A/N: Thank you for your reviews, Leona - yes, Taylor's behaviour is worrying isn't it? I couldn't find a way to bring Wash back from the dead, alas, so I thought I'd recreate her as a construct inside his mind. Given his depth of trust in her, the potential for utter mayhem arising from the hallucinations was too good to miss!

But...the ship is now identified, and they've even worked out where it was built. I've been to that place myself - a very nice spot, in fact...

And still the workers are revolting!

In other news, part one is now completed (the last two chapters are awaiting publication) and I'm ready to kick off the chapter structure for part two. Onwards ahoy! to throw in a cliché nautical term...

Chapter Seven

Some Guy Called Cade

Mira reads the small piece of paper in her hand, and sighs. Whoever this person is, they just can't seem to let it lie.

Comrades

You should know that you are ruled by a corrupt regime. There are no lawyers, no counsil, nothing but military rule. Soldiers tell you what too do. Soldiers keep the gates shut. Commander Taylor rules them, and they rule us.

They pretend that you are free. But you are not. Taylor sits in his ivory tower doing nothing while you work in the fields to feed his soldiers. The elite take, while you provide them with food too eat, and they decide how you and you're children live there lives.

We are ready too take control and make are home a better place for the workers who give the elite everything. Are you with us?

Your Friend.

It seems that the writer's literacy is still an issue - though the description of Terra Nova as a grossly politically unbalanced oligarchy under martial law is probably taking things a bit too far. While she has no idea what any of the Senior staff earn, she knows from her colleagues who work in the agricultural teams that the pay earned by the field workers is more than sufficient to live on. Why hanker after luxuries when there aren't any? Everyone lives in a house that has the same facilities and amenities - even Taylor does. The overall economy of the Colony is rather less structured these days, as they don't have a mint to maintain a money supply. Consequently, a more virtual currency exists now - and people receive electronic credits in place of terras, which they exchange for goods and supplies. There's still a form of wholesale trade going on, but that's phasing out. Perhaps that's the problem - people like the metallic clinking sound of terras in their pockets. You can't be conspicuous about your wealth if you can't casually chuck a few coins across a bar.

Jim sits down beside her, "That's a stern expression."

"Another missive from the Terra Nova Popular Liberation Front." She says, handing over the letter.

He reads it, "Wow - someone's got a serious bug up their ass."

"Though they haven't bothered to secure a dictionary in the interim."

"I don't get it. Why's this person talking about corruption? No one's having a better life than anyone else at the expense of the community, are they?"

"Of course not. But if you want to dislodge a sitting regime, you have to portray it as being wrong in some way. What better than the 'corrupt because they've been there too long' argument? It's almost tyranny 101 - stay in office longer than you should, and fight to stay there."

"Great. I sound like a total know-nothing." Jim grumps.

"You're not cut out for politics." Mira agrees, sagely, "You're too damn honest."

"What if people start to believe this?"

"Is that a question for me, or just rhetorical?"

"Both, I guess." He admits, "I've got no way of finding out if this sort of thing is just the author, or if there are people who think the same way."

"And there's the rub. Short of asking people, you can't find out - but if you do, you drive the problem even further underground. Not to mention generating more paranoia. In some ways, we'd be playing right into his hands."

Jim sags. She's right - he's dealt with enough people who see persecution in the most innocuous of incidents in his time; and now they've got someone like that here. Dammit - why is it that, even when taken out of a dying world and deposited in a relative paradise, people still find things to be discontented about?

"I'll take this to Taylor." He says, with a sigh.

Bram is looking at the sketch in fascination, comparing it with a digital image of the remnants of the original, "It looks pretty likely, doesn't it?"

Malcolm nods, "If it is the ship we're looking for, and we're pretty sure that it is, then we can find out what happened to it, and when."

"And from that point, work out how long ago it got here." Bram adds, intrigued, "That'd be something special."

"Well, yes - and no." Malcolm adds, "One date isn't really going to help me work out whether this is a cyclical thing or not; and, if it is, what that cycle might be. I've barely got enough readings of the remaining theta radiation to even begin to work out the half life of this baldanite stuff. In some ways, I'm almost wondering if it's an element that really exists, or I've just misread things and invented it."

