Where Past And Future Meet

I take a step back from the gene sequencing and imaging machine in the lab, and sit down heavily at a corner of the counter, staring fixedly at one of the nearby stainless steel taps, and one of the small Bunsen burners next to it.

What I've just seen is impossible. Utterly, utterly impossible.

Right?

There's no way. . . no possible way. . .

"D'ye have any more books like this'un, Mrs. Beauchamp?" asks Marc, standing over by the library wall and holding aloft one of Davie Beaton's many books on ecology.

"I. . . don't know, Marc," I peer at the cover, "Age Of Earth? Probably. I think it's part of a series. . ." I gesture around us, "Feel free to keep looking around."

"Thankee," he says, unsmiling, but not unfriendly.

He had shown up this morning, with a small group of workers over from the cattle barns and chicken coops, asking if I had any resources on native plants and bio-systems. Apparently, several acres of Leoch ground under his direction is undergoing a process called "rewilding", and he wants to know - "What tricks auld Beaton may have had up his sleeve." I shrugged, and gave him and his people the run of the lab, being up to my elbows in comm upgrades at that particular moment. Rewilding sounds fascinating, and Marc coming to me for information or help of any kind is highly encouraging, but I simply am not in any position to properly interact with him right now.

It's my fourth day working almost exclusively on comm upgrades, and I am so, so tired of them already. Not only are they approximately three times as fiddly as even the worst I was predicting, the repetitive nature of working on them irks me in a way I find difficult to tolerate – like repeatedly bumping up against a bruised shin, not because you are in any way clumsy, but because someone else keeps moving the furniture.

An hour ago, I gave them up for today, and decided to work on one or two of my personal projects for a while. I had checked up on the score of specialty hybrid trees I have sprouting in the Manager's greenhouse, and was pleased with what I saw. My speed-growth testing setup is only a cobbled-together version of what I had on Skycity 15, but it seems to be working very well. These trees are only the first prototype of this particular hybrid that I'm working on, and a very singular use-case, so the fact that more than half had sprouted, and one or two are ahead of all projected growth curves gives me hope that the prototype will be viable.

And then. . .

Then, I had come back into the lab to work on the second prototype I'm hoping to take from this hybrid.

I look over at the GSI machine, then hop up and punch several buttons on it, ordering a full printout of the current results, and another scan and a re-rendering for the present sample.

I wait impatiently by the printout slot, grabbing the small sheaf of papers almost before the last one is fully out of the machine. I stare at the top sheet, transfixed at the image that predicts what this prototype will look like when it is fully grown.

There must be some mistake.

There must be.

There's no way I, Claire Beauchamp, currently residing in 2078, could have designed the exact tree I saw for the first time in my life when Lamb drove me past the Cocknammon tree farms in 2279.

Well, first time in my life. . . in reality.

I look down at the tall, dark-skinned, dark-leaved, high-branched, stoutly-trunked tree on the paper, and I see not only the trees Lamb showed me on the way home from Culloden Field, I see the trees I dreamed about for days and days beforehand, while I was still on Skycity 15.

There's just no way. . .

I'd never been to Cold Island 12 until I visited Lamb. Hell, I'd hardly even set foot on land before then. But, most significantly, I've never worked on a genetic modification project involving trees before now, either. And if at some point I did, and just forgot, it would have been the miniaturized food trees we grow in hydroponics plots – apples, lemons, rose-hips, or almonds – spindly, flimsy things that virtually never grow more than a meter in height, and always need support to stay upright - not a sturdy, full-sized, looming behemoth like. . . like. . .

Like Fraser's Beech.

And to top it off, I hadn't even heard of a Fraser fir, or an English beech before reading about them in the botany book I got from Leoch's library two weeks ago.

Every new fact I think of just makes the whole thing more impossible.

And yet, here it is. A tree I just invented, except that it already exists in the future.

The future I came from. . .

The GSI machine beeps. I put the printout down, and go look at the newly redone DNA analysis scan and predictive image.

They're virtually identical to the previous one.

So that's that.

It can't be true. But it is.

There must be a mistake somewhere. . .

I sit back down on the lab counter, and think hard. Maybe. . . maybe I'm remembering the future wrong. It's possible – an awful lot has happened to me between now and the last time I had that eerie dream.

Then again, they weren't just dream trees – I saw acres and acres of them that day with Lamb. It's not as though I could miss much about them, and the predictive image looks exactly like them.

