SDN In the Sea of Time

[Formless]

Just caught up with this thread. Very interesting; now I just wonder if Packer is ever going to go back to Nantucket. If he does, the joke's on the sharks in the council, because his newfound understanding of the native language and whatever he picks up of their culture is going to make him an absolutely damned invaluable asset.

[Alferd Packer]

Day 219, Afternoon, Cape Cod

Packer crept alongside one of the large buildings of a village, a meeting hall. He was shirtless, and two days ago, he'd turned his jeans into shorts. He traded the excess fabric to the group of old women who made most of the clothes for the village as payment for a new pair of leather breeches and moccasins for cooler weather. Now, though, the temperature was in the mid-eighties, and going shirtless and in shorts was the only way to be comfortable.

Especially when playing Tag.

At supper last night, Packer and Duniik were celebrated for bringing in yet another kill--this time, a massive wild turkey. As the key contributor to this prosperity, Packer was actually engaged in conversation by someone other than Duniik or Nara. He was asked questions about his people: what their Gods were like, how they created such strange items(referring to his clothes and metal objects, no doubt), and so on. Most questions he didn't have the vocabulary to answer very well, but then, Duniik and Nara's father, Chottekan, asked what his people did for fun. What games did they play?

At first, Packer almost decided to fake apoplexy to avoid attempting to explain baseball to natives with his vocabulary of perhaps five hundred words. But he then realized that game could be simple, so he called back all the games of his childhood and explained them energetically. Unfortunately, since they were childhood games, none of the adults at supper were particularly interested in them (and probably thought Packer and his people all the stranger for it), but the kids were piqued.

So, as Packer lunged out from around the building, the excited squeals of scampering children filled the village. He'd spent pretty much the entire day chasing and being chased by children, and it seemed they had no intention of letting him up. Whenever he tried to recuse himself from the games, he'd get slapped on the thigh by some eager munchkin, who'd then screech in pidgin English: "Tag! You're it, Packer!"

What could he do but continue?

Packer surged after one of the older kids. Though the little bastards were quick, his stride was probably double theirs, so he closed the gap quickly and planted a comparatively massive palm square in the boy's back. "Tag! You're it, Gankoss!"

Since he'd made clear that one couldn't simply tag back, Gankoss immediately took off after a group of kids streaming towards the marshes. Packer heaved a sigh of relief, bending over to catch his breath; maybe he'd get enough of a respite to get back to his hut. There, his privacy would be inviolate.

"Packer!" someone called out. He looked up, breathing embarrassingly hard. It was Duniik, returning from today's hunt with a dead rabbit to show for it.

"Hello, Duniik," Packer said with a grin. "Good hunt today?"

Duniik shrugged. "Better with your crossbow." He said the last word in English, and his pronunciation was pretty good. "That is always true, though. Are you tired?"

"The tribe's children," he said, "are better than me. They play better than me."

Duniik laughed. "I will something you from them. We will go to the hall."

It seemed that, if one wanted, one could provide all food and services for himself, share nothing, and receive nothing. There were a few lone hunters who ranged around the village that seemed to do that; Packer and Duniik encountered one while out hunting one day, and each party ignored the other, and Duniik explained a bit to Packer. However, just about everyone else in the tribe contributed to the central pool of resources, chief among these being food. This was probably the biggest reason for Packer's acceptance; he helped bring in probably nearly two thousand pounds of meat since his arrival.

At any rate, the hall, as Packer translated it, was the main gathering place for the tribe. It served as kitchen, cafeteria, shrine/temple/church, and anything else that involved most of the population. It was the largest as most elaborately-constructed building in the settlement, adorned with paintings and designs both inside and out.

As Duniik and Packer approached this building, Nara suddenly burst out of it. She looked horribly upset and afraid--almost exactly how she'd looked when she was being dragged away to be raped. She looked around wildly, spotted Duniik and Packer, and ran to them, sobbing.

She threw her arms around her brother, nearly tackling him. Packer's look of wild alarm was not removed by her speech, which was completely unintelligible due to her crying. Again, he felt this absurd, aimless rage at the sound of her crying. Each sob seemed to inflate a red-hot balloon of pressure in his brain that felt like it would eventually blow off the top of his skull. And he was still forced to wonder just why this affected him so.

Duniik held her, saying equally unintelligible things in a soothing tone. Since he wasn't incensed, it stood to reason that Nara had not be physically harmed, but what would cause her to act so devastated? Packer watched helplessly, and Duniik led her away, in the direction of their family's abode. It was a larger building, housing Duniik, Nara, their father, aunt, two cousins, and one of their cousin's wives.

After a moment, Packer decided to follow them.

Day 70, Noon, Nantucket

"We have how many days to build a tractor?" Terrance asked, shivering in the frosty January air. The day was sunny, but the sun was cold and wind was bitter.

"Fourteen," Packer replied, adjusting his gloves. "The council wants a woodgas prototype by the next town hall meeting. Uh, not the one tonight, that is."

They were standing out on the tarmac of the airport. Here the island's majority of the island's private vehicles had been impounded and their fuel drained(there were, of course, a few that fell victim to the chaos just after the Arrival), left to sit for scrap or until needed for some other use. Like building a tractor.

Since there were only a few working tractors on Nantucket, the machine shop had already converted these to run on woodgas. There was, however, much more land to plow under come spring time, and there were simply not enough hours in the day to get it done with the existing equipment. So, the machinists' next big project was to turn a pickup truck or SUV into some kind of tractor.

"Two weeks? Those guys out of their fuckin'--" Terrance stopped; two armed guards were watching them from about thirty feet away. One of them had a gas can, so they'd be able to drive the vehicle they chose back to the shop. "Are they out of their fuckin' minds?" he continued at a whisper. "We'll have to bump something else."

"Then we'll have to bump something else," Packer said placidly. Terrance seemed awfully worked up. What for? They started walking down one of the massive rows of cars, the frozen ground crunching under their bootheels. The guards started to follow.

