A/N: Apologies to any Scots readers for the slight outbreak of cliché in the following chapter...


Chapter Twenty Four

Confrontation

Lucas wanders through the camp, ignoring every possible sign of the appalling failure of his leadership. Not even his burning thirst seems to penetrate the veneer of assured self-belief that the terminus is mere minutes away from being ready to fire up - and he will be back in 2149 before dawn. The fact that he no longer has any means of predicting when the next facture will open makes no more impact upon his optimism than the ghastly disaster that has unfolded around him.

With his memories of all that took place following their cruel act in sending through an innocent man encased in a bomb, he already knows what he needs to do. Make sure that Shannon is dead before he has a chance to recover his senses and begin fomenting a resistance; if they can't avoid the Carno damaging the terminus, then take hostages and make it clear that one will die every fifteen minutes unless Malcolm puts his best efforts into repairing the terminus. Much as he doesn't wish to, as - if he is honest with himself - he finds her very attractive, Bucket must be shot down before she has even the first opportunity to use his feelings against him. Then - oh, yes, then - everything will be ready before his damn father can interfere. If he isn't ready to fight back, then so much the better. He can sit helplessly in the forest and watch as his precious colony is massacred, ending with his darling Alicia. He is nothing if not generous, however: Hooper can find some suitably unpleasant way to torture Wallace to death.

Making his way under the gazebo, he pauses, and frowns; what the hell is Wallace doing on the floor? No sleeping on the job, dammit! If he had any water, he would dump it over the lazy scientist's head; but, as he doesn't, he settles instead for kicking him in the back, "Wake up! Who said you could rest?"

It does not seem to register with him that Malcolm does not respond.


Their approach is almost silent, though Jim and Taylor seem to be utterly unable to match Mira in terms of stealth. Her eyes are intent, her movements slow and measured. Every footstep makes not so much as a sound, while their boots seem to crunch on the crumbly ground at the approximate volume of a rock concert. How the hell does she do it?

As they approach the perimeter, Taylor crouches and issues his orders. Whether or not Mira's going to obey them is debatable, but at least she consents, silently, to make her way off to the right, while Jim heads off to the left.

With so few soldiers apparently left in the camp, they have no sentries to spot them, and entering past the stockades is surprisingly easy, as they are entirely unmanned. God alone knows how it is that they've not had any incursions from the local predators if there's no one to scare them off with weapons fire or flares. Maybe they have - it's impossible to know.

Making his way slowly, and as quietly as he can, through the remains of abandoned and collapsing structures, Jim's eyes flit here and there, taking advantage of the starlight. The moon is low, and offers little in the way of illumination, but the darkness of the camp itself is sufficient for the slight glimmer from above to show him the way. Where the hell is everybody? Are they really all asleep?

It's as though he's given someone a cue. The sound of crunching footsteps drives him immediately into the limited shade of a shed, and he watches as a soldier makes his rather dizzy and confused way across his path. The man ought to have seen him, surely? But he seems dazed - and then Jim understands: the water's run out.

For a moment, the soldier appears not to know where he is going, or why; but then makes his doddering way across to a run of piping that leads to a water carrier; presumably an improvised collection system for the only remaining fluid available to everyone. Jim averts his eyes as the man fumbles with his fly, and deposits probably no more than a few drops, if that, of urine into the plastic urinal. It won't even make it to the collection receptacle. It seems that they've arrived not a moment too soon.

Moving carefully, Jim approaches the soldier as he fumbles with his fly again, and swiftly incapacitates him with a chokehold. There is little fight in him, and the entire manoeuvre is over in seconds. Leaving the man in the shelter of a nearby tent, Jim proceeds.

Elsewhere in the complex, Taylor moves with equal care. And freezes at the sound of voices.

"Why are we bothering?" the voice sounds thick and dry-mouthed, "Might as well put pistols in our mouths and end it now. The only thing out there is a long walk, or one of those damned Bambis."

"Not if Lucas gets us back to 2149." Someone insists, though their voice suggests a close edge of hysteria - clearly they've pinned their entire hopes on that impossible escape route.

"Don't be such a stupid ass. Lucas went crazy months ago - if he was ever sane in the first place. The only place we're going to now is hell."

"Screw you!" the voice rises, a little wildly, "Dammit! He didn't lie to us!" And suddenly there are footsteps approaching. Immediately, Taylor withdraws out of sight, and watches as the speaker passes him, moving with the painful awkwardness of a man whose muscles probably feel like they're being stabbed out with needles. One quick chokehold, and he is safely stowed in a nearby tent.

