Hystorian File #1788034151

Not so long after its American colonies had risen up in revolt, the United Kingdom set its sights on a new “new world” — the faraway continent of Australia. In January of 1788, the ships of the First Fleet arrived in New South Wales, where the passengers would establish Australia’s first European colony.

But this was to be a very particular sort of colony: a penal colony. It was a way to relocate Britain’s criminals to a far-off land, where they would pay for their crimes through hard labor instead of prison terms or death.

More than half of the one thousand colonists of the First Fleet were convicts. But among them were also military men, who brought their wives and children with them.

Margaret was one such child. Leaving her comfortable life in London behind for the difficult and uncertain life of a pioneer, it seemed to Margaret as though the entire world had turned upside down.

But things would get worse before they got better.

MARGARET LOOKED over the Australian countryside and frowned. It was flat, wide, and brown, like a hotcake. The thought made her stomach growl. It had been only two weeks since she and the other families were allowed to step off the boats and onto the land they would call home: New South Wales, the first British colony of the new Southern Continent.

From her father’s excitement, Margaret had expected a garden world: blossoms reaching from the coast, as if begging to be smelled. Fruit hanging low from the trees, falling into her hand with the slightest brush of her fingers. There was greenery all around, for sure, but the plants had sharp edges that warned against touching. Hummock grasses grew like pillows made of green needles, and all the trees were a straight, tall variety her father called eucalyptus.

The great explorer Captain James Cook had called the area they first landed in Botany Bay. Margaret had thought it was such an inviting name. She wasn’t so sure now.

Margaret readjusted her cap. The day dress her mother insisted she wear was completely impractical for exploration. It was too warm outside for a cape, and the skirt got tangled in Margaret’s legs with almost every step. Not that her mother would be pleased to hear she was exploring. But Margaret tended to take her orders from her father anyway. He’d been the one to announce they were all leaving London for a voyage at sea, perhaps never to return. He’d been the one that wiped Margaret’s eyes when she cried over the loss of her friends, her teachers, and her home . . . her whole life. And it was he that told her to try and look at it like an adventure from one of the books she loved to read. So here she was. Adventuring.

Margaret hiked up her skirt and stepped up onto a wide flat stone jutting up from the earth. From there she hopped carefully to the ground and leaned against a nearby eucalyptus tree trunk. She looked back at the outline of the settlement behind her. She wouldn’t have much more time for exploring. She’d finished her embroidering for the day, but if she didn’t reappear to help her mother with supper preparation soon, there would be trouble.

The sky was huge and bright and cloudless that day, as it had been the day before, and nearly every day the previous two weeks. Margaret wondered if it ever rained here at all. This place was so different from London.

Sniff.

Margaret turned her head sharply at a sound. Without thinking, she crouched low and moved to hide behind the tree, as if she wouldn’t still stick out from the landscape like . . . well, like a girl in a poofy silk dress.

It wasn’t long before she spotted the source of the noise. About six meters away, a boy not much older than she was stood alone in the brush. Margaret watched curiously as the boy bent low, his attention on something that she couldn’t see tucked between two tufts of hummock grass. He was dark haired and dirty — obviously a laborer. The thought made Margaret nervous.

The settlers of New South Wales were different from those of usual colonies. There were men like her father, military officers who were loyal to the British crown, and marines and free settlers who’d come with skills helpful for building a community.

But the majority of their fleet was populated by convicts. These were men and women who had been given death sentences for their various crimes, only to have their sentences reduced from execution to transportation. That was the word her father used. It meant a life of servitude far away from the overcrowded city of London. Margaret’s father assured her that most of the convicts were not there for violent crimes — mostly thievery and political discord. No murderers were allowed to have their sentences reduced. Still, the thought of being alone in the open with a convict . . .

Margaret took a tentative step backward, hoping to sneak far enough away that she could then turn and run home. Her leg immediately became tangled in her dress, however. She tried grabbing out for the tree to balance herself, but with no branches to grab on to, her hand slid through the air and she fell backward, landing on her rear end with a loud “Whoop!” She’d fallen right onto the stone that she had stood on earlier, giving her fall the appearance of having just sat down on the rock for a comfortable rest.

