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Invercharing Community, 2063
Dimmed skies had started two months ago, after the resounding blast that signified the eruption. Rory raised his face to the breeze blowing off Bheinn Fionn and gazed at the granite spine jutting through the grass-covered mountainside and leading off to the distance. He pointed to the elongated, fluffy clouds that skimmed along the grey rock.
“Those clouds are like the longboats of the Vikings,” he whispered to Siobhan.
They stood together, along with the whole Invercharing Community, at the cemetery on the back hill, for the burial of Rebecca Hamilton. He dropped his gaze to the freshly filled grave at his feet.
“Maybe Bec’s soul will rise up to that longboat and sail away to meet your Uncle Brendan,” Siobhan suggested.
Rory looked above the Viking boat cloud, to the thick ash-cloak covering their dome of sky, deepening the grey hue of the familiar clouds. The wind blew his loose hair across his face, leaving strands stuck to his tears. Siobhan’s cool, small hand slipped into his.
“The generation that established the Invercharing Community are steadily leaving this world,” he placed his other hand loosely over Siobhan’s. “Leaving ours to deal with the concerns of this life.” A wisp of jealousy gusted through Rory’s thoughts. “They are now free.”
Siobhan’s grip tightened in his. Rory’s moments of panic at her attempt to leave a couple of months ago had subsided and he put her uncharacteristic behaviour of that night down to her pregnancy hormones. They had promised each other they would ‘work at it’. He looked down at her upturned face. The corners of his mouth pulled, fighting with the flatness of grief.
“What?” Siobhan frowned.
“One out. One in.” He shrugged.
“Yes, it usually goes that way.” She turned away and tugged him after her and they descended the steep hill. The icy wind chilled Rory’s cheeks.
“Winter’s here.” Rory drew Siobhan to his side, and they hiked down the hill with the other mourners. “We must make sure we have a grand Christmas this year, a special celebration despite those who’ll be missing.” He summoned thoughts of winter festivities to chase away the ache.
Christine and Kendra walked ahead of them, arms wrapped around each other. At the base of the hill, just before entering the compound’s fence, Christine turned to them.
“Siobhan, I’ve been thinking over yesterday’s ante-natal exam.” Christine looked from Siobhan to Rory, then her lips tweaked half a grimace. “I’ll need to speak with you both at your earliest convenience.”
“Earliest convenience?” Rory’s heart staggered a wee bit. “This is soundin’ official. What’s going on?”
Too many things had gone wrong recently.
“I...I just need to talk to you both.” Christine rubbed at her ear and then turned back to Kendra, and they made their way through into the compound’s back building.
“It’s okay.” Siobhan tugged him forward. “We can see her after the wake.” She smiled but it was a hesitant one.
“You know about this?”
She faced ahead and resumed walking.
He stopped and planted his feet. “Tell me.”
Siobhan’s stride continued and stretched the arm of her hand held in his. She turned. “Not here, Rory.”
He pulled Siobhan along in silence all the way to their quarters. “Okay,” he said when he’d closed the door.
“I’m not sure.”
“You are. Dinnae lie to me.” He leaned down to catch her gaze focused on the floor. “It’s something you found out in the future, isn’t it?”
“I’m not lying about anything”—she lifted her head—“so, I would appreciate you never accusing me of that.” Her eyes had a fire in them, and a hint of worry. “Murray told me I had trouble with this pregnancy. Christine’s probably just about to inform us.”
“What sort o’ trouble?” A churn formed deep in his guts.
She shrugged.
“We’ll go see Christine now.” He opened the door.
“Now? But people are gathering for the wake.”
“It’s something serious and I want tae know.”
“What makes you think it’s serious?”
“You do.” He stood with the door half open. Her pupils were wide, and her hand trembled ever-so-slightly. “I ken you. Something’s wrong and I need to know what.”
Siobhan hung her head and sighed. “I’ll let Christine confirm it.” She looked up at him then. “I could be wrong.”
“How?” He almost snapped but held it in check. “You’ve been to the future. Ye ken things.”
“But we’ve changed it. We’re doing things we hadn’t done in the past of that future I went to.”
“Aye, you’re right. How much have we changed?”
