A/N: Thank you for your review, Leona - glad you're enjoying it! Now that the threat from the future's gone, human nature can take over as a source of jeopardy - and so it does!
On we go - the work begins on the figurehead, and the instability continues...enjoy!
Chapter Five
An Unexpected Conversation
Taylor is standing on his balcony, looking out across the marketplace with a contemplative air. Yet again, Jim watches from a quiet spot in the shade of a house and hopes that he'll see nothing untoward. He's not seen anything over the last week or so, and nor have any of his colleagues; but that doesn't mean anything. God alone knows whether Taylor carries on these weird conversations in his house. Besides, even Skye's noticed something's going on. The real frustration is that they can't do anything to confirm it one way or the other. What the hell is going on with their commander?
Sighing to himself, he steps back out of sight, before moving some way back and about-turning to give the impression as he emerges that he's just passing through on his way to Boylan's. Forcing himself to ignore the watcher on the Balcony, he heads inside and finds Mira sitting with her plex in front of her, and a rather irked expression on her face, "There's another one."
For a moment Jim is pushed to recall what she means, preoccupied with his concerns about the Commander, but then the penny drops, "Where?"
"Not the same place - I think our scrawler might think we've put cameras up."
"Ah. Paranoid."
"And you're surprised?" She smiles, thinly, handing him the plex.
"At least they've spelled 'Democracy' right, this time," he observes, viewing another exhortation for the right to vote expressed in red paint, "Any samples for CSI Wallace?"
She taps a small pot nearby, "Looks like it's the same paint again. We'll never track it down - chances are that someone took a pot of the stuff and just keeps using it." She looks frustrated, "And before you ask, no, there still aren't any rumours."
Jim raises his eyebrows. A community as small as this - and no one's picked up on any discontent over how they're governed? It makes no sense at all. The only real suggestion he can think of is that it must be a 'lone wolf'; either that or whoever's involved is keeping their activity tighter than a frog's ass. Given what they're asking for, it's going to come out sooner or later - he just hopes that it won't do it in a monster blow-up that they're not ready for.
"I'll bring it up with Taylor again." He sighs, "It's not gonna go away, is it?"
"Nope." She says, perusing the image again. Then she looks up, "The only way you're going to pre-empt something is to open lines of communication. I know Taylor does his surgeries, but who's going to open up to him about something like this? He's the ultimate Head Honcho: no one's going to want to bleat about representation on a council to a military commander. There're plenty of people here who remember the number of coups that happened around the world before they got a free ride through Hope Plaza."
"Taylor's not like that." Jim protests.
"And you're sure about that?" Mira counters, "Have you ever raised the possibility of a Colonists' Council? If you want to see how military regimes react to demands for democracy - go read a history book. No matter how much of a father figure he is, Taylor's still military, and he's never been disputed by anyone inside the Colony, has he?"
He looks at her, a little helplessly. He simply doesn't think like a politician, and he's never prepared to counter someone who does. Sure Malcolm bleats on about it a lot - but he's never overtly challenged the order of things, and is never likely to, either - given that no one else has protested until the painting started, Jim hasn't even given it a thought before.
"Look," Mira says, "You know that Taylor's the right man for the job, and so do I. It's a tough burden to carry, and he's done it damned well - even I can't dispute that - but sooner or later we have to be ready for a succession, and I'd rather we did it before we need it. No regime change ever works on the fly."
"I know, I know." He sighs, "Maybe this'll persuade him that we need to open up some channels of communication. Someone's unhappy with the way things are - and you're right. Better to do this ourselves rather than have it forced on us."
He pauses as Mira's plex pings to alert her to a message. She reads it, and looks rather surprised.
"What now?" Jim asks, "Another painting? War? Famine?"
"No. A dinner invitation."
Malcolm isn't very good at sulking: he just can't quite pull off that air of mild injury, and instead looks petulant and childish. Consequently, he tends not to bother, but he's not at all comfortable with this evening's event. He can't be angry with Yseult: she didn't extend the invitation without asking him first - and he did agree to it.
"Think of it as a part of the project, Malcolm," Yseult suggests as she checks the mycoprotein and vegetable bake in the oven, "You need to know where the figurehead came from, and Mira's the one who fetched it out of the Badlands. If nothing else, she can describe what it was like where she found it, and that might help you work out if that's where the portal opens, and possibly even how."
"She isn't a scientist, Max…" he begins.
