A/N: One of the advantages of writing 'as I go' is the opportunity to make changes based on comments in the reviews. I wasn't originally going to have survivors come through the portal - but the anticipation of having survivors changed my mind, and thus I didn't have to do extensive rewriting...

Chapter Twenty

Portal

Taylor watches, a little enviously, as everyone around him sets to work on preparing for the moment that the portal will open. Much as he'd like to be in charge, as long as there's any danger that he's compromised, he's stuck with being sat on the sidelines, a bottle of his dose of distillate to hand. And its taste isn't improving with time, either.

Bram has a heap of diagnostic equipment in a crate, while Malcolm is busy packing the hazmat suits into a more easily accessible canister on the back of his rover. With things as they are, he's not prepared to risk waiting until they get to the small fissure in the rock-face that admitted them to the crater last time. They'll stop as soon as his rad-meter spikes above a predetermined danger-level, and get into them there.

Elsewhere, Dunham is busy with Reynolds and Lynott, loading up a rhino with medical equipment, more diagnostic equipment, more probes, and stocks of provisions in case there are any survivors that need medical assistance, or merely to be fed and watered. There's no certainty that the portal will bring something through - but they don't know yet whether the portal opens in the future in a random location, or something there helps to tether it when it does. Even this event won't answer that question - it'll take years, and the work of the colony's descendents - to confirm which of those answers is correct.

"Is that everything?" he asks, as Malcolm closes the last of the canisters.

"I think so. Given that Dunham's bringing half the camp with him in the rhino, if I've forgotten anything, it'll just be a bit late arriving." He pauses, "Are you sure you don't want to come with us? You're the leader of the colony - if anyone does come through, it'd be appropriate for you to greet them. There's room for another hazmat suit."

Taylor pauses in turn. To most, he is the father of the colony - a paternalistic figure that can, if he's not careful, take on slightly messianic tinges when people are feeling particularly mushy - but to a stranger, he would be a military type, and his own knowledge of history suggests that not everyone is comfortable in the presence of soldiers. But then - when is he ever going to have an opportunity to witness something like this again?

"If I do, then you make damn sure that you're in a position to drop me if I go strange." He says, firmly, "Everything's been okay so far, but I wouldn't put it past whatever passes for bad luck in this place to have it stop working at an inconvenient moment."

Malcolm looks unnerved at such a prospect, but quickly shakes his head, "That won't happen - but I'll do it if you insist."

"Believe me. I insist." In spite of himself, he's already making his way to the back seat of the rover, "Let's do this."

Not having seen the terrain outside their camp before, he is as entranced as Malcolm and Mira were before him: wide vistas of sand from which those great bare-rock hills rise almost arbitrarily, as though someone dropped them from a great height, and they stuck there. Above, the sky is an almost movie-cliché azure, and not so much as a wisp of cloud obscures that endless expanse.

The rover bounces rather more violently than Mira would like, as she's taking the journey a little faster than usual. Malcolm's eager impatience couldn't be more obvious, despite his attempts to hide it from her; but she knows how important this is to him. And to the colony. If there's any chance of newly arrived pilgrims snatched out of their world into this one, then the worst thing they can do is leave such unfortunates helpless in a massive expanse of desert. Given the uncontrolled nature of a natural portal, not everyone comes through alive, but those who do face the cruellest of fates, and Malcolm is not the only one who wants to be sure that no one ever has to endure that again.

The difficulty is balancing that need to hurry with the need to stay safe. The lack of a really strong breeze has helped somewhat, as the tracks from their previous sortie are still present, and she knows that it's a safe route, having already driven it both ways - so it's rather unexpected when Malcolm suddenly looks up, "Mira, stop here."

"Here?" she looks at him, surprised, as she pulls up, "It's got to the danger level already? We're still over an hour out!"

