Battle Field

"Weel, ye cannae leave her out of it now, Lamb! She shows all the signs! Every one! She deserves tae see. She deserves tae know!"

I pause on my way back from getting dressed. Not to my expected quiet breakfast, but to Mrs. Graham's voice ringing though the closed kitchen door. My uncle's voice replies in a low rumble I cannot decipher.

"And that's as may be! But if ye cannae bring yersel tae do right by yer own flesh and blood, then on yer own heid be it, Q. Lambert Beauchamp!"

I've retreated halfway back up the hall stairs by this point in her tirade, and I'm glad I have, for Uncle comes bursting out of the kitchen, and nearly runs down the passage towards the library, not looking once in my direction. I doubt he even noticed I'm here.

Good. Family ties or not, there are some situations better left un-meddled with.

I hear the far-away slam of what I assume is the library door, and only then do I feel safe enough to creep into the kitchen, as unobtrusively as I can.

Mrs. Graham is stirring her pots and tending to her oven with a good deal more vim than is strictly necessary. I don't interrupt her, but sit down meekly at the half-laid table, waiting for her to notice me.

I don't know when she does notice me, but when she turns back to finish laying the table, she neither starts nor cries out. Almost viciously she sets the bowls and plates next to the forks and spoons - plunk, plunk, plunk - and then the mugs and water glasses with their higher - tap, clank, tap, clank. When she's done, she leans on the table, and gives a long, exasperated sigh.

"That uncle of yours, Claire, is a right stone-headed fool sometimes."

I hold back a smile. "He'd hardly be a Beauchamp if he wasn't, Mrs. Graham."

She exhales sharply, lips almost twisting into a sneer, but her eyes soften, "Aye, mebbe so. Ye heard?"

"Some of it," I say, "Your half, anyway."

"Tha's nowise near enough," she pounds an impatient fist on the table, "Ye mus' still be totally in the dark. . ." She looks to me for confirmation of this, and I suppose my silence answers her well enough. "Claire dear, if he does'nae tell ye today, then I'll tell ye. Every bit I know. Heaven knows it's as much my secret as his." She looks dubiously in the direction of the library, "But we'll give him a chance first. He's right enough - he's earned that much."

"Not from me he hasn't," I say frankly, "All he's earned from me is a good deal of childhood resentment."

She clicks her tongue, and straightens up, "Aye. . . well. . . I'll bring you your breakfast, dearie."

Halfway through the oat porridge, eggs, sausage, toast, butter and jam, Lamb reappears in the doorway, looking, if not contrite, then at least subdued. Although, why I'm looking for contrition from him, I have no idea. . .

"Morning," he nods solemnly at me, then applies himself seriously to the business of eating.

It is a long while before he ventures to speak again, and when he does, he directs his comments only at me, ignoring Mrs. Graham entirely.

"I have plans for us today, my dear, but they're flexible," he looks up briefly from the last piece of toast, "Was there anywhere specific you wanted to go? Something you wanted to see?"

"Oh. . . no. . . I. . . wouldn't know where to start. . ."

"Good," he says, practically, gulping down the last of his tea, "Then I'll meet you out front in ten minutes."

I'm eager for anything that can remove me from the oppressive awkwardness surrounding the breakfast table. In the prescribed ten minutes I am ready, in five more Uncle has me settled in the same groundcar I arrived in yesterday - the front seat this time - and we are off, deeper into the hills to I don't know where. I don't care either. He has me, we are alone, and as private as any two Humans can be in this world.

He can start explaining any time he wants. . .

For what feels like ages, but probably isn't actually very long, he does nothing but pilot the groundcar, looking nowhere but resolutely at the road.

When he does finally speak, it's the last thing I expected him to say.

"I'm afraid I don't know you nearly as well as I should, my dear. I don't even know what you studied in school."