"Uh, boss," Terrance said. "You don't think they've got in ulterior motive in doing this? It's fucking January! We won't need a tractor for at least three months! And now that it's really fucking cold, there's even more pressure to build more gasifiers and stay on schedule. I say they're setting you up to fail."

"Now Jason," Packer stopped and faced him. "Why would they want to do that?"

"Honestly?" Terrance asked. Packer nodded. "Because you're a fucking pain in the ass. For them, that is; I still love you, of course. Do you remember the last town hall meeting? You must've argued with them for forty-five minutes, and you made a good deal of them look pretty stupid while you were at it. You talked circles around that one guy who was against the idea of monthly talent shows so bad that he had be rescued by someone less dumb than himself."

Packer nodded. They started walking again. "And?"

Terrance did a double take. "And? And you're pissing them off! They're the government, boss. The hard cases. The Man. The Establishment. Since the Sausage Fest was such a success, you're probably more well-known than most of the Councillors, and you hit another home run at the last town hall meeting."

"I lost the argument about whether or not to turn the windmill at the Bartlett Farm on, didn't I?"

"Pfft. That doesn't matter. The mere fact that you went against them is enough. Don't you see? They need you to fail. They need you to have a setback. If you fight with them every meeting...like I presume you're planning on doing tonight?" Packer nodded, a smile forming on his face at the thought. "If you fight with them, but keep on schedule, turning out every single project you are asked to do with a doff of the cap and a kind word, you're unassailable. They're setting you to fuck up, so they have something to hold over your head; something that they can use to shut you down when you get too mouthy."

Packer was silent for a moment, seeming to nod to himself. "So, I guess I'll just have to do everything they ask of me."

Terrance rolled his eyes. "Come on, boss. Wouldn't it be easier to shut up a bit at the meetings?"

"Easier, yes, but I'm not gonna do that, Jason. I come from a long line of rabble-rousers and shit-stirrers. My great grandfather was a staunch, card-carrying member of the American Communist Party. My grandpa was a proud union man, back when it meant something to be in a union. My dad was part of the protest during the Kent State massacre. While I'm not quite bucking the system like they did, I'll remain true to my roots. If the government wants our obedience, it's not going to be blind. I'm going to make them account for themselves as much as I possibly can."

"Well, OK, boss," Terrance looked troubled. "I'm only looking out for you, is all."

"I appreciate that, Jason. Really, I do. I think I'll be alright, though. After all, I'm just airing out discussions that probably took place in the same way behind closed doors. The Council may not like this, but it doesn't harm them." He looked down the aisle. "Let's pick a fucking car, shall we? I think the head of my dick is frozen to my zipper."

Terrance choked on a laugh. "You're so eloquent, boss. You should write a poem for the talent show. 'Musings of a Frosty Dong,' by Al Packer." Terrance gave a quick glance up and down the aisle. "Nothing here. Let's try the next one over."

They wriggled between the cars and emerged into the next row. "OK, better. Better," he said absentmindedly.

"What exactly are we looking for?" Packer asked. As Terrance was a mechanic, this was an area where he outclassed Packer completely. Packer knew a bit about cars, but couldn't hold a candle to a lifelong greasemonkey.

"Well, we need the lowest gearing we can possibly get, because all the tractoring is going to be done at low speeds. A pickup truck with a manually operated transfer case would be ideal. We'll take it out, weld the chain so that it's always engaged in the low range. So...we're looking for an older or less-luxurious truck. Needs a good reduction for its 4-LO, and a short final drive would be ideal. Chevy has a 3.73 rear axle, so that'd be pretty good."

"Nissan would be better," Packer answered. "Hardbody. '97 or older. 4.625 gears at the rear wheel. Gear reduction on the tranfer case is 2.02. And if you can find a stickshift, first gear is nearly 4:1."

"Yeah? How do you know that, boss?"

"I used to own one, Jason. I bought it specifically because it had such short gearing. Great crawl ratio for offroading. Frame is massively overbuilt, too, so it'd be up to pulling a plow, and carrying a gasifier in its bed. Plus a four-banger would be easier to work on than one of these monster V-8's." Packer looked around. "I haven't seen one, though. I doubt people with million dollar homes were driving around fifteen year old shitbox pickups. Well, imported ones, anyway. A half-ton might still be around, if someone was using it to plow driveways."

Packer's words rang unfortunately true. In the end, they settled for a 1993 Chevy K1500 4x4 with a stickshift. It still had a plow hitch attached, but Terrance found everything to be in working order, and while it didn't have the shortest rear axle offered by Chevy, Terrance was confident that they could swap one out, assuming they found one.

One of the guards left to get a battery and keys for the truck, and Packer and Terrance sat on the tailgate of the truck, the other guard watching them and trying not to look cold.

"Hey, cochise," Packer said. "You hear the one about the dad? He says to his son one day, 'Boy, you need to stop jerkin' off so much or you're gonna go blind.' The son says, 'I'm over here, Dad!' " Packer then laughed raucously and with fake zeal at that ancient joke. The guard managed a grin.

"So, where are you from, originally?" Packer asked when his forced giggles had passed.

The guard shifted his weight. "New Jersey."

"No shit?" Packer said. "I grew up in Parsippany."

"North Bergen," the guard replied, a bit less frostily.

"Cool. Giants or Jets?"

At this the guard looked a touch indignant. "Jets," he answered almost haughtily, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Packer grinned. "Me too. You hear the one about the Jets fan going to a bar? He walks in and and orders a beer. The Giants game is on the TV, so he asks the bartender to change it. The bartender does so and makes conversation. 'You a Jets fan?' 'Once again I am,' the guy replies. Barkeep asks, 'What's that mean, "once again"?' And the guy says, 'Well, when I was a little kid, I was a Jets fan. Then, when I hit puberty, I switched from liking the Jets to liking girls. But now that I'm a bit older, I switched back to liking the Jets.' The barkeep asks, 'And why's that?' The guy says, 'I realized something: there are times when a woman will refuse to sleep with you. But the Jets will always fuck you.' "

This time, the guard actually laughed. "That's a good one, man." They were then quiet, listening to the cold wind howling across the island. The other guard was back with a battery in a few minutes, looking like he didn't realize how heavy the thing was going to be.

