Past Participle

"Well can ye fix it, or can ye not?"

"Et's no' a flippin' radio, Dougal! I cannae jus' take the thing apart blindfolded and put it back together again wi'out a map! I'm no Davie Beaton."

"Aye, Rupe, god knows ye never spoke truer. But that doesnae answer the question. Can ye fix it?"

"I cannae tell with ye hangin' over me like a cluckin' wee hen, now can I?"

"Oh, give over Dougal, and let the lad work."

I've only halfway heard this, and who knows how much more of the discussion, through a filtering haze of my uncertain sleep, but that last voice is mildly familiar, and it brings me fully awake.

"Ye'er a fine one to talk, Murtagh Fraser! I send ye tae do a simple job, and ye come back with nowt but a wee damaged Sassenach!"

"Ye sent us tae get the plates ye forgot, from a car ye abandoned too close tae the campaign line for yer own sweet comfort!"

Yes, a familiar voice. Clipped, blunt and harsh, but assured, and worth listening to.

"Plausible deniability, Murtagh. It's important."

The other voice is smoother, more devious. Dangerous, even.

"Weel it makes no matter now - Agents found it afore we got there - and not content wi' that, they started amusing themselves with that "wee Sassenach" yonder."

I've come to in a small, dim room, and am laying somewhat uncomfortably on a very lumpy couch. The door is half-open, with light streaming in from the much larger room beyond. The grumpy and slightly echo-y voices are coming from that direction too.

"Aye, I saw her when ye brought her in - she looks like she might be an amusement worth having."

"Shut yer trap, Rupert! Ye didnae see what Angus an' I saw."

I begin to like this gruff voice - not just for saving me, but for thinking about what saving me would mean to his group of companions.

"Oh, aye? An' what was that?"

"Agch, only the blow that had her flat out in the verge - t'was a dirty blow, ye understand - and five seconds later three of five Agents were bruised and bleeding too - and the fourth soon followed. With nowt but a rock, a wee thermos, an' her own hands and feet, she broke bones afore either of us could draw our Stunbows, right enough, Angus?"

"Aye."

The memory comes back to me, red-stained and terrible.

"Oh, she was blessed fierce, that one. She might even have had the better of 'em if we hadn't put our two cents in."

"Now that's where I'll say ye'er wrong, Murtagh. Ye were bellowing down the hill when I took my shot, an' ye didnae see the bead Black Jack was drawing on her-"

"Black Jack? Ye didnae say Black Jack was among the Agents!"

There is fear in the devious voice, and not a small amount of disgust.

"Have I been given the chance? Aye, it were him, the bastard. He was the one who felled her to begin with. And her only limping along, innocent as the day."

I shiver at the abhorrent memory.

"Black Jack! We need to be off home - afore he comes looking for us! Aye, and ye know he's capable of it!"

"I'm workin' as fast as I can, Dougal. None of yer frettin' can make it go faster."

The "Rupert" voice is complacent and preoccupied, only mildly interested even when the devious voice demands his attention.

"And did I ask ye? Jus' do yer work and shuddup!" I hear one or two of them restlessly stomping around, "And ye! Was it necessary tae break the car right on the border?"

A new voice quips, "I take care of yer wee horses, Dougal - not yer wee arses! Is'no my fault the bloody contraption choked while ye were campaigning past yer border!"

"That bloody contraption is brand noo! As well as being the best of its kind. What am I supposed tae think ye did wi' it?"

"I didnae do anything with it save drive it - and it pulled the horse trailer fine on the way down. There was nothing tae say it wouldnae be fine on the way back."

This new voice is calmer, softer, more amused than riled up by the devious voice's sound and fury. His responses are not so much complacent as detached - almost superior.

"An' if ye hadnae brought us sae close tae the border in the first place, we wouldnae have had to cut and run. We were lucky we saved the horse trailer and the van. If we cannae get the Rover fixed, we can leave it here and still get home. I have an adapter for the hitch on the van, and there's room for all of us."

"We'er saving the Rover. We arnae losing two cars on this run."

"Oh, an' losing my car is acceptable losses, is it?" complains the "Angus" voice.

"Aye, that wee clunker?" the devious voice says, "We were only draggin' its dead weight around anyway. I wish the Agents well of it! If we'er lucky, it'll blow up in their faces and rid us of Black Jack for good. But th' Rover issa different kettle o' fish. D'ye think Colum doesnae ken the cost of it? He'll have all our arses if we leave it behind. D'ye think he'll ever be parting with that much brass for a car again? Let alone twice in one year? Agch!"