"There's only one way to find out."

"Which remains the last resort. I'm not going out there unless we have to - the organisational headaches involved in taking a team out there would be horrendous. You only have to see what happened to the Phoenix soldiers to know that it's a massive undertaking."

"Yeah - but there were a hell of a lot of them."

"I'll think about it." It couldn't be more obvious that Bram wants to go out there and explore. Malcolm, on the other hand, would be quite happy to just leave it where it is, "I need to report this to the Commander before we start planning expeditions out into the Badlands. If this proves to be a red herring, then I'll just end up wasting half a day putting an expedition outline together that we end up not using. We've got a lot more research to do before it gets to that point."

He pretends not to notice Bram's look of disappointment.

Despite its industrial aspect, the sound of the loom is quite hypnotically soothing. Watching the intricate movements that are almost too fast to see, Yseult sips at a mug of coffee and smiles a little sadly. Geoff built that loom; their popular Chief Engineer who died in the ghastly flash flood that washed them both off the walkway between the waterwheels. How she survived, she still isn't entirely sure - though in Geoff's case, he was impaled on a steel post. She never talks about it these days - after all, what difference does it make now? But that horrible thought that she was going to die in the depths of the river…

She shudders, and pulls herself together. It's not as though she's buried it entirely; she and Malcolm talked it through extensively, as he believed that she had drowned - and came frighteningly close to walking out of the compound in search of a carnivorous assistant to his suicide.

Sipping at the coffee, she turns her mind to more positive matters. Ninette's satisfaction with the standard of cotton fibre that they're creating is obvious - and the quality of the fabric coming from the looms is both excellent and consistent. The coppices are now largely ready to support a larger degree of charcoal making, so they can work the blast furnace more - and, if she can get the quality of the charcoal to just the right point, even steam power might become ecologically viable. Taylor would never agree to any form of power generation that pollutes the atmosphere of their pristine planet. She is able to justify the slag that their iron making generates as it can be ground down and turned into glass, or even mixed with their supplies of cement to create better grades of concrete. As they're doing better with their conversions to steel these days, the slag from that works a treat as a fertiliser. It's an enjoyable challenge - working out how to re-use or recycle the waste products from their industry.

If only she could talk to her colleagues about the figurehead; but she can't. It remains a secret for the time being - as none of them know whether their discoveries are going to be worthwhile, or are instead going to open a whopper can of worms that they might end up wishing that they'd never touched.

"It's looking really good, Ninette." She says, after a while longer watching as though mesmerised by that regular clicking of the shuttle.

"It is, Max. There 'ave been no problems with it. Geoff built it very well." Yseult notices that slight catch in her voice, and sighs. She's thinking the same, then.

"John's looking into steam power for the next one - but I'm going to have to get closer to my goal of white charcoal before we can really bring that to fruition. The stuff we're producing right now isn't really up to that. I can get away with using it for the blast furnace because it's still pretty small. Steam engines are an entirely different kettle of fish."

"Kettle of fish?" Ninette looks at her, intrigued.

"Sorry - one of Niall's many idioms of choice." Yseult smiles, "I'm still picking up new ones from Malcolm."

Her plex chimes, and she looks down to see a message, "Talk of the devil. Ooh, another date with the Shannons. Good - I really didn't feel like cooking tonight."

Ninette laughs, and returns to her loom.

"Thanks for bringing the salad, Malcolm," Elisabeth says as she dishes out a mycoprotein stir fry, "I didn't have time to do anything elaborate, I'm afraid."

"Sorry." Jim says, "Zoe had a sleepover, so it seemed a good time to call you over. Mira found another letter."

"Found?" Yseult asks, "Was it accidental on the part of the writer, or did they intend for her to find it?"

"God knows." He admits, "We're still not sure if they want to be found out, or they're just being careless."