"Jerk…moron…like we're getting out of here alive…" the other voice is beginning to ramble. Looking out from his vantage point, Taylor can see a scattering of playing cards, and a lone man who is now engaged in ripping them to pieces, one by one. The soldier's attention is equally compromised, and soon he, too, is unconscious in the tent.

Further on, moving with well practised silence, Mira's eyes are fully adjusted to the lack of light, and she is obliged to squint as she peeks around a corner to see the flames of a small bonfire, about which three of the soldiers are sitting: hollow eyed and silent. None of them appear to have even the vaguest will to move. As Jim has already surmised, she knows that her assessment is largely right. The camp has run out of water. Unless they obtain more - and in significant quantities - the lot of them will be dead before the coming day is half over.

She watches them, wondering if any of them are going to make things easy for her by walking off into the dark; but they stay where they are and say nothing to one another. All of them seem to have accepted that they are merely waiting to die. Does she feel any pity for them? Should she? They refused to treat her people as equals, demanded that they keep the encampment alive, and gave them as little as they could manage in return. They must've known that, even as they signed up for the mission, there was always a chance that they wouldn't survive - though she supposes that none of them would've imagined that they could end up like this.

Then, finally, one of them gets up, and wanders in her direction. Safely concealed, she draws a good, sharp knife. She remembers this one - he was particularly arrogant - and now he stumbles dazedly towards her, hours - if that - away from a horrible death from thirst. Why not put him out of his misery?

The slice is quick and effective. Even as his blood fountains out, she avoids it and pulls the man into the darkness behind a shed, "I may be a grubby survivalist," she tells him softly as the last gurgling breath leaves his throat, "but at least that means I can survive. Be grateful that you got an easy way out."

When she resumes her watch, the other two are still silent. One seems to have gone to sleep - either that or he's passed out - while the other maintains his wretched vigil, seeing out a night that will bring him only death when morning comes. It's a simple matter to choke him to silence without waking his companion, who is equally quickly left hidden. If they live, fair enough; but perhaps death will come for them while they're unconscious. Angry though she is, Mira is not a complete savage.

By the time the three reconvene and count up, it's clear that they've knocked out every soldier in the camp - just nine men. Mira opts not to mention that it's actually eight.

"Wake up!" the voice is startlingly loud, "Who said you could rest?"

Jim looks sharply at Taylor, but says nothing. They all know the owner of that voice. His expression set, Taylor nods, sharply, and the three advance.


The need to find Malcolm ahead of Lucas seems to be largely pointless; with both men present beside the blown terminus. From his vantage point, Jim is quickly able to determine that - as far as he can see - the blasted piece of equipment is still useless; then his eyes make their way down to the floor, and he spots Malcolm, lying silent and still upon the ground. That is not good…

"Lucas." Taylor says, quietly, "Enough. Step away from the device."

Slowly, Lucas turns his attention away from Malcolm's recumbent body, and fixes his full attention upon the man he has begun to regard with an almost obsessive loathing, "Not a chance, Dad. Don't you get it? I've won. This is my crowning achievement!" He spreads his arms wide, "I have the calculations to force a time fracture to connect with a previous opening! When I'm gone, everything'll go back - and this time, nothing - nothing you do will make any difference. I'll counter you at every turn!"

"With that?" Jim asks, frowning, "How? It's still toast."

"You'd like to think that, wouldn't you? Shannon." Lucas spits out his name with venom, "But you'd be wrong. I am this close to turning things around - and, believe me, when I come through the next time, the first thing I'm going to do is hunt you down and kill you!"

It's like he's seeing things. Is it merely the completion of his journey into madness, or has thirst driven him the rest of the way? "If you think that, then you're delusional." He wants Lucas to move - to get out of the way. It could not be more obvious that Malcolm needs urgent medical attention - and he can't even get to him to start some basic first aid.

"Lucas." Taylor's voice is leaden, "I told you then, and I'll tell you again; even if you can't accept it or listen to it. Your mother would be ashamed of you. She would never have allowed me to exchange her life for yours - but, everything that I see in front of me makes me wish that I had."

"You have no right to talk about my mother like that!" Lucas shouts back, "You sacrificed her! She died instead of me! I should've died! Her death is my fault - and I hate you for that! Do you think I'll ever forgive you for dropping that burden on me? You took everything away - my mother, my life, my work! And for this? For some pathetic dream that humanity can get some second chance? We're a disease upon the face of the earth! This was our mitigation, a chance to find the means to keep going just that bit longer - and it would've made me wealthy beyond your wildest dreams!"

