A/N: Thanks for the review, Jemmz - glad I'm off to a good start! Now that the Colony's settled again there are a couple of 'elephants in the room' that need to be tackled, and I aim to do so with this story. Enjoy! As always, reviews are welcome.

Chapter Two

A New Project

The atmosphere in the marketplace is rather less sombre than it once was on such an occasion; which seems rather odd to everyone present as they are all used to coming together to mourn the lost. Today, however, the little folk band is playing a cheerful shaker song, and Sandra's choir has assembled on a makeshift stage - the intention to approach commemoration from a different angle could not be clearer.

Standing alongside her husband, Elisabeth Shannon holds Zoe's hand and smiles at her steadily growing youngest daughter, "I wonder what the choir's going to sing."

Zoe shrugs her lack of knowledge of the matter, "I think it'll be good, Mom; whatever they do." Despite her talent as a writer, she has no real ear for music; but she certainly appreciates it if the collection on her plex is anything to go by.

The gathered colonists wait as Taylor climbs up a few steps towards the Command Centre to turn and address them, "I know what you're all thinking." He begins, "Why haven't I gone into hiding this year." He pauses at the mild ripple of sympathetic amusement. Everyone seems surprised at his failure to go into seclusion - and equally surprised that he seems so self aware about it.

"Well, I decided this year that we need to stop looking backwards." He continues, "Terra Nova's never been a place for regrets - it's about looking to a good future for us, and for our kids. Everyone who came here wanted a new life - and they're still with us even if they're not here. I want us all to celebrate their time with us, and be glad that they knew a clean world, and a good life. Even if it was only for a while. So, no poems, no speeches - just a gathering to talk and remember; but, before we do, Sandra and her crew have some music for us."

He steps aside, while Sandra - looking rather nervous at having to speak - addresses everyone, "There's no need to stand and watch - we want this to be an accompaniment. Feel free to wander about, and to talk - Sal's got the grills going, so enjoy the afternoon."

This is definitely new; but the looks on people's faces suggests that everyone's open to it, and before long, people are milling about while the Choir and band run through a selection of astonishingly disparate music that is by turns reflective, uplifting and even humorous.

His arm tightly about Elisabeth's shoulders, Jim feels a great deal less of a fraud for being present when his family has come through entirely intact. So many people here are commemorating lost loved ones - whether it was through natural causes, syncillic fever or even the occupation. In his case, of course, there was Washington. Not a member of the family, admittedly - but she put her life on the line to get his family out of the compound, and paid the ultimate price for their escape.

As he looks about, he can see even those who returned to the fold from their exile are being made welcome - those who were once referred to collectively as 'sixers', and disliked intensely as such. He remembers one of them in particular; Carter - once a failed assassin, but now a valued member of Guzman's security teams. Quite a turnabout - there's even a suggestion of friendship with Dunham and Mark Reynolds, his son-in-law.

The soldiers that those exiles were preparing for, on the other hand, are largely gone; and as he looks back on it, Jim is struck by the sheer banality of their destruction. They weren't prepared for failure - the Colony was not supposed to have fought back against their invasion, after all. With only the dread Badlands to flee to, they headed out into the most hostile environment he can think of - and there they all faltered and died. He still can't begin to imagine why they stayed there as long as they did; even Mira has no answer, and she was out there with them for almost all of the time.

She's over on the other side of the marketplace, he notes, in close conversation with Yseult, while Malcolm stands nearby and does a very bad job of not looking distinctly uncomfortable about it all. To be fair to him, he is trying - he loves Yseult and doesn't want to impose his will upon her, but nonetheless, his bad memories get rather in the way of his own relationship with the tall, strong woman who towers over his diminutive wife - so he instead concentrates on Erin, who he is carrying against his hip.

He turns then as Taylor crosses to join them, "What brought this on?" he knows Taylor's limits when it comes to questioning his motives.

"I've been brooding for too long, Shannon." Taylor says, "We need to be more positive about the future - you can't do that when you're fixed on the past. We're free to make this place work now, so let's get to it."

Jim grins, "I thought that's what we were doing."

"There's still one thing we haven't looked into."

The Shannons exchange a bemused glance, until Elisabeth remembers, "The figurehead." She says - though her voice is low. Everyone knows that there's something that came out of the Badlands, but only the senior team know what it is. They were, of course, free to ignore it while the Phoenix troops were out there - why go into hostile country when it's crawling with enemies, after all - but now the enemies are gone, and the whole inevitable business of 'where did it come from, how did it get there' is rearing its head.