Such an ordinary and straightforward statement shouldn't shock me, I suppose. But everything I've ever thought about him has changed so much - and so quickly - that now a simple conversational opening sounds. . .

Ominous? Portentous? I don't know. . .

"I took a degree in Historical Botany," I say.

He chuckles softly, and relaxes his straight-ahead gaze just enough that I can see a twinkle in his eye, "I bet Henry loved that. . ."

"He hated it," I say simply, "If I recall correctly, the phrase "useless drivel" was used more than once."

"Yes, that does sound like Henry, the poor stick-in-the-mud," he turns and gives me a quick appraising glance, "You had your own way in the end, I see."

"Of course."

"Of course," he repeats back to me, nodding, "There'd be no forcing you, and the last person who could talk a headstrong girl around was Henry. Do you know, dear, there are times I wonder how much Beauchamp he really was? He took so after our Grandmother FitzSimmonds. . ." he trails off, looking at me sidelong, "Sorry. I forget that you don't know as much about our family history as I do. . . back to the point. So. Historical Botany. Naturally, I approve, but then, I'm an anthropologist. I would approve, wouldn't I?"

"Maybe," I say, gazing out of the window at the soul-satisfying colors gleaming in the morning sun - greens and red and browns and blues - "I think, really, it was your being the kind of scientist he couldn't understand that turned him against all science he didn't understand in the first place. Not that his opinions were your fault, of course." I look at him sharply, and for a brief second, quickly suppressed, I think I see the same sort of condescending smile that my father sometimes wore when we discussed my chosen profession. Maybe it's my imagination. Maybe that particular facial expression means something different to Lamb than it did to my father.

And maybe Uncle Lamb is still almost a total stranger to me. . .

"Anyway," I sigh and lean back in my chair, "I think, in the end, he just wanted better for me than being a common farm tech, and could never shake the disappointment," I laugh, sarcastically humorless, "To end up a plain housewife in North-3, of all places! Oh, the shame of it!"

"Oh, how the mighty have fallen," he says, matching my sarcasm.

"Right out of the Spire! And into the common townships!"

"For someone born and bred in Central, it must have been difficult to fathom, especially for someone as narrow-minded as poor old Henry. Do you know dear, the one time he contacted me here, it was to send me notification of your wedding? Out of resignation or spite, I was never quite sure. . ."

"Spite," I nearly growl through clenched teeth, "Neither one of them ever liked Frank, but father took the lead in that. . ."

Uncle nods, carefully non-committal, "I assume. . . your pardon, dear. . . but. . . since you are using your maiden name again. . ."

I brace myself for the wave of sadness that always comes whenever I talk about Frank. "Yes," I almost whisper, "Yes, he's gone. Almost five years ago now. His decon team was hit by a UXB. . ."

"I'm sorry Claire."

The all too familiar yawning, aching cold rises up inside me. I wind my arms around myself, trying not to shiver with the chill of it. "It was. . . fast, I suppose. . ."

For a second Lamb turns and looks me straight in the face, "Fast for him, maybe."

How can someone I barely know echo my thoughts so clearly? What can my sadness mean to him?

For a second, one of his hands comes over and grips my shoulder. No comments, no repining. Just a brief supporting touch, and then he has both hands back on the steering yoke.

A tiny part of the lonely, freezing void inside me warms slightly. Lamb hasn't felt a bit like family to me until this moment.

He cares. He actually cares about me.

I feel so instantly, overwhelmingly grateful that I almost forgive him on the spot for lying about being crazy.

Almost.

"Did you know Frank was from here?" Lamb asks, the cheerfulness in his voice only slightly forced.

"From. . ." I suddenly come back to the here and now, "What do you mean? Frank's was born in West-2."

"Sorry dear, I mean his ancestors. From before the British Cold War. At least, one of them lived here around then - over two hundred years ago, now. His name was Jonathan Randall. Although most of the times he's mentioned in the documents he's called "Black Jack". I think he must have been a professional gambler."