"You think that I care about wealth?" Taylor asks, astonished, "I've seen what wealth does to people - why would I want money when I have a good life in a clean world? What the hell right do you, or any of the bastards who hired you, have to come in and take it? Thanks to you, we're all that's left - and no one will ever have the chance to come here and share in our good fortune!"

"Why are we having this argument again?" Lucas demands, sounding exasperated, and dry mouthed, "I don't care about your precious second chances crap! There's nothing between us anymore - it died when you took everything that mattered away from me! And I am never going to stop working to take it all away from you!"

"Step away from the terminus, Lucas." Taylor advises, quietly, "If you expect Malcolm to finish repairing it, he needs medical attention."

"He's going nowhere. Damn him. He finishes the terminus or I have him punished. He knows that - and he's still sleeping on the job."

"I said," Taylor's voice is dreadful, "Step away from the terminus."

"Or what?" Lucas snorts, dismissively, "How many times have your threats come to nothing? You threw me out of the colony to die - and I didn't. You tried to forgive me, and I stabbed you; and even then you couldn't bring yourself to kill me - you had Bucket try to do it for you. That's the difference between us, isn't it? You can't stop seeing me as your son - but I stopped seeing you as a father longer ago than you'd want to remember. That's how I can do things that you can't: I've given up on the whole 'family' nonsense. I'm ready to get out of here from under your damn nose and hit you again; and this time, you'll have nothing left!"

Taylor eyes his son with disdain, "Do you think I'm going to let you near me with a knife again? I learn from my mistakes."

"Of course you do." Lucas snorts, "Do you see me with a blade in my hand? Of course you don't. But then, you wouldn't - as I don't intend to use one this time." His eyes contemptuous, he reaches to his hip, and retrieves a sonic pistol, "I took this off one of the dead soldiers. It's on its maximum setting - even at this distance, it'll take you out."

"Step aside from the terminus." Taylor tries again. Despite his focus upon Lucas, he is not unaware that Malcolm needs help - and if Lucas is standing over him, there's no way for Jim or Mira to go to his aid.

"And have you damage the repairs? Not a chance." Lucas raises the stolen pistol, "I'll defend this to the death, Father."

"Then do it. Shoot me down." Taylor snaps, "Enough posturing, enough games. You take me out, or you put that damned gun down. I'm tired of your complaining, tired of you blaming me for something that you couldn't possibly begin to understand. I'm not taking the weight of your crimes any more, Lucas. Either put the hell up, or shut the hell up."

For a moment, Lucas stares at him, astonished. He has lost count of the number of years that he's hated the man standing in front of him - not just for the past, but also for his father's steadfast refusal to hate him back. In all that time, Taylor has never - not once - called his bluff.

The pair remain still for several minutes, the weapon in Lucas's hand neither down, nor up.

"It's not too late, Lucas." Yet again, he tries, "Come back with me. Come back to the colony and make a life for yourself. You can't get back to 2149 - you can't even get back to 2151; there's no way of tethering the fracture at either end. The terminus is beyond repair - and the only man who could repair it is going the same way. If not for my sake, or yours, then think about the people who aren't involved. There are still some soldiers alive - and Malcolm. Give me the chance to get them back - and to take you home."

"To what? Life in the brig?" Lucas demands, suddenly furious, "And you think I'll be welcomed back with open arms, do you? Do the insults ever stop? Do you really think that I would stand for that?"

And then he raises the pistol: and pulls the trigger.

Nothing.

"What the hell?" Even more enraged by the weapon's refusal to obey him, Lucas shakes it, points and fires again.

Nothing.

"It's run out of charge, Lucas." Jim advises, a little wearily.

His eyes sad, Taylor retrieves his own pistol, "You thought you could fire that weapon, Lucas." He says, quietly, "And you fired it at me. If that's how you feel, then you're right: There's nothing between us anymore."

"You're going to shoot me?" Lucas asks, without fear, "You don't have it in you. Go on. Shoot me! If you do, then it's the ultimate pyrrhic victory! Shoot me!"

"You heard the man, Taylor!" Mira urges, "You promised you'd end this - once and for all. Do it!"

Standing to Taylor's left, Jim sighs, "She's right, Taylor. He'd never integrate into the colony. He'd just spend his time in the brig looking for a way to take you down. You said it yourself - it can't go on."

Slowly, Taylor raises his right arm, his every intention to end this nightmare, once and for all. If not for his sake, then for the colonists who died. For Alicia

"Do it!" Lucas urges, his voice rising to a scream, "Shoot me, damn you!"

"You want me to?" He asks, dully.

"Just end this! Do you think I want to be on this damned world with you? I'd rather be dead! Get it over with!"

"You want to die?" The question is more incisive.