"I'll be bringing it up at the next briefing." Taylor affirms, "Don't want any more nasty surprises out of the Badlands, do we?"

"Talking of nasty surprises," Elisabeth smiles, "Your medical's overdue, Nathaniel. I expect to see you in my office tomorrow at ten. No excuses."

"I walked right into that one." He grimaces.

Jim grins at him cheerfully, "You certainly did."

Yseult is gradually becoming used to the inevitable wrench of leaving Erin in the nursery while she heads out of the main compound to the other end of the Colony. Far from the residential areas, her department is the noisy, dirty part of life in Terra Nova, where she, and her team of disparate hobbyists and experimental archaeologists, continue their ongoing work to prevent them all dying out if their technology ceases to function.

When she first began to work here, the blast furnace for iron was a small, backyard-style affair. The principle remains the same, as there isn't the space for a full-scale ironworks, but they've scaled it up to a degree that they can now manufacture basic iron for engines, mechanical equipment and structures. She's still trying to work out a backyard-scale equivalent of the Bessemer process, so there's no regular prospect of steel for the time being - but they've got to the point where there are two looms producing cotton fabric for the colonists to wear, and that is - to her - an achievement in itself.

Her deputy, Pete, is out in the forests working on the coppices, so she makes herself a coffee and looks through her schedule for the day. Ninette, her head weaver, wants to talk to her about refining their weaving process to the point that she can manufacture the cotton gauze that Elisabeth Shannon is so keen to obtain for wound dressings, while her new chief Engineer, John, is working on recreating a steam engine to potentially take over the powering of the looms if they need more of them. Water power, of course, can only do so much - but the risk to the environment of starting a small-scale equivalent of the industrial revolution within the colony is something that she knows Taylor will find objectionable. If they can find a clean fuel to do it, however, it would be a useful extra technology to have to hand once they run out of components to recharge their batteries.

"Projects." She says to herself, cheerfully, "I love projects."

She looks up at the sound of a knock on the door of her rather basic office, and her expression is immediately keen at the sight of her assistant, Ben, "Is there a problem?"

He shakes his head, "The exact opposite, Max," He grins, "I think we might've cracked the conversion to steel. If it works scaled up, we can get to it with Raj and Alfredo over in construction."

"Raj'll love that," she smiles, "He's been desperate to get his hands on proper steel for years - there's no way we can make more aluminium, and you can only recycle for so long before it stops being any use for struts and joists."

"Oh, I don't know. I've always rather fancied trying out a timber-frame house. They look so quaint."

"If you're that keen, I'll put you onto wattle and daub development. I'm sure you'll love being up to your elbows in mud."

He grins at her, "I think I'll pass on that."

Even as he departs, the thought sticks. What if they do need to look towards wooden building frames? Almost without thinking about it, she is making a note to research historic building styles.

Elisabeth consults her plex, "I think it's safe to say that, based on these records, you're disgustingly fit, appallingly healthy and look set to live probably forever." She jokes.

"Sounds good to me." Taylor approves.

"No, that doesn't mean you get out of this one." She laughs as he pretends to rise from his chair to depart, "We'll be finished in twenty minutes at the most."

She is as good as her word, working her way through the battery of tests with brisk efficiency. Despite his reluctance, Taylor proves to be a compliant patient and objects to nothing - not even the resolutely old-fashioned nature of the blood test, which requires the pricking of a fingertip to produce a small red blob from which the bio-bed's diagnostic systems can deduce the same degree of results that would once have required at least three phials of the stuff.

"Have you been bitten?" she asks, suddenly, as Taylor scratches crossly at his shin.

"Again." He snorts, "Damned insects get all over the place. Believe me, it's not the worst place I've been bitten in my time."

At her prompting, he pulls the left leg of his combat pants out of his boot to reveal a muscular, hairy lower leg that sports a cheerfully livid red lump, "Itchy as hell." He says, "But when aren't they?"

Elisabeth laughs, "I'll get you an antihistamine. That should ease the itch. I've seen a lot of these over the last couple of weeks - but it's the season for it, so I'm not surprised. It'll go down by itself - but only if you don't scratch it to pieces."