He nods, "I'm not surprised - the rate of increase has been pretty massive for nearly a day and a half. It's just a little above normal here, but it was like this just outside the crater the last time that we visited, so I want us all in the suits now. It might stay like this for another half hour or more - but then again, it might jump suddenly and we might be hit by a dangerous dose of radiation."

"Better safe than sorry." She agrees, and nimbly hops out of the vehicle to fetch down the appropriate canister, and raids another for fresh water bottles, "Get as much water on board as you can now. Once we're suited up, that'll be it for getting anything in your mouth until we're able to take the suits off."

"God, these are like personal ovens." Bram complains, as they clamber back into the rover far more awkwardly than they clambered out, "Just as well we can get out of them once the portal's fired up. I look like an alien from a 1950s B movie."

If there had been any hopes of a cooling breeze coming in as they continue the journey, the failure of one to form makes everyone horribly uncomfortable. As is always the case when one has no access to water, the large amount that everyone has drunk seems to have been of almost no benefit at all, and the entire party has fallen into a rather morose silence by the time the great wall of the crater finally hoves into view.

"How's the rad-meter?" Taylor asks.

"Going completely bonkers." Malcolm answers, "It's pretty much off the scale, and spiking madly. I don't think we're going to have to wait for much longer."

"Then let's get into that crater."

Leading the way, the first thing that captures Malcolm's attention is a strange sense of static in the air - as though a storm is building. There are no clouds in the sky above them, but far out, in the centre of the crater - just at the deepest point of the bowl - something very odd is occurring. Unsure of how the engine will react to the degree of energy in the air, he's insisted on leaving the rover outside the crater this time.

"Look at the sand," he shouts, his voice muffled by the suit, and the screeching of alarms on his rad-meter, "It's like the minerals are being attracted to something."

All eyes are on that spot, as the sand seems almost to be boiling: weird bubble-like protrusions emerging, then breaking, only for more to rise in their place, while a thin mist rises from the patch of sand like steam from a volcanic pool.

"What the hell's happening?" Taylor asks, bemused.

"I don't know - I've never seen anything like it." Malcolm answers, "It must be the force of the particles - they're being given off at such a mad rate that they're energising the minerals in the sand grains, but it must be causing some sort of attraction between the grains at the same time - like…I don't know…surface tension on water?" He turns to ask Bram if he's recording it, only to find that he is doing so, his plex held before him, and his eyes wide with astonishment. With things as they are, however, they can't go down there and take samples - not only would the radiation be potentially too much for the suit, Malcolm has no idea whether that bubbling surface would take his weight. The last thing he wants to do is sink in it as though it were quicksand.

The sense of thickness in the air seems to grow worse, accentuating their thirst and how hot they are, while that bubbling grows ever more frantic, and more and more sand grains rise into the air, forming a vertical column that seems to twist on the spot in the midst of a rising vortex of energy that stops about six metres above the ground. It couldn't be clearer that, when a portal forms, it'll do it right there.

"How long d'you think the portal's gonna last?" Mira shouts to Malcolm, as the air seems almost to be buzzing now, a maddening, ear-filling sound that seems to have no source.

"Not long." He shouts back, "Given how much energy they needed to sustain a wormhole in the future, I imagine we'll get a couple of minutes at the most before the source is exhausted and it dies again."

And still they wait. The sun moves slowly round, and at last they are in shade, so they sit down while Bram continues to record the activity in the crater. The rad-meter has finally been silenced, unable to cope any longer with the degree of radiation, and Malcolm is now seriously concerned that the suits won't protect them for much longer.

"Can you feel that?" Mira asks, suddenly.

"What?" Malcolm turns to her, then stops, "Hell - it feels like I'm being pulled forward."

It's not a strong sensation - easily resisted - but nonetheless the sand is now rising from the floor of the crater at a much more violent rate, where it's pulled into a large, wildly swirling cloud at the top of that column.

"I think this is it!" Bram shouts at them, though the sensation of being drawn in is becoming more pronounced, and everyone backs away to where they can stand behind rocks and anchor themselves - just in case.

