning teams to work on preparing a number of gluts for storage. Whatever happens over the coming winter - we certainly won't starve."
"That's something I like to hear." Taylor approves.
Jim remains behind as the meeting breaks up, "Do you want me to fix up some cameras at Sixer-central?"
Taylor shakes his head, "Mira's too smart. She'd find them in less than an hour and we'd lose 'em. Just have patrols keep an eye out. The moment there's even a hint of people being back, we'll withdraw and see what she does. They won't have anything like the resources they had before they headed north, so I can't see any threat from them. That said, I'm not planning on being complacent either. If they come back, we double up security on the fences and gate."
Jim nods, "Fine." He pauses, "So, how are you with the Saccharine twins?"
"Pardon?" Taylor stares at him, confused.
"Our new Lovebirds." Jim's expression is mildly amused, but there is no malice in his tone, "I'm not sure whether it's cute or nauseating."
"I haven't seen her this happy since before her husband died." Taylor muses, "Or him, for that matter. At least he's not carrying a torch for your wife anymore."
"Is it me or are they being a bit teenager about all of this? I thought it was just Mark - and only because he thinks I'm Mr Overprotective."
"What, they're courting the old fashioned way? Be fair, Shannon - to my knowledge, this is the first proper relationship she's had since she was widowed - and he's got his own reasons for being a gentleman, so why not let them get on with it at their own pace? Unless you plan on following them around with a notebook and scorecards."
"I think I'll just get on with my security rosters."
"You do that."
Music is playing through the speakers: a selection of pieces that have been retrieved from the Eye to tie in with the performance by the children. This year's theme is intended to reflect the pastoral nature of something that people jokingly refer to as 'Merrie England', which has caused much amusement for those colonists who are English - whether through birth or otherwise - particularly as most of the music seems to be by Ralph Vaughan Williams and, consequently, is traditional only in terms either of name or source material.
In keeping with the intended theme, some of the stallholders and agriculture staff have assembled a magnificent array of produce, and Graham, who bakes when he isn't milling, has created an enormous Harvest Loaf in the traditional shape of a wheat sheaf as a centrepiece. Being from Oklahoma, he has had to draft in Pete to act as his 'Traditional English stuff' consultant, but the result looks very impressive. Yseult has also forged a rather nice bread knife to cut it.
As they always do, the youngsters have been saving gourds and squashes throughout the year to use as decorations and lanterns, with many households subsequently engaged in the annual routine of hollowing out, carving and painting. As both Maddy and Josh are working these days, this task in the Shannon household has largely fallen to Zoe, so Elisabeth has thrown a 'gourd painting' party during the morning for those kids who have no legions of siblings to assist their efforts prior to their last dance rehearsal.
Jim watches the group of children at work, chattering amongst themselves as they daub paint on a range of vegetables that he spent most of yesterday evening hollowing out, "Thank God we only do this once a year." He raises his left hand rather dubiously, where a large adhesive dressing covers a nasty cut across his palm. As they no longer have access to supplies of the all-but-miraculous derma-spray, and no means to manufacture more, Elisabeth tends to restrict its use to major injuries only these days.
"My poor wounded soldier." Elisabeth coos, with blatantly false sympathy, "It'll be worth all your pain and blood when you see the results."
"Blood, sweat and tears." He grins at her, cheerfully.
As is always the case for the Festival, a stage has been built along one side of the marketplace, with the display set out across the front of it. The children will perform a set of English country dances, accompanied by the small folk band that serenaded Josh's opening night at the Bar. Only those who can't be spared from their work during the day won't be present, so the crowd gathering to watch the performance is very impressive. Josh is working with the food vendors to ensure that the evening party is well stocked with both food and drink, and Boylan is hoping that his latest attempt at cider might actually have worked out this time, having found that the orchards contain a largely inedible variety provided by accident which has been put to use as a buffer to protect the main orchard from heavy weather. If it proves successful, Taylor may even agree to allow him full access to the crop.
Sitting on a bench with Elisabeth and Maddy, Jim looks about with a perpetually security-conscious eye. Naturally, the audience primarily consists of proud parents, but there are plenty of people sitting down purely to enjoy themselves, snacking on fruit kebabs, grilled unidentifiables on sticks and in spelt rolls that are likely to be Xiph, or possibly Gallusaur, and imbibing more improbably coloured fruit concoctions courtesy of Josh and Skye. He watches as the pair work together at their improvised exterior bar. They have definitely bonded - even he can see that. His son has recovered from the loss of Kara - though the presence of the platinum necklace shows that he hasn't forgotten her, and never shall - and he is most definitely moving on. It could be worse, he supposes; now that Skye has escaped Mira's grip, she is proving to be a remarkably level-headed young woman. He could cope with her as a daughter-in-law.
He shudders at the thought. God, that makes him sound so old.