"No, I. . . didn't know that. And how did you know?"

He flashes a wide grin, "When they told me you were coming for a visit, I decided to look him up. His family history, you know. See if there was anything interesting to tell you."

"And. . . is there?"

"Almost nothing, alas. A name, a nickname, various numbers listed next to his name, the fact that he paid for his lodgings in English pounds, and he died at the age of 40."

"How oddly mundane," I say.

"Indeed."

"And you still haven't said how you were able to find out even that much. . . Look him up. . . where?"

"Why, in the largest and best preserved collection of historical records available in all of the Cold Islands, my dear. Upper Inverness is where most of this hemisphere sent whatever documentation they could salvage after WWIII. On the Skycities we might be known for our hospitals, but locally, we're far more famous for our libraries. There are over 40 official ones within city limits alone, and dozens more in private houses. And speaking of which. . ." He opens his mouth to continue, but doesn't for a long few seconds. When he finally resumes, even the forced cheer has drained from his tone, "No. . . no, I've gotten ahead of myself again. . ." He clears his throat, "Like I was saying earlier, I don't know exactly what you've been taught. . . so. . . Claire, will you forgive me if I ask you some. . . rather basic-sounding questions?"

I smile, ruefully remembering tea yesterday, "I'm hardly in a position to complain, am I?"

"Very well," he says, matter-of-factly, "Do you know what a Druid is?"

"I. . . believe so." My mind instantly begins to whir through every course on ancient history I can remember, "They were. . . mythic. . . tree-people? I think?"

"Mm, tree-worshipers, that's the common notion, yes. But it is wrong."

"Oh?"

"Yes. They were actually ancient scientists." He glances over at me, I presume to make sure I'm following him. Which I am.

Mostly. . .

"And by "scientists" I assume you mean. . . magicians?"

Uncle smiles proudly, "Yes. That's what science seemed like then, of course. But if you look into the history of it, remarkably little of their practices were mere alchemical fol-de-rol. Nearly all of their rituals and traditions had some basis in the scientific method."

"And you know this, because?"

"Claire, there is nowhere quite as steeped in ancient traditions and attitudes as the highlands of Scotland, even here and now, a hundred and fifty years after "Scotland" ceased to exist. And in a place where so much of our history has been preserved. . . well. I am an anthropologist, after all."

My mind is frantically putting the pieces together.

"So. . ." I say, slowly, "Something - interesting, let's say - about these Druids, has been discovered here? And you, having been educated in one of the rarer sciences. . . came here to. . . research and study it? Is that why the Cold Island Council allowed you to stay here even though you aren't sick?"

He beams, and gives me a very satisfied smile, "I knew if I gave you enough clues you'd figure it out. Yes, that is where things started, although I only came into the project more than halfway through."

Our flight-path. . . no. . . drive-path? - now has us threading through some very rocky hills, filmed over with mist and grass and trees. Everything is an enchanting, dreamy grey and green, with flashes of red and yellow and purple, arched over with the brilliant pale blue of the sky, much clearer and cleaner here than on the Skycities.

Dreamy. . . yes. . . This is undoubtedly the place from my dream. It is forbidding, eerie, desolate and yet so full of a life I cannot understand. I press a hand against the cold barrier of the window glass, instinctively wanting to run out of the groundcar, and lose myself in the mist. The bright, sun-glowing edges of the fog show here and there between the hillsides, and the early-morning freshness hasn't left the air, even filtered as it is in here. . .

"The Council has had a team working with Craigh na Dun for nearly 70 years."

I blink hard a few times, and pull myself up short. He is explaining. In a round-about way and in his own time, but he is explaining. I mustn't get distracted.

"You've been here less than 30. . ."

He smiles. "Quite so. But the project didn't have any successes until I was brought in, so I think I've more than proved my worth to them."

Now we're getting somewhere. For the first time I feel like I can ask a question directly to the purpose.