Beneath the column, the ground becoming ever more active, the strange bubbling effect now almost insanely fast, and that annoying buzzing is getting almost unendurably loud given that they can't cover their ears.

It happens in a mere blink of an eye, a soundless detonation that blooms out of nothingness in the midst of the swirling sand. To Malcolm, it's as though he's watching the big bang in microcosm - a sudden everything from nothing; that moment from singularity to a universe. The sand that was in the air seems almost to fuse instantaneously into glass, the shards being blown in all directions with shocking force as a great ball of bright, white light is suddenly present where, before, there was nothing.

He can barely take his eyes from it, but hastily flicks his glance down now and again to the rad-meter, where the levels of radiation are - as he expected - dropping like an acme anvil in a Bugs Bunny cartoon. Another thirty seconds at the most, and then the light will be gone. Even now, it's almost to the point where they can think about removing their suits - as the radiation at a distance is drawn in to compensate for that which has fuelled the portal at the centre.

Twenty seconds…fifteen…but he doesn't get to count down to zero, as the portal shudders visibly at the twelve second mark, fluctuates a few more times, and then collapses in on itself. In that single instant, it's gone.

"Bloody hell." Bram mumbles, "That was a sight for the ages."

"What are the levels like?" Mira asks, "Can we get these damned suits off?"

Malcolm's answer is to remove the helmet, "It's even drawn out the particles that were settled on the suits." He says, his voice unencumbered by the rebreather, "Yes. We're safe to…" his voice dries up.

Slowly, everyone turns to look at whatever it is that's distracted him, and they see it.

They were wondering whether or not the portal would bring something through.

It looks like it has.

Jim has been pacing back and forth in his living room now for nearly an hour. He is not a man who is predisposed to brood; but then, the last time he was imprisoned for longer than a day or so, he was in Golad, and that brings up a range of unpleasant, unwanted memories that are of absolutely no use to him right now.

Zoe is doing her best to try to work, her notes and text books set out on the screen of her plex. The school's been closed, and she can't communicate with any of her teachers, so she's doing what she can with what she has. He's not exactly unintelligent - but there's only so much that he can teach her that doesn't involve police procedure, so he fidgets and feels incompetent over that, too. God - he hates being so damn useless.

Josh is more fortunate, in that he has been sent to the bar to work - no matter how restrictive a regime, people still want to go and get wasted, so he is still able to leave, as is Elisabeth. Given how comprehensively he is watched while working, and searched on the way back, Josh has not yet found any way to safely smuggle notes in as he did when Parker was in charge. Thus, Jim is blind again, which is the worst of it. Elisabeth can tell him how things are in terms of the overall health of the colonists, so he knows that dissent is being much more thoroughly crushed this time around, as the beatings are systematic and severe. In some cases, people have been randomly pulled aside and walloped - even though they're adamant that they've said nothing to anyone about anything. Consequently, people go out into the fields for their shifts, and come back again - and that's it. The only socialising is being done by the new 'elite': the one that supposedly wasn't going to stand for 'elites' any more.

His stomach growls, and he sighs. They've got enough supplies in the house for one more family meal - after which they're going to have to go to the market place to patronise one of the few stalls that are still open to at least ensure no one starves. Elisabeth hasn't been permitted to stop off on her journey from the infirmary to the house, any more than Josh has been able to do so on the way back from the bar. Perhaps they intend to starve the senior staff into submission. God knows how it is for Yseult - she's got a little one to feed, and her duties have been deputed to Pete - but he has no idea if she's been permitted to leave her house in order to go food shopping.

The sound of a fist banging on the door rouses him from his furious brooding, and he snatches it open, ready to issue a stern rebuke to the person who has disturbed him, only to find that the man on the doorstep is Boylan.

"What do you want?" He might have more trust for the man these days, but they've got a front to maintain, and there are two of Jackson's men nearby.

