Screening Process

It's been ages since I've had to dress for dinner. The last time was. . . I try to remember. . . twelve, maybe thirteen years ago? It was the last time my parents invited me to their anniversary party before I met Frank. If I recall correctly, the theme had been "New Paris Nights". There was an omelette bar, and champagne, and everyone had to dress in either pink or black. Just another sumptuous, frivolous affair in the Spire of Skycity 15.

I doubt supper with the Laird will be anywhere near such an event, but still. . . I look down at the three outfits I've laid out, wondering which one would be the most appropriate.

Mrs. Fitz and Annie have done well by me - perhaps too well. They have provided a long wine-coloured skirt of some shimmery, flowing material, and there is a mid-tone grey blouse - abundantly trimmed with flourishes of wine lace - to go with it. If this was any time before 2055, I wouldn't have to think about it, this would be the dressiest, most "eating in public" thing here. No matter that the skirt lining is strangely fitted, itchy, and utterly irritating, and that I find the fancy, frilly lace all over the blouse ugly in the extreme. This would be "what to wear", and I would wear it. Simplicity itself.

But it's 2078, which means it has been over 20 years since Prince Bennet came out as Princess Victoria, and nearly ten since she became Queen Victoria The Second. My general knowledge of the time period isn't extensive, but I remember enough of my basic history to know that many beauty standards and cultural norms that had been waiting generations for a change, took this opportunity to do so.

Which means the sleeveless neon-purple jumpsuit with a pale yellow knitted mesh overtunic might be more expected for an event like "supper with the Laird". I've always looked awful in neons, and yellow does me no favours, but it is the boldest outfit here, and the most likely to make an impression. Even if on me it would probably be a silly impression, embarrassing to everyone present. Like my father often said - there are three kinds of formal occasions, those where the guests are uncomfortable, those where the hosts are uncomfortable, and those where everyone is uncomfortable. When you have a choice, pick the third. It's only fair.

But then again, this is Scotland, and. . .

I hold up the elbow-sleeved princess-cut dress of a dark grey and soft blue tartan, and sigh. Not only is it unquestionably the prettiest thing here, it's timeless, respectful, comfortable when I tried it on, flattering to my figure, and its colours are something anyone would look good in. Frankly, I'm surprised Annie was willing to let me have it. But would it be "too on the nose"? And should a Sassenach be wearing tartan in a formal situation with a clan Laird?

I don't know, and I'm tired of thinking about it. I have a few hours until suppertime, maybe I could go find Mrs. Fitz and ask her?

I hop on my good leg over to the desk and sit down. No, I don't want to go stumbling all over the place, just to ask her a suspicious kind of question like "What should I wear tonight?". This really is the sort of thing I should know. I might be able to pass it off as "Sassenach ignorance" or something, but if I'd actually spent my life in this society, it wouldn't be that difficult a choice. Certainly not the kind of thing that someone with a sprained ankle would go wandering about looking for the housekeeper to ask.

I sigh again. I miss Jamie. Getting him to help me would be so easy. I'd just ask which one he liked, and then he'd go on about the good points of all of them so freely and volubly, that I'd have no problem picking up all the social details I need, just by listening to the subtext. And maybe the text.

The dear man is unquestionably intelligent, and obviously clever, but wily? I don't think he is that. And subtle he definitely is not, but he's a very good kisser, and the most emotionally intelligent man I've met here so far, both of which count for a lot in my book.

He's also the only one I'd trust in my bedroom. . .

But there's no use thinking about that now. He left me hours ago, saying he had to "Muck out those stables, tho' t'will be even worse now" - by which I assume he means "mucking out" is an unpleasant thing in general, and doubly so after you've spent half an hour kissing someone you find attractive.

Although, I do admit, after half an hour of kissing Jamie, even things I was excited about before seem mildly unpleasant in comparison. So I can relate.

After he left, I'd sat dreamily on my couch, replaying it all in my head for an embarrassingly long time. It wasn't until Mrs. Fitz herself arrived with my lunch that I'd remembered the outside world, with all of its cold realities.

"Agh, ye look so much bettar for a visit with Mr. MacTavish, dear."

"Yes. Or "Wee Jamie", as you called him."

"Aye, so I did. He used to visit here during summers when he were a wee lad. I always called him that. Suppose I never gave up the habit."

"He told me his name was James Fraser."