"KILL ME, DAMN YOU!"

His expression one of painful contempt, Taylor lowers his weapon, "No. If that's what you want, I'm not playing ball. Not anymore. You get locked in the back of a rhino, and live out the rest of your days in the brig." Standing very still, he allows the weapon to drop from his hand.

"I knew you couldn't do it…" Lucas hisses, viciously.

"No not can't. Won't. You're not worth it. Not anymore."

"Then I'll kill you, you bastard!" his eyes mad, Lucas snatches the handle of the parang, wrenching the blade from its leather sheath. Holding the weapon aloft, he charges at his father, who watches him quite calmly. Then, he reaches for the sword at his side - brought for no real purpose other than in a fit of temper - and extends it, ready to…

He has no opportunity to plan how he will parry any strike from his son, as Lucas's furious forward momentum is such that he reaches the sword before Taylor has readied it. The deadly sharpness of the blade easily cleaves the skin, and suddenly he is standing absolutely frozen, his son skewered upon the point.

They seem to stand there for an eternity, each staring at the other; but it is Lucas who recovers first. His eyes vicious, his expression crazed, he attempts to lift the parang, as the sword is now out of action, but stares in bemusement as it tumbles from his fingers. He watches it for a moment, before returning his attention to his father. Slowly, grotesquely, he clutches at the short blade, and forces himself onto it even further, grimacing and groaning at the pain. Inching forth, he advances until he is nose-to-nose with Taylor, and stared fixedly into his father's eyes.

"I hate you." He hisses, softly, sincerely, "I hate you more than you can ever begin to imagine. You killed my mother, and now you've killed me. You might've won, but you've still lost."

Gradually, his legs begin to buckle, as the damage to his abdomen grows more severe; and then, slowly, achingly slowly, he topples to the ground, the sword rising from his fallen trunk as though it pins him to the ground like an insect specimen.

His eyes filled with pain, Taylor turns to look at Jim, "Shannon. Make sure there's only one death tonight."


Fumbling for his pack, Jim wrenches out a bottle of water. From this distance, he has no idea if Malcolm is even still alive, and hastily drops down beside him, reaching for his shoulder to turn him so that he can offer the water. As he does so, there is no indication of life as Malcolm's arm shifts across his front, and then flops awkwardly as Jim sets him so that he's resting up against his lap.

"C'mon. Wake up - I've got water." He offers, without success. Words aren't going to cut it, then. Hastily, he unstoppers the bottle and tips a portion into the cap, carefully trickling it over Malcolm's mouth.

The effect is almost instantaneous, as he seems to spring back from his catatonic state: his arm coming up to snatch at whatever it is that has granted him some fluids. Almost at once, it becomes something of a fight between Malcolm, who is concerned only with getting the water on board, and Jim, who wants to make sure he doesn't accidentally drown himself in the process.

"Slow down - it's not gonna get taken away. Take it easy or it'll come back up again. I've got at least two more bottles…"

As he drains the last of the water, Malcolm's arm falls, and he sinks back into unconsciousness again. It's not good - despite it being as cold as it is, he's very warm; chances are that he's got heat exhaustion at best…

Jim turns to see that Mira is kneeling beside him, another bottle of water in one hand, and a cloth in the other that she is soaking in the bottle's contents, "We need to get his temperature down - it's got to the point where the air's not enough." She doesn't wring out the cloth, but instead lays it across Malcolm's throat, in the hope that the pulsing arteries in his neck will benefit from the cooling effect, and start to reduce his core body temperature.

Feeling rather redundant, apart from having his lap used as a pillow, Jim looks back across to Taylor, who is still standing over his son. He feels a sudden nudge from Mira, who indicates that he should let her get on with the first aid, as she has far more experience of dealing with injuries in a more primitive setting. Leaving her to it, he gets back to his feet, and crosses to Taylor.

The Commander watches, quietly, as the last breaths finally leave his son. Retrieving the sword, he looks at it, "If Malcolm dies, then I suppose I can tell Max that her blade avenged him."

"We're working on that. What about Lucas?"

"He's gone. This time, it's definite." He says, quietly. Rather than merely take his word for it, Jim crouches and feels for the pulse.

"He's gone." He agrees, "What do you want to do?"

Taylor stays silent, glaring at the corpse. Then, without a word, he turns on his heel and stalks off.

"Taylor?" Jim calls after him.

"Where's he gone?" Mira looks up from where she is tending to Malcolm, having soaked more cloths that she has set over his wrists, and yet another, which she has folded over his forehead, "Sulking?"

Jim looks slightly helpless for a moment; what if he has gone off on his own?

