Declarative Clause

Dougal wants to laugh at my declaration of war. I can see it in his eyes, and the workings of his mouth. But I've wrested just enough power away from him that I have the ability to make his life an endless hell, and he knows that at the moment, I'm not terribly opposed to doing so.

And so, softly, softly.

"War?" he says, placidly ominous, "Ye ken I'm Clan Mackenzie's War Chief, aye?"

"Oh, I'm fully aware of who I am dealing with."

That brings him up short. The both of us are only in this situation because he doesn't know who he's dealing with. I got his measure, or at least part of it, almost at once, and he has yet to begin to understand me. I'm sure the opponents he's used to don't often declare openly that they're smarter than him, so I'm not surprised it takes him a second to absorb my meaning.

I see it when the point lands, though. He freezes into a forbidding block of ice at the shock of it. This wee Sassenach presumes.

"Then deal. Madame," he growls, so clearly unused to the short end of the stick that I almost have pity on him.

Almost.

"Well then. I think the situation is fairly clear." I lean my elbows on a relatively flat expanse of papers stacked across Davie Beaton's old desk, "Firstly - I've kept your secrets. Well, I've kept them from Colum, anyway - and he's the one who matters, so we'll let the rest go by." I look him in the eyes briefly, and see him realize that I have allies among his people already. He isn't entirely pleased about that.

I enjoy the tiny squirm he makes far, far more than I should.

I continue, "Neither last night nor this afternoon did I - deliberately or otherwise - reveal your use of surveillance equipment. On both me and on Colum."

He squirms again.

"And I might easily have mentioned it - on either occasion."

"Yer point?" he snaps.

"My point is. . ." I look him in the eyes again, "You owe me."

"Fine," he grinds out, "What do ye want?"

I lean back, "I want a promise."

"What?"

His face goes slack, even as the look in his eyes sharpens further. It's clearly the last thing he expected me to demand.

"Just that," I say, simply, "I want your promise."

He stares at me, baffled, and says nothing.

"I want you to promise me, that if this is war - let it be honourable war."

His jaw tightens. He still says nothing.

I cross my arms, "No more bugs. No cameras, no microphones, no computer hacking. No sly questions that are half insinuation and half attack. No more interrogations. No lateral moves against friends or relatives. Only you, versus me. Everything aboveboard, with our own colours and banners clear. Open intent. Clean battle. Honorable victories, and equally honourable defeats. We don't have to like each other. Let's at least be honest about it."

As I lay it all out, his expression doesn't soften, but the hardness in it changes. Slowly, it goes from a bitter, vicious hate, to a grudging, acidic respect, no less in its adamancy, but far cleaner in its intent. I suspect he usually reserves this sort of attitude for his feuds with other clans, because when he speaks again, it is not with the tightly bridled rage of the last few minutes, nor his usual studied smoothness, nor even with his deliberately deepened Scottish brogue.

"Ye'r demanding I give ye an equal portion among the sons, then?" he says, in a rounder, more natural tone than I've heard from him yet, "Hev' ye no shame, lassie?"

"The shameful part of all this is the fact that I've been driven to demand equality in the first place, Dougal."

He considers me silently for a long while.

"Aye. Perhaps ye'r right. But what is it makes ye think I'd keep any such promise, hm?"

I smile, "At the marrow, Dougal Mackenzie, you're a man of your word." I gesture significantly at the desk drawer, "Oh, I might have a few bits and bobs to hold over you now, but they're nothing compared to what I'd have if I could ever brand you a traitor."

The word hits home. And not, I think, because of anything to do with Culloden, past or present. Dougal Mackenzie is, in fact, a patriot, a Chieftain, and a man of his word.

I have his measure now, every essential part of it, and he knows it.

"Very well," he says, eyes gleaming. I see his warrior's blood rise to the toothsome challenge I've laid down. The Sassenach presumes to demand things of him, but what is she demanding? Fair combat? Perhaps there's a scrap of honour in her after all! At any rate, he's much less repulsed than he thought he'd be. . . "Ye have my promise."

"Say the words," I say, holding onto the thread of chivalry that seems to be winding though this day's events, "Let me hear the vow."

"I, Dougal Mackenzie, do hereby promise noble warfare between myself and ye, as is clean and right 'twixt enemies of equal station." He almost smiles as he says it. Yes, he's looking forward to our noble warfare. "Satisfied?"

"Thank you," I say, nodding solemnly. That should take care of that. Dougal will probably be far easier for me to deal with from now on, though I still can never let my guard down.

Clean victory. Fair defeat.

But that still doesn't make him an ally.

Now, it's time for the spanner in the works.

"Now then," I say, as though turning to the next obvious item on the list, "I owe you a promise."

His head comes up, his expression hardening again. He's gotten used to me the fire-eater, me the dragon-slayer, me the medieval knightess pitting sword versus battle axe, and surprisingly getting the best of it.