She looked at me sharply then, visibly weighing up if I was friend or foe. "An' did he tell ye why he must no' be called that for the time bein'?"

"No, not in so many words. But I assume the warrant for murder has something to do with it."

Her eyes went wide, "And ye believe he's innocent?"

"Of that, certainly."

She had shaken her head, "An' ye only knowin' each other a few hours. . ."

"Sometimes that's all it takes, Mrs. Fitz."

She'd patted my shoulder, and left me with a huge bowl of stew, and a whole loaf of soda bread. I didn't recognize the meat in the stew, but it tasted no stronger than the haggis yesterday.

I lean back and pat my stomach at the memory. I'd only made it halfway through the meal before I was, miraculously, impossibly, full. I haven't been full since the last time Frank pulled in all six of his power panel sets in one week, and the profits meant we could afford to go to our favorite Central caf. And even then, wartime rationing had forbidden us to take any leftovers home.

I grin at the bowl and basket I've put beside me on the desk, and reach over to break off a bite of bread from the basket. I'd forgotten how happy having food left over after a meal makes me. It's as if, for just a minute, the world itself is on your side. Like the very planet wants you to survive.

Survival. . . I look over at the bed and frown. The hard truth is, I'm not going to survive this adventure of mine unless I make some allies, and fast. Allies who have influence enough to keep me safe for as long as I'm here. Allies who can provide, if not stability, then at least a few formidable resources. Dougal and his brother The Laird are my best chance at that. I can't count on finding another. Wearing the right clothes to supper might be a good step towards earning their trust, or they might find it a negligible point. Either way, I figure it can't hurt. . .

I stare for a long time at the deactivated info-screen sitting on the desk. I've avoided using it, because I know how easy it is to track user-information. Dougal has been suspicious of me from the start, and he's the exact opposite of a fool. I'd honestly be shocked if they haven't already Shadowed the device. I could use it to go search for "proper dress code clan laird supper", but it would be wasted effort, since they'd know I searched for it. There's dozens of things I want to look up, but I can't afford to have them know about. I could double-shadow, I suppose, but then all they'd see is my interface activate, and nothing happen after that. Which, if they have a visual on me, would mean two, maybe three minutes until someone notices something is up.

If they have a visual. . .

Shit!

Why didn't I think of cameras until now? Video feeds, microphones - they might have seen and heard my entire interaction with Jamie. Which probably wouldn't be fatal, since we'd limited ourselves to kissing, and I'd been very careful not to give away anything era-specific about Frank, but I still don't exactly want to share either of those things with the general public.

And if there's one camera - or more! - in my room, the most they could possibly have seen was me in my underwear. Not a big deal. Unless they've bugged the shower, which seems a tiny bit over the top, even for Dougal.

I grab my crutch, and start searching. Behind shelves, under tables, around decorations, and in between knicknacks. The room is small, thankfully, but there is a lot of stuff scattered around. In the end, I find only one device I recognize - a small cube disguised to look like wood, exactly matching the small cubic finial atop the other side of the fancy carved wooden posts holding up the mirror of the dressing table. I only realized it was fake because one of my fingers brushed against it while searching behind the mirror. Plastic, not wood. Directed right to where I'd sit to put on my bra and socks. And it looks like it has the bed in view too. The perfect angle to watch me at my most vulnerable times.

I sneer, and am about to wrench it away, when I realize one side is glowing red, just the slightest bit. I know that's the active "eye" of the camera, but this one is not glowing how I expected. It is not the forward-facing side that's red, but the top. Someone has installed it incorrectly.

My sneer turns into a smirk, and I scramble as fast as I can over to the info-screen, and triumphantly turn it on. It glows to life, blue-white and deceptively innocent as each loading screen completes.

~accessing~. . .

~database found~. . .

~loading network~. . .

~access granted~

Then six or seven icons appear, on a background of the same grey and blue tartan as the dress currently laid out on my bed. The icons are labeled in English, and all make perfect sense. Everything is here that should be here, and there's nothing extra.

But there was also no entry code, no security barrier. The epitome of an unsecured workstation. They want me to do this - no way they aren't watching.

I glance over at the useless camera, and smile bitterly.

Or, at least trying to watch.

Instead of immediately going to a search engine, as I'm sure Dougal thinks I will, I type in the command for a code interface. It pops up, and I ask it for a network overview. It grinds on that for a minute, then gives me two possibles, and asks if I want to search for them. I tell it yes. This OS is a little bit different than the one I'm used to, but most of the advances in computer tech in the past 200 years have been in data storage and miniaturization, not programming or the user-interface.