"The Council has a project involving those standing stones you showed me?" Lamb nods. "What have these Druids to do with that?"

"Everything, my dear. You see, that is why I asked you if you knew what Druids were. Because a major part of the Council's project at Craigh na Dun stems from an investigation into the long purported - but never proven - Druidic practice of Human sacrifice."

I cannot say anything for several long seconds. I turn and stare at Lamb, all the questions I cannot ask filling my mouth until I cannot keep it closed any longer, though only a huff and a few strangled incredulous noises come out.

There's a twinkle in his eyes as he pats my hand that is now lock-gripped around the armrest, "No no. We aren't sacrificing people. And neither did the Druids."

I exhale gustily in relief.

"We're sending volunteers though time."

We're out of the hills now, and onto an uneven plain. The trees are sparser, and the ground a more varied range of golden browns and soft greens. Lamb slows the car, and pulls up into a paved lot near a long, low building faced with stone. It looks old, but not ancient.

If I had any brain-power left for curiosity, I'd wonder where we are.

"I'll be right back," Lamb says, slipping out of the car and striding into the clean, windswept building like he hasn't a care in world.

And for all I know, he hasn't. . .

He's only gone a minute or two, and when he returns, he hands me a little plastic clip. There's an earbud trailing from the edge of it, and one side of the clip is coated in a shiny metal foil.

Standard-issue museum tickets. The clip lets you through checkpoints, and monitors your progress so you don't get lost, and the earbud provides educational commentary whenever you ask for it. Schoolchildren on Skycity 15 regularly tour Core Engineering, and Navigation Control, and Central Farming, and several other places of note - I've seen tickets like these all my life.

But that doesn't tell me where we are. . .

I clip the ticket to my jacket lapel, and put in the earbud. I look directly at the low stone building and tap the bit of metal foil twice.

An overly chipper female voice speaks into my ear, "Welcome to the Culloden Battlefield memorial site and visitor center! Feel free to enjoy our many walking tours of historical points of interest! Indoors, you may browse a fascinating collection of artifacts from the site, and view a wide range of educational videos concerning the Jac-"

I pull the earbud out of my ear, and let it dangle across my coat. Distantly, I realize that normally I'd find a wire trailing over the front of my jacket to be incredibly annoying, but at the moment, my nerves are intensely preoccupied.

I look around a minute, and find a long pathway that seems relatively deserted. I grab Lamb's wrist, dragging him down it until we're at least 100 meters from anyone who might overhear.

Then I turn to him, confused and angry, and - I may as well admit it - scared.

"Am I completely crazy, or did you just tell me you're sending people though time?"

"No dear, you're not crazy." His expression is bland, his tone quite plain and conversational.

"Then. . . what. . . ?" Words fail me.

The plain is full of long grass, scrubby bushes, and flowers greying towards winter. The air is less sharply fresh than it is near Inverness Port, but the earthy, bright scent of soil and growing things still manages to penetrate the thick fog of confusion in my mind, and bring me some measure of peace.

"Rings of standing stones like Craigh na Dun have always been a mystery," Lamb says, speaking low but clearly, "No historian, archaeologist, anthropologist, or psychologist could ever adequately explain their existence. They were clearly Human constructions, sometimes they had graves in or around them, and sometimes they lined up with the seasonal positions of the sun or moon or stars with eerie accuracy, but none of those things told us much about the whys and wherefores."

He pauses a minute, then goes on, almost reverently, "That is, until WWIII. A detachment of Blackwing fighters were on a nighttime bombing raid, and several were shot down over Inverness. Five were known to have parachuted to safety. Only one man was ever recovered. He told the United Planetary forces who had captured him a most odd story. He said that he and his four companions were working their way towards Inverness to try and find some way back to the Independents base in Iceland. On the way, they came across Craigh na Dun - although, he simply called it a ring of stones, of course - and seeing shelter, or at least a windbreak, they made camp. And then, around dawn, he was on watch, and he heard a louder gust of wind than had been usual during that night, and there was a ringing, rolling clang - almost like a bolt of lightning, he said. For a few seconds he was afraid they were caught by some patrol, or shot at by a local farmer, but then he turned around, and his four companions were gone."