"Hard not to - but it's better than a scorpion sting. Glad they've made 'emselves scarce over the last year or so."

Her plex beeps as she hands over a small tube of ointment, "There. All done - everything's excellent, as always. Whatever you're doing, keep it up."

"I'd say it was living here, Doctor." Taylor grins, "Never been better."

"It's working a treat, that's for sure: your blood pressure's ideal, all your blood tests are fine. There's a slight deterioration of the sight in your left eye, but that's perfectly normal for a man of your age."

"A man of my age?" he asks, cocking an eyebrow.

"I think, in your case, it's something of a moot point. For someone so healthy, you're remarkably reluctant to prove it by having your medical." Elisabeth reproves, not entirely seriously.

"So I'm scared of doctors." He laughs, "Everyone's gotta be scared of something."

The stack of aluminium kegs looks most impressive, though the contents is yet to be tested. Despite having access to taroca root again, Tom Boylan has tapped into a rediscovered love of other brews, and his latest batch of cider is resting in front of him, ready to try.

While he's been making cider happily enough, the apple cultivar that he and Pete have been working on is still growing - and the trees are too young to fruit. Thus he continues to use the fruits from the trees that surround and protect the edible varieties in the orchard, and the quality is never guaranteed.

Busy with his books, Josh Shannon looks up briefly as his former boss - now business partner - dithers momentarily over the nearest keg. Opening the first of a new batch is always risky, as Boylan cheerfully bolsters up the anticipation of the patrons for the new cider. If, as has happened on occasion, that batch is off, people tend to be distinctly irritated.

"There's only one way to find out, Tom." How many times has he watched this? It's almost like a ritual. Snorting with mild amusement, he returns his attention to the plex. Business is excellent, and the bar is making money in a way that it never did while Boylan used it solely as a place to sell booze, and his attempts at diversification travelled largely into underhand, illegal territory. Not that he's too willing to complain; Boylan's behavioural traits came in very handy when they were fighting to save their home.

Eventually, as he always does in the end, Boylan drives in a tap, and extracts a stream of golden liquid into a cup, "Now to find if it's perfection or pee." He says, as he always does, and takes an exploratory sip.

The lack of a spat-out spray suggests that he's got something akin to his description of 'perfection', and he sets the cup down with a cheery grin, "Never had a doubt."

"Of course you didn't."

Skye returns to the bar, tray in hand following a delivery of coffees to a few stallholders who've sold their wares for the day, "So, not whiz, then?"

"I'd say, 'whizzo'." Boylan drawls, "Not that you North American types would know what that means."

"Do you?" she asks.

"Nope."

Laughing, she sets the tray on the barn and leans over Josh, her arms over his shoulders, "How are we doing?"

"Really well." He says, with satisfaction, "That folk music gig last week really pulled in some terras."

"We'll be able to have a cider launch night." Boylan confirms, looking up from another swig from his glass.

Skye disengages herself, "I'll see if the band are free."

Malcolm is not one for wandering around fields; the laboratories are absolutely his domain, and responsibility for the agricultural developments is one of his less welcome tasks. Like many of those who work in the fields full time, his lower legs are encased in leather - in his case a rather nice pair of fitted gaiters that one of Yseult's friends made for him last solstice - in case he encounters another one of those blasted scorpions. The fact that they seem to have died off means nothing; he was stung by one, and lying helplessly on the floor of a locked room, waiting to die, is an incident that still haunts him on occasions. As the sun is high, he has a wide brimmed hat upon his head, and his khaki jacket - coupled with the leather gaiters and his resolutely British accent - gives him the air of a Country Squire reviewing his estates.

Chris, the head of the Fields Division, is awaiting him amongst a large expanse of pea plants. They've tried peas before, but an influx of pests proved such a problem at the time that they were obliged to abandon them. Since that minor disaster, careful cross-pollination in the hydroponics labs has resulted in a new strain of plant that seems altogether more resistant to whatever the Cretaceous has to throw at it.

"These are looking good." He observes as he joins his colleague.

"Nothing's hit them yet, Malcolm," Chris agrees, "And they don't seem to be too interested in spreading around like a marauding weed, so we might have something growable."

"Have you tried them?" That's always the killer question with vegetables.

"Not yet. I thought we'd both give 'em a go. Nadia's tested them for toxins, so we know they won't kill us or make us puke - but that's not much use if they taste horrible."