"No, she isn't - but she's highly observant and incredibly astute. If nothing else she'll have a set of coordinates to work from - she was sent out to look for that figurehead, and she found it. Given how she and her colleagues survived out in the desert as effectively as they did even after things began to go wrong for the other soldiers, she must have a real eye for terrain. We'd be fools to dismiss her input." She looks across to him, and his expression says more than words ever could. It's not so much Mira that's the problem: it's what she represents to him - the occupation, the cruelty of the sixers who tortured him. Even his miserable ordeal out in the desert - though she was not responsible for that, and helped to rescue him from it.
"Going out there and blowing up the encampment only went so far, didn't it?" she asks, gently, crossing to him and encircling his waist with her arms.
"I'm sorry." He says, after a while, "I know it's something I shouldn't be thinking about anymore. It's over - I survived, and I've had so much life given back to me since. But…"
"It's still horrible." She finishes, "Think of it like this: the sooner we do this, the sooner you'll have the information she can share, and we can move on with the investigation of the figurehead. You won't have to think about it anymore - and we'll have a starting point for working out how there's a portal in the Badlands."
"No," He says, firmly, "The sooner we do this, the sooner I stop treating Mira like an unexploded bomb. I've got to live with this - and I need to accept that things are as they are. It's not fair on her, and it's not fair on you. She's a victim too - I only have to look at Erin to know it."
"But if you struggle with it, I'll still give you a free pass." Yseult adds, "There's a good woman locked up in that stiff exterior, Malcolm - and she's starting to emerge. I think, once everyone gets past what happened, they'll see it too."
"And that's why I love you so much." He adds, kissing her.
Mira's expression is rather wary as Yseult invites her into the house, but given that Malcolm is armed with a bottle of wine rather than a weapon suggests that things are not going to get off to as bad a start as she had feared. Sure, he looks a little uncomfortable, but there's no sense of active hostility. For a woman as good at reading people as Mira, and a man as bad at hiding his feelings as Malcolm, it's easy to see it.
Her expression become altogether more intrigued as they sit down to eat, and Yseult outlines the project they're working on, "I'd assumed it had been transported to Hope Plaza, and Shannon had vaporised it." She admits.
"It was due to go through on the second shipment," Malcolm explains, "the one that was setting up just before I blew the terminus."
"Ah." Mira pauses, and frowns, "I'm not sure what you think I can tell you about it. I was just sent out to find it."
"That's the relevant thing," he continues, "you found it. What I'm looking to know is what you recall about the terrain - what was there, what wasn't there - anything that you can think of which might give me clues over how it is that a portal opens there. Even an idea of where it actually is would be helpful."
She nods, "It wasn't anywhere near the encampment - it must've been at least another two days' drive if not more. Lucas wouldn't let them go too close - but I think that was more so he could keep the information to himself than for any other reason. Weaver didn't give us any warnings about the area."
"He didn't?" Malcolm looks startled, "But the amount of radiation needed to fuel a portal is massive - he could've poisoned the lot of you!"
Mira shrugs, and does not seem shocked at all, "That's the kind of guy he was. People are expendable in the pursuit of profit." She pauses again, "The coordinates he gave me weren't that good - it was based on triangulation of long-distance sensor readings. I was never told it directly, but I heard rumours of UAVs in the early days - before they thought about setting up the Colony."
Malcolm's eyes widen, "They carried out aerial surveys?"
Mira nods. Very little remains of the Colony's original sensor network - and they've never had the wherewithal to re-establish it; but this is startling news, "Don't forget that the people who started this up were in it for the long haul. They were prepared to put in huge amounts of investment because the returns were expected to be massive. What's millions of bucks to people who are anticipating billions in return? Setting up Terra Nova was always a cover for what they were really doing. It never occurred to them that the people they were sending into the past would actually fight back when the investors wanted to start raking in the profits. They never thought Taylor could pull it off - they assumed that the colony would fail, and they'd keep the deception going so that no one would realise what they were doing."
"Continually sending more and more people through to die." Yseult finishes, with a shudder.
"And they got themselves proved spectacularly wrong." Mira adds.
"I wish we had their results." Malcolm says, wistfully, "They must've had huge amounts of detail of the terrain."
"They did." Mira agrees, "Lots of it - and over a huge area." She has an odd look on her face.
"What?" Yseult asks, "Do you have it?"
"Yes - and no." She sighs, "One of my team salvaged a huge pile of data from Hooper's records before we left him to his own devices. Trouble is, it's encrypted - and I've never had the chance to see what we got. It could be everything - but it might just be a heap of inventory from his supply dumps."
