Content Warning – Transphobia, misgendering, deadnaming
Command And Control
It is very strange to have my first official steps on English soil happen in a small town in the middle of the Scottish Highlands, two hundred years before I was born.
It is even stranger when I realize that the full-blooded Scot beside me is now technically the sassenach, and I am, technically, home.
Anywhere can be home if you declare it to be, Beauchamp. Focus!
Lieutenant Randall leads us up into town, into a small but very well-stocked pub, and up the stairs to a beautifully well-appointed dining room. Four Peace Agents are sitting there, at one end of a long table. A fifth man, who is clearly their leader – even without the extra two silver bars on the cuffs and lapel of his dark blue uniform, it would be clear he is in charge here – or at least thinks he is – is standing a little to the side, looking out of a nearby window.
"Ah. Here we are," he says, turning and nodding graciously, "Thank you Randall. Have a seat. And some tea, if you wish."
The lieutenant salutes smartly, "No thank you sir. I just went on duty, sir. I'll stand guard outside this room, if it's all the same to you."
"Just as you wish, my boy," the head man says, waving an imperious hand. When the door has closed behind Randall, he comes over, and bows very shortly to us both, "Commander Thomas is my name, and I would like to welcome you formally to Brockton."
I bow as well as I can, and Dougal gives a very brief, cold nod.
"And if the checkpoint queue is correct, you must be Candidate MacKenzie, am I right?"
Dougal raps out something in the Gàidhlig I can only half translate. And that half. . .
I desperately try not to snort with laughter, and only mostly succeed.
Commander Thomas looks at me, half bewildered, and unsure if he ought to be offended, "Didn't catch a word. Did you understand him, m'lady?"
"Well. . ." I cough, and vigorously stamp down a wild need to smirk, "I'm not very conversant in the Gàidhlig either, but I think he was complimenting your. . . jam."
To give this weight, I give a quick sideways look to the table laid out for breakfast. I don't dare look at Dougal.
"Ah. Really," the commander still looks unsure, but shrugs it off, "Everything I hear from these Highland candidates is always in that unpronounceable lingo of theirs. Can this fellow even speak proper English?"
I blink a moment, totally shocked. He's speaking to me as if Dougal doesn't exist, and isn't standing right here.
But my Central blood is up, and this man is starting to annoy me.
A bit more than starting to, in fact. . .
"Well, that does rather depend on what is meant by "proper", now, doesn't it?" I say sweetly, but with a hidden barb in my voice, "Put someone from Cornwall in York, or vise-versa, and ask them to find someone who speaks properly. You might get some surprising results."
"Oh dialects!" he sniffs, long and sharply, "That is different, of course. That's just a matter of education. Most people speak three entirely unique languages up here and still can't seem to manage a decent formal English."
"Oh yes," I say, keeping my face and voice rigourously impassive, "That is quite a commentary upon the efficiency of the Scottish education system."
He blinks a little, but decides to take that how he wants to take it, "Yes. Well." He sits down at the head of the table, and opens a slim folder, "The official MacKenzie travel campaign roster lists you as one Mrs. Claire Beauchamp, is that correct?"
"It is."
"And you are here as an official Guest of Clan MacKenzie, with a regular English ID, and no special permits?"
"I am."
He scans a few papers, impassively, "And are you aware, Mrs. Beauchamp, that all immigrants, foreign nationals, migrant workers, undocumented residents, out-of-country tourists and residential exchange students have been removed from the Scottish economy for the duration of the Transitional Period?"
He looks over at Dougal and me, his gaze almost disgustingly clinical.
"I am, sir. I am also aware that certain exceptions have been made for Clans, and official Guests of Scottish Clans."
"Indeed. A rather specific necessity that becomes something of an open question when the official Guest is not currently residing within that specific Clan's territory."
His voice has remained light and conversational this whole time, but the threat in it is very evident now, if it wasn't before.
I smile thinly, "The question becomes somewhat more closed when the fact is remembered that the Peace Agents' jurisdiction does not extend to officially registered clanlands."
"Just so, just so," he nods, "And as an officer of the law, I am required to warn you to remember this, and henceforward, to remain upon officially registered clanlands, or the question will be re-opened. I trust I make myself plain?"
"You do, sir," I gesture towards the door, "Shall we remove ourselves at once, then?"
"Oh no," he smiles now, with undisguised condescension, "There is no need for anyone to rush. Not at this hour of the morning." He rings a small hand bell that sits near his empty plate, "I fear there is only one extra serving available for breakfast up here, however, so one of you will have to find refreshment in the taproom – at my own expense, of course."
"Of course," I agree, and turn to leave, but Dougal stops me, pressing the edge of his hand against my arm.
"T'ere's nae sae gud a' wee drap parritch i' t'morn, aye? Wi' t'gud Scots ale b'side. Slàinte mhath."
With an exaggerated nod at the commander, and a barely perceptible one at me, Dougal makes his extremely dignified way back down to the pub.
"That means-" I start.