"Gone?"

"Yes. They had been sleeping cord-wood-style at the base of the large central pier - two with their heads near the stone, two with their feet near it."

"And they just. . . disappeared? There was never any trace of them found?"

"Well. . . not quite." He takes my arm, gently, and we begin to walk down the path together, deeper into the battlefield. "A little over 70 years ago, four men in fighter-pilot outfits walked into Inverness, and tried to steal a boat."

With some difficulty, I conjure up an image of a boat. It's flat and cartoonish - a distant memory from a children's picture book, I think.

"Why a boat?"

"The very question the authorities asked them. They said they needed to get to Iceland. That could only mean they came from a place that still had boats. A place where they were still practical conveyances over large distances. A place that had no idea that all coastlines were closed due to ocean-wide fallout-contamination, and had been for over 70 years by then. A place where Iceland was still habitable, and approachable by sea."

"A place. . ."

Lamb nods, "Or a time."

I digest this for a minute. "This was all confirmed?"

"As much as it could have been. The four men's stories tallied remarkably well with the captured Independents soldier, and after at least two dozen Intelligence officers interviewed him, and a myriad of our Protection officers interviewed the four, not one of them ever wavered from the essential points. Four of them went to sleep next to Craigh na Dun in 2133, the fifth one saw them disappear, and the same four of them woke up next to Craigh na Dun in 2204. That's their story, and every single one of them stuck to it."

"Incredible," I breathe.

"Indeed. But not quite as remarkable as what happened when we tried to send them back."

This is a fresh shock. "You tried to send them back?"

"Yes. Well, the project manager at the time did."

"So. . . what happened?"

"Nothing."

I blink, incredulous, "That's remarkable?"

"Considering that they said the stones were an inter-dimensional portal, yes, I'd say it's quite remarkable."

"Well, I don't see how."

"Don't you? Well, if you were going to tell a story about a place, and you got your friends to tell the same story, and you rehearsed it so well that it tallied in every essential way, not just with each other, but with the story a prisoner of war told seventy years beforehand - a story you could hardly be expected to know in the first place - then. . . why on earth would nothing happen at the end of it? Why go to all that trouble for no reason?"

"A prank? A practical joke?"

"We thought of that. Or, at least, my predecessor did. Her reasoning was that the point of this kind of prank is to put one over on the authorities - to be able to laugh at someone you normally wouldn't be allowed to laugh at."

"Makes sense."

"It does. And they never did."

"Never-"

"Laughed. She had their quarters bugged, their clothing wired, she put listening devices in every vehicle they were ever in, listened to hundreds of private conversations they had over the course of five years, and never, not once, did they laugh about their story. They were seventy years into the future, and all any of them felt about it was growing concern that they might never get back to 2133."

"That. . . does go a long way towards confirming the story."

"Quite. It also means that if the inter-dimensional portal existed, it must do so only under certain conditions."

"Well, yes."

"And that, my dear, means it isn't magic. It is science. As wild and as improbable as it sounds, there must be a way to replicate the correct conditions."

I smile at him, "Is that when they brought you in?"

"No, not yet. My predecessor was anything but a fool, and she figured a great deal of it out on her own. She researched the place, found out what it was called, conducted the first fifteen experiments, and in the process developed and refined those experiments."

"Without success."

"Without the desired result, my dear. There's quite a difference. But after ten years, yes, they needed a new approach. They tried several things, but didn't make much progress until one of the four travelers found a reference to Craigh na Dun in a book about Neo-paganism."

"Ah, so this is where the Druids come into it!" I laugh, "I was wondering when they would be relevant."