"Send me the files." Malcolm says, "If I can't get in, someone in my team should be able to find a way."
No one mentions it - for fear of breaking the spell - but, for the moment, the atmosphere seems to have become markedly less cold.
Bram is working through some results from his latest batch of substrate samples when Malcolm calls him over to the small room that once housed the scorpion, and asks him to shut the door.
"Is it about the project?" he asks, at once.
Malcolm nods, "Mira's described where she found the figurehead - and what the area was like."
"Anything useful?" Bram takes a seat at Malcolm's invitation.
"Possibly. No one else has ever been that far out into the Badlands before, but she's convinced that the figurehead wasn't located where it was originally found. There was nothing else there - it was just stuck in the middle of nowhere, which we both agree is very unlikely as to how it was original deposited. Based on what she's described, it's not as helpful as I'd have liked, but she did offer something else. She's got some data files."
Bram's eyes widen.
"The bugger is that they're encrypted. The coding isn't particularly sophisticated - it doesn't prevent copying of the files to new locations - so I've got one set on a data-card to keep as a master given that I'm not the world's greatest hacker. That's probably Tom Boylan, but I'm no more going to let him have a set than I'm going to dance with him - so this may take a bit of time."
"Any ideas as to how the figurehead moved?"
"Only that it didn't grow legs and walk." Malcolm grins, "I'm partly hoping that the files might give me a clue. I'd suggest that the figurehead was a one-off - but that then makes me wonder why the hell the Soldiers stayed up there for as long as they did - and why Lucas Taylor was so intent on opening a portal. There's a hell of a lot that doesn't make sense."
Bram thinks for a bit, "Given that we're assuming that our unknown source of radiation came from space, I'm thinking an impact."
"Me too. How long ago it was, whether it was direct hit or an air-burst detonation is impossible to say at this point. The only way to find out without actually going to look for it is a topographical survey. If the data-files contain something like that, then I'd say that we've had a visit from Father Christmas."
"How could anyone have done that?"
"Mira heard rumours that they'd sent through UAVs when they opened the first portal. How many came through, where they went and how the data was gathered is anyone's guess. Unless Lucas did it after he was banished from the colony." Malcolm muses, "Actually, I wouldn't put that past him. He figured out how to communicate with the future, so it's fair to say that he could've found a way. Long-range radio connections or something similar. If he had the right sort of instruments - he could've collected it without having to actually locate the devices themselves. It could explain how Mira was given co-ordinates to locate the figurehead." He stops, and sighs, "And I'm getting ahead of myself. Until I've cracked the files, I have no idea what we've got."
Bram nods, "I'll leave you to it, then."
Charlotte Rampton is a tall, muscular woman from Fort William with broad shoulders that speak of many years working with axes, adzes, hand-drills and very large beams of wood. Preferring the name 'Charlie' she was the last of the experimenters to be selected for the Sustainable Industries department, but her knowledge of timber frames and associated medieval building techniques is unsurpassed. With a multitude of trees out there, she's spent a lot of time working out how to build new houses if they run out of metal sheeting.
"What do you know so far?" she asks, her accent rich with the tones of the Highlands, unlike Malcolm, who abandoned his Central Scottish accent in his teens.
"We know that it's likely to be New Forest Oak." Yseult explains, "Bram Fox identified a species of beetle that was particularly prevalent in the area - though if we can narrow down the actual cultivar, that might help confirm it."
"I'll get my bits. Are we cleared to take some cores?"
"Malcolm's coming over in an hour to take us to the storage shed where we're storing it. We're still keeping it under wraps in case this doesn't go anywhere. There's no point in setting hares running only to have to admit that there's nothing worth telling."
"I doubt that." Charlie smirks.
By the time Malcolm pulls up in his rover, Charlie has gathered a drill and a selection of boring tools to drill out the wood cores that she needs, while Yseult has spent some time examining available data held in the Eye on existing cores to compare with what they extract. In the hour that he's had with Mira's data files, he has made little progress, not wishing to risk any unexpected security features wiping the contents. While he has an isolated spare, he'd rather not have to go back to square one more times than he has to.
He finishes his update on his progress as they pull up outside the storage shed. Once inside, Charlie is as astounded as her colleagues had been at their first sight of the hidden figure within the transport crate.
"It's been made from two pieces," Charlie advises, as she examines it, "the figurehead herself is one piece, while the mount is another. I'll take cores from both - given that they're likely to be from the same source, that should help give us an idea of when the trees were alive, and when they were felled. It might even give us some idea of a likely location - depending on what we have on record from other samples. I'll pull out another one for Bram - the DNA further in won't be quite so wrecked."