Slowly, I push myself to a sitting position. It's only then that I notice my ankle is wrapped in a soft cloth bandage. It's secure, but not too tight, and if the smell is anything to go by, the dressing has been treated with a bruise/sprain ointment too. I feel an extra spurt of thankfulness towards that gruff voice, sure he must have been the one who did this.

"Not tae mention it's prime for parading ye around t' wee villages," says the superior voice.

"Aye, and if tha's what'll bring constituents, tha's what we'll do, ye ken?"

"Oh, I ken."

The contentious conversation falls into an uneasy silence. Tentatively, I try my weight on my bad foot. It still hurts, but I can walk, though not quickly. With infinite care, I take two steps to the door, and peer out into the brightly-lit main room.

Instantly, it is apparent this is a garage of some sort. Car parts and greasy tools line row after row of workbenches and shelves and crates. Rags, cans, gloves, blowtorches, mugs, scraps of sheet metal, wiring, mops, and who knows what else mingle freely with fuel barrels, and buckets of paint, solvent, and skin-degreaser.

Five restless male shapes are ranged around the one car in the room, its bonnet raised, its sadly ineffectual innards exposed. This must be the "Rover" they've all been talking about. I know that's a brand name for a vehicle manufacturer, but. . . I squint past the caustically-bright worklight they're shining on the engine, trying to identify it if I can.

My heart skips a beat and I inhale sharply.

That's not just a Rover engine, that's a Land Rover Artex-680 Trawler engine.

A brand new LRA-680 Trawler engine - with its distinctive semi-fusion coils and full plasma drive. . .

I know when I am. This car clinches it.

I've only seen a Trawler engine face-to-face once, in a museum on New Osaka, but I worked for years on a farming station in Lower South-5. On all of Skycity 15's farming stations, but in the Lower Townships especially, it is a point of pride, almost a rite of passage, to know the history of the plasma drive engines that are still used in our crop regulators and harvesting combines.

I'm in 2078 or 2079. No question. The Trawler is the only semi-fusion domestic vehicle ever built, and it was ahead of its time. It sold lamentably poorly, and so was only in production for those two years. But a little over a decade later, when crystolic-fusion was discovered, it was the only existing engine type that could run directly on crystal plasma. It was therefore the direct forefather of our modern-day skycars and cargo ships too, not just our farming equipment.

2078. Two hundred years into the past. I know. . .

I know when I am.

I almost start weeping with relief.

One of the man-shapes gets in the Rover's cabin, and pushes some buttons, cycling for an engine cold-start.

A pale aqua-blue light within the upper plasma cylinders flickers, sputters, and vanishes again.

I smile. It's the flow-regulator. I know by the very sound. This early design was notorious for having a faulty flow-regulator, and I've repaired enough of them in my time to know that even the modern designs haven't fully addressed all the problems. Fortunately, it's a relatively simple fix. . .

He cycles for a cold-start again, and again, and yet again, and each time the bluish light within the cylinders sparks and sputters unevenly. Semi-fusion coils were never meant to take that kind of treatment - he must have wedged open the manual override. If he cycles them much more, he'll overload the retort module. . .

"You'll break it if you keep going on like that," I say, stepping from my little sanctuary with a confidence I do not feel.

Five pairs of grumpy male eyes are on me in an instant.

"If you don't clear the retort-module in between cold-starts, you'll get an energy backup in the collection chamber," I take one limping step forward, then another, "And the plasma has started sparking in the upper cylinders, so your conversion-ratio is already erratic - and probably hyperactive."

They all continue silently staring at me as I haltingly pace towards the Trawler, "That means if you're not careful, the whole engine could explode."

The man furthest to my right runs a hand through his short, bristling grey beard, and gives me glittering, incisive stare that would have been intimidating if Black Jack hadn't just attacked me far more viciously.

"Can ye fix it, lassie?" he asks, softly.

His is the smooth, devious voice. Dougal, I think his name is.

"Well, it depends on what's broken. But I think so."

He gestures eloquently, and the other three men step back a pace, the fourth sliding reluctantly from the cabin. I think that one is Rupert. . .

