A/N: In cricketing terms, what follows would be called a 'googly'...


CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Long Shadow

Tom Boylan glares at the list with a frown that might, if he tries hard enough, intimidate the ingredients upon it to become easily found. The barley turned out to be of no real use, much of the seeds having sprouted and rotted thanks to their abandonment, while he has no idea where to begin looking for hops.

Yseult sits with him, "It doesn't have to be hops, Tom. You could try a gruit."

"A what?" he stares at her as though she's speaking Greek.

"It's a mixture of herbs and botanicals that people used before hops were discovered to have better preservative properties - gruit does the same as hops do, except it doesn't have the antibacterial properties that favour the brewer's yeast. It's not a game killer if we can't find them. It just means you'll need to control the brewing process so that you can get a balance between not having enough, and having so much that it goes off before people can drink it."

"That's not helpful." He grumps.

"You did actually know how beer was made before you decided you were going to make it?" she asks, a little cheekily.

"Not as well as I should've." He admits, sheepishly, "So, if we can't get hops, what do we try instead?"

"Let's see if we need to go down that route before we do it, Tom. Have a word with one of Mira's hunters - they'll have more luck tracking something down than we would. If they can bring back some seeds, that would be a start - though it might be worth sweet-talking someone in aeroponics to see what they can do about propagating female plants. Hop Gardens are girls-only - you don't want the plants to pollinate, so no lads allowed."

"Hell - this is going to be a nightmare." Boylan sighs, "Taylor's letting me grow grains for this bloody beer - and I haven't got any to grow. I can't find any bloody hops, and even if I do, growing them is going to be a killer."

"It'll be worth it," Yseult smiles at him, cheerfully, "You never know, you could end up with a magnificent artisan beer that would win awards if there were any here to win. There's all sorts of combinations you can try; it's not just lager and Guinness, you know. There are at least sixty distinct styles of beer in Germany to choose from, and they're not all based on barley. We could invent something completely new and call it Kreidebier."

"Excuse me?" Boylan looks at her as though she's gone mad.

"Kreide - it's German for Cretaceous."

"Now that I can relate to." He looks much more cheerful at the prospect of experimentation, "As long as we can find stuff to put in it."

At least things are going better with the cider, aren't they?" Yseult adds, encouragingly.

"Your mate's Project Scrumpy? God, yes - we've got some seedlings that look promising. The stuff from this year's crop is getting ready to go; not that it's much, but at least it's a start. That damned blight is still mushing up the taroca."

"You'll be getting people hammered yet, Tom."


Maddy arrives at her workstation at least an hour late, looking rather wan, "Sorry Malcolm," she says, "Mom says I'll get over this before long - or, at least, I hope I do. There's not a lot she can do about it."

Malcolm looks sympathetic; despite having a Masters in zoology, he knows absolutely nothing about pregnancy beyond clinical descriptions in textbooks, having been an only child and therefore not witnessed the arrival of siblings. Thus he is aware of the unpleasantness of morning sickness, but only in the sense of knowing what it is and what causes it. Not that he was aware that the term 'morning' is something of a misnomer. So far Maddy has been obliged to bolt from the labs at any time of the working day, not just in the supposed 'danger time'. Elisabeth is equally sympathetic, as she has been through three pregnancies and endured the same symptoms; but she is adamant: no messing with the hormones. Dry biscuits and ginger tea are the order of the day - though they only help so much. In the weeks since the announcement, there has been little change in her appearance, as she's still a little bit early to be showing; but nonetheless the presence of a new life is making itself keenly felt, it seems. Hopefully, though, as Maddy has been told, her hormones will do as the doctor says and settle back down again.

It's quite a bizarre thing to see the eldest Shannon child with a baby on the way, particularly given his own age. Having abandoned the idea of having children while a student, he hadn't given it another thought until Yseult came into his life. Elisabeth had a husband and children, thus squelching any silly ideas that might have played at the back of his mind about their resuming a relationship that was - if he is truly honest with himself - faltering before their eyes even before she left Oxford. With no female company, he had assumed that being a father simply wasn't going to happen - and it's only now that he feels there's hope that he might have children of his own after all, and give his lost parents a grandchild.