Margaret heard the boy curse quietly, and watched as he peeked around the tree at her. When he saw her, his eyes widened. At first he seemed at a loss for what to do. That made two of them.

“Er, hello,” Margaret said.

The boy nodded, eyes still wide. “M-miss,” he said.

“I don’t suppose you could . . . help me up?” Margaret ventured. “My legs are tangled in this awful thing.”

The boy stood where he was for a long moment, seeming unsure how to proceed. Finally, he took a couple of nervous steps forward and extended his hand, standing as far away from Margaret as he could while still within arm’s reach. Margaret took his hand and used it to right herself, then quickly let go. The boy took a step backward as she dusted off her skirt.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’m Margaret.”

“John, miss. John Hudson.”

“How old are you, John?”

“I’m thirteen.”

Just a year older than herself! Margaret had heard that some of the convicts were young. There were even rumors among the few officers’ children of a girl convict who was only eleven. Margaret just couldn’t believe that.

John didn’t seem so scary, though. If anything, he appeared to be more nervous than she was. Margaret suddenly realized that convicts probably weren’t supposed to be out on their own like this. If John were caught, he might be brutally lashed as punishment. It made a scolding from her mother seem trivial.

“What were you doing over there?” Margaret asked, nodding to the hummock grass.

John’s eyes flashed with fear. He kept silent.

“Oh, I won’t tell anyone you were out here, if that’s what you’re worried about. You have my word,” Margaret said.

“Can’t . . . not supposed to tell,” he said.

“Oh, come on,” Margaret said. “I just promised I’d keep your secret.” She hiked up her skirt and began walking to the hummock. John practically fell out of her way as she brushed past him.

There, between the two tufts of grass, she found a small cross stuck into the dirt. The cross was made of two frayed bits of white-painted wood with a nail between them.

“Is this . . . a grave?” Margaret asked.

Behind her, John exhaled. “My master’s. Another convict on the ship. He died on the way. The marines said it was scurvy, but . . .”

Margaret turned to him. “But what?”

John’s face became firm. “He was poisoned. By an officer. I saw it.”

“Which officer?”

John shook his head. “Didn’t catch his name. But . . . he was from the SQ.”

Margaret’s mouth fell open. The SQ was the most powerful organization in the world, with branches throughout Europe, Africa, Asia . . . even the far-off Americas.

There had been two SQ agents stationed with the colony in New South Wales. One stayed with the officers and one monitored the convicts. The man who had been on her ship, an officer named Clements, gave her the shivers. He had a menacing stare and ate far too much food for his share, while even the marines’ families went hungry.

“Which ship was this on?” she asked.

“The Friendship,” John said, making a face like the word had a sour taste.

“You probably shouldn’t go around telling people all this,” Margaret admitted. “The SQ is dangerous.”

John nodded. “Yeah, I know.”

Margaret turned her attention back to the small, empty grave. If his master had died on the ship, his body would have been tossed overboard while they were at sea. Margaret had seen it done to the body of a sailor on her own vessel. The memory made her uneasy. She’d never seen a dead body before that day, but her father had told her that there could be many more to come, and asked her to be brave for him.

“You said this man was your master. What’s your trade, John?”

“Er . . . well, I was . . . a chimney sweep. Sometimes.”

Margaret looked up in surprise. She quirked an eyebrow and crossed her arms. “So he was a master chimney sweep, then?”

John’s face flushed. “No. I only just met him on the boat, but before he died he in-duct-ed me into his brotherhood, real enough. Said they’d need a man on the new continent. That’s why he got hisself arrested, he said. ’Cause it was the best way to get onto the First Fleet unnoticed by the SQ. So much for that.”

Margaret tried not to laugh. “What brotherhood is this,” she asked, “that gets themselves arrested and shipped off to nowhere, all to hide from the SQ?”