Now, I'm no hacker, but I know most of the common tricks. Growing up in Central, I learned the basics as a matter of course, since Navigation Control is one of the few places considered prestigious enough for Central workers. Later, I learned a lot more from Professor Smithson - who insisted that all bio-engineers be able to do their own programming, no matter if their major was Hydroponics or Historical Botany.

Two windows pop up, one with a network map, and one with an activity matrix. Interesting. Whoever has removed the security on this device has failed to isolate it properly. I have access to the rest of the network.

Well, that's two screwups. I'm going to bet on three.

I find where I am on the map, and click for stealth options. Only Private and Mirror show up, and my pulse quickens. If the words mean the same thing as in my usual OS, then maybe this device isn't Shadowed. Maybe it's only Mirrored. Meaning they can see everything I type, but I can tell when they do.

And I can Mirror back. If I Shadow myself first, they won't even know. . .

I go back to the code interface and ask for shadowing options. It takes me several tries to understand how to do it with this OS, but a few minutes later, I've self-shadowed my device, cleaned up the Mirrored window, and am ready to begin.

I open a search engine where I know they can see me if they're watching. I type in "what to do if my Personal ID card has been stolen".

I truly want to know this, so I ask the same thing in my Shadow window. I click back and forth, gathering information, writing down contacts, and keeping half an eye on the Network Activity window, when one of the local network locations on the map lights up. A moment later, another one does too. The Activity map shows direct messaging between those devices, so I go into my Shadow window, and Mirror both of them.

An active text box shows up in the corner of my screen.

-o-I-o-

BigBull: Witchy Woman has engaged her user interface.

PertDragRacer: Oh goody. Anything worth looking at?

BigBull: Not yet.

PertDragRacer: Damn.

-o-I-o-

I think I've found my two screwups.

If that isn't Angus and Rupert, I'll eat my bra.

And screwups is the word, because the network maps and code interface appeared in the Mirrored window, and they thought nothing of them. If they knew anything about what they're doing, they'd already know I've penetrated the hell out of their nonexistent security.

Where I know they can see me, I search for "meaning Gaelic word Sassenach".

Where I know they can't see me, I search for "Oxford city map and history".

I know I probably don't have much time, but I scan the map of Oxford for several minutes, and watch three street walkthroughs of residential areas. Almost at once, I see that the part of my story about an explosion at a sanitation plant is a wildly improbable way for Frank to have died. Absolutely, if they are watching me now, however ineptly, then they will follow up whatever story I tell them about my past, and I dare not be as inept as them.

Where they can see, I search for "jobs farm technician Scottish Highlands".

I actually want to know that too, but I'm pressed for time, so I search in the Shadow window - "Oxford registrar's office".

I pull up some official Oxford City records, just to see what their security is like. It isn't too bad, unless you want into the financial records of City officials, but I couldn't care less about those. I go into Births, Deaths, and Marriages, bring up a page on Home Ownership and Registration, open an image editing program in my Shadow window, and get to work.

It takes almost an hour, and several more phony searches where I know Angus and Rupert can see me, but I manage to forge a paper trail for myself and Frank. I was born Claire Moriston - actually my mother's maiden name - and there is now a birth certificate to show it. I have a degree in botany from Oxford, and all the certificates to prove it now exist, a matter of public record. I married Frank Beauchamp eight and a half years ago, he died almost five years ago, and our marriage license and his death certificate are on record. I decide he died in a car crash. Apparently that is much more common. Therefore, harder to track down. We lived in a little house in an unremarkable part of town. I was lucky with that - I managed to find a house that has recently burned down. Both our names are now on the lease, though, and I have a better excuse than ever as to why I came to Scotland. I even go into the records of a local Oxford car rental place and attach my name to a recently lost car of theirs. That's how I got to Scotland, and when I was "attacked at my campsite", clearly the car was stolen.

In order to get an official ID card "replacement", I have to request my birth certificate, and go though several legal hoops. I'll deal with those when the time comes. To start the process though, I go back to where they can see me, and send a formal request for the birth certificate I just forged for myself.

I don't know how much more time I have - Ha! What a dilemma for a time traveler! - but only now do I do something that, perhaps, I ought to have done from the start.