Now that I can get a closer look, I see that the flow regulator isn't just malfunctioning, half of its own manual override mechanism has been shaken or torn loose, leaving the rest of it half-engaged. Coupled with whatever Rupert has done to the cold-start system, it's no wonder the thing won't start.

I peer past the upper cylinders, to the labyrinthine interior, trying to find the piece from the regulator, and also see if there are any other common irregularities I'll need to worry about. Turbine shift, inadequate fuel reabsorption, coolant leaks, things like that. . .

Everything else looks superficially fine, but away down to the left, stuck between two of the lower cylinders, I spot an errant piece of metal. I'm not certain from this angle, but I think it's the missing piece I'm looking for.

"Does anybody have a G-Traction unit?"

I look up, only to be met with blank stares.

Right, this is 2078. They don't have gravity nullification fields yet. . .

"Uh. . . a handheld T-PEC?"

They continue to stare.

This is ridiculous, transformable projected electromagnetic constructs have been around forever.

Well, I guess not. . .

I sigh, "A magnet on a stick?"

"Ah!" says the one whose voice I had identified as "Angus". He searches around on one of the worktables, then hands me a telescoping magnet pen, "Here ye go, lassie."

I shake my head. At them and myself. I'm going to have to get used to this time period fast.

I fumble a bit at first with the magnet, not used to the clumsy imprecision of it, but I eventually get the piece of metal out. Or rather, the several connected pieces. It looks like one of the lever plates and its attendant sensor board switch has snapped clear through - though heaven only knows how that could happen on a brand-new machine like this. . .

I remind myself that how doesn't matter at the moment. Right now the goals are to clear the retort module, and then find some way to upgrade a plasma flow regulator using only 21st century tools and supplies. . .

I find the retort module's access panel, and thankfully, several of the essential codes are pre-printed on it. I punch in the code for a full clear. That will take a minute or five, so I return to the flow regulator. I'll have to remove the manual override mechanism to do the upgrade anyway, so -

"I'll need a multi-tool," I say, hoping fervently that's what the device is called in this century, "One that will fit these connectors," I point at the tiny bolts and nuts on the side of the flow regulator.

A grunt and a few seconds later, and a rough-skinned hand holding an impressively varied foldable pocket-tool is presented to me. I'm about to just grab it and continue working, when I look up for a moment first, and find myself eye-to-eye with the dark-haired, gruff-voiced man who rescued me.

My heart reproaches me. I haven't even thanked him. . .

I take the multi-tool, then put out my own hand. As a hello? As thanks? As a peace offering? I'm not sure. . .

"I'm Claire, by the way. . ."

He takes my hand briefly, and nods, bluntly, like it's the only way he knows how to communicate. I don't take offense. It probably is.

"Murtagh," he says, and steps back to let me work, "Th'rest of the introductions can wait."

I nod, and turn back to the Trawler. It takes me a few tries to find the proper sized spanner to remove the tiny bolts, but this is a good thing. It gives me some more time to think. Usually a regulator upgrade would call for nano-sensors and woven carbon filament, but if they don't have T-PEC's here, then there's no way their nanotechnology has progressed to that. With the tools I have available, I doubt I could even get a proper diagnostic on the broken regulator. And of course, the first rule of technical engineering is you can't fix what you don't know is broken. The best I can probably do is lock the valves in stasis mode, then repair the manual override, cross-link it to the motherboard, and hope. It will take finagling, but. . .

I lift the manual override free, and a great spray of reactor-coolant douses my sleeve and chest.

"What did you DO?" I shout at the room in general, "Who redirects coolant through the plasma flow regulator?!"

I throw the multi-tool in rampant disgust, and the room explodes with shouting, finger-pointing, arguing, waving, stomping and blaming - all five men furious, not at me, but with each other.

This is the day that will not end, but finally, I've had enough.

"Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, either help me, or shut up, you bloody Scots!"

I'm screaming to make myself heard, but by the time I tell them to shut up, they're already astonishingly quiet.

"Well well," murmurs Dougal, with a wry half-smile, "I havenae heard a woman swear like that in nigh on thirty years."

This is 2078. I had forgotten for a minute. The Second Victorian Era is in full swing, complete with its own distinctive fashion, music, and social mores - many of which share disturbing similarities with those from the First Victorian Era. To these men, I've just done about the equivalent of openly groping a neighbor in the communal steamshower.

I open my mouth to apologize, but suddenly, the entire room is laughing. The tension dissolves, and I receive more than one hearty slap on the shoulder. Dougal himself hands me a roll of shop-towels.