Margaret could see she was making John angry. His mouth became a hard line. “I can’t tell you,” he said. “My master made me swear I’d keep it a secret. But we’re going to save the world one day.”

“Save the world? From what?”

For a long moment John was quiet. Finally, he ventured a question. “You ever had a memory that wasn’t a memory? Like you was standing somewhere, not doing nothing, and suddenly you had a feeling that everything was wrong. That it should be different. Like maybe someone or something was missing?”

Margaret startled. She knew exactly the feeling John was describing. This talk was suddenly making her uncomfortable. “Something was missing? It sounds like you’re talking about a thieves’ guild. I suppose I should have guessed.”

Now it was John who crossed his arms. “You think you know all about me ’cause you’re rich and prob’ly went to some fancy London school, but you don’t know me. Let me tell you something, then. Most of us convicts are here ’cause we didn’t have nothing at all, and the only way to survive was to pinch a bit here and there. Some didn’t even do that. Or haven’t you heard that it’s a crime just to be poor in London anymore? We’re people like you, only without the dresses and silver and the warm meal to look forward to. But I’m a part of something bigger now, something good, and I don’t need you to believe me to make it real.”

“John —”

The boy spat and glared at her. “I’ll thank you for keeping my secret, miss, but I should be on my way now. If I’m caught out here with you, it’s me that’ll get the lash — not you.”

With that, John turned and stomped off, leaving Margaret alone and ashamed.

Margaret sat quietly at supper that night. She’d taken off the silk day dress, hoping to hide the stain of her fall from her mother, and now wore a more comfortable indoor skirt. On her plate was a meager portion of wild goose and bread, with a cup of tea beside it. Though Margaret thought of it as hardly enough food, she knew that John the convict boy was probably eating even less. If he had any supper at all. Lately, she’d been overhearing her father and mother whispering urgently about the food shortage. If they didn’t get a stable crop in the ground soon, and a bit of rain to water it, things would get very bad.

Margaret couldn’t stop thinking about something the boy had said, about memories that weren’t memories, and the feeling that something was missing. Ever since she was a girl, she had experienced moments that sounded eerily similar to this. Back in their home in London, Margaret would sometimes feel the strangest urge to enter one of the storage rooms. When she opened the door, she would catch an unusual smell: perfume, like the kind a young lady of London would wear. But her mother never wore perfumes. Sometimes she could even hear a voice in her own mind — like that of a young woman saying her name and calling her over. Then, just as quickly as they’d happened, the sensations would fade away, and Margaret would find herself alone in the dusty room, with the oddest feeling of longing for an older sister who didn’t exist.

“How is the construction going, dear?” Margaret’s mother asked, breaking her out of her thoughts.

Margaret’s father was overseeing the building of the first real structures for the colony. Among those structures would be a bigger home for their family than the wooden cottage they currently lived in.

“Oh, fine, fine,” said Margaret’s father. “I don’t think it will be much longer. The timber here is suitable for building. It’s the soil that’s the problem, and the lack of any real farmers.”

Margaret’s mother cast a nervous glance in her direction.

“It’s all right,” Margaret said. “I know all about the shortage. It’s a small colony.”

“In terms of gossip, perhaps,” said her father. “But when it comes to feeding all those chattering mouths, you find the numbers feel much larger.”

“Then why do the SQ officers get so much food?” Margaret asked. “All our meals today combined would only feed one of them for supper.”

Margaret’s mother set down her fork and stared hard at her daughter. “Margaret . . .” she said.

“The convicts are hungry. Some are even dying,” Margaret said matter-of-factly. “It just doesn’t seem fair.”

“They’re convicts, dear,” her mother said.

“Because they were starving in London, and had to steal to survive. Some are barely older than I am.”

“Well, Margaret,” her father said, “you aren’t wrong. But the good Governor Phillip is a kind man, who sees the plight of these poor souls. Believe me when I tell you that he feels for them, and will do everything he can to improve their lot here. The majority will be free men and women after they serve their seven-year sentences.”