As the morning draws to an end, he wanders home to see what's been left in the fridge for lunch. Yseult has meetings for much of the day, so she made them both something, and took some of it with her to eat at the workshops. When she's not so busy, or he isn't, they habitually lunch at home, and it's a habit that's now ingrained, so he still goes home even if she's not going to be there - and so does she. Besides, it's not unknown for meetings to be cancelled, is it?

Letting himself in, he notices that the fertility goddess has moved again. Despite Elisabeth's warnings that her hormones won't get sorted overnight, he knows that Yseult is beginning to grow concerned that she hasn't conceived. While she didn't opt for full-on sterilisation, she had decided, as he had, that bringing children into a dying world seemed a cruel thing to do. She's younger than he is: not yet forty, so it's not as though she's missed the boat in terms of natural conception - but nonetheless, the fact that she seems to handle the ugly little clay sculpture every day suggests that she's afraid that the injection has had some permanent effect.

The fridge yields a rather good salad of fresh vegetables and cracked spelt, which he consumes while reading through a scientific paper on his plex, before washing up the crockery and setting it aside. As he does so, he notices a small pile of folded jersey tops, left to the side after being laundered, and decides to freak Yseult out by putting them away for her. He knows where they are meant to go, after all.

Pulling out the bottom drawer of the chest in the bedroom, he stops: bemused to see a bag in the drawer that is taking up a fair bit of the space. Shifting it, he stops - it's not empty.

He shouldn't look. It's none of his business…

But he can't help himself. He's a scientist, being nosy is in his nature.

Pulling out the bag, he opens it, and stops dead.

Niall.

There's no reason why it shouldn't be there - he was a part of Yseult's life for years before they came through the portal. They were close - and happy, so what right does he have to expect her to forget him? He's a part of her past now, and she has moved on - moved on into a new relationship…

Then why did she hide the picture away? Why didn't she mention it?

Still holding the bag, he sits on the end of the bed and stares at the framed photograph within. The man with fox-red hair and vivid green eyes smiles up at him. It was put away. She isn't displaying it, dammit…

And yet, seeing it is like being stabbed through the chest…

Why the hell am I doing this? She loves me - she says so all the time. She proves it every time she looks into my eyes…every time she rests her hands on my arm, or my leg…or anywhere else for that matter…and yet…

The man with fox red hair and vivid green eyes still smiles up at him - is he imagining it, or is that smile now slightly triumphant? Shuddering at his paranoia, Malcolm hastily fumbles the bag closed and shoves it back into the drawer. For reasons he can't - or, more probably, won't - explain, he retrieves the folded tops and puts them back in the living room, where Yseult left them. Best to let sleeping dogs lie.

Except he can't.


Josh is waving as Yseult cycles home from her compound, and she pulls up, "Hi Josh. What's up?"

"It's okay - the first of the new batch of cider's going to be available in the next few days, so we're having a cider evening on Friday night. I just wanted to give you this." He hands over a small card that turns out to be something akin to a formal invitation.

"That's lovely - thanks Josh. I'll see if I can persuade Malcolm to come - now that he's actually stepped over the threshold at Boylan's and not caused the world to collapse into a black hole. I think people were quite disappointed when that happened. Or didn't."

"See you then?"

"Definitely." She smiles.

Resuming her journey, though now pushing the bike rather than riding it, she considers what she might cook for dinner. While it's not their intention that they should slip into predefined 'gender' roles in the house, she knows from experience that allowing Malcolm into the kitchen is a bad idea bordering almost on the hazardous. She smiles fondly to herself: he has absolutely no idea whatsoever what to do with food other than eat it.

The house is empty when she gets back, and she sets the invitation on the counter, before noticing the jersey tops that she forgot to put away. Shaking her head at her absent mindedness, she collects them and puts them away, entirely failing to notice that the bag containing the photo of Niall is no longer lying lengthways.

She is halfway through prepping the vegetables when he comes in, looking rather distracted, but he smiles at her as he unlaces and kicks out of his boots, "Is there anything I can do that won't cripple me or poison you?"