"Thank you," I say faintly, unable to quite repress my own smile. These men. Whoever they are, they don't do anything by halves. For the most part, I can respect that.

I sop up as much of the greasy coolant as possible, and wipe my skin as clean as I can. The stuff is neon green, and smells disgusting, but it shouldn't be dangerous unless ingested. My dress is probably a write-off though. As if it wasn't already. . .

Right. I frantically try to get back on track. So the flow regulator has been flooded with coolant, that adds three or four steps to this process. I'll need to flush the chamber, test for valve integrity, make sure there hasn't been any backwash into the collection chamber, and if there has, possibly do a collection chamber purge.

Right. Easy. It's just two or three hours hard labour on a machine I've only seen once in a museum, using tools I barely know the names for. No problem.

Grimly, I go about reversing the coolant redirect. Once I get past this problem, there is still the over-arching problem of the flow-regulator upgrade. If cross-linking the manual-override is going to have any chance of success, I'm going to have to repair it first.

"Um. . ." I point vaguely, not caring at the moment if I'm being rude again or not, "Could one of you see if you can find me an exothermic fusion wand, gah. . . no. . . uh. . . a . . . soldering. . . iron?. . . yes, a soldering iron."

The tallest guy - the one whose name I haven't heard - goes to search. His must be the "superior" voice I heard earlier, but so far he hasn't said anything to me. He's wearing jeans, a plaid flannel shirt, and a knitted cap, just like the rest them, but as he turns to go, I see flashes of bright red curls from underneath the dark blue wool. It's odd. Not his hair, but that I should be noticing such things at a time like this. . .

"Heer's yer wee device, lassie - I mean Claire," he says, plunking it down on the nearest workbench. It looks like a cruder version of exactly the tool I've used to repair things a thousand times, "Plug it in for ye, shall I?"

I nod, and say nothing, because I'm not entirely sure what that means. But he only stoops and connects the fusion wand to a power source.

"There ye are."

"Thanks," I limp over to the workbench, and sort out the pieces I'll need to fix. He watches every move I make.

And that's another odd thing. I've been under intense scrutiny ever since I stepped out of that little side-room, but I haven't been hyper-aware of being watched at all until I knew his eyes were on me.

But they have been on me this whole time, haven't they? So what has changed?

Nothing, I tell myself. Nothing has changed. Not the temperature of the room, nor the pace of my heart, nor the air in my lungs.

I take a deep breath, and force my mind back onto repairing the engine.

It takes closer to four hours than three, but eventually, the Trawler purrs to life with one touch of the start button. It's a hack-and-slash job, probably only good for one trip, but I've never been prouder.

"You'll have to take it to your local specialist mechanic as soon as you get home," I say, closing the bonnet at last, "But that should get you there."

Dougal nods, gesturing with what I assume is the closest he can get to thanks, and glances over at the other four, who are all sitting close round the end of a workbench, silent over the business of eating their tea.

"Ye hungry, Claire?"

"Starving!" I say, stretching this way and that, my back sore from stooping.

"Weel, I will say ye've more than earned it, I jus' hope ye dinnae mind hagg-"

I stretch a bit too far, and a sharp new pain makes me gasp. I clutch my side, "Sorry! I was kicked in the ribs earlier today, and what with everything else, I forgot. . . "

"Aye, Black Jack is a right wee bastard," his lip twists underneath his grey beard, "Murtagh?"

"Aye?"

"Give Claire the first aid kit after ye find her some clean clothes."

"Aye." He gets up without another word, and disappears into the depths of the garage.

I limp over to the seat he just vacated, and heave myself onto it. I'm fairly certain I ache in places I never knew the Human body possessed. I'm so worn out I barely notice I'm sitting next to the tall red-headed unknown.

"As I was sayin'," says Dougal, sliding me a generously loaded plate, "I hope ye dinnae mind haggis." He hands me a fork.

I look down at a pile of dark greyish brown stuff beside the heap of mashed potatoes.

I look up, tiredly, "Is it made from small children?"

Dougal's brow furrows, "Noo-"

"Then I don't give a shit." I take a huge bite before anyone can say anything else, and chew and swallow with such regularity from then on, it only takes a few minutes for everyone to stop staring at me. I wonder why they're all so shocked at me eating. After all, they're all eating the same thing. I mean, it does taste stronger then I'm used to, and the texture is strange to me, but it's food, and I'm hungry. I'm Skycity born and bred. We don't complain about free food unless literal cannibalism is involved.