Maybe I've subconsciously copied them, then? Yes, yes that must be it. The dream and the trip to Culloden made such an impression on me that when designing this tree here, I unintentionally took inspiration from them.

Yes. That must be it.

Right?

Only. . .

This is the second iteration of my design. Wouldn't any subconscious influences have come out in the first, if they were going to do so at all? True, I had some very specific goals with that first design, but still. . .

I shake my head. There's no way to tell for sure. Lamb hadn't even named the trees we saw, and who knows what sort of things someone can see in dreams? There's no way to prove anything.

I might as well ignore it, put it out of my head. Forget it.

Yeah, right. . .

"Maman Claire! Maman Claire!" Fergus comes running in, his hands full of greenery, "Papa Jamie gave me these herbs from his garden, and this-" he holds up a thick doughnut of twigs bound together, "-and told me make a wreath to hang in the Great Hall for Yule!" He practically squirms with happiness, "May I sit in here to make it? Please, Maman Claire?"

I laugh in grateful relief at his eagerness, "Of course, mon fils – of course." I muss his hair a little, and give him a tiny push towards the stool nearest me, "All the other children made theirs nearly two weeks ago – high time you caught up, eh?"

"Aye," he says, smiling over his bunches of rosemary, winter savory, oregano and sage, "I shall make the best wreath of them all!"

"I'm sure you will, too," I say, meaning it completely. The determination in Fergus's face and posture is just as clear as his joy and eagerness.

He settles down contentedly at the lab counter, busily sorting the plain silvery-green branches from the ones with flowers, and the purple flowers from the white.

I look over at the greenhouse entrance. The first prototype of Fraser's Beech was also made specifically for Yule. . .

It had thought it was sheer coincidence when I found two trees that so closely resembled mine and Jamie's last names. I had thought it was mere whimsy to make a hybrid tree from them. In fact, they were going to be my Christmas present to Jamie – and then to Fergus too, naturally.

They were.

Now. . . I don't know.

If only there was some way to be sure. . .

"Maman?" Fergus pipes up, "Why don't you and Papa Jamie sleep together?"

My entire being stutters to a halt. The low conversation between Marc and his people goes silent.

An astonishingly heavy expectation hangs thickly in the air.

"I. . . am not sure that is an appropriate question, Fergus."

"But why not? David and Eli's brother and sister sleep together."

I blink several times. The atmosphere only gets heavier. "Uhm. . . do they?"

He nods vigorously, "Yes. Eli took me to play Turtle Crash in his brother's room, and while we were there, his sister came out of her room and told us to be quieter."

"Oh. So. . . they do sleep in separate rooms?"

"Yes, but they are together – one room, and then another room – why is Papa Jamie's room close to mine, but yours is on the other side of the house?"

I give a short, sharp sigh of intense relief, "Oh. I see. Well, it's because Jamie and I are dating, not married, so we haven't chosen to move in together yet."

"Oh." Fergus looks slightly dubious for a minute, "When will you sleep together, then?"

Barely restrained, very quiet laughter comes from Marc and his people. I have to hold back a smile myself.

"Now that is an inappropriate question, my lad. Make your wreath, and leave Jamie and me to our own business. We'll see you're taken care of, regardless of where we sleep."

He considers this quietly for a bit, then minutely shrugs, and turns his attention back to his neat piles of herbs.

I take a deep breath, attempting to marshal my suddenly completely addled wits. This child. . .

He had taken the news that both Jamie and I were going to be leaving "on a business trip" with suspiciously stoic composure, and has spent nearly 100% of his waking hours with one or the other of us ever since. Jamie told me two days ago he's never been asked so many questions about the herbs in his workroom before. My break room is suddenly full of puzzles and toys and sticks and rocks and bits of string. None of us have been allowed to be late for a meal by even a second, and we are frequently early. He has offered to coach me in French, and started calling us maman and papa just yesterday.

I smile fondly, remembering the first time he did it. Pinpricks tingle in my eyes, and I have to cough a bit to dispel them. This parenting thing. . . it ain't for wimps, that's for sure and certain. . .

Willie walks in from the office then, a large, soft-looking, brown-paper wrapped package under each arm. He grins at me, then nods to Fergus, "I heard yer voice in heer, young sir," he hefts the packages slightly, and rattles on, hurriedly, "An' y'see, my da an' stepbrother live in town, an' gave me these hand-me-down clothes last week on my day off, since Leoch has sich a powerful lot of growin' boys, an' a scrap o' cloth wi' a good bit o' wear in it yet wilnae evar go amiss-"

"Yes, I see," I smile indulgently at Willie, "Thank the young man, Fergus."