"I see they still can't spell." Malcolm observes, reading the short note, "But they're definitely starting to show their agenda. I suppose from an uninformed viewpoint, the Commander really does seem to spend his time sitting around his office like a tin god. They probably haven't a clue what it really takes to keep this colony going." He pauses, "It looks like he's widening it out, as well - apparently there's an 'elite' here now."

"That means us, I take it?" Elisabeth says, "I get the feeling that being a medical doctor isn't going to spare me from any purges. There's a bit too much of a whiff of anti-intellectualism lurking in all of this."

"Not to mention a smidgen of 'us versus them'." Malcolm adds, "All this stuff about 'workers', 'soldiers' and 'the elite'. How long is it going to be before he starts attempting to use longer words like 'bourgeois'? If we weren't facing a potential political upheaval, I'd pay good terras to see how he spells that."

"That's a lot of long words." Jim says, "Maybe someone should drop a dictionary somewhere."

"Only if they spend half a morning underlining the right words first."

"It's easy, isn't it?" Yseult says, suddenly, "To sit here poking fun at this person. Are we doing that because we don't see them as a threat - or because we do, and we don't know what to do about it?"

Everyone exchanges rather uncomfortable glances, before Elisabeth speaks, "Maybe a bit of both. It's very hard to view these letters as a danger - given that they're poorly spelled and not well argued. They're simplistic, short and don't have much in the way of evidence to back them up. But they're still anonymous, and we can't even guess who we're dealing with - so we don't know if they're better at arguing their case verbally."

"It's safe to say that they're arguing for better representation, though." Yseult adds, "In some ways, we could head this off at the pass simply by instituting a representative council. Even if it doesn't stop the agitator, it'll certainly kill off their primary argument."

"Taylor won't wear it." Jim sighs, "He holds surgeries, he meets with people - he has us reporting to him. Father-figure or not, he's still military, and councils aren't his thing. Soldiers never like having civilians tell them what to do."

"Apart from us." Malcolm says, "But then, that's where the anti-intellectualism comes in. The letters haven't used that against us yet - but I don't think it'll be too much longer before they do. We might have Commander Taylor's ear, but if this gets a head of steam, then we'll just get lumped into that 'elite' bracket with the Military, and we'll become the enemy as well. Besides, I don't think that's really the ultimate aim of this letter-writer. History tends to be littered with wreckage floating in the wake of people who claim to be removing corrupt regimes to free the people - only to be far worse than the regime they were kicking out."

"And you think that's what's going on here?" Jim asks, though it's not really a question. Even though he has zero interest in politics, it's hard to miss something so overt.

"Looks like it, doesn't it?" Elisabeth answers, then sets her cutlery down, "I think I've lost my appetite."

"I'm beginning to wonder if there's any chance at all that we're actually going to settle down and really make a go of this place." Malcolm admits, tiredly, "Every time I think we've cleared that last hurdle, there's another one stuck in front of us. I had to face the consequences of my father attempting to justify himself in front of a hostile group of people who didn't want to listen. I don't want to have to do that myself."

"It may not get that bad, Malcolm," Yseult says, taking his hand, "We've still got time to head this off at the pass."

"And it all seemed so optimistic last night."

"Pardon?" Jim looks across at him.

"We've identified the ship - or at least, we think we have." He explains, "I was looking forward to announcing that at the next senior staff meeting - and now we've got this to deal with."

"Max is right," Elisabeth says, a little more briskly, "We're getting ahead of ourselves, aren't we? Worrying about something that hasn't happened yet - and something that we can at least attempt to avert. It's something that we need to think about - but we've got other things to be getting on with as well. Why should we set everything else aside because of that?"

"Particularly as we've still got a long way to go to be sure that we're not heading off in the wrong direction." Yseult adds, "We've identified a ship - and we hope it's the ship. If it is, then we've got something to go on."

"How about telling us what the ship is?" Jim asks, pointedly.

Yseult laughs, "Sorry - I'm keeping that surprise for tomorrow."

The drawing is crude, a faint sketch done in pencil and faded watercolour. To an educated eye, it bears all the hallmarks of a sketch of the period - but to most who look at it, it's just a slightly rubbish drawing. Set against the image of the wooden figure, however, there is a marked similarity that is hard to ignore.