He's forgotten that I'm only Claire Beauchamp: Normal Human, with just as much desire for peace as for honour, and no desire for battle at all, no matter how glorious.

"Ye. . . owe me. . . ?"

I sigh, "Let's be honest, Dougal. You know as well as I do that no war has ever solved anything."

"But. . ."

"No, Dougal. Admit it. No war has ever solved anything. At the very best, wars can give the combatants another chance to solve things - a chance to make things right. A chance that is very seldom taken, historically speaking. And as for the wars themselves? No. They only make things worse. Every time. You know it, and I know it."

He only stares at me, more confused than ever.

"So. Let's take our chance now. Let's fix whatever this is now. Before we make each other's lives hell - as we both can, and probably will, if we continue. Well, I say no. Why waste time? Why waste the effort? I owe you a promise. Now, take it."

After fair defeat, the last thing he expected was to be given the reins again. Now, they're in his hands. But they're there at my behest, and he knows that if he takes them up, he's truly acknowledging me as an equal - both in mind and in power - who can show mercy or exact full payment, just as I will.

The grudging, marble-hard respect in his eyes grows ever so slightly less cold.

"I want ye tae tell me the truth. Whatever I ask ye. The exact truth."

I can't help smiling. He has no idea how much he doesn't want that. . .

And yet. . .

Why not? If he manages to ask anything that I can't answer without revealing I'm from the future, then, so be it. I'll tell him. I have literally nothing to lose. He can only call me crazy, and disbelieve me. Then we'd be back to square one, no harm, no foul. And if he by some chance does believe me, well. . .

I can't think of a better way to make him an ally, in the end.

"I like it," I say, smiling fully, "For three questions - and I can refuse to answer any of them, for any reason I wish."

He raises his eyebrows, "Terms? Ye didnae let me have terms."

"That's because my request was specific. If I promise to tell you nothing but the truth, with no terms or conditions, give you ten minutes and you'd be asking me about my fetishes, and really, let's just not even go there. . ."

For the first time since the garage, I hear him laugh. A deep, pleasant sound, and far more effective than his growls, if only he knew it.

"Fair enough, lass. If ye refuse tae answer, it doesnae count against the three, agreed?"

"Agreed."

A sly look comes up in his eyes, but this time it is tempered with a spark of good-natured mischief.

"Say the words. Promise me."

Well. That's fair.

"I, Claire Beauchamp, promise to tell the exact truth, for three questions, in total, asked today, by Dougal Mackenzie."

"Claire Beauchamp. . ." he says, contemplatively, "I've wondered if ye'd told the truth about yer name."

"I did," I nod, "That's who I am. And don't worry - I'm not counting that as the first question."

He gives me a quick look, but then leans forward and composes himself to do some very sober thinking.

"Why," he asks, slowly, "did ye mention Boston? In yer computer hacking, ye ken."

I smile, the memories flowing over me again. "Because of Rosalie George and Ahmed Khan." I look up, and out, through the dusty cobwebs framing the windows, to the flat, cold grey of the sky, and remember. "Old school friends of mine. We would go into the city on the weekends, and sit by the international arrivals at the airport."

"Why would ye do that?" says Dougal's voice, as though from far away.

I don't let it distract me.

"Because we were young and stupid, that's why. Young, stupid, and very determined. Determined to hack into the air-traffic control computer and change the electronic welcome banner. Why to Boston? Who knows? We were dumb kids, I forget how or why we hit on that city name. Rosie and I would sit in a caf with our computers and get past layer after layer of security - Ahmed ran interference for us if anyone ever asked too many questions - not that any of the officials were ever fooled for long. We were thrown out so many times, I'm surprised they didn't ban us." I laugh, remembering one particularly hilarious incident with Rosie and an order of deep-fried chicken hearts. . . "Maybe it was because we never seemed to be able to get past the last security wall. We could get into the computer proper, but we couldn't make it past the employee password it took to be let in to change the welcome banner - we always came down to guessing, and that's the best way to get caught. But one day, we did it. A dozen or so people were confused for ten minutes. It was the least and most useless of victories, but oh, how we laughed!"

I come back to the here and now, and focus on Dougal again. "It was worth it, just to laugh like that once in my life. I lost touch with them both after school. . . I. . . don't even know if they're still alive or not. But that memory is alive." I idly push a small pile of assorted washers and bolts along the desktop, "That answer your question?"

He has drawn his brows together, in confusion or concentration I'm not quite certain - perhaps it's both. He nods minutely. "After a fashion."

I shrug. "Question Two?"

"Who have ye worked for? As a farm technician, I mean."