I'm halfway through before I realize I swore again, and that's probably why they all stared. I groan inwardly. Two hundred years into the past. . . I would end up so far back in time that. . . that. . .

So far. . . back in time. . .

It really shouldn't be a shock that it's taken this long to hit me - given how busy with other things I've been the past few hours - but only now do I fully realize it. I'm in the past.

A thing Lamb said none of his time-travelers had done before. None of the ones who had returned, that is. . .

2078 is before the Unity War. Before the Second Battle of Culloden. Right smack in the middle of the British Cold War.

A pivot-point in history, and I'm here. I might change things. I might have changed things already.

The enormity of it staggers me. I resolve to go as softly as I can for a while, get my bearings, and learn a lot more about things before I try and change anything deliberately. If I ever do.

"Are ye well?" asks Tall Unknown, apparently noticing that I'm sitting woodenly still, a half-eaten bite of haggis still in my cheek.

"Oh. Yes," I say, trying not to stare too much at his beautifully sincere blue eyes, "It's. . . been a long day. . ."

He smiles like I've just told him he's won a lifetime supply of water tokens, "Ye do have a gift for understatement, Sassenach." He stands then, and makes to go, "I'm off tae clear a spot fer ye in the van, sae ye can ride wi' yer foot up." He smiles brilliantly again, and whistles as he goes.

"Ride?" I turn to Dougal, "Are you taking me with you?"

"Aye," he pauses, then smiles a flat little devious smile, "It's maybe time to introduce ourselves." He holds out a hand to me, "I'm Dougal Mackenzie, official Clan MacKenzie candidate for the first Independent Scottish Council." I shake his hand briefly, and he gestures at his remaining companions, "Angus Mhor, Rupert Mackenzie - " he nods at the space behind me, "Murtagh ye already know."

I turn, and Murtagh himself puts a pile of mismatched clothing on the workbench next to me. Well-worn and baggy jean overalls, a plaid flannel button-down, and a man's cotton undershirt. All smell strongly of paint-stripper, but they're clean, at least. Next to them he puts a largish box with a red cross on it, a roll of shop-towels, several sizes of plastic bags, and a half-liter container of skin degreaser.

"Ye ought tae be gettin' ready soon, lass. We'll be leaving in a few minutes."

"Yes. . . but. . ." I turn back to Dougal

"Weel, dinnae ye think ye've at least earned an audience with my brother?"

"Your. . . brother?"

"Aye. Chieftain and Laird of Clan MacKenzie."

There's something significant about how he says that. With the slightest emphasis on Laird, like I'm supposed to know a great deal more about this whole situation than I do.

Which, to be fair, an ordinary woman from this time period probably would.

"Well, that's a great deal more than I ever expected, and more than I was going to ask. I mean, just saving me from getting beaten to a pulp was enough. . ."

"Nae," he says, that odd little smile on his face again, "When we undertake to do a thing, we follow it through."

"But you don't know anything about me! Where I'm from, what I'm doing here, what's happened to me. . ."

"Are ye likely to be killing small children?" he asks, a sly twinkle in his eyes.

I can't keep from smiling in response, "No."

He nods sharply, "Then, wait until ye meet my brother. Then ye'll only have to tell the story once."

"Well, thank you. I couldn't have asked for better."

I pick up the pile of things Murtagh left for me, and retreat back in to the little side-room to change.

I've finished putting on bruise ointment, and am almost done scrubbing the coolant residue off my skin when I realize there was an edge to how Dougal had said that last phrase. "Only tell the story once". . . like he was already expecting me to lie.

Which, of course, I will have to do.

But I wonder what lies he's expecting. He can't possibly know about Craigh na Dun, so. . .

2078 is in the middle of the British Cold War. He's a politician, and I'm a Sassenach. He might think I'm a spy. He might! A strange woman limping around Upper Inverness, dressed in nothing but a white gown and long green cloak, who gets herself attacked by Peace Agents? He'd be foolish not to at least be suspicious of anyone like that. But who he suspects I'm working for, and what he thinks I know, I have no idea - and since I'm not a spy, I'm unlikely to ever find out.

And he's just practically ordered me to go back to his brother's house with him.