One thing that Boylan does very well is that awful, smug smile common to people who've ingratiated themselves with bullies. Much as it annoys people to whom he shows it, it gets him in with people who think that they've won his always rather dubious loyalty, "Boss fella sent me." He drawls cheerfully, "Wants to know what you want from the shops."

"You're doing our shopping?" Jim stares at him in disbelief.

"All the beancurd you could ever want." Boylan's grin widens: he knows Jim hates the stuff, "He doesn't want you to starve, does he? He's gonna be a great leader." There's a look of sarcastic scorn there now, as his minders are behind him and can't see it, "Certainly gonna give Taylor a run for his money."

Jim sighs, "Am I supposed to give you a list, or do we get what we're given?"

Boylan's smirk widens, "List…yeah, right. I'll be back with your delivery later."

"I can't wait." Jim says, resignedly, as Boylan flashes him the ghost of a wink, then turns to depart.

Yseult is exhausted. Erin hasn't settled all night, knowing that something is dreadfully wrong - and she can't comfort her daughter because she's so worried herself. Like all children, Erin picks up on her mother's emotions, and has thus become very, very clingy. The fact that she's now not seen her daddy for so long makes matters worse still. Nervous he may be as a father, but Malcolm dotes on her, and she reciprocates absolutely.

What doesn't help is her insistent fear that Tom Jackson might take it upon himself to demand some sort of droit de seigneur, given that he has approached her twice now. She's done all she can to keep him at bay, locking herself in with the deadlock, and hiding her ornamental sword so that she can get at it - but they can't find it if they search the place, but there's someone outside her door now to make sure she doesn't leave, so she hasn't been able to get out to go to the marketplace. The last remaining tins of food will provide tonight's dinner, but then the cupboard will be bare - so how the hell she's supposed to feed herself and her child?

A knock at the door causes her to freeze in her tracks, and she stares at it, nervously. It's only when Tom Boylan steps to the left and looks in through the window that she finally moves, though even now she's afraid to open the door in case Jackson has come, too.

"It's just me, kiddo." Boylan's voice comes through the door; clearly guessing the reason for her hesitation, "Open up."

Nervously, she does so, "Tom?"

He doesn't have to maintain a mask of dislike now - Yseult is very popular with a range of colonists, so it would seem odd for him to not like her - and he smiles, cheerfully, "Say hello to your friendly, neighbourhood shopping fairy."

"Shopping?"

"Yeah - that thing you do when you go to the marketplace and buy stuff."

She dredges up a small smile, "Oh, thank God, Tom. I was beginning to wonder if I'd be allowed to get some supplies. Do you want to come in?"

"Nah - I'll just take the orders for now." He says, cheerfully, though his expression suggests warning - the two men behind him are not merely minders: they're watching him, too.

"All I really need is vegetables and some beancurd if you can get it. I suppose Xiph would be a bit out of the question at the moment." She knows it's spawning season.

He smiles reassuringly, "I'll get you that. Give me a couple of hours, right?"

She nods, "Thank you, Tom."

As she closes the door, her mind is now racing. It might seem like Tom is providing a self-interested meals on wheels service - but he's not known for his altruism, so he must be taking steps to set up some sort of communications network between the imprisoned senior staff. She knows about his rather amusing edible notes on rice paper system, and he can easily slip such notes into bags of vegetables once his minders become habituated to his rounds and stop paying attention. From what she can see, they're doing that already.

Now that she knows that food is in the offing, she returns to the kitchen and fetches out the tin opener. It's not the best food in the universe, but it's better than nothing, and Tom will be back later with some fresh ingredients, so she can put up with it.

There's another knock at the door, and she returns to it, "Is that you, Tom? That was a bit quick wasn't it?"

And then she looks out of the window. It's a Tom - but it's Jackson, not Boylan.

"What do you want?" She asks, looking through the window, her voice hostile.

"House search." He says, shortly, indicating some armed men behind him, "Shannon had a sonic pistol in the house. We're making sure no one else has unsanctioned weapons."