"Merci beaucoup, monsieur," Fergus says politely, going over to take one of the packages.

I get up and do the same.

"Let's take a break and go put these away, shall we? You can come back and finish your wreath when we're done. Yes?"

Fergus peeks beneath one corner of the wrapping, clearly pleased to have received something, "Oui. Let us go."

Our walk is very cold and grey outside, but nicely warm and cheerful indoors - the hallways noticeably growing more and more bright and decorated the closer the approach of Yule. There is even a string of twinkle lights above the lizard tanks in Fergus's room, and the quilts and pillowcases have taken on a decidedly festive aspect. As he happily unloads his new clothes into his drawer in the large dresser against the far wall, I more closely inspect his particular quilt. The background is pale green, and it is covered in a pattern of red berries, pine cones, and birds of a most improbable blue. The pillowcase matches, except that the open edge is trimmed in bright blue satin. I see a corner of it is flipped up, and I stoop to pull it straight, when I notice a rather knobbly bag concealed under the pillow.

"Fergus?" I ask, pulling out a very lumpy canvas sack, "What's this?"

He looks up, and a wild expression of terror crosses his face. He makes to dart forward, reaching out his good hand as though to grab the bag, but it ends up as only a twitch, as he restrains himself.

"I. . . I did not steal it!" he says desperately, "I promise, Madame. None of it. It was all given to me!"

"But, what is it, Fergus?" I ask, gently, sitting down on his bed and holding the bag out to him, letting him decide how to proceed.

Slowly, with several unwilling jerks, he takes the bag and sits down next to me. Then, he upends the sack onto the quilt. Out tumble several apples, half a dozen bread rolls, two or three half-eaten sandwiches, half a jar of applesauce, and two small lumps of cheese.

I gape at the food, then look over as Fergus's suddenly hanging head. He is blinking hard, and trying unsuccessfully to hide his need to sniff.

"I. . ." he stammers, "I cannot. . . that is, I do not. . . I mean. . ." he trails off, and the tremble in his voice tells me he is on the edge of breaking down into tears completely.

I scoop the food back into the bag, take his hand, say, flatly, "Right then. I need to show you something, my lad."

I march him directly to my rooms, and to the bottom drawer of the dresser near my bed. I set his bag of food down on the floor, and sit cross-legged next to it. I gesture at the drawer. "Go ahead. Open it," I say, quietly.

He does, very slowly, and as he does, his jaw drops.

"You?. . . Maman. . . you. . ." he turns damp eyes towards me, confusion, pain, and incredible understanding in them, "We?"

"Yes," I say, nodding at the rows of canned vegetables, packs of dried fruit and nuts, tins of crackers, sticks of preserved meat, bottles of water, and bar after bar of chocolate that fill my drawer, "We both know what it is like to be hungry, Fergus Claudel Fraser. And we both need the comfort that having a store of food can bring. But this," I hold up his little sack, "Isn't a very good stash. Almost everything in it can and will go bad just a day or two from now. And even if the bread doesn't mold, it will go incredibly stale." I pour it out again, and hand him the empty bag, "Not a bad go at it, though – especially on your own. But we can do better. So. Fill it up, now." I pat the drawer full of food, "And make sure you take a water bottle – clean water is even more important than nutrition – trust me, I know."

Fergus smiles hesitantly, and, furiously blinking back tears, dips his hand into my stash again and again, not stopping until his little sack is bulging with snacks - and one very lonely water bottle.

"Good," I say, pleased, "Now, where do you want to keep it? In your room, Jamie's rooms, or my rooms? Or, do you want to carry it with you?"

He lays a hand tenderly on the overflowing little bag, "You. . . understand. . ."

I grab my homemade shoulder-sack off my desk and open it to show him. Inside are three water bottles, a whole roll of paper towels, and at least two of each of everything else from the drawer. "Yes. I understand. Sometimes you can't leave it. You don't feel safe unless you can feel the weight of it. Sometimes you even have to sleep next to it. Oh yes. I understand."

All my hungry months on the Rim come rushing back to me.

War is terrible. But starving is worse. And it leaves scars most people just can't see. . .

"You. . ." Fergus looks up at me, "You aren't upset?"

"Upset? Darling, I'll never be upset at you – not about this. I understand. I really really do." A random memory flips in my brain, "And I'll explain everything to Jamie. And Mrs. Fitz too, if you want. They won't ever tell you that you can't eat again, I promise."