“If they can survive that long, with Clements gobbling up all the food,” Margaret mumbled.

“Margaret, the SQ officers are very important men,” Margaret’s mother said, sounding more nervous than stern. “You must not speak unkindly toward them.”

“Your mother’s right, dearest,” her father said, an edge of worry in his voice, too.

“Sorry,” Margaret said, spearing a piece of goose with her fork. “I know. I’ll be good.”

As Margaret ate, there came the sound of voices from outside. Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. Margaret’s father stood and walked to it, opening it slightly.

“Oh, er, Clements, hello. I don’t even have my wig on. What can I do for you?”

Margaret felt the hairs on her arm stick straight out. Speak of the devil . . .

“Charles, I’m sorry to disturb your supper, but there’s been an incident. One of the convicts, a boy named John Hudson, has escaped tonight. We believe he may be trying to find refuge with the native population.”

“That is very troubling news indeed. You say the convict is a boy?”

“Thirteen years old,” Clements said. “Just barely older than your Margaret.”

Margaret didn’t like the way her name sounded coming from Clements. No matter how important he was, he still made her uneasy.

“Well, I hope the boy is all right,” her father said. “And that he’s brought back safely. But I don’t see what this has to do with me.”

“Well — and I’m sorry to have to tell you like this, Charles — I myself saw the boy speaking with Margaret just this afternoon. They were alone, out away from the settlement.”

Margaret’s mother let out a little gasp, and put her hand to her mouth in surprise.

Her father turned to look at her, his face white. “Is this true, Margaret?”

“Well,” she said sheepishly, “it was . . . sort of an accident. I was out for a walk and ran into him. We only spoke for a few moments, and then I came right back here.”

Clements stepped farther into the cabin, forcing Margaret’s father to step back out of his way. It was then that Margaret noticed the man wasn’t alone. Behind him entered another glowering figure, even taller and scarier than Clements. Margaret didn’t know him by name, but he was the second SQ officer — the one John had mentioned.

“You were aware,” Clements said, his attention on her, “that the boy was a dangerous convict out of sight of a supervisor?”

“He didn’t seem dangerous. I’d fallen, and John helped me up. He didn’t do anything wrong.”

“He escaped. And he was convicted of theft back in London, sentenced to be hanged. What could he possibly have been doing out there if not planning his escape?”

“He was just making a grave for his . . . friend.” Margaret realized by the sudden look of interest on Clements’s face that she’d said too much. Behind him, the second SQ officer gave a terrifying grin.

“What friend?” the man said. His voice was like a sack of potatoes being dragged over wooden floorboards.

“The saddest tale you ever heard,” Margaret said. “It was for another chimney sweep he knew in London. Such dangerous work . . .”

“Charles, I’m afraid that my colleague, Lynch, and I are going to have to speak with your daughter alone,” Clements said. Something about the way he said afraid made Margaret feel like she was the one who should be scared.

“Out of the question,” said Margaret’s father. “And besides, there’s nothing to be done tonight. Come back in the morning and we can —”

The man named Lynch let out a low growl, slamming his hand into the wall. A loud crack issued from it, as if something inside the wall had splintered from the blow.

“I’m afraid, Charles,” said Clements, “that it is very much in the question. Tonight. Official SQ business, you understand.”

“I” — Margaret’s father sent her a tortured look — “I understand. Just . . . darling, just go with Clements and tell him anything he wants to know. Be . . . be a good girl.”

“Oh, Margaret,” her mother said, standing and pulling her into her arms. Margaret’s mother kissed her on the forehead. “Just be honest. We’ll be waiting here for you.”

It happened that quickly. Suddenly, Margaret was wrenched outside. The night air was cool and dry, and the stars shone above her like witnesses to an execution. That was how Margaret felt. As Lynch pushed her forward and the three began walking toward the newly built SQ hall, it was as if she were being led to the gallows.