"Great." Malcolm approves, "That saves me asking." He disappears outside for a moment, and returns with a small plastic box, "I'll put it in here to keep the contamination down. Have you got latex gloves?"
Everything organised, Malcolm and Yseult stand back to allow their wood expert to get on with it. It sounds horribly noisy, and looks dreadfully destructive - but they need to know, so they watch and wait as Charlie drills out one long core of wood from the side of the figurehead, which she sets on a piece of clear plastic, then another, which she sets into Malcolm's box and covers up. Then she does it all over again - this time with the mount.
"I should have an age for the trees by tomorrow, Max." She advises, as she wraps her set of cores, "Based on what we've worked out from a visual examination of the style of the figurehead, that narrows it down to somewhere around a century and a half-wide parameter to search for possible sample cores we can compare them with. I'd say you go from around 1650 to 1800 to be sure."
Yseult nods, "I'll see what I can find."
"This is fascinating." Malcolm observes, "I should try being utterly useless to the investigation more often."
"So, how long until we get results?" Taylor asks, as Yseult reports on their progress.
"Charlie's taken some photos of the cores, Commander," She advises, "so she can do some work on the images and bring out the contrast between the rings better. I've booked up some time in the labs so that we can process the images to count up the rings in total. I've been working on tracking down records from the Eye for cores from trees with known felling dates, so that we can make comparisons."
"How will that work?" Jim asks, intrigued.
"Rings form in response to atmospheric and environmental conditions, Jim." Malcolm explains, "They can tell you how old the tree was when it was felled - but not when. So you compare your cores with records of other cores - trees are almost as good a record of time as ice cores are. If you have cores from trees with a known felling date, between that and the age of the tree, you can go back and work out when your tree was felled. It's sometimes even possible to confirm where it grew - if you have the right conditions to create ring sequences that are specific to a particular region."
"You can tell all of that?"
"Not always." Yseult admits, "It depends on what we find with these cores, and what I can track down from the records held in the Eye."
"It sounds promising." Taylor says, "Keep on it."
"Will do, Commander. I've asked Pete to take charge of my compound while I concentrate on it."
"What's next?" Taylor looks across to Jim.
"More graffiti." He says, a little crossly, "Same as the first, but they've spelled 'democracy' right this time. Someone must've got hold of a dictionary."
"And?"
"Nothing new. Same batch of paint, same type of brush - all standard supplies. Whoever's doing it probably stole a can of paint and a brush. There's not a lot we can do until they run out of paint and go to get more."
"Which we can't prove because everyone's going in and out of the stores. Unless it's someone who isn't a member of the construction teams, then we can't do anything because they've all got legitimate reasons to go in there."
"Could we tag the paint?" Jim suggests.
"You haven't seen the inventory, have you?" Malcolm sighs, "Already considered it, checked how many tins we had - and it's just not going to happen. There's just too much paint. We've got enough to last us at least another ten years - that's thousands of tins."
"It was a thought."
"The messages are always on walls out in the fields, though." Elisabeth muses, "Might it be someone in the Agri-department? The staff there know which areas are watched, and which aren't - more than anyone else would."
"Thats three hundred and twelve people." Jim advises, "If we start asking questions, word gets about and we're right back to frog's ass territory."
"I don't like it." Taylor grumbles, "If people aren't happy, then I need to know. No one's said a damn thing in my surgeries. I'll get someone on it. Mira keeps trying with her contacts, and let's see if we can find out more with a two-prong approach."
"Got it."
"Anything medical to worry about, Doc?"
"Nothing out of the ordinary, Commander," Elisabeth says, consulting her plex, "we have three pregnancies in progress, all doing well, and no one's reporting anything other than the usual slips, trips and sprains. I've got a surgery scheduled for this afternoon to pin a fractured femur - but other than that, the health of the colonists is good."
Taylor nods, "Good. Unless anyone's got anything else on their minds, I think that's it. Keep me apprised of progress on those cores, Max."
"Will do, Commander."
It's clear from his expression that Jim is still concerned about the anonymous painter - and the fact that he has absolutely no means to identify them, "I just wish they'd say something." He grouches as he accompanies Elisabeth down the stairs from the Command Centre, "Hell, if they want the vote, why not ask? It's not like we're going to throw them out for it - even if Taylor says no, it gets the subject aired."