His attention returns to the stage as the band strikes up, and the children skip out onto the stage to form two lines, and proceed to perform a dance that, Elisabeth tells him, as he wasn't listening to the introduction, is called Roger de Coverley and is something to do with a fox. It is followed by a merry dance called Jubilee Jig, and the rather bizarrely named Jack's Maggot, to which the audience is invited to clap to keep time, and the equally oddly named Ore Boggy, which has probably been chosen for its name alone, as it causes much giggling amongst the children.
A few rows behind them, Yseult is sitting with Mike and Pete, having abandoned their work for the day. Pete is there largely to offer acerbic, albeit highly amusing, commentary on the success of the 'traditional Merrie England' theme, while Yseult and Mike laugh at him for doing so, "It looks cool, Pete. Let it slide." Mike grins at him, then he pulls a face, "Don't look now. It's Khaki Man."
"Behave, Mike." Yseult slaps his arm again, "Besides, he's wearing beige today, so you're not even accurate." She slips away and crosses to join Malcolm, greeting him with a kiss, "I thought you couldn't get away."
"So did I - but then I thought, 'bugger that; I'm in charge' and decided I could. Have I missed it?"
"No, I think there's one more to come. I expect it's got a silly name - the other dances have been magnificently ridiculously named." She leads him back to the benches to join her colleagues, and Pete cheerfully budges up to make room for them.
The final dance turns out to be called Mad Robin, which is slightly more complicated for the children to dance, and all watch in hope that it doesn't fall apart. It is, however, performed with aplomb, and the applause at the end is thunderous as the performers take their bows and leave the stage to return to their now-even-prouder parents while the band moves on to the American folk music to which they are more accustomed.
As darkness falls, and lights in the hanging gourds are turned on to add a cute twinkling effect to the ambience, Taylor mounts the stage to address the assembled throng. His speech is as much a fixture as the performances, and no one feels that the party can start until he's invited people to get dancing.
For a moment, he can't speak, almost overwhelmed by the success of the year so far; but he swallows, clears his throat and smiles at everyone, "Thank you again for an amazing festival performance. I can't begin to tell you all how proud I am to be at the head of this Colony, I try every year to find the words, and I always miss the mark. I'll probably do no better this year, but - hey - stranger things have happened.
"We've had a great year - we're ready to face the winter, and everyone's pulled together as they always do to make that happen. You are all family. My family, each other's family. We've faced challenges and adversity - and I know that there'll be challenges ahead; for all of us. But I also know that I can count on every one of you to stand together and meet them head on. We will survive, not because of me - but because of us."
"Hear, hear!" Someone bellows from the crowd, as everyone breaks into applause. Taylor lets it go for a few minutes, before raising his hands to call for silence, "Before I get my ass off this stage and the party can begin, I have one more announcement to make - which involves Mr Reynolds and Miss Shannon." He beckons, and the couple make their embarrassed way to the stage.
"I've welcomed newborns to our community a few times now, but this is the first time I've announced an engagement. Some of you may already know this - but if not, I'm proud to announce that Mark Reynolds and Maddy Shannon are officially engaged. Let me be the first to offer you my congratulations. You'll make a fine couple." He begins to clap, and the applause is now punctuated by cheers and whistles.
"Now," he calls out, briskly, "Get partying, and that's an order!"
Standing on the balcony of the Command Centre, Taylor watches the celebrations below with a real sense of contentment. People are dancing, Boylan's cider seems to be going down well, and no one will go short this winter. As his eyes sweep over the crowd, he spots Mark and Maddy, who are utterly absorbed in each other, while nearby Jim and Elisabeth are dancing. Josh and Skye are busy serving food and drinks, while a group of youngsters, under the supervision of one of the schoolteachers, bounce happily to the music, Zoe amongst them now that she is old enough to want to dance with her friends rather than a sibling. Across the way, Yseult is sitting alongside Malcolm on a bench, her head resting on his shoulder, while his arm is wrapped tightly about her. He snorts with mild amusement - he's seen the picture that finally knocked away his Science Officer's inhibitions, and he's relieved that they've finally got past their adolescent silliness. He wonders, idly, how long it'll be before he's announcing another engagement. From the indications below, he doesn't doubt that it'll happen sooner or later. Probably sooner.
For a moment, he feels almost as though she is standing beside him, sharing in his satisfaction, "You'd love it here now, Wash." He says, out loud, "I wish you were here to share it."
There's no answer. There never is.
The moment is bittersweet, but it cannot dent his optimism. They may well need to deal with the problem of the long-lost Phoenix soldiers in time - but they're miles away. Tired of being aloof, he heads back down to the party; the Phoenix problem can wait: tonight is for celebrating.
High up in a tree on the other side of the fence, however, another pair of eyes is watching. The owner of those eyes, settled carefully across a forked bough, is also keen to celebrate; though that lone individual's celebrations are for the success of an entirely different plan: one that needs only one more component to bring it about. Just one more step left - after two agonisingly long years…just one - in order to triumphantly bring the childish pipe dream that is Nathaniel Taylor's vision of Terra Nova to an end.