I smile tightly, "I can't answer that. I've worked for many farming concerns, and at each one I've produced several copyrighted hybrids. Concealing what I made, and who for, and when I made them, are standard parts of the normal NDA, and usually, to be safe, they just make a blanket restriction - no revealing who you've worked for or when. If you're a good farm tech, word of you usually still manages to get around, so. . ."

I shrug slightly, and for a second I almost forget that none of the companies I've worked for exist yet, and as such, the NDA's are invalid. But that's not what I was asked, and my answer is literally true.

Dougal purses his lips, but says nothing yet.

"However, in the interest of completeness, I'll say that, as of half an hour ago, I officially work for Colum Mackenzie. And that's the first job I've had in nine months."

"Ye havenae worked in nine months?"

"I didn't say that. Keeping your unemployed head above water is a lot of very hard work."

He ponders on that for a minute.

"Anyway," I say, with forced brightness, "Question Two, Round Two?"

He taps the armrest of his chair, softly and rhythmically. "When ye were in the garage, before ye came out tae fix the Rover - what did ye hear?"

I knit up my forehead, confused at such an odd question. He's wasting one of his three absolutely truthful answers on this? Why? But I refuse to quibble. I cast my mind back, feeling almost as though it were months ago instead of days. . . "Uhm. . . well, let's see. Rupert said he was no Davie Beaton. And, um, Jamie said he took care of the horses and not your arses. And there was a lot of arguing about the Rover. Murtagh stood up for me, and Angus told you about Black Jack."

"Yes. And?"

"And? Um. . . Before Murtagh and Angus rescued me, I saw a car on the verge, surrounded by Black Jack and his men. I think that car belonged to Angus?"

"Yes. And what else?"

I go over everything I can remember again. "Nothing that I can recall. But then, I had just woken up. I might have forgotten a few things."

His eyes narrow, "Ye didnae hear any of us say we'd been campaigning past the border?"

"Oh, is that what this is about? Yeah, I heard that mentioned, a few times. So what?"

"So, ye're English. Dinnae ye care we were breakin' yer rules?"

I bark a laugh, "Hardly my rules, Dougal! Why should I care? None of these imposed regs will make it past the Transitional Period, I have no doubt. So what does it matter?"

"Ye really feel that way about it?"

Yes. As someone who was born well into the twenty-third century, and after nuclear Armageddon, I really feel that way about it.

"Why not? The whole thing has the look of a sham to it, anyway. You've got the English to the right and left of you during this whole process, holding your hands like you're some sort of brain-damaged three-year-old who doesn't know how to be a country! As if you hadn't already earned your independence centuries ago - regardless of whether it was denied you or not."

Dougal gives me a look, like he has no idea how to take such an attitude from someone like me. "Earned it?" he says, half-incredulously.

"Well, yeah. I mean, all it takes is wanting freedom. That's enough to earn the right to be free - no matter if your wishes are honoured or not. No matter if it's possible or not. The right remains."

"Ye. . . really believe that?"

"Yes. I really believe that."

Considering that the place will be Cold Island 12 in a matter of a few generations, I figure Scotland should have whatever it wants, as quickly and as painlessly as possible.

Dougal retreats for a minute or two, regarding me intensely.

I wonder if his third question will be if I've ever been to Culloden.

Because if he asks, I'm going to tell him. All of it.

On the Skycities it's so easy to forget - we're taught to forget - what living in a country was like. Now, here, I can see that in a world with only floating Cities, a Human's sense of place is compromised, and the tribal memories that used to link us to the land are shamefully worn away.

It's easy for me to remember that in the middle of the British Cold War, a collection of Scotsmen lured a few thousand Peace Agents to the Culloden moor, and there took revenge for the First Battle of Culloden. It's easy to remember that The Duke of Sandringham, English overseer of the Scottish Independence Committee, leveraged the incident to his own advantage, while making it abundantly clear at the same time exactly how much he hated Scotland, Scottish people, and all Scottish traditions. It's easy to remember that the political fallout from the incident left Free Scotland without functional diplomatic or trade channels with England, America, and most of Europe, driving an isolationist philosophy that eventually led to their early adoption of a NETT grid, and their pivotal role in the Unity War. It's easy to remember their heroic, but ultimately doomed role in WWIII.

It's easy to remember the place being renamed Cold Island 12.

It was even easy for me to see the monument for the Second Battle of Culloden, and not condemn those Scots who died taking their centuries-delayed revenge. It's easy to remember the inexorable tragedy of the First Battle of Culloden, and trace all subsequent tragedies back to it.

It's easy to remember all of that.

It's less easy for me to feel what someone like Dougal Mackenzie or Jamie Fraser or Annie Campbell must feel at this moment in history. Their country, their home, their land. They want freedom, but they also want justice. And, for many, that means extracting the price in blood.

It's a want I cannot truly feel, but, in this moment, I desperately want to understand it.

They might take the no-fault freedom that Queen Victoria is offering, but more - much, much more - they want a freedom that means something.