"Oh, I understood most of that speech, thank you," says Commander Thomas, "After years of this, most of the time, when they speak English I can understand it, no matter how mangled it is. Do sit in, Mrs. Beauchamp." He stands, and gestures for me to sit at the head of the table.
More than a little reluctantly, I do.
A few moments later, servers enter the room, in response to the bell. They distribute bowls of a richly red stew, and glasses of sparkling wine, then go away again. Commander Thomas makes his men move over, and sits at the place next to me. I look down into my bowl, and sniff delicately. Mrs. Fitz made something like this for supper once, not too long ago. . .
"Borscht? An unconventional choice for the morning, isn't it?"
He picks up his spoon, "It would seem so, until you realize that it is practically impossible to get anything but oat porridge for breakfast in places like this, and the stuff palls after a week or so, let alone months or years. And the only other things they seem to grow around here with any consistency are root vegetables and beef. Oh, and just enough grain to make an unending stream of whisky so strong it hardly matters what you eat, you can't taste it anyway. Thank heavens they haven't embargoed the imported wines. Yet." He takes a long drink from his glass, "I hunted the wild boar in the stew myself, you may be interested to hear."
I take a bite. It's nowhere near as good as anything made in Mrs. Fitz' kitchen, but it's perfectly passable nevertheless, "Oh? I thought wild boar were nearly extinct."
"Not extinct enough, dear lady. Dangerous animals, we're better off without them."
"Or they are better off within us, you mean?"
"Ah," he laughs lightly, "A clever woman, how refreshing. Oh, I meant to ask while that uncouth brute was here – does he know you have applied for Scottish citizenship?"
Huh. How does he know about that? I manage to finish chewing and swallowing my bite of stew with barely a hitch, "I don't know. Probably. Why?"
He pulls a cutting of the Red Sorcha article out of his folder, "Well, it puts a different spin on this, wouldn't you say, if you are in fact, not English at all, but a wandering, homeless Scot, awaiting repatriation?"
"No, I don't think so."
"Oh? And why not?"
Strange. I have no idea where he's going with this. . .
"Because I'd have said anything in that article. Anything to get attention. That just happened to be what the interviewer wanted to talk about."
"But you are Scottish?"
"By blood, partially, yes. But not by birth. The same as the royal family."
He shrugs, "That I'll grant you. But why even speak to the news agents at all? An educated Englishwoman like you? Why sell out to a cheap political interviewer working the backwaters of this campaign?"
I smile a little, marveling at just how much has changed in only a few days. Quickly, I construct a story that's far easier for me to explain, and that this man will probably accept.
"Well, you see, the sad fact is, that "uncouth brute", as you call him, has had the unmitigated temerity to fall in love with me. Or in lust, at least."
He smirks, clearly enjoying my gossipy tone, and he leans in eagerly, "Somehow that doesn't surprise me. But go on."
"Well, I've told him to leave me alone, multiple times, but the man doesn't understand the word "no"."
"Of course not. How terrible."
"So the only way for me to fend him off is to fight fire with fire, as it were. The only thing he cares anything about is this campaign – well, power, I should say, but this campaign is his path to that, or so he thinks – and so every time he ignores my boundaries, I do something that negatively impacts his campaign. He treats me badly, I make his campaign go badly. Simple."
"I see. Fascinating."
I shrug, and take another bite of the beet stew, and take a sip of the wine. By the taste, it is genuine French champagne. Extremely good French champagne. I've only had it twice at Leoch, and neither time was it this good.
Top quality imported wine. . . at breakfast?
What. . .
How?
"Speaking of boundaries, and ignoring them – have you ever witnessed your party campaigning beyond said borders?"
Fortunately, I've anticipated this sort of question, so I'm not caught off guard.
I tilt my head a little, almost casually, "It wouldn't surprise me in the least."
"It would not surprise you. . . but you have no evidence of it?"
I chuckle, low and conspiratorially, "More evidence of my own eyes and mind than you could throw stones at. But nothing non-circumstantial."
"Nothing you could testify to in court, then?"
"Oh, I could testify, certainly. I simply doubt that it would very much signify."
"Mm," he nods, still gossipy and casual, "And so what does it signify that you have applied for Scottish citizenship?"
Ah. Right. My mind races, and a flips me a small lifeline, "Job security."
He sits back, the very picture of confusion. But his eyes are too sharp for it to be real.
"Job security?"
He doesn't take me in, but I follow through as if he has, "Yes. The Chieftain of Clan MacKenzie has given me a job. A good job. Which is more than anyone ever did for me in Oxford, let me tell you. But official Guests cannot be paid – not directly, not in the traditional sense – and so if I want to keep this job for any length of time, I have to show willing to commit. My citizenship, at least."
"But not your loyalty?"
"Pardon?"
"Your application for a change of citizenship is not a reflection of your changing loyalties?"
Ah. So that's where he's going with this.
I gather all my Central hauteur to me, and practically look down my nose at him, "Certainly not."