"And you think this is the figurehead?" Taylor asks, squinting at the two images on the holo-screen. He looks impressed, "I'd agree with that."

"Based on what we found in the records, quite a few ships have similar sketches - but this one is the only one that comes close to matching." Yseult explains, "So we're confident that the figurehead came from a barque named the Polly Constance…"

"Bark?" Taylor asks, thereby saving Jim from doing it. "A sailing ship of some sort, rather than the noise a dog makes, I take it?"

She nods, "It's a large ship with three or more masts - usually square rigged for the fore and main masts, but the mizzen mast will be fore-and-aft."

Taylor nods, clearly understanding her, though Elisabeth and Jim exchange a bemused glance. The only reason that Malcolm doesn't is because he's already had this lecture, so Yseult turns to them, "Fore-and-aft means that the sails are set along the same line as the keel, as opposed to square rigged, which are set perpendicular to it. 'Mizzen' just means the mast furthest back on the ship."

"What do you know about her?" Taylor asks.

"Not much at the moment," Yseult says, "We've got a build date for her - 1770 - and she was likely built at Buckler's Hard, in between Naval commissions. That's a small shipyard that was located at the mouth of the Beaulieu river on the south coast of Hampshire during the age of sail. She was named after the owner of the shipping company - a businessman called Charles Hadley. I'm speculating here, but I'm wondering if the ship was named after a woman in his life. I might do some genealogical research to see if that's the case."

"What happened to the ship?" Jim prompts.

"That's part of phase 2." Malcolm explains, "We've got a long stint of combing through shipping records ahead of us to trace where she was lost. It's a given that she was - because how else would the figurehead have got here? Though it's not possible to know at this point whether it was just the figurehead that came through, or the entire ship."

"Where does that leave us?" Taylor's expression is intent.

"Not much further forward, I'm afraid." Yseult admits, "Identifying the ship is just the start; if we can trace a likely last known position, then we can use that as a starting point to see if anything else foundered in the same area. That gives us a bit more evidence towards working out how the wormhole functions."

He nods, "Keep at it. What's on your mind, Shannon?"

Jim looks a little startled, "Er…" he pulls himself together, "Another letter from our resident Tolpuddle Martyr."

Taylor reaches for the offending article, and reads it, frowning, "He's pushing the 'corruption' agenda, then. How the hell he thinks there's corruption going on when there's no motive to be corrupt, God knows. It's not like we're still in touch with the future."

"Does he need there to be one?" Elisabeth asks, "Seeing corruption where there's none is at the heart of most conspiracy theories - I used to see it all the time; people convinced that we were complicit in some enormous plot or other. It didn't matter what the plot was - or even if it was based on a rational argument. You couldn't do anything to dissuade them from it."

"Is this spreading, though?" Malcolm asks, "If it stays a lone voice howling in the wilderness, then we don't really need to worry - we just keep looking until we find them and see if we can bring them back from it. But if people start believing it…" he leaves it hanging.

"Then we find him." Taylor insists, "I'll get someone on it."

"Do you want me to keep my ear to the ground?" Jim offers.

"No need. I'll look after it."

"Is it worth looking at setting up some form of citizen's council?" Elisabeth asks, hastily, as Jim looks likely to protest, "If we do that, then it rather takes the wind out of this person's sails. He's demanding representation, so if we make that happen, he's got nothing to complain about."

"That's not what he wants." Taylor shakes his head, "He wants to take over."

"Perhaps so, but he's arguing for something that we can easily institute. If we do that, then we take away a reason for people to take him seriously."

"This place is working fine as it is. I'm not setting up some sort of parliament so that colonists can waste time bickering with each other for hours. I've never seen anything good come out of a committee." Taylor's tone seems very final.

"Isn't it worth at least considering?" Elisabeth persists, "If you like, I can investigate it."

"No. I'm not going down that road, Doc. This place is working - I'm not disrupting it by letting people tear it apart over petty squabbles."