Oh well. There's nothing for it now, and it's not like I have anywhere else to be, anyway.

The workman's clothes don't fit me very well, but they're leagues better than my coolant-soaked linen dress. I've wadded it up into one of the bags, grateful to be rid of the rotting-potato smell. My bra is in there too, and of course, they didn't give me a replacement. I look down at the plain white undershirt I've just put on. I loop the hem though the neckline, and pull it tight. A makeshift solution, but far better than nothing. I shrug on the button-down and throw my cloak over my shoulders, thankful it was spared the coolant, because the air has gone quite cold. Then I hustle my few things into the remaining plastic bag, and go back out into the garage.

The Tall Unknown escorts me to the van, and settles me and my things on the middle bench-seat of large Caravan-class groundcar. From the inside, it looks remarkably like a modern Caravan-class skycar owned by a Central Township family. Soft seats, lights, hot and cool air vents, and info-screens embedded in front of passenger seats. The Tall Unknown tucks my cloak around me like it's a blanket, makes sure I'm comfortable sitting sideways, and asks me how I am. Haltingly, I tell him I'm fine, but the truth is, at the moment I'm unable to articulate exactly how I am feeling. His presence, his touch - they spark something in me, just as surely as atoms in a fusion reactor core. He wakes up all the reckless impulses inside my mind, making me yearn for impossible adventures on tropical islands or distant mountains. He makes me want to flee headlong past the untamed edge of some wild place, just so long as it's beautiful, and waiting to be explored.

He sits on the bench behind mine, wedged in between three hard-shelled suitcases, and a large crate of what looks like flyers and handout leaflets. The bleak mundanity of this is at undeniable odds with my visions of rosy romance, but before the image can settle in my mind, he takes up one of the leaflets, hands it to me with a twinkle in his eyes he does nothing to conceal, and says, very seriously, "Greetings ma'am - have you considered voting for Dougal Mackenzie?"

I'm still laughing, and his eyes are still twinkling their bright blue sunshine at me, when Dougal himself gets in the car's front passenger seat. Murtagh follows in the pilot's seat a moment later. They give us some dubious looks, but say nothing. A touch to the van's starter switch - it has a fully electric engine by the sound of it - a wide swing out of the yard, the Rover following us, and we're away.

Off into the unknown, and an adventure that will be as enchanting as any I could dream up, surely. . .

Wishful thinking again, and my bruised ribs remind me painfully of cruel realities, but the view out the windows is far too lovely for me to dwell long on them.

The late afternoon sun casts a golden mist up from between the encroaching trees, a testament to the richly whispered promises of autumn. The cold tang in the air is quickly dissolved in the warm interior of the car, but it leaves the memory of itself behind, like a perfume's afterimage.

The road curves graciously down the sides of the hills, presenting us with scene after scene of grass and stone, trees and mist, sky and slopes, all glowing in the gilding light of early evening.

I take it all in, and wonder how I was ever satisfied with painted metal towers and steel streets grimed with rust. I wonder at the blue of the sky, darkening to ultramarine now, but clear and clean. I wonder at the Human race, who willingly chose the grimy streets over that clean, open blue, who ran to their own destruction, with no thought as to what might follow. Or, if they were not wholly without thought, then their thinking took shape without the weight of awe behind it, to draw Humanity back from the brink.

I've known for some time that we are a dying race. Our whole planet is dying, if not already dead.

Being immersed in the thrumming life of how it used to be is intoxicating, and not a little thrilling. Even Cold Island 12 as I knew it with Lamb was subdued and grey in comparison. The very land itself had not this piercing vitality.

I was a fool this morning. All I'd had to do to realize I was in the past was breathe. If my eyes failed me, I should have trusted my lungs and heart.

But today is almost over, the hectic glory of the sun slowly fading from the sky.

We round another shallow bend, and look down into a thickly wooded valley. The carpet of green is darkening into the enclosing black of night, broken in only a few places by the still visible pale outcrops of stone, a distant glow on the horizon that must be Inverness, and. . .

A twinned pair of grey cubic buildings, harshly illuminated by intense floodlights.

They're absolutely unmistakable. And ominous.

"What is that place?" I point and ask, afraid that I already know the answer all too well.

Dougal looks up from some papers he's been poring over since the drive began, only mildly interested in my question, "That? Oh, that's Cocknammon Junction. Trains go though there, and so do we."

"Through the checkpoint?"