"You can come and sit at the counter so I can stare adoringly at you until I cut off the tip of my finger, if you like."

He smiles again as he approaches the counter, but still seems slightly distracted, until he notices the invitation, "What's this?"

"Josh dropped it with me on the way home - they're having a connoisseur scrumpy booze-up on Friday, and we're invited."

"That's an interesting description."

She regards him for moment, "Are you okay?"

Malcolm looks up at her, slightly startled, "What? Oh, yes. Sorry: long day."

He watches her as she stir fries the vegetables with what seems, to him at least, considerable expertise. She is everything to him; everything…and yet that long shadow still lies across them. Niall is no longer present - but at the same time he is…

"Are you sure you're alright?" Yseult is looking up from the pan, her expression a little concerned.

"It's nothing." He says, quietly, "Just a few lurking notions that I really should be forgetting about by now."

Her eyes soften in sympathy: she thinks he's talking about his captivity in the Badlands. Or that bloody dream again.

They eat in silence, sitting together as always, rather than on opposite sides of the counter. Again, as always, Yseult is very, very close to him, as though pulled by a magnet; and he wonders why it is that she still seems to hold on to Niall as much as she does.

Cross with himself, he dispatches her to sit on the couch while he clears up and makes two mugs of tea. Even though they've been cohabiting to a significant degree for months, and 'officially' - as it were - for several weeks, she seems not to have tired of snuggling against him on the couch, and even now he doesn't even think not to slip his arm about her shoulders. He's lost count of the times she's fallen asleep on him and he's had to carry her through to the bedroom - and yet Niall is still present…

Yseult shifts, "What is it, Malcolm? Please tell me - you haven't been right since you got home. I can feel you tensing up."

He looks at her, a little helplessly, "I found the picture."

"Picture?" she looks confused.

"Of Niall."

Yseult blinks, "Niall? What about it? I've put it away in a drawer…" then she frowns, "exactly how did you find the picture?"

"I noticed you'd left your tops out. I went to put them away - and it was in the drawer." He looks at her, trying not to show the hurt that he feels, "Why didn't you tell me you still had it?"

"It was in a bag, Malcolm - why were you going through my things?"

"I wasn't…it was just there…I…" he knows he has no excuse, but the hurt forces him to continue, "You hid the picture away, and you didn't tell me - did you think it was none of my business?"

She stares at him, "I put it away because it was something from my past. What did you expect me to do - put it in the disposal?"

"Well no…not as such…"

"Not as such? Not put a photograph of my late husband in the dustbin…as such? Why on earth would you expect me to do that? I can't just pretend he never existed!"

"And I can't pretend that he's not still here!" Malcolm plunges on, driven by an almost irrational need to strike out against the pain that he feels, "Every step of the way, Max - he's been lurking over our shoulders - and I feel like there's three of us in this relationship…"

"I don't - I've never felt that. Niall's dead, Malcolm - he's been gone five years. He'll always be a part of my life - a part of my memory and my heart; but that's all he is now. I spent two years trying to love a ghost before I realised that I was chasing after nothing - I can't waste the rest of my life trying to love someone that's gone - not when I love someone that's here. But don't - don't - ask me to switch off my memories of him and what we shared. I can't do that - all I can do is draw a line and start building new memories of you and what we're sharing together. Is that too much to ask?"

He looks a little helpless: she's right - he knows she's right - and yet…

"Are you jealous of him, Malcolm?" Yseult asks, very quietly.

"I…" his voice trails off. If he denies it, then they both know he's lying - but to admit to it is more than he can do.

"Do you think he matters to me more than you do?" she sounds like she's near to tears.

"Does he?" the words burst out almost unbidden, and he wishes, more than anything, that he could take them back. But he can't.

"How can you ask me that?" Her voice is almost inaudible, her expression distraught.

"I'm sorry Max - really I am; I didn't mean to…"

"Then why did you say it?" she interrupts, "Because you think it's true? That you're a substitute for a dead man?"

"No! That's not what I meant…I don't know what I meant; it was just seeing that photograph…I didn't mean to find it - I was just trying to help by tidying your things up - and it hurt…it really hurt…" his own eyes are filling with tears. He hates to see her so upset - and to know that he's the cause; but, at the same time, finding that picture upset him, too.