They want the freedom they earned centuries ago, but was denied them. They want the freedom that's owed them.

And if that means borrowing trouble, then, there simply will be no stopping them.

But Fate is a terribly exact money-lender, and it always demands its patrons pay in full.

I do want justice for them. Truly.

But I want justice for my time and place too. And whatever else Dougal Mackenzie might be doing, he certainly is not playing the long game. Or, at least, not long enough to see past the bounds of his own people, his own land. . . his own life.

And here am I, not bound to any people, nor to land. . . nor to my own lifespan.

No wonder he and I clash like swords in battle.

"Question Three?" I ask, breaking the silence.

He doesn't ask right away, as though going back and forth between two questions he really wants to ask. Finally, he makes his choice.

"Why did ye take so against being watched? After all, if ye'd nothing tae hide-"

I scoff in disgust, "Oh, we're back to this, are we? Here's a revolutionary concept - of course I have things to hide! My tits not least among them! I don't need an excuse to demand my privacy, Dougal. It's a basic Human right. Or at least it is where I come from."

He looks at me pointedly, "An' is that the exact truth?"

"Of course it isn't!" I yell. Then suddenly, my anger collapses into sadness, and I look down at my fingertips as they trace patterns on the dusty desktop. "You really want to know? Fine."

I try to take a deep breath, but the last decade of my life comes up to me, and sits on my heart, forcing all the fight out of my soul.

"How would you feel," I say, my voice very small, "If, in the past eight years, you lost your parents, your inheritance, your spouse. . ." my voice tries to falter, but I push through it, "your child, your job, your home, and the majority of everything you possess? How would you feel if you reached a point where the only thing left for you to do was run, and you didn't care if that made you a coward, just so long as it gave you a reason to keep breathing? How would you feel if, the minute you felt you might have a chance to catch your breath again, almost the entire remains of everything you had left was violently taken away from you? What if the first people you met after that were officials, who ought to have helped you, but they viciously attacked you instead? What if your actual rescuers were wild, heaven-sent strangers, who you knew nothing about, and they knew nothing about you, but they still helped you, unquestioning, so much, and so freely, that even though at first glance you found them impossibly alien, you still couldn't help loving them, almost immediately?"

I remember how safe I felt in Murtagh's arms, and how alive I felt in Jamie's.

"And then, how would you feel, if you discovered the only reason their leader had helped you - your only purpose, your only use to him - was to be spied on, and watched, like some sort of laboratory animal?" I raise my head, not caring if I look as forlorn as I sound, "How would you feel, Dougal?"

He doesn't look at me.

"Wouldn't you fight it? Fight it with tooth and nail and every scrap of Human sanity you had left? Wouldn't you? Wouldn't you just want peace, and quiet, and an ordinary, useful job, and maybe, if you're lucky. . . friends. . . among all the wild, blessed strangers?"

I run out of words, or energy, I don't know which.

He is quiet a very long time. The silence descends around us, full, and waiting.

"Did ye. . ." he starts, then stops, his voice uncharacteristically soft, "Did ye really lose a child?"

I nod. "Yes, I really did."

"How did ye know about Hamish?"

He has used up his three questions, but at this point, there's no reason to deny him the truth. "At the time? I didn't. I only figured it out this afternoon. And I wasn't sure until right now."

"But. . ." his voice hardens again, "Ye said. . ."

"Yes," I shrug, "I was being sincere. I really did have an uncle who loved me as much as a third parent."

"Well. . ." he looks me straight in the eyes, "He does. Colum does. He loves Hamish as his own. What. . . whatever happens between ye an' me. . . dinnae take his child from him."

I've never heard Dougal so earnest.

"T'was all we were tryin' tae do, ye ken. Me and Letty. We wanted tae give Colum a child. Can. . . can ye let that sin alone?"

I sigh. "You may have noticed that Hamish was not part of our negotiations earlier," I shake my head, "A child isn't a bargaining chip, Dougal."

"No' tae ye, maybe. But in politics-"

"I know why your family thinks you aren't cut out for it," I interrupt.

He blinks, and looks at me warily.

"Och, aye?"

"You have too much honour."

He laughs a wry, humourless laugh, "Ye say that, even knowin'. . ."

"You wear dishonour very ill, Dougal Mackenzie. And politics will drain you dry of whatever honour you have, though it be your life's blood."

He stands, and smirks at me, once again the smooth, devious, impenetrable War Chief. I can tell it's still war between us, but it will be honourable war this time around. We've made a step or two. He may yet be my ally, eventually. He braces his hands against his belt loops, "I dinnae like ye, Claire Beauchamp. I dinnae trust ye. And I'm no' about tae take life advice from ye." He looks me appraisingly up and down. "But ye'er all right."

He tosses a bunch of keys on the desk, spins on his heel, and is gone before I can respond.