The SQ hall was the first full building to be erected in the settlement, and though only two officers occupied it, it would be the biggest building in the colony by far. It took six lamps to light the place, and Margaret noticed with worry that one whole wall was occupied by a line of iron prison cells.

Margaret sat uncomfortably on a stool in the center of the room. Lynch leaned against the front door, his large arms crossed and that sick smile spread across his face. Clements paced slowly around her, hands behind his back, his white wig gleaming in the lamplight.

“So, Margaret, I believe when we left off, you were telling us about the grave that the boy John Hudson was fashioning. Who was it for?”

“I believe, sir, that I’d already said it was for a chimney-sweep friend of his.”

“No, my dear girl, I don’t think that’s where you actually want to leave off. You see, that is an obvious lie, and if you lie to my friend Lynch here — even a little white lie — he gets incredibly angry. A temper like you wouldn’t believe, the poor sod.”

Margaret looked at the man leaning against the door. He grinned at her with a maniacal expression.

“I . . . am sorry, but that’s what I know,” she said, her voice wavering. “He didn’t give me a name. Just said it was a friend.”

“Perhaps I could tell you a story about what I think happened this afternoon, and you can let me know if I’m correct or not. Would that be easier?”

Margaret said nothing, but she turned her attention back to Clements.

“I think that you did indeed set out on a walk, and perhaps you did even fall, and the noble convict boy came to your rescue. Then you saw the grave, and your heart swelled with sympathy for him. Who could it have been for? you wondered.” He raised his eyebrows. “How am I doing so far?”

“That’s . . . all as I’ve told you, sir.”

“So it is. But this is where I think perhaps you became confused. You see, the story the boy told you took place aboard the Friendship. Aptly named, because that is where young Hudson made the acquaintance of one Patrick Delany. And Delany told the boy a curious story. He said that he was part of an order called the Hystorians, and that he was here as an envoy for them into this brave new world.”

Margaret’s head was spinning. The Hystorians? Was that the organization John had mentioned? The one he wouldn’t talk about?

“But, you see, the Hystorians don’t even exist. Delany was mostly insane by this point. Scurvy is a wretched way to go. He had become paranoid in his insanity. He imagined secret organizations and even a plot to kill him, all of which he relayed to John Hudson. The boy, being from a poor background and without any proper schooling, such as you and I have received, bought right into it. He believed the SQ really was after poor Delany, and when the man took ill and died, he decided that we were responsible. He even began to have paranoid thoughts of his own. That we were somehow after him.”

You are after him, Margaret thought. What had she gotten mixed up in? Half a world away from London, and everything had suddenly gone mad. Margaret had heard stories of people crossing the SQ and disappearing, but she thought they were exaggerations her friends told to scare her. Now she felt afraid for herself. If these men said that she disappeared on her way home, who would argue with them? No one argued with the SQ.

Clements’s story made no sense, of course. If these Hystorians were all a figment of the dead convict’s imagination, then how did Clements know them by name? He seemed to almost be daring her to contradict him. Normally, Margaret was happy to point out when an adult had made a mistake, but for once she decided not to.

She had sat quietly through the whole story, with her hands in her lap. Now that Clements had finished, he looked at her expectantly. Margaret decided her best chance of getting out of this would be to play dumb. Really dumb.

“I’m very sorry, sir, but I think I’m confused. What period of history did the dead convict study? I’m simply fascinated by the Greeks, myself.”

Clements looked back at Lynch, who shrugged and rolled his eyes.

“I doubt the boy I met would make a proper historian,” she continued. “I thought that they were all old men with long, gray beards.”

Clements leaned in toward Margaret until his face was level with hers. His breath was awful.

“Margaret, my dear, did the boy John Hudson mention anything about his plans for escaping?”

Margaret slowly shook her head. At least this much wasn’t a lie. “N-no, sir. He honestly did not.”

Clements held her eyes with a scrutinizing stare for an uncomfortable moment, then he finally rose.

“Very well,” he said. “You are free to go, then.”