Suddenly I have every ounce of Dougal's attention.

"What checkpoint?"

His gaze is so sharp, I get the feeling that if the angle was better, he might catch me up and shake me like a rag.

"There's. . . no checkpoint at Cocknammon?" I desperately try to think of a plausible lie. There's no way I can say my uncle from 2279 told me about it two days ago. . .

His beard bristles fiercely as he grinds his teeth, "Aye, we heard they might make one there. But there's been no sign of one yet. How do ye know?"

"I. . . heard people talking. In town."

It's weak, but at least mildly believable.

"In Inverness?"

"Yes."

"Who?"

"I don't know, just, people!"

"Stop the car!"

Our voices have risen to a shout, and Murtagh brakes without surprise.

Dougal undoes his harness, and turns as far as he can to look me straight in the eyes.

"There's a checkpoint at Cocknammon Junction?"

"That's what I've heard."

"Are ye certain?"

"Of course I'm not! It was a random overheard conversation! By strangers!"

He growls, and pulls out a small personal info-screen. He types and taps at it fervently for a while, grumbling and exclaiming.

"Weel, the English are supposed tae notify us whenever they institute a new checkpoint. There's nary a word about one at Cocknammon."

He nods, as if this is the best of all confirmations, and then looks at The Tall Unknown.

"Ye'd better get inta hidin' lad," he points at me, "And take the Sassenach with ye."

"What?" I screech, "Why?"

They ignore me.

"What if there's nae room?"

"Well then ye'd better make room, hadn't ye?"

Dougal bends his head to his info-screen again, and starts cursing fearfully fast in a language I don't know. Then, he puts the screen to his ear, and starts talking to someone, equally fast and equally unintelligibly.

Huh. They have combined info-screens and comm radios here. I never knew such combos had lasted this long - I thought the break back to a singular device for audio communication had happened thirty, forty years before this. . .

The Tall Unknown unbuckles my harness, lifts me by the waist, swings me around, and sets me on my feet near the rear of the van.

"Go 'round behind the horse trailer, Sassenach, I'll be right with ye," he says, urgently.

Angus has hopped out of the Rover, and precedes me to the rear of the large white square of the trailer, that I now see is pierced with three-centimeter holes all over its upper half. He unlocks and lifts up a rolling metal door, and gestures me forward into the space.

Academically speaking, I know what a horse is. I've seen all sorts of pictures and movies featuring them, and I even once had a few plastic toys that were shaped like horses.

But none of that can prepare me for actually seeing one. For being close beside one. For hearing and smelling one. The size and sheer presence of the animal is so impressive that I no longer wonder why royalty was so often depicted riding horses. It's also clear why Dougal has one. But the smell alone would flatten me if it wasn't imperative that I stay conscious.

The Tall Unknown appears, leaping into the trailer and instantly closing the door behind us. I hear Angus lock it from the outside.

Well then.

I have no idea what will happen next.

What does happen is The Tall Unknown speaks gently and soothingly to the horse, easing the animal over to one side of the space. Then he turns, kneels, and opens the long built-in bench cupboard that lines one wall of the trailer. He removes a shovel, some boxes, rope and few other things I don't know what they are, and shoves them hastily into a wooden crate he brought from the van. He secures the crate with rope and hooks underneath the animal's feeding bucket, and then he is doing something with the bench cupboard - shifting something, turning something, laying something out, I don't know - the light is very dim in here.

Then he steps bodily into the cupboard, and lays down, pressing himself as firmly as possible up against the far wall of the narrow space.

"Well," he says, chuckling, "There's room. Get in."

For a second, I'm speechless.

"Wh. . . what?"

I see his outline sit up a little, and reach towards me.

"Listen Claire, if there's a checkpoint down there, and they find us, they'll take me tae jail - if no' worse - and they'll deport ye for no' havin' an ID card. Now get in."

"But. . ." my mind flails, catching onto what at this moment seems the most important thing, "I don't even know your name!"

He sighs gustily, "James Alexander Malcolm Mackenzie Fraser."

I know it's hardly the time or place, but I can't help laughing aloud, "What a handle! You must have been named for half your family!"

"Aye, that was about the size of it. Folk call me Jamie."

"Jamie. I like it."

"I'm glad. Now will ye get in?"

The Rover starts up, and the trailer is again in motion.

I have no choice.