"Quite so. Well, the traveler found that in Neo-paganism, standing stones figured in several nighttime rituals that were thought to have developed from the original Pagans practice of Human sacrifices."

"And the project manager listened to him?"

"Oh, all four of them had joined the project by that point. And who could be better for the job? They all became citizens of Cold Island 12, married, had families. One of their granddaughters is on the Council now."

"So they never got back?"

"I haven't finished the story, my dear."

"Sorry."

He smiles softly at me, and continues, "The problem was - well, one of several problems - was that if a religion was involved with discovering the correct set of conditions to control - or even just open - the portal, then they needed to talk to a member of that religion. Probably several members."

"Don't tell me that's when they brought you in!"

Lamb smiles, wryly, "No. That's when they brought in Mrs. Graham's mother."

A great deal of my confusion suddenly evaporates.

"Ohhh. Well, that explains this morning, at least."

"Yes. We learned a lot from her. First and foremost we learned that Neo-pagans didn't practice Human sacrifices, because Pagans didn't either. . . but to a stranger's eye, they might occasionally appear to do so. And so it might appear, if a nighttime procession led a single chosen individual to a ring of stones, and performed a long and elaborate set of rituals that culminated in the chosen person disappearing with a thunderclap. But she knew that almost always, the chosen one was traveling voluntarily, and she knew several stories about said travelers. Who had survived. And come back."

"You mean she. . . they. . . knew how to use the time portal?"

"Ancient Pagans certainly did at some point. And she knew the basics of the rituals needed, even though she didn't know of anyone who had actually tried to travel through the stones. Some time in the distant past, the practice had fallen out of favour. Not surprising, really. But they had kept the rituals, even though they had developed and changed them throughout the centuries. Our team spent another ten years or so attempting to Travel, and they managed to get very close several times. Three different chosen travelers reported hearing things on the "other side" of the central, or "prime" stone, things that were definitely not happening at the current time! And six said they saw brief visions of the past or future while in contact with the prime stone. So clearly they were doing something right."

"But they still didn't succeed?"

"No, but we knew returning was possible. I say "we" of course, but I learned all of this later."

"Yes, I understand, but. . . why couldn't they go back to their own time? What was missing?"

Lamb gives a deliberately over-dramatic flourish and a bow, "Why, an anthropologist, of course!"

I grin indulgently at him, "Braggart."

His face sobers, but his eyes are still twinkling, "Oh no, not that. Never that, my dear. Because you see, that was when they decided to close down the project."

"But. . ."

"They sent the project notes out to five known anthropologists and three archaeologists on the Skycities, and closed down active research here. And you know, I can't blame them. It had been almost thirty years, and all they had was a few interesting prophetic visions to show for it! Well, that and four upstanding citizens, which, while far from nothing, wasn't exactly justifying the budget."

"So what did you do?"

"Well first, I threw out everything they thought they knew. Then I read every interview, historical reference, factual reference, and experiment summary available. All of which took a very long time, let me tell you. Much longer than it ought to have done, but then, I had another job at the time, which I did not neglect. But all the time and effort was quite worth it. Only after doing so could I venture to make an hypothesis."

"Which was?"

"That I needed to see Craigh na Dun for myself. Clearly, there were factors everyone had missed, and the only way to discover them would be to go there and see."

"Commence crazy time on Skycity 39," I say, sardonically.

"Yes," he says. And he still sounds far more proud of his ingenuity and daring than he does sorry about scaring eleven year old me.

The more I learn, the easier it's becoming to forgive him for that.

"The first thing I did when I got here was look up Mrs. Graham's mother, but the woman was dead by that time, poor soul. Fortunately, Mrs. Graham herself was in service at the manse, and more than willing to be my project consultant. It only took a week of local research and talking things over with her to discover one major flaw in every previous attempt too."

"Oh? And what was that?"

I have to admit, I'm deeply fascinated by all of this. The concept doesn't even seem crazy anymore.