Behind him, Lynch stepped aside from the door, but made no move to open it. Margaret could hardly believe it. The whole thing felt like a trap. Would they really let her go so easily?

She stayed where she was for a moment, until Clements coughed and nodded to the door. Margaret stood and walked slowly toward it, her shoes clicking loudly in the silence. When she reached the door, she looked up at Lynch, who lumbered over her like a giant eucalyptus. He scowled at her.

Margaret had to use both hands to open the latch, but finally the door swung open. She could feel and smell a gentle breeze wafting in from the sea.

“Oh, Margaret,” Clements said.

Her body tensed up. Margaret turned her head slowly. “Yes?” she asked as calmly as she could manage.

“You will tell us if you see or hear anything about the boy?”

“O-of course,” she said, turning back to the door.

“Margaret,” Clements said sharply.

Margaret jolted, and turned back around. Beside her, the hulking Lynch shifted his weight.

“Do be careful getting home,” he said. “This is a penal colony, after all, with dangerous felons all around. And your parents would be beside themselves if anything happened to you.”

“I . . . I will, sir, thank you.”

As soon as Margaret was around the corner she broke into a run. Lynch hadn’t closed the door behind her. She’d felt his shadow in the door frame watching her the whole way. She could hardly believe they let her go. Even now the whole thing felt like a trick. Perhaps she should have just told them what she knew about the boy.

No, Margaret chided herself. That would have just made things worse. If anything was made clear from her interrogation, it was that whoever the Hystorians were, the SQ was willing to do terrible things to them. Maybe even to anyone who knew about them.

The settlement was quiet except for the sound of Margaret’s shoes along the path. The convicts had a very strict curfew, punishable by lashings, so things tended to wind down much earlier than in London. Some lamps were still lit here and there, but Margaret’s main source of light was the moon, which was nearly full. Shadows stretched into odd shapes under the pale light, and Margaret stopped more than once to make sure a dark silhouette across her path wasn’t the shadow of an approaching figure.

It came as a surprise when one of them turned out to be just that.

Margaret was almost home. She could see the shape of her family’s cottage rising from the dark. Then, suddenly, a silhouette stepped in front of her, and Margaret let out a scream.

“Quiet!” said the silhouette. “You want to bring the whole colony down on me?”

Margaret recognized that voice. “John?” she said, straining to see him in the dark.

The boy nodded. “I saw the SQ coming before they got to my tent. Snuck away. Decided my best bet of not running into them was sticking close and keeping an eye on them. But then I saw them pick you up.”

“They know about your secret group, the Hystorians,” Margaret said. “They saw us talking today and thought I might know something about where you were. John, you have to get away from the colony tonight. It isn’t safe for you here.”

John cursed under his breath. Under normal circumstances, Margaret might have blushed at his language, but right now she just needed to get home.

“Listen,” she said, “perhaps the natives will take you in. My father says they are a kind, good people, and that the governor has met with them on multiple occasions. You should go to them right now. Clements is probably following me. He —”

“You are a very perceptive girl, Margaret,” a voice called from behind her. “Too perceptive to play dumb convincingly, I’m afraid.”

Margaret’s heart nearly leapt out of her throat. “No,” she whispered.

“I thought you might actually make it home,” Clements said. “But Lynch disagreed. He guessed you’d meet the boy right away.”

Farther down the path, a tall, broad shadow stepped into the road. They were cut off on both sides.

“Lieutenant Clements!” Margaret said conversationally, turning to face the man. “I’m glad you arrived. I found the convict boy you were mentioning. Er, I think there’s been a big misunderstanding. John hasn’t escaped at all, as you see. He’s been right here in town the whole time.”

“Oh, has he?” Clements said, taking a step forward.

“Well, yes! And . . . and if we all just head down to my home, which is right over there, I’m sure my father can help us sort out this whole misunderstanding —”

“Daddy can’t help you now,” Lynch growled from behind her.

“My colleague is unfortunately right,” said Clements. “We can’t allow your meddling anymore, Margaret.”