I make sure it's 2078.

It is.

It's November 2, Anno Domini, Two-Thousand and Seventy-Eight.

Seeing the letters and numbers glowing on the screen somehow makes the reality of my situation forcefully real again.

I've just committed who knows how many felonies, so I can continue to deceive the people who rescued me, all because I can't tell them that I'm actually from 200 years in the future.

I've never really believed the phrase "Truth is stranger than fiction" until now. . .

I'm finally closing stuff down, purging the memory as I go, when Angus and Rupert start chatting again.

-o-I-o-

PertDragRacer: Hey, anything interesting yet?

BigBull: No.

PertDragRacer: What's she doing?

BigBull: Lot of boring legit stuff.

PertDragRacer: So she is who she says she is?

BigBull: Looks like it.

-o-I-o-

I wonder now. . .

If these two believe me, then that's almost as good as Dougal believing me. They're his pawns, so he probably doesn't 100% trust them, but if I throw a spanner in the works, then maybe, maybe something can develop.

I close down everything in the Mirrored screen except one search window.

Time to mess with their fool heads.

-o-I-o-

BigBull: Pull the footage from the cameras while we wait.

PertDragRacer: Right. Downloading now.

BigBull: Don't forget to leave them on passive mode.

PertDragRacer: Um. . . oops?

BigBull: Have they not been on passive this whole time?

PertDragRacer: Don't think so?

BigBull: Shite! Switch them and switch them fast.

PertDragRacer: What's the rush?

BigBull: Idiot. Active cameras glow. Passive ones don't.

PertDragRacer: Oh.

BigBull: Exactly. We don't want Witchy Woman noticing she's being watched.

PertDragRacer: Fine, fine. Switched to passive mode now.

BigBull: Have you pulled that footage yet?

PertDragRacer: Christ, give me two seconds.

-o-I-o-

I type in the search "poisonous mushrooms Scotland Inverness"

-o-I-o-

BigBull: Whoa.

PertDragRacer: What?

BigBull: Notify the kitchens. Those fungi Witchy Woman gave MFG might be poisonous.

PertDragRacer: Whoa.

BigBull: I already said that. Just tell them, will you?

PertDragRacer: Okay okay. Doing it now.

-o-I-o-

I search for "average Scottish male's penis size".

-o-I-o-

BigBull: Whoa.

PertDragRacer: You already said that. What?

BigBull: Whoa.

PertDragRacer: WHAT?

BigBull: I think our wee Jamie might have gotten lucky this morning.

PertDragRacer: Not bloody likely!

BigBull: Well, I cannot think of anyone else who can get close enough to Witchy Woman to show her their dangle.

PertDragRacer: You're kidding me.

BigBull: Nope.

PertDragRacer: Lucky bastard.

BigBull: You're telling me!

-o-I-o-

I go into their chat-app and create an account. From my Shadow window, it doesn't even ask for a password. I shake my head. These two are impossible. I can't even dislike them anymore. They're too adorable.

I also take a minute to set up my endgame code, and cue it up in its own Shadow window.

-o-I-o-

PertDragRacer: Okay. Got the camera footage. Watching on quick speed.

BigBull: Finally.

PertDragRacer: Yeah, whatever. Camera 1 was only engaged for 45 minutes. We got some prime footage of Witchy Woman eating. Then something bumps the camera or the clip failed or something. I think it fell into the vase where we asked MFG to put it. It wasn't waterproof, so it fizzled.

BigBull: Told you that was a bad anchor point.

PertDragRacer: Yeah, yeah, yeah, go jag off somewhere else. Camera 2 is still recording visuals, but all we're getting is footage of the ceiling, and no audio.

BigBull: Did you explain how to install it properly? MFG isn't dumb. . .

PertDragRacer: I explained it fine. She just put it in wrong. No big deal, we can shift it tomorrow. The Dungeon Master says not to worry about tonight's visuals too much, it's the mirror feed that's the important part.

BigBull: And that's still working. Right, got it.

-o-I-o-

If ever there was an entrance cue, that's it.

-o-I-o-

SassyNeck: So, you two screwups have never heard of a shadow feed, I take it?

BigBull: Who is this?

SassyNeck: Take a wild guess, Angus.

PertDragRacer: Um. . .

SassyNeck: Hi Rupert!

BigBull: How did you. . .