She is on her feet now, "Maybe it's not me who has the problem with Niall, Malcolm. Maybe it's you. Have you thought about that? I thought that my world had ended when he died - and then I found you. If this is going nowhere, and you can't handle the fact that I was married once, then tell me now so that I can get through mourning another failed relationship and try and pick up the pieces of my life before it's too late. Okay?" she turns and heads off to the bedroom.

She's crying in there. He knows she is…how the hell did it get so out of control so quickly? This morning, she was the most precious thing in his life. And then he found that damned photograph, and suddenly that shadow is in the sun again. She loves him - but she loved Niall…

It's no good. He can't stand this - regardless of how hurt he feels, it's thanks to his own curiosity that he found that blasted photograph, and that's not her fault. Did she hide the picture from him, or merely stick in a drawer because there was nowhere else to put it? Does it matter to him which it is? Should it?

Malcolm opens the bedroom door to find the room in darkness. Yseult is on her side of the bed, cradling Schmidt. Rather than talk, he instead clambers onto the bed and rests alongside her, hoping that she won't reject his approach.

"I'm sorry, Max. Really sorry - I found the photograph by accident. I never meant any of this to happen - I love you, more than anything in the world. You're the most precious thing in my life, and I think that's why I overreacted the way that I did. I really wasn't searching through your belongings - I just wanted to startle you by putting your washing away."

For a moment, she doesn't move, and he feels a sick dread inside that he's broken their relationship through his stupidity.

"Niall's a part of my life, Malcolm." She says, eventually, "I can't change that - or make it unhappen."

"I know; it's just…I've never been so in love with anyone before; I'm hopeless at social interactions - you know I am." He sighs, as she still seems disinclined to face him, "Do you want Schmidt to act as a go-between?"

Finally, she turns over. His heart constricts at the sight of her reddened, teary eyes. God, he's really hurt her… far more than she could even be claimed to have hurt him…has he really done it? Destroyed what they had? Please God, no.

"Please," he says, miserably, "I can't stand that I've hurt you - I really didn't mean to."

"Maybe not." Yseult answers quietly, "But you did. I think I'd like to be on my own tonight."

There's no point in protesting. Feeling horribly sick inside, Malcolm pulls back and heads out to the living room to spend the night on the couch.


"Try that, Shannon." Boylan advises, "My liquor consultant is pretty impressed, even if I do say so myself."

Lifting the glass of amber cider, Jim regards it. He has absolutely no expertise with the stuff, being a beer man; but as there's no beer…

The beverage is surprisingly good - a dry edge with crisp undertones, not that he knows what he's really talking about. His expression gives away his surprise as much as his enjoyment, and Boylan's grin is rather shark like; all but broadcasting I'm back in business. Ah well. It had to happen sooner or later. Given that there's no way that Taylor would attend something like this - invited or not - he'll have to keep tabs on the Commander's behalf; something that is distinctly less of a chore if there's more of this coming in.

"Try this - it's surprisingly not awful." He advises Elisabeth, who smiles as she takes the glass and takes a tentative sip, "You're English - what do you think of it?"

"Sharing a nationality with a beverage doesn't make me related to it, Jim." She laughs, "It's very nice; but I think I'll stick to one of Josh's cocktails."

Drinks in hand, the couple head to the table that all but serves as Jim's office, but then Elisabeth looks across to the entrance, "Oh dear - that doesn't look good."

Jim follows her gaze to see that Yseult has managed to drag Malcolm back to the bar in response to Josh's invitation. From the atmosphere that seems to have sprung up between them, it seems that she had to all but order him to accompany her, "Why? Malcolm hates coming here."

"It's not that, Jim. Something's happened - can't you see it?"

He frowns. He prides himself on having a Detective's nose when it comes to tracking down criminals, but fathoming out the relationship between Malcolm and Yseult is something that he has long since given up trying to do. Having said that, though - she looks very stiff, while Malcolm just looks miserable, despite trying to conceal it - but then he's never been that good at hiding his emotions. That he was able to lie so convincingly to Lucas and Weaver during the occupation came as something of a surprise, "Crap - they've had an argument, haven't they?"