“Run!” John yelled. He grabbed Margaret’s hand and pulled her with him, off the road and toward the wild areas west of the settlement. Margaret was too afraid to do anything but follow. Behind them, she heard Clements shout something, and two pairs of footsteps clambering after them. Then there was a yelp and grunt as someone tripped over something. Clearly, the SQ officers hadn’t expected her to run so quickly. People were always underestimating girls.

It wasn’t long before Margaret felt the sharp blades of hummock grass scratching against her ankles. The moon provided a fair bit of light, but she found she still had to take care to keep from tripping. John let go of her hand as he too leapt around, dodging the sharp tufts of grass.

“Where are we going?” Margaret called. “We can’t just keep running blind.”

“Like . . . you said,” John huffed. “We’ll find a native tribe to . . . take us in.”

“A native tribe? Are you crazy?” said Margaret.

“It was your idea!” said John.

“For you, not for me! I’m an officer’s daughter!”

Suddenly, a shot rang through the air. Margaret looked back and gasped. Clements and Lynch were following, and both were holding flintlock pistols, the kind her father had. Clements was pausing to reload his pistol, but Lynch had his up and was readying a shot as he ran.

“Th-they’re shooting at us!” Margaret screamed, aghast.

“There’s a grove of trees to the south!” John shouted. “Head in and use ’em as cover!”

Margaret saw the grove John meant and cut to the left, sprinting as fast as she could for the trees. Another shot was fired right as they reached the tree line. This time Margaret heard the ball whiz by her.

Margaret scrambled between the trees, trading speed for cover as she darted from trunk to trunk. To her right, John was doing the same thing, crouched low and covering his head with his hands. This far away from the settlement, the stars shone even brighter. Margaret had marveled at them many times since leaving London. She couldn’t believe how many there were, how present they were in the sky. All you needed to see them was a little bit of darkness. Margaret wondered now if they would be the last things she saw.

Another shot rang out from much closer, and Margaret felt the impact of the ball on the tree she was braced behind. She screamed and dashed for the next one. This was completely wrong. How had she, the daughter of a prominent military officer of the British Navy, ended up running for her life in the woods of a completely unfamiliar continent? Her chest and legs burned from exertion, and her feet began cramping up in her shoes.

Behind her, she could hear Clements shouting her name, as if he were calling for a lost child. Off elsewhere in the woods, Lynch seemed to have come unhinged. He was laughing like a demon.

The moonlight was weaker here, filtering down through the trees, and the ground all the more treacherous with roots and vegetation. Twice Margaret nearly lost her footing, only managing to right herself by grabbing and pushing off from nearby tree trunks. She wouldn’t be able to keep this up forever.

She searched around for anything that she might be able to use as a weapon. Ahead of her she saw a stone the size of her fist, and ran for it, scooping it into her hand as she went. Margaret turned and lobbed the rock at the approaching Clements . . . and missed him spectacularly. So much for that.

Clements paused to aim and Margaret screamed, launching herself behind a tree. When after a moment no shot was fired, she realized too late what had happened. Margaret scrambled forward, but was grabbed by her hair and thrown to the ground.

“Margaret!” John shouted from somewhere ahead of her.

“John, run!” Margaret yelled.

She looked upward to find Clements sneering down at her.

“You gave a better chase than I expected,” he said, huffing and pointing the pistol right at her. “Lynch hasn’t had this much fun in ages. I expect he’ll take his time hunting down Hudson, but I’ll try to do this quickly. I take no pleasure in it, Margaret.”

“Please,” Margaret said. “Please don’t. You could let us go. We won’t tell anyone, I swear.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Clements said. “We can’t allow the Hystorians a foothold in the new continent.”

“I’m not a Hystorian, and neither is John. Really. We’re just children!”

“Children grow into enemies,” Clements said. “The SQ has big plans for this colony, and we’d prefer that they be unimpeded by your misguided little order.” He clicked back the flintlock. “I’m sorry, Margaret.”