Now she's very grateful that she's hidden the sword, "I can answer that question. I don't have authorisation to carry one, and my husband took his with him when he went out with the expedition. I'm just about to put my daughter down for her nap, so I'm not prepared to allow anyone in. Please go away."

She wants to call Pete - or Jim - but everyone's had to hand in their comm units, and she has no means to do so. Her only weapon - such as it is - is her daughter. The presence of a small child might dissuade him from forcing his way in, and from whatever he wants to do to her. Even now, through the glass of the window, he's looking at her with a disturbing intensity, as though imagining what she must look like under her t-shirt. Shaken, she steps back behind the door, out of sight. Why her? Why is this happening? Is it because her husband's miles away and she's got no other adult relatives to turn to? It must be - everything about Jackson suggests to her that he picks only on targets he perceives to be weaker. He hasn't confronted Jim directly at any time; relying instead on thugs to do it for him. With no one else in the house but a toddler, he must feel safe to exert power over a member of the senior team that he's displaced.

She waits, nervously, for his answer. Her refusal will certainly have angered him, as he wants to dominate, not to be refused.

"Open the door, or I'll have it broken down."

Frightened now, she complies, but opens the door only a little, "I haven't got anything in here that's forbidden."

Jackson shrugs, and pushes his way in, brushing her aside as though she is nothing, "Search the house."

While it's a relief that there are other men in the house, the fact that they immediately start opening drawers and hurling the contents all over the floor is not so welcome. It's not so much a search as wholesale vandalism - wrecking her house because they can. From the way that Jackson continues to eye her, he's doing this to punish her for lashing out at him when he tried to force himself on her the last time he was here. Not that it's deterred him from continuing to undress her with his eyes. Immediately, she crosses to her frightened daughter, and lifts her into her arms. Men seem to be very put off the concept of a woman's bust when they see a small child in the vicinity.

In less than ten minutes, everything has been turfed out of cupboards, and is scattered all over the floor, while her levantine fertility goddess now lies in two pieces on the carpet. The only thing that she's grateful for, other than her safety and that of her child, is that Schmidt hasn't been damaged. She's had that little toy cat since she was a child, and the thought of losing him is almost on a par with losing her family. They probably thought that he was one of Erin's toys.

"Enjoy your tidying." Jackson says, as the two men who did all the damage make their way to the door, "Oh," he adds, much more quietly, "I'll be reopening the nursery from tomorrow. You'll send your kid there - I'll send one of the staff to take her. So you won't be busy once you've cleared up. Will you?"

She keeps her head down, deeply frightened. So they're taking control of her daughter - and, presumably, all the other little children in the colony. With Erin in the hands of the ruling party - he's got the tight hold of her that he needs. And, tomorrow, she will have no choice but to give him what he wants.

Malcolm is already unzipping his hazmat suit, eager to abandon it in the heat of the day, "Is that a fishing boat? I can't tell from here."

The vessel that's been deposited on the sand is heeling to starboard, and looks to be similar in size to a coastguard cutter. No one in the party has any nautical experience, so it's hard to be sure what they're looking at.

Bram has begun to remove his suit, while Mira and Taylor look a little less keen, as neither of them are entirely convinced that the radiation has truly diminished to a safe level. Eventually, Malcolm turns and shows them the reading on the meter, and Mira shrugs, and removes her helmet. Then Taylor does likewise.

Shouldering a rucksack, which contains equipment and several bottles of water, Malcolm turns back to his party, "Come on, let's see what we've got. If there are people in there, then we need to find them." He seems to be trembling, though not with excitement, more nervous anticipation. If there are survivors, then they're going to have a hell of a time unravelling what's happened.

As they grow closer, it's clear to all of them that the vessel is not a fishing boat - though it looks like it might once have plied the oceans in search of fish. A great deal of work has been done to modernise it, and Malcolm's expression suggests that he recognises a lot of the additions that have been built on, "It looks like it's a research ship, Commander." He calls back as he approaches the leaning vessel, "The diagnostic equipment's a bit old fashioned, I think it's a good century or so before our time."