"It looks like it." She sighs, "Given how close they are to one another, I suppose it's inevitable that they'd be so bashed up by it - loving someone makes you incredibly vulnerable to being hurt by them - and vice versa. I think they're just finding that out."

"Hell, they were doing so well. I hope this doesn't spoil things for them. Should we talk to them?" He really hopes she'll say no - but she doesn't need to, as they cross to a table away from other people and sit together - though nothing like as close together as usual; and, Jim notes, both of Yseult's hands are visible. Oddly, though, they don't sit on opposite sides; it seems that, even though they have argued, they still can't be apart from each other.

"I think I'll keep tabs on them." Elisabeth muses, "Maybe check in with Max on how things are going with her cycle now that she's been off the contraceptives for a few months."

"Okay," Jim shudders, "That's way too much information."

She smiles and squeezes his hand, "I'm sure it'll blow over. These things usually do."


"Sorry Max - I'm going to need a hand at the power plant." Geoff advises, using his rather over-technological term for what is, essentially, a sequence of water-wheels, "It's not a brute force job - but it does need a good eye."

"No problem. Give me about ten minutes and I'll be with you, okay?"

He nods, and departs. As soon as the door is closed, Yseult is looking at Pete with an almost deadly expression, "Don't say a word."

"Suit yourself, Max; but it wouldn't do you any harm to talk it over." He chides, without rancour, "I don't know what caused you two to go to DefCon one, but even I can see that you're both having trouble sticking to it. Being snotty with someone takes a hell of a lot of effort. Just get on with the making up, won't you?"

"I thought I said not to say a word?"

"Woah - don't take it out on me, darling. I'll start making cracks about PMT if you do."

Yseult sighs. In the three days since they argued, she hasn't demanded that Malcolm remain on the couch, and they share the bed again; but that's as far as it goes. She's back in a night-shirt, and the pair merely sleep, nothing more: as though they have been obliged to do so because there are no twin beds left. And yet, even now, she can't bear to be apart from him. It's crazy. Maybe Pete's right - set it aside and get on with the making up…

"I'll be back in a bit. Geoff wants me to help him with some wheel wrangling - one of the struts has snapped."

Pete nods, "I'll make sure there's a pot of coffee ready."

Yseult rarely visits the power plant, as it works so efficiently that she doesn't need to. Besides, Geoff's the engineer, so he maintains it - but he needs a metalworker to sort out the broken strut, and she's the best one in the compound. Having already fabricated a replacement, he just needs her assistance to make final adjustments and fit it.

It's certainly a beautiful part of the compound - the large river that encircles the outside of the colony surrounded by mountains and trees, and just the perfect speed for water-wheels. Even if they lost the wind turbines and solar farm, there's still that.

The sequence of wheels is built on a series of concrete pilings that have been driven into the depths of the river bed, while the river itself forms an undershot drive. Each wheel is connected to a sequence of gears, some of which generate electricity, while the two closest to the bank run the flour mill, and their planned cotton mill. The broken strut is located at the far end, where the water runs fast and deep: ideal for the strong, continual flow needed to generate power. Needless to say, Geoff has taken great care to ensure appropriate railings to keep people from falling off.

"Here," he says, handing her a harness, "Attach yourself to the railings; the water's much colder than it looks, and it's pretty fast, too, so it's good to have a means of pulling yourself out quickly."

Once attached, the pair lower themselves down onto the maintenance platform that stands alongside the wheel. All of the wheels have the water guided through sluices, as there's no other way to stop them, so Geoff has closed the appropriate sluice to keep theirs still while they work, "Right." Yseult says, reaching into a bag around her body for the appropriate part, "Let's get going, shall we?"


Pete snorts with laughter at Louis's latest - rather smutty - message on his plex, and takes a swig of his coffee; then shakes his head with tolerant amusement as the messenger function pings again.