He really is very good about it. He pillows my head on one of his arms, and uses the other to help settle me, being very careful of my bruised ribs and sprained ankle. There is just enough room to fit the two of us, pressed together, my head under his chin. With his free arm, he closes the lid on us, and does some intricate motions that I don't understand until I hear the satisfying metal click of a lock.

He gives a tiny laugh I wouldn't have heard if I wasn't pressed so close to him, "Tha's the trick of this hidin' spot, Sassenach. We've sensor dampened this cupboard, and modified the lock sae it can be latched from the inside!"

"Very clever," I whisper, shuddering.

"Ye alright?"

"Just barely."

"Ye arenae claustrophobic?"

"It's a hell of a time to ask that, but no. Never have been."

"Tha's good."

"That's essential!"

He laughs, again very quietly, "Aye, true. But then why are ye only barely alright?"

I huff a little, the air already grown thick and stuffy, "Well, besides being held up against a man I've only just met, and being rather severely scared - and if you ignore the rest of my day - it stinks in this horse trailer, and there isn't much air in this cupboard!"

"Fair enough," he whispers, "I wilnae talk anymore if it makes ye feel better."

I don't know that it will, but I still nod against his chest. I desperately need some space, and if mental space is the only kind I can get, then I'll take it.

For a long few minutes, I do nothing but breathe, and try to relax. Neither one of us is helped by my being tenser than a guy-rope. I breathe deeply and slowly, rhythmically, and eventually my body eases, fitting more comfortably into the space allotted for it. I tell myself I'm just laying down - in a horse trailer, yes, but that's just a whim, a silly whim from one of those unpredictable, eccentric Beauchamps. No one is chasing me. No one is looking for me. No one even knows I'm here. My hands unclench. I can accept the situation.

Only then can I let myself think about Jamie.

He's being as polite as he reasonably can be under the circumstances. One of his hands is on my shoulder, and one is on my hip, but there's no wandering. We're pressed close, face to face, and while I can tell he's a man, he isn't trying to impose that fact on me.

No, what imposing he does, I bring on myself.

My face is buried in his shirt-front - it would be quite impossible not to smell him - but all on my own I choose to focus on his scent. Because behind the pungency of horse, and the dusty spice of horse fodder, I can smell freshly brewed tea, hot, buttery toast, and a low, warm spice like nutmeg, or cinnamon, but earthier, softer, more enticing. . .

It's been a long time since I've been this physically close to a man. I shouldn't let it do anything to me, but I can't help it. My mind goes off into some rather inappropriate places before I can stop myself.

I grit my teeth. Now that I'm alright with being here, I need a distraction from being here.

"Jamie?" I whisper.

"Aye?"

"I understand now why I have to hide like this - being a Sassenach, and all - but. . . why would they take you to jail?"

There is a long pause, and his fingers spasmodically grip my shoulder.

"They. . . have a warrant out on me. For murder."

I half tense up again before he continues, "Oh, I didnae do it - I couldnae have - no'. . . no' like they said I did, anyway. Stabbed in the back he was. A coward's attack. Tha's no' my way."

I believe him. He'd meet his opponent face-to-face, no matter what.

The horse trailer slows, and I hear a slightly muffled, "Halt, ID's please!".

I instantly tense up again, almost to the breaking point. He can't help but notice, and he starts gently stroking my shoulder, and whispering against my forehead.

"Shh, Claire, it's alright. I'm here. As long as ye'er wi' me, ye'er safe. I promise ye."

That's rich. A man wanted for murder, promising to keep me safe.

I can hardly keep from scoffing. Ha! Safe indeed! Absurd!

Though, I'm slowly realizing it's not the absurdity of any of this that's wrong. "Safe" is simply not what Jamie makes me feel. I felt safe with Murtagh. I felt safe with Mrs. Graham. I felt safe. . . yes, and loved, by Uncle Lamb.

But none of that is what I feel now.

Now, squished into a coffin-sized cupboard that may well yet become my grave, clasped close to a strange man for no reason other than necessity, what little air there is so stuffy that I can hardly breathe. . . I feel something I haven't felt at all for nearly five years, and haven't felt to the fullest for almost nine.

Alive.

I feel. . . alive.

Jamie makes me feel alive.

It is somehow the most shocking revelation yet in a day full of nothing but shocks.

When we roll through the checkpoint with a delay of less than two minutes, the relief is so great that for the second time today, I fall asleep in a strange man's arms.