"Any sign of life?"

"Only one way to find out." Malcolm has abandoned his rucksack, and is trying - and failing - to clamber onto the hull. There's nothing to grab onto to lift himself off the ground onto the side of the bulkhead, "Hello?" he shouts up, "Anyone on board?"

"It'll be easier to go round the back and climb up using the rudder, Malcolm." Mira advises, and the two head around to the back of the ship, where the enormous rudder and propeller are set at almost the ideal angles to aid their ascent.

"There must've been an electro-magnetic pulse of some sort." Malcolm is musing, as they stand alongside it, "There's no other reason for the engine to have stopped - but it's just as well that it has, or there's no way we could get up there." He stands on tip-toes, "Hello? Anyone there?"

"If that came down as hard as it looks, Malcolm, then it's likely that survivors will be unconscious." Mira reminds him, "And I wouldn't rule out some broken bones."

"Paula's coming with the rhino, Malcolm," Bram calls across, "I've sent the signal, so they should be here before the day's out."

"Is it me, or is that an odd name for a research ship?" Taylor says, looking at the name Madre de Dios painted on the stern.

"Not really." Bram says, "Not everyone has the money to buy a brand new, custom made ship. Chances are this was a fishing trawler that got repurposed - I imagine that it was fitted out with grant money. We used to do that."

With Mira's help, Malcolm has managed to clamber up to the rail, and she is not far behind. The tilt of the deck is pretty much impossible, obliging them to crawl along the side of a bulkhead to get to the door to the wheelhouse. A quick glance inside is not promising, "If there was someone in here, Mira," Malcolm says, "They're gone. Whether they were thrown out when the wormhole opened, or they were lost on the way through, God knows."

"Chances are that survivors will be below decks." She reminds him, indicating a door alongside her position, "Here, give me a hand with this handle, it's been jammed down by the force of the impact."

After a few minutes' struggle, the pair manage to unfasten and lift the door open. The tilt of the floor is impossible, but there are various foot and handholds that they can use to make their way down. Or, at least, Mira can use.

"I'll go and see what's down there, Malcolm." She says, seating herself on the side of the door, "You be ready to call down to Taylor if I find anyone. We'll need to work out how we get them out depending on how injured they are."

Well aware that he lacks the dexterity to clamber down a shaft, Malcolm nods, and leans against the rough paintwork of the bulkhead. His heart is racing; not from exertion, but from nervous anticipation that there might well be survivors. If there aren't, of course, then that's that - but he's not sure whether he wants people to have lived or not. If they've died then they've died - and thus all that has to be done is give them a decent burial. But if they've survived - what next? Yes, that's great for the colony as it means more diversity in the gene pool - but it's hardly going to be brilliant for them, is it?

He passes the time thinking of his own arrival in Terra Nova; arrogant, standoffish, uptight. But that was more a defence mechanism than a true sense of superiority over those who had come with him. Having lived most of his life in academic institutions and laboratories, he had little idea of how to behave around people who didn't share his academic mode of existence. Besides, having permanently turned his back on the only world he'd ever known, a lot of ghosts had travelled with him, and much of those early days were spent trying to quell them again.

It had been a huge adjustment for him - and he'd had a choice in the matter. Besides, other than memories, he hadn't had to leave all that much behind. All that he has now - the most precious things in his life - he found here.

"Malcolm." Mira's voice sounds a long way away, "I've got four - it looks like that's all there are. I've got one broken leg, but otherwise just bumps and bruises. We'll start making our way out once I've splinted the leg."

Startled, Malcolm raises his head and looks down into the passageway. While it doesn't go far, there's a clear staircase that goes down into the belly of the vessel, so she must be down there somewhere. Lifting himself from the bulkhead, he shouts over the rail, "Commander, we've got survivors - apparently one broken leg."