With an air of overly practiced grace, he takes up his glass of champagne, and nods to me, "In that case, would you lead us in a toast, Madame?"
It is perhaps the most childish and obvious of loyalty tests, but I do not see how it could hurt to comply. . .
I pick up my own glass, and lightly tap it against his. The four other men raise theirs as well.
Quite sincerely, I say, "God save the Queen!"
The commander's face freezes.
The other men at the table have been complete non-entities up until now. Nearly inert table decorations. But now they hastily put their glasses down, and all look intensely awkward.
Then Commander Thomas takes his napkin, and wipes slowly and deliberately around his mouth.
"Oxford, you said, Mrs. Beauchamp?"
"Yes," I say, not even trying to disguise my bewilderment.
"Well. Perhaps that explains it."
"Explains. . . what?"
"As a town of. . . avant-garde tendencies, and considering your. . . obvious. . ." he gestures vaguely, ". . . distinction. . . I must assume you have simply been. . . persuaded. Peer pressure is not an insignificant thing, after all. One must consider one's. . . environment."
I blink, very slowly. "I am certain one must."
"That being said. . ." he spreads his hands out on the tablecloth, almost as though he is about to deliver some sort of benediction, "I really cannot abide any such blasphemy against King Bennet."
Well, that's one I did not see coming. . .
". . . blasphemy?"
He raises one hand, "A King is a King by divine right, be he ill, deformed, afflicted or mad – and I will follow my King, no matter what delusions he has, or what rot lives in his soul, but I will not stand, for anyone, least of all a strange girl of uncertain virtue, to impugn his name and title in such a cavalier fashion!" He brings his hand back down on the table with a bang. The other four men jump at the sound.
I do not.
Who this man is, and what, is clear now. If I was slightly hesitant before, my uncertainty has vanished.
"My good sir," I say, folding my hands neatly, "By the divine right of kings, is it not customary for a monarch to choose the name by which they are called?"
A sour look replaces the touch of mad fervour he had in his eye, "Yes."
"Well then, whoever, and whatever, they were to begin with, is irrelevant. They have become Queen Victoria the Second – by her own choice and power, given to her by divine right. It is that choice, that power, and that right which I respect." I take a long drink of champagne, to calm my stomach, and perhaps let the atmosphere settle a touch. "And, by the same token," I say, as kindly as I can manage, "I am certain your unwavering loyalty is of unquestioned value to the crown."
Of such unquestioned value that he has been running a small secondary checkpoint station in the Scottish Highlands for four years. . .
He sneers a little, "Well, at least he found a good Queen. And their children seem normal. . ."
I smile indulgently, and raise my glass again, "In that case, long live Queen Judith!"
This seems to be an acceptable toast, at least, and a good deal of the tension leaves the room.
There is silence for several minutes, and we manage to finish our breakfast. The commander wipes his mouth one final time, then stand up and goes to the door. He holds it open and shouts, "Randall!" several times, very loudly. I wonder why he is being so noisy and insistent for a person who I thought was standing right next to the door, but then, I remember. . .
There are two. . .
Black Jack is not particularly impressive upon second sight. His blue coat is unbuttoned, his hair is a mess, and he has not yet shaved this morning. But, as he steps through the door to the dining room, the deep gold of the early morning sunlight streaming through the window gilds his white shirt a rich orange, almost crimson, and brightens his brown hair and hazel eyes into something resembling a bronze statue.
I catch my breath, not out of fear of Jack, but out of memory of Frank.
It is so eerie, to see him again like this. . .
The atmosphere has been tinged with evil all morning, but this is the first time I can practically taste it.
Alright, also out of fear of Jack.
Commander Thomas exchanges a few quiet words with him before they both approach the table again. Black Jack leans on the back of the commander's vacated chair, and it is his orders which come next, and his will which is unquestioningly obeyed.
"Thank you for your presence, gentlemen, but I wish to speak to Mistress Beauchamp now. Alone please."
He waves a slender, distinguished hand, so like Frank's used to be my heart hurts to see it on a person like Jack.
He looks directly at me for the first time, and smiles such a small, neat smile it is very nearly a bladed weapon, "We will not be very long. I do not think."
The commander and his men leave the room with such instant obedience I wonder, I very much wonder, what it is this man does to the people supposedly on his side.
I know some of what he does to his enemies, but what, oh, what does he do to his friends?
He sits down, and leans back in the chair, not speaking, and not even looking at me for while.
I notice a long, thin scar across his right cheek, and a minute deviation in the line of his nose.
I almost smile. Frank had neither of those features.
Frank was never hit in the face by Jamie Fraser. . .
At last, he looks at me, the full force of his personality altering his looks so greatly I can no longer see Frank in him. He holds my gaze, as a surgeon would a scalpel. When he speaks his voice is flat, but with an incredible undercurrent of tightly controlled violence. He is a bomb with a lit fuse, a chained beast, a caged madman. . .
He steeples his elegant fingers against each other, and says, very softly,
"Who is Frank?"