"Freshly charged," he panted. He chucked Packer the keys, and Packer opened the door and popped the hood and the door to the gas cap. Terrance and the guard wrestled the battery in place, and the other guard dumped about two gallons of gas into the tank. Terrance slammed the hood down and gave Packer the thumbs' up.

Packer pumped the gas twice, depressed the clutch, and turned the key. It caught after about three seconds and roared to life in a cloud of blue smoke. Packer fed it a bit more gas until he was sure it'd stay running with the throttle closed. He rolled down the window. "Room for three in here," he yelled over the engine. "One of you guys cool to ride in the back?"

The Jets fan apparently was, because he vaulted into the bed of the truck. Terrance and the other guard piled into the cab, which smelled a bit musty, but was otherwise fine. As Packer knocked the selector into first, he noticed that the truck had a rather nice stereo installed in it. "Wow, didn't think anyone would bother upgrading this tub of whale shit. Someone find the Top 40 station. Hope they're playing John Mayer!"

He disengaged the e-brake and feathered the throttle, playing with the clutch until it caught. The truck lurched a little unsteadily out of its parking spot and onto the tarmac. Packer eased it into second, taking care not to mash Terrance's testicles as he did so, the motor purring like a tiger with emphysema, rolling along at a sedate fifteen miles per hour. For someone who'd biked or walked everywhere for the last two months, it was like riding a rollercoaster while high on crack...or something like that.

When they reached the hangar by the entrance, the guards hopped out and Terrance slid over. One of them threw the bikes they'd rode out to the airport into the bed of the truck while the other produced a form. "I just need you to sign this, Mister Packer. Standard requisition form. Council wants to know where everything is at all times. You understand."

"I guess," Packer said, and took the clipboard and pen. He signed it "Mike Litoris (ha ha)" and handed it back. As he suspected, the guard didn't bother to look.

"Thanks, Mister Packer. See you at the meeting tonight?"

"You know it, bub. I'll be first in line to speak when they allow the audience to have their say." The guard nodded, and patted the roof of the truck. Packer slipped it back into first and headed through the open chain link gate. As he turned back onto Macy's Lane, he reached into his coat and pulled out a CD case. "I was hoping whatever we got would have a CD player. Pop this in, will you?"

Terrance stared at it. "Metallica? Isn't that a little--"

"Jason, that wasn't a request."

"Alright, boss." Terrance opened the case up and slid the all-black CD in. Packer reached over and cranked the volume.

"Might want to open your window." He skipped to the second track and pushed Play.

The first notes of "Sad But True" shook the truck so hard that Packer instinctively grabbed the shifter, in case the old transmission decided to squirt itself back into neutral. The last owner, whoever he'd been, had not stopped at putting a new stereo in. The quaking bass shaking Packer's bowels could only mean that he'd installed a subwoofer or two behind the seats.

Packer glanced over at Terrance. He looked like he was in an ironic circle of Hell. Packer, however, was right at home. He cruised down the middle of the road in fifth gear, blasting heavy metal at such a loud volume that he was getting a headache. But it was the kind of headache he wanted. Terrance may have been apt in his analysis of the Council's motives, but Packer wasn't bothered. He'd get the Council their tractor on time, and he wouldn't bump anything else. But as a more immediate concern, it was lunchtime. He decided to drive over to the cafeteria nearest the metal shop, after which they'd get to work tearing this beast apart.

As they rolled slowly, but not quietly, through the streets of Nantucket proper, everyone looked. Some people stared at the truck like it was a fire-breathing dragon. Others frowned in disapproval, the philistines. Still others laughed, gave thumbs up, or even threw up the horns. Packer returned the gesture when appropriate, occasionally throwing in a, "Woooooo!"

He parked the truck out in front of the cafeteria building, which just happened to to be directly across the street from the one of the offices of the Council. Packer let the solo in "The Unforgiven" finish before he killed the motor and got out.

He glanced across the street. There were some Councilmen and Councilwomen at the windows on the second floor, looking down at him. He gave them the grin of a man who has nothing but good things on his mind, and waved amiably. He turned back to Terrance, who seemed to be doing his best not to be seen.

"What's wrong, Jason?" Packer asked, still smiling. "Trying to avoid the gaze of Sauron, or whatever it was that he did? I dunno, it's been a while since I read those books."

"Can we just go get some lunch?" Terrance asked miserably.

"Alright, Jason. Sorry. Thank you for putting up with my nonsense, though, I--"

"Hey, Mister Packer! Nice whip!"

Packer turned. Coming up the street were a trio of men--kids--it was tough to say. Anyone who might've been considered a kid back in the future was growing up in a hurry. At any rate, these three amigos looked to be about twenty, give or take two years. Packer recognized them as some of the woodcutters, or in a wood-related pursuit, anyway. He saw one of the kids, Matt, a few times a week at dinner, usually, and he'd met the other two, Jordan and Mike, at least a couple times.

"Afternoon, gents. This baby will do 0-60 in 14.5 seconds." He slapped the rail of the bed affectionately, walking around the truck to greet the three. All five of them shook hands; it was becoming a very important custom in their strange world.

"So what are you guys doing with the truck? Is it yours?" Jordan asked. He was a skinny guy, but he was actually gaining muscle through hard labor. Everyone was tending towards a leaner look, it seemed.

"Naw, we're turning this sumbitch into a tractor," Terrance said. "Prototype. The Council wants to see how well a converted truck can perform."

"Cool stuff. You guys get all fun work," Matt said. "I'm stuck building bows and arrows."

"Perhaps," Packer said, "But you'll be using your bow skills in ten years. I doubt there will be many cars left for us to hack on by then." Matt shrugged.

"Say, Packer," Jordan asked, "you play the guitar, right?"

"Sort of," Packer replied after a beat. "I just pass the time poking at it in the evenings...after which I usually play guitar." Matt gave forth a single laugh. Packer continued: "What is it, day seventy? I've been playing for sixty-five days. So that should give you an idea of my skill. Why do you ask?"