He blinks hard once or twice, then breaks down into tears at last. I gather him to me, my heart breaking and exulting all at once.

This child.

This child. . .

Slowly, his crying eases. I hand him a tissue, and send him into the bathroom to rinse his face and blow his nose. He comes back out looking fresh, and only slightly red-eyed.

"You'll do," I say, brightly, "Here, hold this." I hand him my shoulder-sack, which I've emptied in his absence, and hold it open. Then I put in his food bag, another water bottle, a small pack of sanitation wipes, and two extra bars of chocolate. I pull the drawstring closed, and loop the bag over his shoulders. "There you are. Perfect."

He clutches at the shoulder strap, "Are you sure, maman?"

"Of course. I can make another one, easy as winking. You take that one – you need it more, right now."

He looks up at me, still unsure.

"Do you know what my physics professor told me once?"

"Non."

"Well, he shouldn't ever have been a physics professor – he wanted to be a poet, and he was much better at that than he was at science – but he did have a very compelling way of putting things during lectures. One time he was trying to explain the space-time continuum, and he said that the present was a swiftly moving point, where past and future meet."

Fergus wrinkles up his forehead in confusion.

"That means, you see, that everything happens because it's meant to happen, in some way. We're just points – points of light, maybe – we do get a say in what happens, and how things go, but you can't worry about the past, and you can't worry over the future, because the present is all you can control. So make it the best present you can. Understand now?"

He thinks a minute, then nods.

"Thank you," he says, quietly.

"You're very welcome, my lad." I kiss the top of his head. "Now, go finish your wreath. I'll be back in the Manager's barn in a few minutes, alright?"

"Alright," he nods and goes, slower than I'd like, but with his natural cheerfulness at least starting to show itself again.

When he is gone, I close my eyes, and give a very deep, very long sigh. Then I open the drawer above my food stash, and put in all the things I took out of the shoulder sack. I put Fergus's stash into a plastic bag I saved from last week's shopping trip. I'll take it into the kitchens before I go back out to the barn, and give it to Mrs. Fitz – maybe I'll explain a few things to her at the same time. . .

I'm about to close the drawer when the other things in this one catch my eye. My green cloak and bag of raw wool from my night on Craigh na Dun are folded atop the long white shift and thin leather shoes that Murtagh found me in. I pull out the white linen dress, and hold it up. Mrs. Fitz and the laundry here did a sterling job on it – the mud, grass, grease and coolant stains are near totally invisible. I sigh again a little bit, and fold it up to put it away. As I do, I take another look at the leather slippers and notice, as if for the first time, that they are held closed with a thin leather lacing, looped around a large wooden bead.

I blink.

A wooden bead. From 2278. On Cold Island 12.

A wooden bead. . .

Suddenly, my lungs don't work.

My hands shaking, I pick up the leather slippers, and go straight back out to the Manager's barn. I can talk to Mrs. Fitz later - this. . . this. . .

This. . .thisness, needs to be settled now. Once and for all. If possible.

Once back in the lab, I go over to the GSI machine, and remove the sample of Fraser fir and English beech hybrid from the scanning slot. With professional calm, I cut a piece off the side of one of the beads from the slippers, and put it through the solvent and extraction processes. The DNA yield is small, and not of particularly good quality, but the machine tells me it's good enough. 92% accuracy for species, 89% accuracy for line-bred traits.

I try not to hold my breath as it performs a full analytical scan. I order a printout the second it beeps that it's done, not even bothering to look at the screen.

I take the handful of papers back to my seat at the lab counter. I don't look too long at the predictive image – I know it's going to look like Fraser's Beech – feverishly, I flip though the analytics, skipping most of the charts and data write-ups, until I find the indicator sequence graph.

Sure enough, there are five little mountains at a point where there should be nothing but a flat, angled line.

The signature that every farming tech on Skycity 15 put on their work, so it would breed true throughout the plant's generations. It's in the right spot on the chromosome, the heights of the peaks are right, and in the right order for the signature I was assigned.

And, last week, I put my signature on Fraser's Beech. It wouldn't have occurred to me not to.

I put the papers down, and pick up the slipper with the still complete wooden bead.

So. It's true.

I designed the tree that Cold Island 12 has been farming for centuries. I designed it here – now. In the past. Except – not this past. Another past.

It's impossible, but it's true.

I'm not only in the past - I've been in the past before.

And I can't remember a thing about it. . .