Jim frowns slightly - while he's used to Taylor being set in his ways, he's not usually so keen to shoot down an idea that might be of benefit to the Colony. Yes, he's protective of the place - he always has been - but this feels different. It's as though he's absolutely fixed on keeping things as they are, even though it's clear that there's something going on that he should be worrying about. Rather than challenge the Commander, he instead decides to keep his counsel. He'll need to find out who's being put on this conspirator's trail later, so that he can adjust the rosters accordingly. Yes: it'll keep for now.

The rest of the meeting passes without much incident, though there is still an air of temper about the Commander that leaves his team worried. That he refuses to countenance the creation of a representative council is hardly unexpected - it's in his nature to lead, and the prospect of handing over that command to the Cretaceous equivalent of petty politicians is likely to be hideously galling.

As he descends the stairs, Malcolm re-reads the note, which he retrieved from the table, and sighs, "As for these silken-coated slaves, I pass not: It is to you, good people, that I speak, Over whom, in time to come, I hope to reign; For I am rightful heir unto the crown."

"Pardon?"

"Something I remember from school - we put on a performance of Henry the sixth, part two. I was just part of the general crowd - but I remember that line, because the boy who was supposed to do it just couldn't get it right, and he kept on saying over and over again to try and fix it in his memory. It's a line spoken by Jack Cade."

"That's what I thought." Jim lies.

Skye examines the cracked glass with a tired sigh. To say that it's been a long day is an understatement, and there's an atmosphere in the colony that makes her rather nervous. Thanks to her time as an unwilling spy for Mira, she has become adept at deception, and picking up on what's going on around her. Something's in the air, but she can't figure out what it is.

"Penny for 'em" Boylan drawls as he sets down more glasses fresh from the dishwasher.

She pauses, as though about to say there's nothing, but then changes her mind, "Is it me, or is there something going on?"

He might have a rather murky reputation, and is hardly known for being Mr Honest, but the gruff Australian has a soft spot for his business partners, and he treats both of them with a lot more respect than he used to. Rather than scoff at her, he nods, "Yeah. I think you're right - people are acting off; like there's some big secret. Just a few; some of the agriculture workers. I've seen 'em in here a few times, looking shonky as hell. If they think they're being subtle, then they're a few short of a bundle."

"Do you think they've got anything planned?" She asks, worried. The last thing they want is more trouble after they've only just got rid of the Phoenix problem.

Boylan shrugs, "If they do, then God knows why they're doing it in here."

"I take it they stand out to you then." It's not really a question.

"Like a shag on a rock." He snorts, "Amateurs."

"What do you think they're doing?"

"I'm not one to speculate," Boylan lies, cheerfully, "but if it doesn't end in fisticuffs, then I don't deserve to be a publican. I'll keep an eye out - if it looks like it's going somewhere, I'll have a word with the Shannon patriarch. They're that obvious, it won't be hard to spot. They might even have a word with me on the sly. I have a reputation in certain quarters don't you know." He adds, with a false air of pretentiousness.

Skye smiles to herself as she looks away, but she's no fool. Her eyes flick back briefly, and she sees it. Boylan's not the only one who can see when something's shonky. He's worried; she can see it in his eyes.

"What did Taylor say?" Mira asks as Jim sits down beside her on a bench at the edge of the marketplace.

"He's gonna get someone on it."

Mira frowns, "Did he say who?"

Jim shakes his head, "Not yet. I'll ask him later when I fix the rosters. I'll need to factor that in to the security patrols if he's setting someone to look at this."

"What's wrong with him, Shannon?" Mira's voice is lower now, to avoid being overheard, "Why's he not given that job to us, and why hasn't he said who it is that's going to do it?"

Jim opens his mouth to answer, then stops, as he realises he hasn't got one. Rather than gape like a fish, however, he resorts to a simple confession, "I don't know."

Why is he surprised? Of course she's going to notice; Mira's the sharpest person he knows; she misses nothing. Even though she's not a member of the senior staff team, she's as fully aware of Taylor's manner as those who are - if he does something that's out of character, she's going to know it, and mark it. The only difference now is that, instead of taking advantage of it, she'll work to resolve it before it gets out of hand.

