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Invercharing Community, 2063
Jake was asleep at last. Siobhan slipped his bedroom door closed with a quiet click. The boy adored his father and fussed when Rory wasn’t home when it was bedtime. Since the words they’d had after the election, it had occurred more often. Siobhan snorted.
Words.
That was their first full-blown argument, but it had been brewing for a while.
It was so difficult—being married.
Siobhan rested her forehead on the bedroom door and twirled her wedding ring around her finger. Things had altered. The closeness of being newly married had gradually given way to a business-like relationship. The organisation and logistics for growing and storing food had occupied Rory’s time and taken most of his energy. Not to mention his continued oversight of the militia.
When she wasn’t negotiating with black marketeers and ensuring accurate records of all the items stored, she spent her energy on their young son. Her soul warmed with her love for her boy. Jake was a precious treasure. More so, because all the medical texts had stated that, at her age, there was a high possibility that she was near menopause. Yet she had conceived Jake the first time she and Rory had made love—in the future. A tingle passed through her body at the recollection.
Siobhan stood taller and fiddled with the embroidered name-plaque Rory’s sister Kelly had made for little Jake.
In their first year of marriage, they’d visited the nearest Communities and discussed with them the pros and cons of coming under the New Scottish Government’s banner. Rory took her to the Glencoe Community to visit his youngest sister, Kelly, and her husband, Alistair, who were both now in their fifties.
It had taken Rory from his responsibilities for the few weeks they were away. On their return, Siobhan had heard quiet comments regarding Rory’s neglect of the important things at home. She’d sensed disapproval in the reserved conversations of the older members of the Community. She’d stifled her initial defensive reactions, but the sting was still there.
The tour was a success at first, as the Communities were open to discussion, but with reservations, for they all wished to maintain their autonomy. Siobhan didn’t blame them. The Government had promised protection and co-operation, but their recent actions—talk of re-instituting taxes, delineating boundaries in preparation for elections, and murmurings of enlistment to the Scottish Defence Force—revealed an innate self-interest, signifying to those who ran the Communities that the New Scottish Government’s needs would always come first. Hesitation on the Communities’ part had led to a cooling of discussions.
With the strengthening of the relationship with the New Scottish Government placed on hold, Rory’s entire focus was on surviving the famine that lay ahead.
The front door opened and clicked shut behind Rory as he leaned his rifle next to the doorjamb. He stepped to her with a tired smile and a crease making its way to permanency on his brow.
“Go sit on the couch,” she said. “I’ll get you some tea while I check if your dinner is still warm.”
“Aye, I’d like that.” His soft voice and blue eyes were close to her face, melting away the simmer her musings had just stirred.
Rory dropped himself onto the couch while she put the pot of water over the hotplate on the solid fuel stove and examined his meal keeping warm on the warm-side of the stove. She and Jake had eaten dinner two hours ago.
Rory rested his head in his hands, then passed his fingers through his long hair, catching his grey streak. She came behind him and massaged his neck and shoulders; they were hard as concrete.
She made a pot of tea and carried it to the coffee table with two mugs. Siobhan poured the tea and passed him the strongest mug. He drank and soon placed the mug on the table. Their home was now quiet, the passing bustle of those coming home from the late autumn harvests had ceased with sunset. She placed Rory’s meal and cutlery next to the mugs. Rory stared at the dried stew, making no attempt to pick up the fork. He hadn’t spoken a word since plonking himself on the couch.
“What’s up, Rory?” Siobhan adjusted the blue cushion beside him and eased herself back.
“The Council believes, and so do I, that we should get the Time Machine back.” Rory’s mouth pulled to the side. “The Government still have nae got it to work, after all this time.” He leaned closer to her. “Or so they think.” He raised his brow and looked into her eyes. “And it’s about time ma wee brother came here to be with us. It’s over two years now and that’s long enough to be away from home. They cannae have the Time Machine any longer, Siobhan. What if they accidentally make it work, like you did? Then they’d be all out to change the past. I just know it. How could anyone stop that Crash?”
He picked up his mug and sipped his tea again, staring ahead.
“Where would you begin, anyway?” Rory’s cynicism hung in the room. “Stop them printing extra bank notes after the 2008 Crash? Or before that, stop the greedy banks from issuing loans to anyone, making possible the dream of owning your own home at the expense of the reality of not being able to afford it? Or the connectedness of that modern world. How would you change that? When one country’s economy was so tied into another’s, when one failed, they all fell like dominoes?” He sighed. “May as well return to the beginning of time and try to change human nature.” He looked at her from over the rim of his mug. “Aye, they taught us history, too.”