Urgent message: Radiosondes indicate major thunderstorm activity approx. fifty miles upstream from colony. Flood wave anticipated in approximately thirty minutes - expected height 5.1 metres above normal. All staff working at riverside should withdraw to safe zones immediately and remain away from the banks for the next two hours.

Carol Weisz

Head Meteorologist

It's gone to all the senior team, copied to everyone who has responsibility for teams working alongside the river. He wouldn't normally get such missives, as he works in the forest - but Max has set a forward for messages in case something comes up that will need action within the compound. There's no way Max and Geoff will've seen this - they've been gone for over an hour, so he'd best stroll down and let them know. It's as he's about to cut the display that he notices the time that the original message issued.

Abandoning his coffee, he flees the office and bolts for the river.


"Nearly there, Geoff." Yseult hammers carefully at the strut to encourage it to bend slightly, "There. Done." She looks up at him as her attention is caught by a low level rumbling somewhere nearby, "What's that noise?"

He looks up, frowning, and then his expression changes, "Oh shit…"

"What?" She doesn't have even a second of time to turn - there's a sudden blast of wind, and then she is struck violently by a rush of brown, stone-filled water that hammers her against the straps of the harness with shocking force. Being designed solely to hold someone who is falling, the extra pressure proves too much for the catches, and suddenly she is in the water, the cold snatching her breath away, the pressure driving her down under the surface into cold darkness.

Instinct takes over, her hands clawing upwards, kicking wildly; she is tumbling so much that she can't remember which way is up, but there seems to be light above her head, and she fights to reach it against a violent undertow that seems equally determined to keep her where she is. For the briefest moment, she breaks the surface, and snatches a breath, but she is no match for the sudden violence of the river, and in seconds, she is in airless dark once again - and this time she seems only to be going deeper in the grip of a current that is aiming straight for the bottom.

There's no thought in her head but one: to go on living - no matter what: a frantic, panicked need to return to the light that seems to have vanished. Her chest is burning, the need to breathe becoming overwhelming. No, no, no, no, no

Her breath gives out, and her reflexes override her will…

Then nothing.


Sitting at his desk, Malcolm stares at the figures on the screen, but doesn't see them. The argument that they had - the hurt that he caused Yseult such a miserable, horrible awfulness that he is sinking into a ghastly morass of self-recrimination that is becoming almost ridiculous in its grandiosity. Maybe he should just walk up to the compound and throw himself at her feet or something - it's horrible, horrible beyond imagining to share a bed with someone and not be close to them. Whatever it takes - anything to demonstrate to her that he's sorry for hurting her and wants only to make up for it. What was it that Taylor said about doing if he hurt her? Skinning him alive and leaving him for a Carno? Oh, for God's sake - now he's starting to move his floundering into self-pity, and that really is grotesque…

He's not sure when he first notices the conversation; the speakers are in an adjoining room, and have no idea that they're being overheard, "…hang on - it's Mark again. Apparently Geoff's dead - he was impaled on something by the force of the water."

"Oh, my God - poor Pam…"

"It's worse. They're still looking for Max - her safety harness snapped, and she went into the river."

Malcolm freezes, his eyes widening in horror, absolutely rigid in his chair.

"No - hang on, they've found her. Oh no…"

"What?" the other voice asks.

What? Thinks Malcolm, WHAT?

"Pete's got her out of the river - but she's drowned…" the voice falters.

There's silence for several minutes.

"Hang on, Mark's sent another message." A sigh of relief, "It's okay - one of her team resuscitated her: she'd just stopped breathing. Someone's bringing her up to the infirmary. Oh hell - someone needs to let Malcolm know so he can get there. Is he still here?"

One of the pair hurries round to his office - but it's empty.


The generator stack is silent and keeps him well hidden - just as it did until that one moment when Jim caught them…

No…don't think about it…just don't…

Shaking, his eyes wide, Malcolm leans against the wall, and allows his legs to give, sliding awkwardly down to the ground. The words are in his head: he keeps on saying them to himself over and over again, but he can't bring himself to believe them.