"Sharing the pain?" Malcolm asks, cheerfully.

"Or the pleasure." Chris replies, "You never know." Still grinning, he plucks a pod and opens it, "Shall we?"

As he chews at the peas that Chris has extracted, Malcolm looks up, "Who's that?"

"Hmm?" Chris mumbles through his mouthful, then swallows, "Oh, that's Bob Parker - one of our orchard staff."

"I take it he's glaring at us for a reason?"

"I think I pissed him off last week. He wanted to be put in charge of running the orchard while Lorraine's on maternity leave; but I've got Pat, and he was an estate manager in Tipperary. Bob's competent, but he's never managed anything - I go with the qualifications and experience. I can't afford not to."

"We've all been there." Malcolm shrugs, "These are good, Chris. If there's nothing you're not telling me about, I'm happy to sign off on these being planted out in the next growing season."

"I'll post my report by Monday."

Clutching a handful of pea pods, Malcolm saunters back towards the Compound in the growing shadows of late afternoon. It's nearly time to collect Erin from nursery, and he promised Yseult that he would get her, as his wife is going to be overseeing a charcoal burn this evening. It's the first she's been present at for just over a year, and he has more-or-less insisted that she get back into it again. If the worst comes to the worst, like an epic tantrum or Exorcist level projectile vomiting, he can always go to Elisabeth for help.

His comm unit pings as he approaches the nursery, and he fetches it out, "Commander?"

"I need you to review some records for the staff meeting tomorrow." Taylor's voice squawks out of the unit, "It's time we started looking into the contents of that crate from the Badlands."

As he terminates the call, Malcolm wonders whether he is keen on the idea, or would rather let sleeping dogs lie. He might well have laid those ghosts to rest when they went out to the remains of the Phoenix encampment, but the memories are still raw. The prospect of exploring the origins of that ship's figurehead is both fascinating, and unnerving. How it got to the Badlands, which reality it came from? So much that he can discover - but what if it opens a huge can of worms that might have been better left sealed?

Once, he might have leaped upon it as a purely scientific conundrum - but that was before he gained a wife and a daughter. Yseult might well be a highly capable and independent woman, but nonetheless, he still finds himself keen to protect them from all comers, as his vague memories of his father suggest that he was equally protected in his childhood.

Erin is sleepy as he collects her. She's too large for a sling these days, but no one has pushchairs here, so he rests her on his hip, and carries her home as she chatters incomprehensibly about her day. Language is still something to be learned, and so they talk to her all the time. As her vocabulary still consists largely of the words 'Da' and 'Ma', conversation is somewhat limited, but she's happy to see him, and that will do for now.

Fortunately for her slightly clueless father, she's tired out after a long day of play, and does not object to the bedtime routine. He's utterly terrible at reading stories to her - something at which Yseult excels - but he does so anyway, and Erin drops off accompanied by a rather embarrassed recitation of The Cat in the Hat.

Returning to the living room, he sits down with his plex and calls up the pictures and initial assessment he assembled of the figurehead when Commander Taylor revealed it to them. Eighteenth Century, wind-worn and eroded, it has a haunting ugliness to it that is rather unnerving. He hasn't identified the wood; though what little he knows of ship-building at the time tells him that it's almost certainly oak. There's no way to know how large the ship was, so he can't begin to guess where it might have foundered, or how.

In spite of his misgivings, the questions are already piquing his curiosity. Things are running well in the fields and in the labs - so he needs a challenge to occupy him as they move towards the latter half of the year.

Pleased with his decision, he shuts down his plex, sets the baby monitor, and makes his way to bed.

The meeting has been progressing well, until Jim moves on to the item of graffiti that he and Mira discovered on their patrol, "It wasn't me." Malcolm jokes, "I spell 'democracy' with a 'k'."

Yseult looks up from her plex, smiling. As always, her left hand is resting upon her husband's leg, while her right holds a stylus to make notes on her plex. Taylor, on the other hand, looks less amused, "I'm not sure we're ready for more people sitting around this table."

"I think we'll have to consider it eventually, Commander," Elisabeth suggests, "While we're not going to have any more people coming to us, the community's growing as we have more children. What we have now works very well - I'm not denying that - but most of the people here have come from communities that once knew democratic government that was taken away from them; and sooner or later they're going to want to flex their electoral muscles."