"Well, uh," Jordan began, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. "We were actually thinking about getting an act together for the talent show, and, uh, we were wondering if maybe you'd like to help out. Maybe play a song or two with us?"

Packer smiled. "Well, guys, I'm flattered. Honestly. I don't know how much of a help I can be to you, but I'll tell you what. You guys had lunch yet? Let's go grab a bite to eat and talk about it. I want to hear what you've got in mind."

Day 220, Morning, Cape Cod

Packer had insisted that if Duniik was to take him out hunting today, he would leave the crossbow and use the dart-thrower. Duniik rarely brought it with him hunting anymore, but Packer wanted to learn. Duniik agreed, and that made Packer feel good. It meant that Duniik was actually his friend, and not simply using him for his superior firepower.

As they walked south through the woods, Packer stopped Duniik. He'd barely slept last night, because the episode with Nara had bothered him so bad. He hadn't seen Duniik or Nara after they disappeared into their house, and he hadn't been invited in. He was left to speculate...until now.

"Why was Nara..." he began, then realized he didn't have the word for crying. He immediately mimicked weeping, and Duniik understood.

"Why was Nara crying?" he said to give Packer the word. "I must tell you much. You cannot understand if I do not tell you much."

"Please, I want to know." This last phrase was an idiomatic expression, only three syllables long, but immensely useful to Packer.

Duniik gave a nod. "We marry in the tribe. It is The Way."

"It is The Way," Packer repeated automatically. He'd picked up in this convention about a week or go, and he found it put nearly everyone at ease when he emulated it.

"Does your tribe marry?" Duniik asked.

"Yes," Packer said.

Duniik again nodded. "You understand marriage? It is important."

Packer smiled to himself. Buddy, if it weren't for marriage being important, I'm pretty sure I wouldn't be talking to you today. "Yes," he said simply.

Duniik continued. "In our tribe, when a woman marries a man, she goes to their family. She is their family. If the man dies, she is still their family. You understand?" Packer nodded. "Four summers ago, Nara married a man. He died during a hunt. A bear killed him. There were no babies. She is still in his family."

Packer frowned. "She sleeps at your family house," he said.

Duniik nodded. "She must. The husband's family hates her. They think she made him die, something curse, or magic. They see her, they scream at her. The speak bad to her. Sometimes hit her."

"But she stays in his family forever?"

"Until she finds a new husband." Duniik's head dropped. "She cannot do this. The men of the tribe fear her. They will not marry her. She can only marry an outsider. That is difficult. There are few outsiders."

Packer's frowned deepened. "You cannot stop them?"

"Stop?" Duniik's eyes were wide with shock. "She is in his family! I cannot tell them to stop! It is not The Way."

So they get to treat her like shit forever, and Duniik's bound by this stupid honor code not to interfere. He just gets to pick up the pieces after they call her names in front of everyone, or smack her around for a little while. At least Packer now felt justification in his anger.

"How many people in the family?" he asked.

Duniik held up two fingers. "Two brothers. Mother and father dead. No wives for the brothers. Women fear Nara too. They do not want to be in the family with her."

Packer inhaled sharply, his nostrils flaring. "The brothers hit her?" he asked, trying to keep his tone even.

Duniik considered this for a moment, "It is mostly one brother. Kochoko. The second brother is something something. He does what his brother says, but he does not hate anyone."

Packer shook his head. "This does not happen in my tribe," he said.

Duniik's eyebrows lifted. "What happens in your tribe?"

Packer sighed. How would he explain a codified common law system? The notion of constabulary or police? After a few moments, he said, "We have The Way, too. It is different than your Way. If a man dies, the woman leaves the family. She goes back to her first family. The man's family cannot speak bad to her, or hit her."

Duniik nodded, thoughtful. "I would like that," he said, "but it is your Way. The Way is different here."

Packer nodded unhappily. Yes, it is.

They stood together for a few moments more, then Duniik seemed to shake the entire conversation off his body. "Let's continue with the hunt," Duniik said. "You must learn to throw the darts at something."

Packer held his hands up, using the familiar phrase: "Please, I want to know."

Duniik laughed. "Come. Let us find something."

They continued on through the woods. There were an incongruous number of clearings splattered across what Packer thought would be undisturbed, virgin forest, but he realized that the clearings were done by design by the natives; they'd burn down forest to encourage growth of edible foods, as well as provide grazing land for targets of their hunt. This had the effect of drawing prey out into the open, where their dart-throwing devices would be the most effective. Thinking back on it, Packer realized that most of his kills with a crossbow occurred out in a clearing. It was like the natives actually knew how to survive in this vast wilderness, or something!

Duniik suddenly stopped him. The day's heat was building, with the sun already high in the sky. In the shade of the trees, bugs abounded, and Packer had to resist slapping bugs away. He knew to be perfect still, and perfectly silent. All Packer could hear were the sounds of the birds and the more distant sounds of the ocean; they'd apparently ranged nearly to the southern shore of Cape Cod today.

Duniik sniffed the air rapidly. "I smell you," he said, turning to Packer. "Your smell, when we were first together."

Packer frowned. What had he smelled like? Fish, from the cod fillets? Seawater? Soap?

Soap! Of course! He'd showered immediately before leaving, and all his clothes had been laundered. He remembered hearing from one of his friends who walked the entire Appalachian trail one summer that when someone joined the group after bathing, you could smell the soap on them for four or five days.

Packer sniffed deeply. He caught it too: bitter, acrid, unfamiliar to his nostrils but not his brain. Faint, but so out of place it was easy to detect. He whispered to Duniik, "Someone from my tribe is nearby. We must find him."

Duniik nodded, but didn't move right away. "It is safe. You are my friend. My tribe will welcome you." Unless, of course, they've encountered another hostile tribe and adopted a shoot-first-because-they-all-look-alike policy. At this, Duniik turned gave the air another sniff. He pointed south, and they crept through the brush.