Max is dead. She's drowned - she's gone…she's dead…she died without knowing I was sorry…

He feels as though he can't breathe - all the air pushed out of him by the pain crushing his chest. He wants to scream - to howl - but he can't breathe…

If you hurt her, I swear to God I'll skin you alive and hang you outside the gates for the Carnos

You wouldn't need to. I'd have walked out and found one myself.

He closes his eyes, and moans in pain. It was't like this with his father - Da's death was a remote, unreal thing that he learned from his mother; but when they'd had to leave, there had been no chance of his joining them, and no opportunity for them to return - in some ways, he was gone the moment he got into that car. And with his mother; they'd both known she was dying, and he'd done his crying before she was gone - another departure that drove her actual death into that same limbo.

But this? She was everything to him…he never, never, thought he would find someone to love the way that Elisabeth loves Jim - and what about the engagement ring that he's commissioned from one of the jewellery hobbyists? He couldn't propose without one, his mother's was sold along with her wedding ring, but the replacement's not ready yet…and now he'll never get the chance…

Somewhere, in the distance, he can hear someone shouting his name. They're looking for him. Well, of course they would - he needs to be told, after all. But he already knows; and to hear those words from someone else can only make them more real - and that, he is not ready to endure.

She's been almost like the other half of him for a year; a rock to which he has anchored himself in the storms that all but broke him apart when those who wanted to harm him had him in their control. He can't carry the burden of the last year on his own; he tried it and almost went out of his mind. He needs her…and she's gone. All that he has left now is a corpse to identify and a collection of belongings to pack into boxes…that fertility goddess that she was all but praying to in her wish to give him a child…soft, cuddly Schmidt…

A strangled sob chokes out of him, and he sinks to the ground completely, crumpled on his side. She's gone. She's really gone…he's lost her. He wants to scream again - but that ghastly pain in his chest still constricts him, and he can't. Oh God - he can't do this; he can't look at her drowned body, nor can he pack her belongings into boxes - and he can't go back to that horrible, sterile existence that was his life before he looked into her eyes and found that there was, for that moment, not another person in the entire world. Not now. Not ever again - if she's gone, he wants to go with her.

Slowly, painfully, he clambers back up the wall to get back to his feet. Everyone he loves is dead: His father - his mother…and now his beautiful, precious Yseult. Maybe they're all together? Perhaps she's telling them about him, learning about them. He's never thought about life after death - he's a scientist, after all - but now he needs to believe it: more than he's ever needed to believe anything in his life. If there is, then she's there - and she can still smile. Still laugh…still be wonderful…and he can still be with her.

Vaguely, he is aware of his name being called again, but he dismisses it. Why tell him something he already knows? Not that it matters: the news can't break him any more than he's already been broken. He came to this place in search of a new life - and he found it. And then it was taken away.

Walking slowly, Malcolm emerges into the marketplace. He doesn't look up, but he is aware that people are talking amongst themselves; not that anyone seems to see him. Do they even care? Perhaps not - they never did before, so why change? Yseult was the one they loved, after all - no one's heart but hers would break for him.

He takes refuge behind a stand of shrubs and looks out through the fence to the wide expanse of open ground that lies beyond. It would take some time, probably a good half hour's walk, to get far enough into the forest to find something large and carnivorous that could finish it for him. He'd shoot himself, but his regulation sidearm is locked in his office, and that would mean someone would almost certainly find him first.

The pain is less now; now that he's decided what he's going to do: it's nice to have a plan after everything was so utterly wrenched from him - it's as though he's back in control again. The only issue left to consider is how the hell to get outside.

The gate's closed - but he can see a rover approaching as a patrol comes back in, and already someone's giving the order to let them in. Will they notice if he walks out? Probably - but would they stop him? That's another matter - he is under no illusions as to how little people like him, after all. Moving without any apparent aim in mind, he steps out from the stand of shrubs so that he can be at the gate as it rises…

"Malcolm - there you are! Where the hell are you going?" a hand grasps his arm, and he turns to see Jim, who is staring at him in shock, "What's wrong?"

"She's dead, Jim." He says, dully, "Max is dead. She drowned."

"Who the hell told you that? Of course she isn't - they got her back. They're bringing her up to the infirmary - everyone's been looking all over for you!"