"That every prospective traveler needed to be "scryed" - meaning have their future foretold by some sort of ritual means - palm reading is the classic method."

"But, surely. . . Mrs. Graham's mother knew how to do those things? Mrs. Graham knows how to do them, and her mother is the logical place for her to have learned."

"Oh yes, she knew how, but had always deemed a reading unnecessary, since "Everyone who has Traveled once is already among the Chosen.", as she said in the project notes. But as we discovered, that isn't always so. No, some people are destined to only Travel once, some can only Travel forward in time, some can only go backwards in time. Some can go back and forth multiple times, but cannot change history, some go back and forth and must change history, and so on. There are as many different ways to time travel as there are people. And apparently a scry beforehand "primes the fabric of the aura" and allows for a clean break in the space-time continuum."

He says this all lightly enough, but so matter-of-factly that despite everything, I begin to feel incredulous again.

"You don't actually believe in all this hocus-pocus, do you, Lamb?"

He pats the hand I still have resting in the crook of his elbow, "Oh no, dear. No. After all, what is there to believe in? I've seen it. It works. It's all unquestionably real. No faith needed." He looks at me very seriously, "I know it all seems like witchcraft, but it's actually the exact opposite. It's applied knowledge. Science, in fact."

We've reached the end of the path that leads through the main part of the battlefield. At this time of day, it seems there are very few people who want to make the whole trip around, and so we haven't met anyone during our walk.

I pick a faded wildflower, and drop it at the foot of the monument, where uncounted hundreds of others have done the same. There are two little piles of them next to the plaque, old, rotting flowers, colourless now, but still speaking aloud the power and meaning of this place. Now that Lamb has taken me into his confidence, there are fewer distractions in my mind, and I spend a moment contemplating where we are, and what I am actually seeing.

I remember studying the Battle of Culloden in history class when I was little. I don't remember so well for any of the usual reasons, but because my teacher had made a point of noting that the clan headstones which marked each mass burial pit were merely superficial gestures. No one had sorted the bodies into clans before shoveling them into graves.

At nine, this made me furious.

Now, standing here, I'm glad it happened that way.

With grass and bushes and trees as far as the eye can see, under a wild sky, and the sweep of the wind, the very bones of the earth seem free. Organizing the families of men who had died here would only have imposed a jarring note of chains - of forged steel in a world of earth and grass, soft purple flowers and pearl-grey clouds in a shining blue sky.

Lamb is right. Humankind lost a lot when we decided that Earth could be conquered.

But we lost unfathomably more when we decided other Humans should be.

Lamb takes my arm again, gently, and steers me down another path away from the old stone memorial.

"The monument I really wanted you to see is down this way."

It takes a few minutes for us to get there. We don't speak.

The monument for the Second Battle of Culloden is nothing like the first. Granted, the battle that ended Scotland's Second War of Independence was nothing like the first one either, even though they both happened on the same ground.

Most notably, the second time around, Scotland won.

The blocks of old rusted iron are stacked in an open square some five or six meters across. There is an arched opening in each wall, and no roof. The names of those who died have been painted on the metal in clear, weatherproof resin. The untarnished, silvery surface still shows clean though each name. Name, after name, after name. While all around them is rust and decay, these shine bright, and unstained.

Free.

Irony of ironies then, that after centuries of fighting for the right to call itself its own country again, Scotland's victory in the second battle of Culloden kicked off the Second Revolutionary Period, which led to the Unity War, which in turn led to WWIII, at the end of which all countries were abolished, and the majority of the survivors fled to the skies to escape the nuclear destruction they had wrought upon themselves.

One generation's freedom is another generation's bondage, I suppose.

I turn away from the monument. I've had quite enough of war for one day.

"Thank you," I say sincerely, as we walk away, "I'm glad you showed me that."

Lamb smiles, but doesn't reply.

We're both silent on the long walk back to the car.