Taylor sighs: he's a military man through and through; used to giving, and receiving, orders that are obeyed without question. That he's surrounded and outnumbered by civilians now is a struggle to accept given that the entire enterprise began almost as a military outpost before they began to accept families. The structure as it is works well, and the idea of handing the control of his colony to people who don't appreciate the sheer degree of operational minutiae that occupy his days and nights is deeply uncomfortable. He's never been a power hungry individual, nor does he rule the colony as a demagogue; but, nonetheless, the colony is the only offspring he has left, and giving up that sense of fatherhood is difficult to contemplate.

"Maybe in time, Elisabeth," he says, after a long pause, "but not right now. I'm a big believer in 'if it ain't broke, don't fix it' - and there's nothing to say that we're 'broke'."

Malcolm opens his mouth to object, but shuts it again. Although she hasn't seen it, Elisabeth knows that Yseult has stepped on his foot; her regular signal to him that now is not the right time. As she has a degree of social perception that he completely lacks, Malcolm has learned to accept and trust her unspoken advice.

No one has anything more to say on the subject, so Taylor moves on, "The one last thing I want to discuss this morning is something that you don't know about, Max. So it's time you did - unless Malcolm's already done the honours?"

"If you're about to mention what I think you're about to mention given your message yesterday evening," Malcolm advises, "Then, no."

Yseult smiles, "I know what the rumours have said, Commander. Nothing more. I know that something was found out in the Badlands - and it was something remarkable. But I don't know what it was."

"Well, you're about to find out." Jim says, with surprising trepidation.

"Actually, I think it'll be useful, given what you were before you came here." Taylor advises, "It's almost an ideal project for you, in fact."

"You want me to put my archaeology hat on?" She asks, intrigued.

"Potentially. I'm going to look to the science angle first - but I'd like to have you on standby." He looks across to Malcolm, who nods, "Actually, it was something I've been thinking of recently, Commander - I've cleared most of my ongoing projects for the moment, so I was going to put in a request to start work on studying it."

"And 'it' is?" Yseult prompts.

"I think it's better to show you than describe it to you." Taylor advises, "Come with me."

It's been nearly two years since Malcolm last laid eyes on the crate that Mira and her team brought back from the Badlands. He's had images to look at, yes - but to actually see the contents again is something that he is both intrigued, and nervous, to confront. The crate is the last remaining symbol of an obsession that came close to costing him his life; but at the same time the implications tangled up with the contents of it is so intriguing to his scientific mind that he is eager for the Commander to open it and reveal what awaits within.

They are inside a large storage shed, and no one else is present. Even now, Taylor is keen to avoid too many rumours escaping into the community, as they don't know at all what they're dealing with. Until he's as sure as he can be that what they are exploring can't lead to more danger for the people in his care, he wants nothing getting out.

He approaches and keys in a code to unlock the crate; and, with Jim's help, he lowers the door to reveal the canvas draped object that it is both protecting, and concealing. Her eyes wide, Yseult grasps Malcolm's hand tightly as the canvas is pulled away to finally uncover that object of which she knows next to nothing.

"It's a figurehead…" she says, softly, "This was found in the Badlands?"

Taylor nods, "Sure was. No idea how it got there - finding out is your project, Malcolm. I want to know where it came from, how it got here, and what that means for us."

"I'll get to work on it this afternoon, Commander," Malcolm agrees, "I take it that we're keeping it here? I could do with some assistance - would it be okay to get Bram involved?"

Taylor frowns briefly, then remembers: Malcolm's new Lab assistant, Abraham Fox - though he goes by the name 'Bram', "He needs to keep it quiet, Malcolm. I want this staying under wraps until we know for sure that there's no danger for the colony."

Malcolm nods, and turns his attention back to the weather-worn wooden figure. Beside him, Yseult is looking over it with equal interest, and everyone present knows that she is almost certainly going to get involved at some point - it couldn't be more obvious that she is as keen to examine it as her husband.

"I'll speak to Bram later, Commander," Malcolm advises, rather absently, his attention almost fully grasped by the figurehead before him, "and I'll have a project outline on your desk by the end of the week."

With Jim's assistance, Taylor raises the door again, and attempts to suppress his misgivings. They need to know what the hell that thing was doing its the Badlands - but in some ways, he'd rather leave things as they are. Now, he just has to hope that whatever they discover about it won't come back to bite them on the ass.