He stares at the Deputy, his expression uncomprehending, "That's not what I heard…"

"Not if you only heard half of it. I'm not kidding - Pete pulled her out of the water and resuscitated her; they're bringing her up to the main compound now. If we get to the infirmary, you'll be there when they get her here. Come on."

He stares at Jim, trying to accept the news. Behind him the gate opens to admit the rover, and closes again.


"Sit down, Malcolm." Elisabeth's voice is firm, "I can't talk to you if you keep on pacing like that."

"She drowned, Elisabeth…" Malcolm begins, then sits in response to her hard glare.

"Yes, she did; but Pete got the message about the flash flood and managed to get to the riverside in time to spot her in the water and coordinate her retrieval. They got her out and resuscitated her - it was only her breathing that had stopped at that point. We've checked her lungs and taken steps to prevent secondary drowning, so she'll be absolutely fine in a few days once the pains in her chest subside. She's sedated at the moment, but other than that there's no damage." She sits down and faces him across the desk, "Now - what was all this nonsense about walking out of the compound?"

"I…" he stares at the floor, "I remember telling Taylor that he wouldn't have to feed me to a Carno if I hurt Max - I was going to go and look for one."

"Why?"

His head comes up and he stares at her, "What do you mean, 'why'? Isn't it obvious?"

Elisabeth says nothing, but continues to watch him.

"I hurt her, Elisabeth. I found her picture of Niall in a drawer - and I got stupidly jealous of him. And I nearly lost her…" Malcolm's face creases with pain, "God…I couldn't imagine what it would be like to have to go and identify her body - and then to have to go home alone…

"But you didn't." She says, gently, "She's in intensive care at the moment. Ironically, in the same bed that you occupied on both occasions that that you were here, so you shouldn't have any trouble finding her."

His eyes full of tears, Malcolm stands up, "Thank you." His voice is so faint it's barely audible, but she smiles, and waves him out.


Was this what it was like for her? Sitting over a loved one who lies silent and still, surrounded by diagnostic equipment? He has no idea how long he's been sitting here now: an hour at least. His eyes never leaving her pale face, Malcolm grasps her hand in both of his, pleading with her in his head to just wake up; wake up and look at him. She could've died - she nearly did…does she even know that her colleague is dead? Oh God…please wake up…

"Please come back, Max." He whispers, aloud, "I'm so sorry…I never meant to hurt you, and it wasn't even your fault…it was me being an idiot. I can't live if you don't…please, just wake up…"

There's no answer. No sign that she's heard him, or that she's going to listen to him and open her eyes - but the need to apologise to her, to tell her how sorry he is and plead with her to forgive him is becoming more than he can stand…

"Ich vermisse dich Opa ... warum kann ich nicht bleiben?"

He stares at her, is she talking to her grandfather? Her eyes are still closed - perhaps she's dreaming or something.

"Ja, ich liebe ihn - sehr, sehr viel."

Malcolm blinks, not understanding - what is she saying? Clasping her hand, he leans in close, "Wake up, Max. It's me - Malcolm."

"Er hat mich nicht gefragt, ihn noch zu heiraten; aber ich hoffe, dass er bald wird."

He rests his hand on her forehead, "Come back to me, Max. I can't understand what you're saying." Please…

Vaguely, her eyes open, and she looks around, bemused - she doesn't seem to know where she is.

"It's okay." He tries again.

Then she sees him, "Malcolm…"

He tries to speak, but the words are lost in tears as he breaks down. He nearly lost her…so nearly lost her…for a ghastly, agonising half hour, he thought she was dead.

"I love you Max," he sobs, "I'm sorry I hurt you. God, I'm so sorry - please, I can't stand that I caused you pain - I really can't. Please, please forgive me…"

Her arms clutch against him, drawing him so close to her that his tears are soaking into her hair. Her eyes are closed as she simply holds on to him. Words seem not to matter now - just that closeness that seemed so far away in the cold, dark depths of the river.

"Hurts to speak." She says, eventually, her voice sounding thick and hoarse, "Forgive you - love you. Hold me…please…"

It's all he needs to hear. Carefully, gently, he wraps his arms about her and holds her close.