Then he hears it; the sound of an engine turning over. Then silence, then another, "Nope. Just seeing if he can get us some transport out of here."

"I'll go help. You stay with Wallace."

"Me?" Jim stares at her; not only is he useless with conditions that don't involve large amounts of bleeding, but he doesn't really want to be stuck with Malcolm on his own. Why is he such a chicken, for God's sake?

Cross with himself, he sits down alongside his colleague, and tries to think of something to say.

"Ah'm sorry, Da…ah didnae mean it."

"Pardon?" he stares down, Malcolm's eyes are open, but his expression is rather odd: fearful, and sad.

"Ah was angry. Ah didnae mean to strike out at ye…"

Jim blinks, not only does Malcolm look a bit weird, but what the hell is wrong with his voice? What's that accent? Scots?

"Ah wish ye were still here, Da…Ah didnae want ye to go…they were bad men, and they wanted to hurt ye…why did ye no' take me with ye? Ah could'ha told 'em that ye were guid…"

What the hell is going on? Why's he talking like that? Who the hell is 'Da'?

"A miss ye…so much…Mam cries - she thinks Ah cannae hear her, but Ah do. Come home, Da. Please come home…please…"

He sounds heartbroken; what the hell is he talking about? Why is he saying it? Jim stares at him helplessly. Does he think that Jim's this 'Da'? Perhaps he does…

"Ah want tae be Braveheart, like ye told me Ah was…but Ah'm scared, Da…so scared. Why'd the bad men take ye? Why'd they put ye in prison? Mam cannae go out nae more, they told her she cannae work. Why can't ye come home? Ah want ye to come home…Da, Ah miss ye so…"

Jim stares at him helplessly; he has no idea what the hell Malcolm is talking about - but then he knows nothing of the man's past. Is he reliving something from his childhood? God above…he mentioned something about 2119 once - he would've been a child back then, wouldn't he? But why the Scots accent? He's English, isn't he? And yet, he cannot help but be moved by the anguished words. Malcolm's desperately depleted state has left him hallucinating, it seems; though why he's doing so in a Scots accent, Jim has no idea.

The sound of approaching footsteps prompts him to look up to see Mira approaching, "I see he's still dead, then." She says, indicating Lucas's corpse.

"Why not put a stake through his heart?" Jim offers, "That should make sure he stays down once and for all." He looks down, "Malcolm's out again. He was hallucinating a few minutes ago. I don't know if that's a bad sign, but I imagine it is."

"It is. Taylor's found a rhino with nearly a full charge. We need to get out of here."

"What about the soldiers?"

"We've left most of the water and some rations. They can manage for another day or two if we send people back for them. Taylor wants to get Wallace back to the Colony ASAP."

"Sounds good to me. Let's get the hell out of here."


The engine is still running as he approaches, carrying Malcolm rather awkwardly over his shoulder, "I don't want to stop it," Taylor advises, as he leans out of the driver's seat, "It took me too many attempts to get it going in the first place. Get him into the back. Mira, into the front with me. I need you to point me in the right direction."

She neither argues nor makes any loaded comments. Pausing only to hand over another backpack with water and rations, she quickly clambers in alongside Taylor, "The fastest we can go is forty, and that's pushing the envelope."

"Much as I want to get back quickly, I'll balance that with getting back alive." Squinting through the louvres, he flicks on the lights, and guides the vehicle out of the encampment.

The journey is conducted largely in silence. Taylor concentrates entirely upon driving, while Mira watches ahead and warns him of likely dangers in their path. Behind them, in the rear compartment, Jim sits alongside Malcolm, who rests silently upon a pile of blankets. He hasn't moved, or spoken, again since his rather strange hallucinated conversation. Given that he has never been forthcoming about his past - except for the bits which involve Elisabeth - Jim is immensely confused by the odd lapse into a surprisingly strong Scots accent. To hear him speak, one would never have guessed such a thing to be possible - the man sounds English born and bred; though he can't place the accent that he would normally speak. Quite similar to Elisabeth's, but he can't tell the difference between most of them other than the obvious ones like Geordie, Birmingham, 'West country' or Scouse.

Maybe he hit his head on the terminus when he went down. He remembers one of Elisabeth's medical journals had an article about someone who had a head injury and woke up speaking a different accent…it'll be interesting to see if that continues when they get back.

He sighs; at least they've got him - though whether he'll make it back to the colony is anyone's guess. Sitting back against the wall of the rhino, he watches over the man he has never liked very much, grateful that they've managed at least the first part of their mission; they have found Malcolm - but now the real challenge is to get him home alive.