"You're forgetting, Jim," Elisabeth reminds him, "Taylor may come across as paternalistic - and most of the time he is - but he's still a soldier, and a fair proportion of the colonists are also soldiers. For civilians, that can be very intimidating - you were in Golad at the time, but I remember seeing news reports of military regimes committing the most appalling human rights abuses in some parts of the world. That we live under something akin to martial law here as well makes people nervous."
"Come on, Elisabeth - Taylor would never…"
"You know that. I know that - but how many people know him like we do? Really know him?"
He sighs. She's got a point.
"All we can do is keep our collective ears to the ground." Elisabeth says, "If we ever do manage to find out who it is that's writing these slogans, then we can try and find out why they're doing it, and perhaps find a way of assuring them that their views matter, too."
Behind them, Malcolm and Yseult are talking cores again, until he reaches into his pocket for his comm unit and sighs. He's lost it. Again.
"I think I left it in the Command Centre," he says, with a disappointed air, "I'll see you tonight."
Smiling, Yseult stands on tip-toe to kiss him on the forehead, and heads off on her own. Cross with himself, Malcolm turns and re-ascends the staircase.
"I know. I can trust you do to it. If anyone can find who this person is, you can."
Bugger - Taylor's on a call with someone. Rather than interrupt, Malcolm stands alongside the closed door and waits.
"If I knew the answer to that question, I wouldn't be asking." Taylor's voice is amused, "Don't use a team - just make some discreet enquiries. They probably won't open up to you - but if you keep it below the radar, you never know."
Silence. Bemused, Malcolm strains to listen harder. There should be someone answering on their comm unit, surely?
"Hey - I'm not fool enough to trust the woman. I'm willing to bet a years rations that she's pretending she's got nothing - it wouldn't surprise me if it was her."
More silence.
"Okay, okay. I know. I'm too suspicious for my own good. You'll be calling me paranoid in a minute."
Who the hell is he talking to? He never speaks to Guzman like that. Even more confused now, Malcolm backs away from the door. He knows there's no one in there, because no one went in when they came out. But comm units aren't silent - why hasn't he heard the responses to Taylor's conversation? His nosiness overcoming his manners, Malcolm leans carefully forward, and puts his eye to a split between the slats of the door.
His features creased into a smile, Taylor laughs at an empty space in front of him, "Get out on patrol," He says, with that same air of amusement, as though chiding someone without too much seriousness, "report back to me when you've got something."
Startled, Malcolm steps back - fortunately without making a sound. Abandoning thoughts of his comm unit he makes his way down the steps as quietly as he can. Elisabeth needs to know about this.
"You're sure there was no one in the room?" Elisabeth asks, doubtfully.
"Positive. No one could've got in there when we were leaving - but he was having a full, meaningful conversation with someone that only he could see." Malcolm insists, "We knew that there was something going on - but I think this is the first time any of us have actually seen it."
"That doesn't sound at all good."
"What could be causing it?"
Elisabeth shrugs, "Anything - it could be a pathogen of some sort, it could be something neurological. I the one thing I can't say anymore is that it's our imagination: because you witnessed it happening."
"Oh God - do you think it's something to do with that amnesia thing?" Malcolm looks suddenly nervous.
"If that's the case, why aren't you and I doing the same thing?" Elisabeth asks, at once, "I was infected at the same time that Taylor was - and no one's reported any symptoms like that with me. I'm surrounded by people all the time - believe me, if I was having conversations with no one, my staff would notice."
Malcolm sits back on a bench with a sigh, "He wasn't fooling about, Elisabeth - whoever he was talking to, he was doing it with all seriousness, as though he could actually see them in front of him. Besides, Taylor's hardly one for practical jokes, is he?"
"But if he was doing it after we'd gone," Elisabeth muses, "did it start to happen after we left, or was this imaginary person there all along, and he only spoke to them once he was on his own?"
Malcolm pauses to think it over, "I didn't see him looking around the room at anyone other than the four of us." He says, after a while, "But it's hard to say because I wasn't looking for it - there was no reason to."
"And now we won't be able to do anything else." She says, then frowns, "I think we need to get together and talk about this - I need to find some way to get the Commander back in here without him guessing why."
"That won't be easy." Malcolm smiles at her, "You've only just got him in for his medical. He's not going to be keen to submit to another one so quickly."
"Leave it with me." She says, her expression quite firm, "I'll see what I can do. Tell Max that you two are invited round to dinner tonight."