"Right, I'll let Paula know when they get here." The voice drifts faintly back.

It takes a while for anyone to emerge, but eventually a hand grabs the top of the handrail on the stairs, and a dark haired young man emerges, looking about in confusion.

"This way - up here." Malcolm calls down, "Sorry, there's still a bit of a climb."

It takes nearly an hour to extract the mobile survivors - the young man, a young woman who immediately embraces the young man, and then an older man who seems to be vaguely in charge, though he is aiding Mira in getting the fourth survivor, another dark haired, but older man, out of the passageway.

As Malcolm leans in to help, he hears a voice behind him, "Be careful with my papa - his leg's broken."

The accent is heavily tinged with Spanish. Given where the portal tends to open, it's likely that they were yanked out of the area around the Caribbean, so he is American Hispanic, rather than European Spanish, "Don't worry - we'll look after him." There isn't really a lot else that Malcolm can say, "Commander," He calls down again, "Is there anything we can rig to lower the casualty down to the ground?"

"Workin' on it, Malcolm." Taylor's voice comes up again, "Dunham just radioed in, they're about an hour out."

A sharp groan behind him redirects Malcolm's attention to the man with the broken leg. So far, everyone's been so focused on him, that they haven't noticed what else has happened. All they've registered is that they've had some sort of accident, and rescuers have arrived. He watches, then pauses: the man who has both legs intact is familiar to him.

He had never met the man of course - that would've required time-travel - but he recognises the face from photos on the dust-jackets of academic volumes that were regarded at the time as wild scaremongering. It was only later, when he sat in his digs in London while he was at Imperial, secured from the filthy atmosphere by the Kensington dome, that he realised that the man had been right all along, "Dr Falker?"

Mira looks up at him, sharply, though the man looks quite relieved, "That's me - you heard our distress calls?"

"Not exactly - it'll take a long time to explain. I just recall your face from your publicity photos on your books."

For a moment, the man looks hostile, "And you want to take me down?"

"Er…no." Malcolm looks bemused, "Not at all - I…well…" he runs out of words. Hostility was not what he was expecting.

"Look," the man says, helping his injured colleague to rest on the tilted bulkhead, "I know that people rip the hell out of my books, and that's their right. But they'll regret doing that when they can't breathe anymore."

"Later, Malcolm." Mira warns, "Let's just get off this boat. It's damned hot, and there's no point staying any longer than we need."

Malcolm abandons his embarrassment and scrambles across to help, "Right. The Commander's sorting something out now. The retrieval team's about an hour away, so we might as well go back and meet them at the edge of the crater."

"Crater?" the man he recognises asks, "How the hell are we in a crater?"

"Like I said - it's going to take a long time to explain." Malcolm advises, "We can do it when we're off the ship. Believe me, it's a very long story."

Paula is busy with her diagnostic equipment, "It's a clean break, Mr Romero," she says, smiling, "This should start the bones knitting again in the next couple of hours." She looks up at Malcolm, "Are we safe to stay here tonight?"

"We should be - as long as we don't get any unwelcome visitors." Malcolm's attention is on the ship. Mira has commandeered Dunham and Reynolds and gone back down there to raid it for supplies. If they can sustain themselves with the stocks on board, then that keeps the rest of their rations for the journey back to the colony. Lynott, on the other hand, remains on guard at the entrance to the crater while everyone else is setting up camp outside it, with that great rock wall to their backs.

The introductions have been rather perfunctory, as the realisation of their situation has yet to truly sink in with the survivors. The man that Malcolm recognises has introduced himself as Bryce Falker, a Professor at the University of Florida, while the young woman is Janet Preston, one of a small number of his students, who was accompanying him on a research trip. The only other survivors are Mateo Romero, the skipper of the boat, and his son, Diego.

"We're all that's left?" she asks, eventually.

Malcolm nods, sadly, "I'm afraid so. How many people were on deck?"