Suddenly, Lynch let out an agonized scream from up ahead. Clements turned to see what was happening, and his eyes widened. Margaret heard an odd noise then, like a bird rushing by in the wind. Something hit Clements hard in the back. He staggered forward and stood there for a moment, then collapsed to the ground in a heap.

Margaret gaped. A long, thin spear stuck straight out of Clements’s back.

Margaret searched around for a moment before she finally spotted them standing among the trees. Several native men were spread out before her, watching closely. They were lithe and wiry, with dark skin and hair, and all of them carried wicked-looking spears. All but one.

Margaret scrambled backward on her hands and feet, but the natives made no move to follow her. They just regarded her curiously.

She turned around to see that John was being faced with a similar scene. She could see his shape on the ground where he’d fallen — clearly on his way to her, instead of running away like she’d told him to. In front of him, a native pulled something up and out of the ground. It took a moment for Margaret to realize that the item was a spear . . . and that the bulge in the ground was actually Lynch.

John crawled over to her, his eyes on the natives. “You okay?” he asked.

“Yes, I think so,” Margaret said.

Slowly she stood, dusting off her skirt as well as she could. It was a lost cause. Beside her, John rose as well, sticking close.

“Thank you,” Margaret said to the men, giving a sort of half curtsy. They wouldn’t understand her language, but perhaps they got the gist of what she was trying to say. The men said nothing, but several of them offered wide, friendly smiles. Margaret found that encouraging. She and John backed slowly away, toward the edge of the woods. Turning, Margaret could see the shape of the settlement in the distance, lit up by the lamps.

As she and John walked in the direction of home, the native men began to follow, giving them a wide berth. They didn’t move in a threatening manner, however, and most kept their spears held lazily at their sides. Margaret was a little impressed by how at home the men appeared, outside so late at night. Most of them wore next to nothing, and she realized with surprise that none of them had any shoes on. Her own feet were already blistering from the earlier chase.

As they headed out of the forest and into the field, Margaret turned back once more to take in their rescuers. For the first time since arriving in New South Wales, she wondered what the natives must think of the settlers. She knew that Governor Phillip had met with some of them when he first arrived on the shore. The other officers’ children giggled at stories about how the natives had tried to get some of the men to shed their second skins — meaning their clothes. The British colonists must have seemed so strange to them. She wondered what would happen in the days to come, as more fleets came from London with even more settlers.

But she was too tired to dwell on this for very long. Margaret raised her arm and waved at the men once. One of them daintily raised his arm in imitation, and the others laughed aloud.

Margaret flushed. “Rude,” she said.

Beside her, John chuckled. “I don’t think he meant nothing by it. Come on, officer’s daughter, we need to get back. If I can sneak into my tent ’fore someone rats me out, I may yet avoid a lashing.”

Margaret turned back to the settlement and walked on beside the convict boy. “People are going to ask questions when Clements and Lynch turn up missing. And I’ll have to tell my parents something about what happened tonight.”

John shot her a nervous glance. “Then it’s a good thing you’re such a talented liar.”

Margaret sighed. “I’ll keep your secret, John Hudson, on one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“I want you to tell me everything you know about the Hystorians — and I want in.”

John exhaled. “It’s all going to sound pretty unbelievable. You might think I’ve gone raving mad. I certainly thought my master was, for a time.”

“I already think you’re mad,” Margaret said. “But after tonight, I’m not so sure that anything will seem sane again.”

“All right, then,” said John. “I guess I should start with the Remnants.”

In the years to come, John Hudson and Margaret were only partially successful in keeping peace between the colonists and Aboriginals. But thanks to their cooperation on that one fateful night, the SQ was unable to maintain its grip on the colony. By the time SQ agents made a second attempt to gain a foothold in the Southern Continent, it was too late. The colonists were ready for them.

To this day, Australia remains the only continent to have never fallen under the SQ’s influence in a significant way. Meanwhile, the Hystorians have thrived there for centuries, beginning with Margaret and John . . . and continuing with their children and grandchildren.

— Arin