Malcolm turns the problem over in his mind as he heads back to the labs. Taylor has always seemed such a rock - the foundation upon which Terra Nova is built. His commitment, determination and will to make the colony succeed has almost been that very driving force that has caused it to do so. Could they have come this far without him? Somehow, he doesn't think it likely. Add that to the problem of someone quite stridently demanding democracy - but without offering any input as to how or why they should do so - and his mind wanders again to the problem of continuity. What if there is something wrong with the Commander - and what if it's serious? They are completely unprepared for the day when he is no longer able to lead them - and there is no one to step into his place. Regardless of his own foibles, and his regular reminding people of his status, Malcolm is self-aware enough to know that he would be utterly hopeless. He is good at running his department, yes - but running the entire colony? God, no. Besides, that growing self-awareness has taught him that his regular pointing out that he is Chief Science Officer stemmed very much from a deep insecurity thanks to his relative youth to hold such a position - and a sense that no one was taking him seriously. Nowadays, however, he knows that they do - and he can't remember the last time he used his job title, even to introduce himself to someone.
Could Jim do it? Again, Malcolm considers and rejects the possibility. Jim is brilliant at what he does, and he is far from unintelligent - but he has no head for the complexities of leadership, particularly the sheer stupidity of people who have a bee in their bonnet and an axe to grind over it. Taylor's ability to handle such squabbles is legendary amongst those who have seen him do it; but Jim is neither politically astute enough, nor patient enough, to avoid knocking heads together. Yseult could probably do it, and so could Elisabeth - but he can't see either of them wanting to do it either. They're both far too busy with their own work.
Which leads him back again to the reality of collective rule. Sooner or later, they're going to need a council: and perhaps now's the time to broach the matter. It might as well come from him - after all, he's famous for whingeing about it - so it seems a sensible idea to raise at their next meeting.
He's still musing as he heads into his office, to find Chris waiting for him, "Oh, sorry Chris - have I forgotten a meeting again?"
His Field manager shakes his head, but looks both annoyed, and worried, "I thought I'd better come over - we could have a problem."
"What's wrong - is there an infestation of some sort?"
"That depends on what you mean by infestation." Chris holds out a piece of paper. Taking it, Malcolm sits down to read.
Comrades
The time has come too demand freedom from the yolk of military oppression. We plant, we grow, we harvest - but we are not given the respect due to us as workers and human beings. While we slave in the feilds, the soldiers sit in there barracks and polish there guns - but do nothing for the benefit or wellfair of the colony.
I urge you to join with me too protest at this gross abuse of are hard labor. I plan to form a union to represent are interests against the faceless military who benefit from are work without giving anything in return. Together we can throw of the shakles of oppression, and take this community forward to a prosperus future.
Your Friend.
"Comrades?" Malcolm asks, his expression sceptical and amused at the same time, "Someone's been reading Animal Farm. Looks like they spell as well as the sheep would have done if they could get past the 'four legs good' bit."
"Part of me wants to stick it up on a wall with all the mistakes corrected and giving it marks out of ten - but I think that might just inflame the situation. I wouldn't be all that bothered - but we've got half the people in the barracks out in the fields helping with the planting right now. They're too busy being up to their eyes in seedlings to bother polishing anything - let alone their weapons."
"At least it's hand-written." Malcolm muses, "We've got samples of handwriting from everyone in the colony because of the paperwork they had to complete before they came through. Given that it's riddled with spelling errors, it's probably the person who's been daubing on the walls - and we might finally have an idea who they are."
"I'll be honest." Chris says, "Pretty much everyone in the Agri-teams is more literate than this, so I think it's not that likely that they'll be inspired to overthrow the shackles of Taylorian oppression on the basis of this; but someone's discontented enough to try and stir the pot. I've got some ideas in mind as to who it might be - but it'll be interesting to see what comes out of a handwriting comparison. See if my guess is right."
"I'll take this through to Jim Shannon." Malcolm advises, "He'll welcome anything that can shed light on this person."
"That'd be good. I'm not in the mood for fighting off popular revolutions at the moment - not when we've got so much planting on."
"Too right." Malcolm laughs, "It's probably nothing. I'll drop this over to Jim later."
As Chris departs, Malcolm re-reads the letter, snorting with amusement at the use of the word 'yolk' instead of 'yoke'. Much as he is keen to see wider opportunities for people to share in the running of the Colony, he has his limits. Never mind - now that they have something written by hand - perhaps they can head this nonsense off at the pass. Folding the paper carefully, he sets it in a pocket, buttons it closed, and makes a mental note to hand it to Jim over dinner tonight.