SassyNeck: Oh, well, let's see. Witchy Woman? I have to assume the only magic you've seen lately was me pulling your Trawler back from the brink of fiery doom, so that's obvious.

SassyNeck: And then, MFG = Mrs. FitzGibbons. That was BARELY a code name, guys. Like, you didn't even try.

SassyNeck: I mean, if you're GOING to suck, at least suck HARDER, you know?

SassyNeck: And Dungeon Master? DM? As in Dougal Mackenzie? That's. . . a LITTLE bit better, I'll grant that.

SassyNeck: But not by much.

SassyNeck: After that, there were only two possibilities who "Big Bull" was, and I seriously doubt Rupert has ever been a "big" anything, so. . . yeah.

SassyNeck: WOW, you goofs are bad at this.

-o-I-o-

There's a pause long enough for me to assume they've called in backup. Maybe even Dougal himself, if he wasn't there already. I go into their applications and set up an emergency cutoff. When I'm done, I can knock the whole app off the server with one push of a button.

But not yet. . .

-o-I-o-

PertDragRacer: This app is password protected. How'd you get on?

SassyNeck: You watched me use a multi-tool and a soldering iron to fix the Artex 680 semi-fusion plasma drive engine that you almost exploded, and you ask me how I figured out your in-house chat-app password?

SassyNeck: Amateurs, the both of you.

BigBull: Yeah, but a mechanic isn't a hacker.

SassyNeck: I never said I was a mechanic. Or a hacker.

PertDragRacer: So, what are you then?

SassyNeck: A witch. Duh.

BigBull: Hold on - did YOU scuttle the cameras?

-o-I-o-

Actually, I don't know what happened with the cameras. Not for sure. But I have a guess or two.

I can see I'm going to have to talk to Mrs. Fitz after supper.

Not that I can let them know any of that. . .

-o-I-o-

SassyNeck: Right, like I'm ever going to let losers like you two ogle my tits. Nice try though. Next time, don't be so ridiculously obvious about your hiding spots, and maybe I'll let you see my bare shoulders before I crush your little spy cameras.

PertDragRacer: You know, "sassy neck" isn't all that clever a code name either. . .

SassyNeck: Uh-huh. You assume I was trying to hide. 'K, I'm going to kick you off the network now, boys. See you at supper. (You too Dougal, if you're watching!)

-o-I-o-

I hit the app's emergency cutoff, and run my endgame code. For two hours, their devices will display nothing but a bright orange banner with the text "Welcome To Boston!" on it. A tribute to my old school friends in Central. We would often go to Central Port, and try to trick the officials into letting us put "Welcome To New Boston" on the banner that greeted arrivals instead of "Welcome to New Oxford". We succeeded for ten minutes once. Eighteen arrivals from Skycity 20 were, briefly, very confused. It was a day to remember, and is the best memory I have from my school years.

As fast as I can, I close down windows and purge memory. They're probably on their way to get me now, if they're going to do it at all.

I quickly stamp across the room, knock the little cubic camera off the dressing table, and smash it with the foot of my crutch. There's that, then.

Soberly, I go into the common room. There are several vases, but the only one with water in it is on the table where Mrs. Fitz put down that large stack of clothes. And then she went to fetch them, after I was in my room already. No one else has gone near that particular table. Not Jamie, or the girl who brought me breakfast.

A smile halfway, feeling a bit grim, but still encouraged. It looks like I already have one ally, at least.

No - two. There is Jamie.

Possibly Murtagh as well, come to think of it. And Angus and Rupert may yet come around if I can insult them often enough, they're that kind.

But Dougal. . .

This whole episode is his mistrust of me, I know that. And for the immediate future, I've only made that worse.

But maybe I've laid the groundwork for something else, too. Who knows? The venture is all, at this point.

I go back to my bedroom and survey the three outfits again.

The first one - I am uncomfortable.

The second one - they are uncomfortable.

The third one - everyone is uncomfortable.

Best to wear the tartan dress. Fair is fair. If anyone calls me on it, I'll say it was the only thing on offer that I could wear comfortably while using a crutch. It won't be a lie, and let everyone - Dougal included - wonder what message I'm trying to send by wearing tartan to meet His Brother The Laird. It's not like I really know for sure myself.

I sit down at the dressing table, and stare for a second at the deathly determined look on my face.

Slowly, I relax, then take up a brush, and begin to do my hair.

I'm not going to meet the Laird. He's going to meet me.