“Hopefully enough.” Her mouth pulled to the side.
Heavy footsteps trod toward them along the corridor.
“Rory?” It was George.
“Aye?” Rory tore his eyes away from Siobhan, who looked relieved at the interruption.
“We’ve been invited to Christmas at the Bunker.”
***
Scottish Government Bunker, Edinburgh
THE LIFT DOORS OPENED onto the floor situating the cells. Bethany strode out and acknowledged the guard standing to attention.
“Ensure we are not disturbed, please.” She held out her hand to the guard at the inner door to the single cell area, which held the one and only high-profile prisoner. “That will be all, thank you.”
The young man handed her the keys, flicked a knowing look across to the prisoner, and left the room. Bethany shut the door behind him and locked the separate cell area.
“Good news, I hope?” Antony said from his desk. “Many acceptances to our little soiree at Christmas?”
She opened the door to his cell and stepped in. Weights and a bench-press ran along the far wall next to his desk, which was covered in papers. Mein Kampf lay open next to Churchill’s Memoirs of the Second World War.
“On the whole, the invitation to spend Christmas with the New Scottish Government has been well received. Please don’t be flippant, Antony. We have important things to discuss, such as the darkening skies after the earth tremor, which our scientists have now confirmed coincided with Vesuvius erupting.”
“Wow!” Antony’s eyebrows lifted into his closely cropped hairline.
“They have positive intel from our friends in Southern Italy—what’s left of it.” She took a slow pace closer. “You know the delegates will stay for a day or two? Some of them will have come a long way.”
“Hmm, that turncoat, Siobhan no-longer Kensington-Wallace, and her wild-boy of a husband will have almost a week’s travel to get here.” Antony stood from his desk. “I suppose you’ll have to suffer them for a while.”
Bethany curled a brow, ignoring the obvious hatred behind Antony’s words.
“Other Community leaders have accepted. There’s the relatives of Mr Campbell who live in the Glencoe Community and a weird old woman who runs a Community in a castle, which used to belong to the National Trust of Scotland, of all things.”
“Oh aye, near Loch Tummel,” Antony scoffed. “I’ve heard they turned the mock army into a real one.”
“Don’t knock it,” Bethany said. “We may need them.”
“What about the bandit leader MacIntosh spoke to on the side while he was at Invercharing? I can’t recall his name.”
“Micah McNair?” Bethany offered. “He’s now married to Mr Campbell’s younger sister.”
“Really?” Antony’s eyes narrowed. “I wonder if he’s shared that piece of his past with his wife.”
Antony stood a breath away from Bethany.
Prison was good for him, improved his focus, and, due to his good behaviour, he’d been given permission for walks in the upper compound.
“Derrick Lloyd, the self-proclaimed King of Fife, has accepted.” Her gaze slipped to the close-fitting prison shirt he wore.
“Now it’s my turn to say ‘don’t mock’.” Antony’s own eyes searched her blouse. “An alliance with such a powerful man would be an advantage to the New Scottish Government. A capitalist entrepreneur is more like it. Bring back the good old days, hey?” The spicy scent of aftershave from the 1980s, purloined from the stores, no doubt, wafted across Bethany’s face while Antony spoke, his hands gesticulating with every word. “Not the self-sufficient, self-governed, organised, militia-loving Communities—”
Bethany rolled her eyes. “Yes, I know you hate them.”
“Then you also know we don’t need people like that. They won’t co-operate with us, Beth. They live an existence that doesn’t require a central government. For us to survive, they must be disbanded. And can you see the Campbell boy doing that?”
“Siobhan claims he’s loyal to us. He told me himself that Communities are all for Scotland and he strikes me as the kind of man who would fight for—”
“Whatever benefits his own agenda!”
Bethany shook her head wordlessly. Antony’s deep brown eyes locked with hers, his expression changing from serious to smouldering intensity, sending her pulse up a notch.
“Enough of that.” His voice was softer, and he pulled her to himself.
“We should plan our approach for the Christmas conference, Antony.”
“Later,” he said.
All thoughts of strategy flew from her mind, chased away by the ministrations of Antony’s mouth, tongue, hands and ...the rest of him.