"Look, Shannon; I know I'm not trusted - and I accept that. But if there's something putting the Colony at risk, then I need to know. When I came back here, I made a deal: to keep this place safe. I got trapped into a bad situation, and I'm still paying for it. I don't want to make that bad situation worse by standing by while something puts this place in jeopardy."

There's no mistaking her sincerity - he can hear it in her voice. Whatever her motives for leading a rogue band of mercenaries, enforced or encouraged, that's done. Her loyalty, once granted, is absolute, and there's no doubting it now. Besides, her ability to keep a secret is as solid as her loyalty.

"Like I said, Mira," He says, "I don't know. Elisabeth doesn't know. Malcolm doesn't know and neither does Max. It's bothering the hell out of us, too; but…" his voice drops far lower, "…Taylor's started talking to himself - and I don't mean in the way that most people do. It's like he's talking to someone else in the room with him, but there's no one there."

Mira's eyes widen slightly. Whatever answer she was expecting, he can see it wasn't this. "Is he compromised?" She asks, sotto voce.

"Not to the point that we can have Guzman relieve him of command." Jim admits, "There's no way that Elisabeth can get him back in for a medical. She practically has to fight him just for the routine ones. Without that, we can't see if he's sick, or whether it's something else."

"Like he's going senile?" Mira asks.

"Let's not go that far."

"We might have to." She mutters, "Are there any plans for continuity if Taylor's compromised in some way?"

Jim shakes his head, "The most it's done so far is get Malcolm quoting Shakespeare."

"Pardon?"

"A speech by some guy called Cade. Jack Cade." He waits, expecting her to launch into an explanation, but instead she looks blank.

"What - you don't know who Jack Cade is?" His disappointment is almost comical to behold.

"You want to know who Jack Cade was?" Malcolm looks up from a microscope, "Couldn't it have waited until after work?"

"Mira wants to know." Jim fibs. Slightly.

"He led a popular rebellion against King Henry the Sixth - it was one of the precursors to the Wars of the Roses."

"And?" So far the explanation isn't really much help.

"Henry was weak, unpopular, getting on a bit, and was becoming more and more erratic. Plus, his officials were seen as being corrupt and leading him to make bad decisions. Jack Cade was a man from Kent who led an uprising to try and demand that the government be purged of corrupt influences. Needless to say, he got as far as London, where his fellow rebels promptly abandoned their principles and started looting. He lost support, fled, was captured and died of his injuries on the way back to London to face trial."

"Ah." Now he gets it, "Sounds a bit familiar, doesn't it?"

Malcolm nods, his attention half back on his microscope again, so Jim leaves him to it. Hell, it sounds almost like the sentiments in those leaflets. A leader - seen as remote, separate from those he leads; becoming erratic and unstable. Surrounded by an elite that is considered self-serving and corrupt. Along comes someone who aims to demand that those corrupt influences are shut down…

A man who would be king, perhaps? He shudders at the thought.

Taylor sits back in his chair, looking across the desk to the woman standing to attention before him, "At ease."

She relaxes, and her expression becomes less stiff, "Commander."

"So, anything?"

She shakes her head, "Nothing that I can find. No one knows anything at all, and there aren't any rumours. I hate to admit it; but it looks as though Shannon might be making it up. Either the rest of your staff are in on it, or he's convinced them, too."

"He said that Mira found today's letter."

"She's a Sixer, Sir - she's as keen to take this place away as anyone. It's looking a lot like Shannon's trying to take over from you."

Taylor growls, slightly, "Nah. It's too underhand. Shannon's straight as a die. I trust him almost as much as I trust you - and there's no way he'd trust Mira that much. Anyway, Malcolm had the first one handed to him."

"You think he's being deceived, then?" She asks.

"I'd say so." He shifts in his seat and leans forward, "See if you can find out who it is."

Her expression set, Lieutenant Alicia Washington nods, "Consider it done, Commander."

He sits back again, satisfied, as she departs; seemingly oblivious to the fact that, as she does so, the door neither opens, nor shuts.