Before long, they not only smelt the person, but they heard him. He (or she, though Packer thought that extremely unlikely) clomped through the woods like he was trying to tamp the earth down. Even Packer, an admitted novice, was far quieter under Duniik's tutelage, while the native man, being smaller, lighter, and more skilled, was almost entirely silent.

They finally spotted the man sitting on a fallen log near the shore of a small pond, a homemade fishing rod in his hands, a line in the water. Packer noticed the handle of a pistol in a holster on his belt. He was humming to himself rather loudly and rather happily.

They were about fifty feet away from him, well in the woods. To reach him, they'd have to cross about thirty of open terrain to get down to the water's edge, where he sat, but Packer had a better idea.

He turned to Duniik. Not risking speech, he pantomimed a half circle with his finger. He then pointed at Duniik, waving his hands, then then pointed at the seated figure. Packer then pointed to himself and made a grabbing motion. Circle around the pond and distract him. I'll sneak up and grab him.

This approach seemed to put Duniik a bit at ease. It was a variation of their most successful hunting tactic, where one of them would flush out their quarry, and the other would nab it. Duniik crept off silently, and Packer waited.

Left to have some time to think, Packer was forced to wonder what this guy was doing out here. Was he part of a larger group? Daytripping? Another exile? He seemed in good spirits, but then again, so had Packer, until his illusory world finally crashed down around him. It'd all be clear soon enough. Packer started inching forward.

Duniik suddenly appeared on the far side of the pond, directly across from the fishing man, waving his arms and shouting. Packer heard him yell, "Hello, smelly white man!" and Packer almost blew the element of surprise by laughing.

The fishing man dropped his pole and stood up. He was transfixed. Packer strode out of the woods and walked briskly but quietly across the sandy beach. When he got within arm's reach, he did two things: he snatched the pistol out of its holster with one hand, and yanked back on the man's shirt with the other. With a yell of shock, he tripped over the log and tumbled back, plopping flat on his ass.

Packer stood over him, pistol is his hand. It was the first time in his life he ever held a gun. He looked down at the now really shocked man and said, "Son, if there's one thing I've learned out here, it's that you never have to worry about the native standing directly in front of you."

The man could only work his jaw helplessly for a few moments, making choking sounds. He was moderately tall and well-built. His skin was pale and freckled, with green eyes and an unruly shock of red hair atop his head. Packer guessed he was about twenty-five or so. Finally, he remembered how to speak: "Packer? Is that...Alferd Packer?"

Packer's smile faded. "That's my name." He stuffed the pistol into the back pocket of his shorts and held and hand down. "What's yours?"

"Miles," the man said as he was hauled to his feet. "Miles Jameson. It's...it's really you, right? I didn't eat some bad mushrooms or something, did I? You sound kind of weird."

Packer's smile returned. "Haven't spoken English for a while. Least not regularly. Besides, you appear to be rocking a bit of an accent yourself. You Irish?" Miles nodded. "You mind if my friend joins us?"

"You mean the little fellow across the way?" Packer nodded. "Sure! I didn't mean any funny business with the gun," Miles said. "I was just carrying it for self defense. I mean, we all heard what happened to you out here, and--"

"Hold that thought, Miles," Packer said, putting a finger up. He called out to Duniik. "You can come back now!"

"I've got so many questions, Mister Packer! I can't fucking believe you're actually alive! I was thinking of visiting the beach where they said you died, but I was blown a little off course getting here."

"Well, since your story is shorter, I'm sure," Packer said, "Why don't you give yours a go, first?"

Miles started. "Oh, alright! Well, uh, first of all, I'm a sailor. Been doing it all my life. I was in charge of running a skiff between Madaket Harbor and Martha's Vineyard. Cargo runs, mainly. The skiff can't carry much, but there's no fuel, so...you know we're starting a new settlement out there, right? Martha's Vineyard, that is?"

"Yeah, I think I heard that." Presently Duniik rejoined him in the clearing. "Oh, let me introduce you to him," Packer said. To Miles, in English: "Miles, say hello to Duniik. He's my friend and hunting companion."

"Hello, Duniik," Miles extended his hand, but then thought better of it, finally deciding to hold up his hand, palm out.

To Duniik, Packer said. "Duniik, please meet Miles. Miles is of my tribe."

Duniik frowned momentarily in concentration, then said in halting, but easily understandable English: "Hello. It is nice to meet you, My Ulls."

"Ha!" Miles squawked with delight. "He knows English. You taught 'em how to speak!"

Packer frowned. He didn't like the tone of Miles' sentiment at all. "Son, they ain't fucking dogs that you teach tricks, or retards for that matter. Duniik here saved my life, and you will show him respect. Clear?"

"Uh, yes." Miles looked away from Packer's withering gaze. "Sorry, Mister Packer."

"Continue with your story," Packer replied, choosing to ignore the apology. To Duniik: "He is saying a story. I will say it to you." So, while Miles spoke, Packer did his best to translate in a low tone.

"Well, like I said, I was doing cargo runs. I talked with the guy who was doing the boat schedules, and he arranged for me to have a gap of about three days between runs. The schedules are pretty flexible for anyone running a sailboat, anyway. All the important stuff goes on a motorboat. So, I packed up my fishing gear, my pistol, which I've kept hidden since the Arrival, some pemmican and hard tack, and a big fuckin' jug of moonshine, and sailed up to the Cape for a little fishing trip."

"Hmm," Packer said. "Seems like a dumb idea. What happens when you get back, and they ask where the hell you were?"

"Oh, I'm gonna say I got run off course in a squall. Wound up sailing straight past Martha's Vineyard and over into Buzzard's Bay. Since the wind was against me, I had to tack close to shore to get back."

Packer grunted. "Seems flimsy to me. But," he added with a happy tone, "I could give a fuck about Nantucket."

"What? What happened?" Miles furrowed his brow. "They said--"

"They said a fucking lie," Packer interrupted. "Whatever they said, it was a fucking lie. You want to know the truth? The Council sent me out here to die. I didn't volunteer. I didn't have a choice." And he related to Miles more or less the entirety of his tale, starting from about two weeks before his departure and ending on this morning. "We came out hunting," he finished, "and Duniik smelled the soap on your skin and clothes."