Siobhan took another sip of her tea, pushing down the annoyance swirling in her chest. The quiet was loud.
“What’s wrong, Siobhan?”
“Nothing,” she answered briskly, fighting at the swirl, which now included irritation at her inability to hide what she was feeling.
“Och, there is.” Rory thudded his mug on the table. “You’ve been on quiet-fume since I got home.”
“I’m fine, thank you.” She didn’t stifle the peeve in her tone. “Your son settled, eventually.”
“I’m sorry I’m home late again.” He placed a large warm hand over hers, which scrunched the handful of skirt she held.
“I only get to see you if we happen to be working at the same storage barn.” The swirl pushed the words out. “Your son can go for days without getting more than you sitting by his cot watching him sleep because you’re home so late. He’ll grow up not knowing who you are.”
“He kens me!”
“No,” she let the reprimand stay in her tone. “I mean, really know who you are.”
“I’m sorry, lass, but things are ramping up. That volcano’s sure to blow soon and we have to be ready.”
“Yes, and your son, who is growing up in this world, needs to know what being a man is all about. And I want him to learn it from you.”
Rory’s narrow gaze rested on her. “Is that all that’s bothering you?”
Siobhan swallowed through a tight throat. She stood and walked to the sink with her dirty mug, blinking back tears.
“Are you no’ happy, Siobhan?” Disappointment laced his tone. “Do you wish to go back to the Bunker?”
“No.” She spun from the sink. “I want to be here with you. With you.” Her breathing stuttered.
“But you are—”
“Rory, you must make us a priority,” she said. He opened his mouth to reply. “Yes, you’re the leader. You have a team and you must allocate the work evenly. Your brother manages to have time with Mandy and their children.” Her tone rose a pitch. “Let others do more, Rory. We need you...” Her voice cracked.
“Siobhan. Lass. I’m sorry.” Rory stood. “But you ken what the—”
“Yes, I do ken what the world’s about to experience! I’ve seen the results of it. I’ve been there! And we are doing all this so we can have a life. But, Rory, we want—I want—that life to be with you. And not just in snippets.” She snapped her fingers in the air beside her.
Rory straightened. His shoulders rose as he inhaled. “Och, Siobhan, I’m sorry. I’ll do ma best to balance it out a wee bit better, aye?”
“Rory Campbell, it’s not all down to you. There are people willing and able. You don’t have to do everything yourself.”
Rory rubbed his neck and worked his jaw. “Och, you dinnae ken all that needs to be done out there.” His nostrils flared.
“Probably not, because they won’t trust me! Well,” she lowered her voice, “your close friends do. The general Community don’t want me in a leadership role.”
Rory’s glare landed on her for a second before he stormed past the coffee table, his knees bumping into it. The unused cutlery clattered off the table as he strode to the door. Siobhan flinched.
“Where are you going?”
“I need some air.” His gruff reply was barely audible over the slam of the door.
***
RORY CURSED UNDER HIS breath. Slamming that door would wake up wee Jake but the suffocating emotions had started again. He strode outside, then allowed himself to stomp his way out to the front of the compound.
The sentry at the heavy iron gate gave him a respectful nod. He returned a curt one and walked beside the fence and up the east side where he stood, hands on hips and gulped in the chilled night air, then lifted his face to the night sky and let it out.
They said you couldn’t please everyone.
Well, they knew what they were talking about.
“How can I be a leader and a husband and father?” he whispered to the Highland night.
There were only so many hours in a day. Only so much one man could do in a lifetime.
What if that lifetime is in a period of history when dire events are about to happen, and that man knows it because his wife has been to the future?
“How many history books have the answer to that one!” he spoke a little louder this time. He glanced at the tower. The sentries were too far away; they wouldn’t hear him.
The sky was a deep midnight blue, like Siobhan’s eyes in dimmed lighting.
Man, I love her.
And he’d failed her. His chest tore at the thought. His ache became heated; his fists curled and the tightness in his shoulders reached his temples.
To his right, the dogs barked, and yells echoed through the cool air. They came from the sentry post further down near the entrance to their glen where the fields of crops and stock were guarded.
Rory ran to the gate. “What is it?” he called to the lookout.
“Looks like a group of bandits, sir.” The guard on watch held the battered pair of night vision glasses to his eyes. “Attacking the sentries up front. They’ve let the animals loose, Mr Campbell, sir.”
Damn.