She thinks it over, "Pretty much everyone. It was a sunny day - so people were sunbathing while we were on our way back to port. We must've been about an hour out of San Juan."

"Puerto Rico?"

She nods.

"And you were below decks?"

"Myself, Dr Falker, Mr Romero and Diego." She says, "I was Dr Falker's assistant - Mr Romero and Diego were the crew, plus Rodrigo in the wheelhouse. We were discussing tomorrow's trip out. We're measuring plankton species in the area."

That explains a great deal - those who weren't below must've been flung from the decks - or perhaps they were torn apart by the forces of the wormhole. In some ways, he hopes it was the latter, as that would've been far quicker than being flung into deep, shark-infested waters an hour's boat ride from any port. Perhaps the only way to survive the uncontrolled nature of a natural portal is to be inside a structure of some kind or other.

It does answer one other question, though. While Malcolm remembers reading Falker's books, he also recalls reading that the man had gone missing with a research team of his own students off the coast of Puerto Rico in 2003. It had been a mystery at the time, of course, but now he knows what happened. How odd that it has caused him to finally meet a man he's always wanted to meet. If only to tell him that history vindicated him.

Night is drawing in as Mira and her crew return with a roughly constructed sled that's been piled high with tins, packets and all sorts of other useful items, "We've left the rest." She says, "There was a lot of gasoline leaking in the lower portions of the ship, so we thought it best to get the hell out with what we had. All it'd take now is a spark - the thing's a bomb."

"I won't argue with that." Taylor agrees, "I take it there's no point in fetching in the rover?"

"Definitely not. I don't want anything with any sort of electrical charge anywhere near that ship."

"What about my data?" Falker looks up, sharply, "I've got a laptop on there that's got six years' worth of results - I need to get that so I can publish…"

"I wouldn't." Mira warns, "We haven't got time to risk it. Believe me, it's not worth it."

"I have to warn people…"

"There's no need." Malcolm sighs, "All the warnings in the world wouldn't have worked. We still buggered up the planet anyway."

Falker stares at him, "'Buggered' as in past tense?"

Malcolm nods, "I wish I could find an easy way to tell you this - but…"

"Just tell me."

Malcolm looks across at Taylor, who nods, "Your ship passed through a fracture in the fabric of space and time. There's a natural buildup of energy in that crater that fuels a wormhole between the future and the past - we've just witnessed the creation of that wormhole, and unfortunately your boat was where it opened. You've been transported into the distant past - eighty five million years, to be exact. We're currently in the Cretaceous period."

He's not sure what to expect - anger, disbelief…but instead he gets silence.

"When I recognised you," Malcolm goes on, quietly, "It was because I was reading a reissue of your books. Someone came across them and had them reprinted - I suppose it was a sort of 'I told you so' gesture on their part. When I read them, I was studying at Imperial in London - living in accommodation inside a protective dome. The atmosphere had become almost unbreathable - thick with pollutants and traversable only with breathing equipment. Just as you predicted."

Falker looks at Malcolm for a long time, "People told me to stop. Told me I was a damned crank."

"It might've looked that way - but, a century down the line, they realised that you weren't. Unfortunately, by that time, it was too late to reverse the damage."

From his vantage point, Taylor watches Malcolm's bemused expression at their apparent acceptance. It's strange - they should be reacting: being angry, being scared - or at least something. Instead, they seem to have just taken it on board. Well, not really - more like decided to set the fact aside and not think about it: it's too much of a shock to contemplate.

It'll happen in the end, of course. They'll find they have to accept it, and freak out. Right now, however, they're probably just taking in the fact that there were twenty people on a boat - and now there are just four. Panicking over the fact that they're no longer in their own time can come later. Taylor isn't looking forward to that.

They've done what Malcolm hoped to do - witnessed the precursors to a wormhole, watched it open and been in a position to rescue any survivors that came through. Now they can go home.

And deal with the fallout.