Miles sniffed himself, then shrugged. His expression remained grave, however. "Amazing story, Mister Packer. Most people don't suspect a thing. Well, except for the machinists, I hear."

Packer crossed his arms. "Oh? What are they up to?"

"It's more like what they aren't up to," Miles said. "They're doing a...what is it when you slow down your work on purpose? A job action? Anyway, things are pretty tense; the Council isn't pushing them, because they're afraid of an outright strike. And I heard that the machinists somehow managed to steal from the Council and hide all the plans for the things they've been building over the winter."

Packer sighed. "Jason, you idiot," he muttered. Then to Miles: "Did they hold the vote to ratify the Charter yet?"

Miles shook his head. "No. And I don't think they're going to. The people who were pushing for it have been quiet since you disappeared. Scared, maybe? I don't know, I don't hear much out on the water The Council hasn't had to say anything about it, at least in public, because no one's bringing it up."

Packer said glumly down on the log, taking care to the remove the pistol from his pocket. "Well, looks like they managed to blunt my efforts pretty effectively. But again," he looked up at Miles, "as interesting as all this is, I don't really care anymore." He spread his hands wide. "I'm free. I'm living among people who appreciate me. I can do whatever I want. I'm learning a fascinating language and culture. I'm helping them, and they're helping me. Look at me. A year ago, I had tits and a hell of a beer gut." He slapped his flat stomach. "I got a damn six pack now and a mean tan to boot! I've never been in better shape or health."

Miles was quiet for a moment. "I want to come with you," he said suddenly. When Packer simply stared at him in dumb silence, he continued. "I hate Nantucket. I hate being being an expendable cog in the machine. I hate working myself to exhaustion every goddamn day. I hate the fact that four of my friends died over the Long Winter. I hate that I'm never going to fuck again, unless it's with a guy.

"There are a bunch of us who want to go. Maybe fifty, maybe more. We want to strike out on our own. Maybe get absorbed by a native tribe. But we've just been talking. We haven't made any plans. But fuck them; I'll just set my boat adrift and come back with you! Let everyone think I'm dead, too."

"No." Packer was firm.

"But why not?!" Miles immediately protested, petulant. "You did it, and--"

"I was forced to do it. You think I wanted to?" Packer stood. "But I can't stay here forever. I don't have their skills. I can't hunt on my own. I can pull my weight now, when it's summer and things are easy, but come winter...no. I can't stay here forever. I will have to come back to Nantucket. I can't survive anywhere else. You think you can?"

Miles took a step back. "Then you're...returning?"

"One day, yes," Packer said, not fully believing what was coming out of his mouth. What was causing him to say this? "If only to make it through the winter. And maybe....maybe to finish what I started. But I need your help, Miles."

"My help, Mister Packer?"

"Yup. I need you to go back to Nantucket. Tell people I'm still kicking, living wild and free out here. Just tell regular people; the Council will find out on their own." He stepped in closer. "I need you to talk to the head machinist. That's Jason Terrance. He's gonna want proof that I'm still alive, so all you need to say to him is, 'Christmas bonanza.' You got that?"

"I got it, Mister Packer." Miles' eyes were suddenly filled with conviction. "I won't let you down."

"Good. And you tell them that I'm coming back. If they'll have a little patience, I promise I'll try to make things right. I'll do the best I can." He thrust his hand out, and Miles took it, shaking it vigorously.

"There's plenty of daylight left, Miles," Packer said. "Put out for home now. I don't want you eaten by a bear on your vacation."

"No problem, Mister Packer!" Miles was quite eager now. Packer took the pistol out of his pocket and passed it to Miles, and the latter holstered it. He gathered up his fishing equipment started off towards the ocean. He turned once and waved; Packer matched it, and then Miles was gone.

[The Vortex Empire]

That's going to cause a big stir back in Nantucket. Maybe people will head to the land, maybe they'll try to overthrow the council, who knows.

So we're throwing a little metal concert, eh? Should be fun. I play guitar too, so I should be a guitarist in the band.

[Alferd Packer]

Day 231, Evening, Cape Cod

Alferd Packer tossed another stick on the crackling fire in his hut, then lay back down on the bed, half-humming and half-singing "More Than a Feeling". He picked up the lump of wood and his multitool and continued carving, unmindful of the woodchips that were landing on his chest. Whenever they grew too numerous, he simply gathered them up and cast them into the fire.

Outside, the sounds of the village were going strong in spite the setting sun. It was near the solstice, so the lingering twilight of midsummer seemed to energize everyone. Even Packer felt an inner stirring, and urge to get up and do something. Rare was it that he was seen outside his hut in the later hours of the day. After a day's hunt, he'd take supper in the main hall and then retire. Sometimes Duniik or Nara came to visit him, if they had nothing better to do. Often they did.

So, left to his own devices, he either improved his dwelling somehow, or he whittled. He was getting better at it; usually, he could carve a crude figure in a few hours. These he'd give to the children, who seemed to have the greatest affection for him. For the adults outside of Duniik and Nara's family, he remained a curiosity. Try as he might, he couldn't fully tell the story of his origins. He was at least able to get across that his tribe was on Nantucket, and everyone seemed to understand this. Of course, since this village was on the shore of Cape Cod Bay, no one would go see just what was going on there. Perhaps that was for the best. Not having a native sail into Nantucket harbor and drop his name meant he stayed off their radar...

...but then why had he commanded Miles to go and tell everyone that he was still alive? He'd been puzzling over that for ten days now, and he still couldn't understand it. He knew that he dreaded returning. He didn't want to return; he had to. But his return could be delayed until the majority of the village's population disbanded for their winter hunting grounds, which, according to Duniik's descriptions, was sometime between October 1st and November 1st, depending upon how the autumn went.

And then there was the not-trivial matter of actually getting back to Nantucket, which might as well have been the moon. Packer had been out to the beaches and seen the boats. Trusting one of them to cross thirty miles of open ocean was a task he did not relish. And then there was the matter of convincing several of the tribe's sailors to haul their boat across Cape Cod in the first place, whose possibility he doubted. He certainly could sail on his own, though, so he appeared to be at an impasse.

He swept the shavings on his chest into a pile with his hand, then picked up the whole mess and cast it into the fire, where it flared. Oh well. D-Day was still four months away. He had time. And hey; maybe, in that time, he would feel confident enough to try and winter here in the village, with the custodial force of twenty or so who remained behind to tend to things. Maybe he'd abandon all notions of returning to Nantucket, instead waiting until Nantucket came to him. He'd be an ideal emissary for these people, after all.

He sat up, setting aside his carving and multitool. Or would he? For all his professed immersion, he only seemed to talk to Nara or Duniik, save the odd conversation. He didn't even observe their religious activities(though these seemed to be admittedly sparse and informal), and he never sat in on Sing Story.

The Sing Story was like the tribe's evening in front of the TV. Held every few days (or whenever several people decided it was time to hold it), it consisted of most of the adults and all of the children gathering around a huge bonfire in the middle of the village. Several adults and at least one of the Elders would alternately tell tales of either an educational or entertaining nature, lead the group in songs, or simply describe the comings and goings of the village and the surrounding area. It seemed like anyone could participate, and while Packer had never been explicitly invited, Duniik always pointed out to him when a Sing Story would take place.

So, Packer was forced to ask himself: How am I helping these people? Scraping the bare minimum of language and culture to get by? Killing evenings making chess pieces or bird figurines? Occasionally deigning to build a stool or repair a bench? I haven't even attempted to make a bow yet, or anything else practical, for that matter.

He stood up. Donning his shirt to ward off the worst of the mosquitoes during his brief trip to the center of the village, he exited his hut and strode through the redolent twilight to the large, central blaze. There, a few dozen people were already gathered, chatting excitedly in small groups. He was paid no great mind, and that made sense; he'd been with them seven weeks, after all.

"Packer! You came!" Duniik approached him from out of a group of his peers, a good-natured grin on his face. "What something something you decided to come?"

Packer shrugged. "I was lonely," he answered, "and I decided to stop being lonely."

"Good!" Duniik braced him on the shoulder. "You have met my friends? Let's talk to them now."

"A moment," Packer stopped him mid-turn, a smile on his face. "Can I tell a story tonight?"

Day 83, Night, Nantucket

Nervous. Hooo boy, was Packer nervous! He'd been a bundle of nerves all day. Not because the tractor wasn't built yet; they'd churned that out and turned it over to the Council yesterday. No, he was nervous because he was waiting in the wings of the stage of the high school auditorium, about to go out and play a musical instrument in front of a crowd for the first time in his life.

Speaking was one thing. He'd always been eminently comfortable in front of crowds. Being able to laugh at himself made things easier. But this? His stomach was a knot, and his guts were filled with something resembling magma that his bowel desperately wanted to rid itself of. But there was no time to shoot a deuce now; the talent show was almost over, and that meant he was nearly due to go on stage.

The talent show itself had received its approval at the previous town hall meeting, as expected. Packer chalked it up as a victory, even though it hadn't been his idea; he'd merely argued vociferously for it. Any sort of performance was welcome and accommodated, and within a few hours, all the slots for the first show had been filled.

The three amigos, Jordan, Matt, and Mike, had wanted Packer as part of their act. Jordan played guitar, Mike the bass, and Matt drums, and they'd reason that with Packer as a rhythm guitar and Mike handling the vocals, they'd have a good enough sound to put something together. So, against his better judgement, Packer brought one of his guitars to the shop and, after work, showed them his skill.

Thankfully, they respected him too much to be honest. But he knew the truth: he sucked. He knew he was outclassed the instant he pulled out his guitar and Jordan started drooling; he later found out that the device he was learning on had cost around six thousand dollars back in the future. Here, though, it was worth fuck-all, except for allowing Packer to while away the hours in his house by himself.

So, it appeared they were stuck. Packer wasn't good enough to fulfil their needed role, but they still insisted on having them part of their act. Since they'd signed up early, they'd been allotted enough time to do three songs. As kindred spirits to Packer, their leading selections were songs from Atreyu, Volbeat, and Goatwhore. While Packer approved of their choices in principle, he felt that bombarding the audience with metal would not be the best way to close out the show.

So, in the end, they compromised, though the three amigos, being idealistic young men as they were, were not fully receptive to his notions. But, Packer came up with a solution that allowed them to have their fun, and include him, too. Jordan found another guitarist out amongst the woodcutters, another kid named Matt, as well as a keyboardist named Kai. They had their band, they had their setlist. For the next thirteen days, they rehearsed for at least four hours a night in an empty metal shop, stopping usually only when the gasifier burned its last and the power cut out.

As he sat stage right, he fought the urge to adjust the epaulettes that were part of his costume. Even stronger was the urge to scratch at the fake moustache adhered to his face with spirit gum. Around him stood or sat about half of the people who'd already gone, the other half standing or sitting, of course, stage left. Almost everyone had done a double-take when they saw him, but a few of the older performers grinned knowingly. The other members of the group were already out on stage, performing the first song: Black Tide's "Shockwave." It actually sounded pretty cohesive, and Mike had great set of pipes on him. Packer checked the strap on his guitar for the umpteenth time. Only a few minutes to go now.

The night's acts had been arranged quite thoughtfully by someone, possibly Mister Bill Weems. First to go were the easiest acts to arrange: poetry readings, dramatic monologues, stand-up comedy acts. All they needed was mic and a spotlight. Then came acting or impov troupes, whose lighting and sound requirements were a bit more complex. Finally came the musical acts. Most groups were limited to one song, but part of Packer's compromise (and honestly, he thought to himself, due to his pull), his group got three and got to close the show.

The material was as diverse as the population; for example, someone had read Rilke in the original German, despite there being only a few dozen Germans on Nantucket. There was a sketch from an Australian comedy show, and a string quartet had performed a bit from some Russian opera. Packer was too preoccupied to remember what. Several people had acoustic acts with their own guitars; playing songs from all across the board. There was even another heavy metal arrangement; these guys were the pros. They'd shredded some Judas Priest and made it look easy.

In all, Packer felt horribly self-conscious. Jordan had worked with him though, designing the arrangement so that he'd play all the easiest stuff. And the sixty-plus hours of practice certainly helped. They were a nice group of kids, Packer mused. Or a nice group of men. Whatever.

The music cut out, and the applause swelled. As they'd gone over in rehearsal, they'd leave the stage now. Packer stood, legs rubbery. From on the stage, over the roar of the crowd, Packer heard Mike yell. "Thank you everyone, that's all for tonight!"

A few seconds later, the five of them piled onto stage right, t-shirts soaked with sweat, wide-eyed, breathing hard, and ecstatic.

"That was fucking awesome!" Jordan roared, hands balled up into fists.

"Not over yet," Matt the drummer panted. "How long should we wait?"

They listened. The audience was clapping in time, stomping their feet, too. Packer reached out and touched the wall; it was vibrating impressively...and a little scarily.

"Good enough for me," Mike said. He turned to Packer. "You ready for this?"

Packer shrugged. "No bowing out now, right?"

"We'll see you out there," Mike winked, and the five of them ran back out on the stage to a fresh torrent of adulation.

Packer shook his arms out and waited. He heard Mike say, "OK, it's time to close out the show. We have two...well, it's really one more song, but we need a third guitar to do it right. So, with that in mind, please help me in welcoming to the stage your favorite machinist and mine, Mister Alferd Packer!"

His legs carried him automatically out onto the stage; there was no other explanation for how he got there. The applause pounded in his ears, louder than he'd ever heard it. He held up a hand and looked over the crowd. Predictably, a lot of people were whispering to one another, trying to figure out precisely what he was wearing. And why not? It's not every day you see a neon-green military dress uniform, he thought offhandedly.

A stage hand was there to hook up his guitar. They lacked wireless connections, but that just meant that you couldn't run around the stage like a lunatic. That was fine with Packer; it was all business. He'd be surprised if he moved at all.

The applause died, and Mike said, "Ready to roll, Mister Packer?" Packer answered via a Hendrix chord on his guitar, which rang loudly and--more importantly, correctly--throughout the auditorium. "Right on," Mike grinned, then turned back to the crowd. "Well, that covers the instruments, but we still need help. So, right now, let's bring everyone who's performed tonight back out on stage to help us sing. And," he added as the applause grew in response to the people filing back out onto stage, "if you in the audience feel like singing along, then I encourage you to do so."

Mike turned back to Matt the drummer and nodded. He start playing, and everyone joined in on cue. Packer was proud that he managed this properly, but there was no time to rest on his laurels now.

Almost everyone in the auditorium figured out what they were playing quickly, since it was a classic. By the time they got the first verse, almost everyone in the building was singing:

"We're Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band,
We hope you have enjoyed the show..."

Packer didn't sing. He was simply concentrating on keeping time with the drummer and hitting the right chords. His part was rather simplified, but his skills were also rather simple. He'd no doubt that Jordan or guitar Matt could play this in their sleep--which is why they were playing the fun parts. About halfway through the song though, he was feeling good. It looked like all the practice had paid off.

As the song drew down, the tricky part came. They were transitioning straight into "The End," another Beatles classic, and Packer's part required quite a leap down the neck of the guitar. But, when it came, he managed it just fine. He had to remind himself that the crowd was going ballistic not because he succeeded, but rather because the transition had been so seamless on all of their parts.

Initially, Packer'd thought that the three metalheads would have never gone for two Beatles songs. He'd shown them, however, that there were drum and three separate guitar solos in the song, though technically, you only needed one guitar to actually play all three parts, and they decided they could handle it.

And now came the hard part. Both Matt and Jordan agreed to handle most of the solo parts, but they insisted that Packer would have to do a little bit, too. Oh, the horror! But Jordan was a competent teacher, and he'd identified two the easiest segments, simplified them a bit further, and sure enough, Packer was going to play his first guitar solo!

Sure, it was only four bars worth of music. And he'd only play two bars worth at a time, as part of the rotation between the three of them. And probably a six year old with flipper hands could've done it. they'd made it so easy. But, Packer did it. Wedged between two superior guitarists, he actually managed to look not completely worthless.

At any rate, the song ended, and the auditorium swelled with a cacophony of cheer. No one even heard Mike yell, "Thank you, good night!" Although Packer saw his lips move and guessed that was what he said. All the performers, as they'd agreed, joined hands and took to the front of the stage, taking a bow. And once more.

When things finally died down, Packer worked his jaw, trying to pop his ears, suspecting he'd been partially deafened. A good deal of of the performers remained on stage, talking with each other and people down in the pit. Packer unhooked his guitar and handed it to a waiting crewmember. Now that the house lights were up, he could see Terrance and and Andrew and third person he didn't recognize waving frantically at him from the back of the room. He waved back, and Terrance pointed out the door, then bent his wrist to the right. Packer, understanding that he meant to meet him out in the hallway, offered a thumbs up.

He then yanked the stupid fake moustache off, realizing now how bad it itched. In fact, the whole costume was itchy. He'd definitely need to change first.

It was then, by pure chance, that Packer saw the one unhappy face in the entire room. Out in the crowd sat a man in a suit. Older guy, probably in his mid thirties. One of the Councillors, too. He always looked constipated, and he was the one Councillor that never talked to Packer. Sure, a good deal of the Council thought Packer a pain in the ass, but even the frostiest were cordial with him. The guys he dealt with most frequently, various logistics managers and engineers, were even friendly with him. This guy was not. He acted like Packer didn't even exist.

Accordingly, Packer didn't know his name; word was round the campfire that people called him The Shark. Word was also around the campfire that he was one of the five (or seven, or nine, depending on the source) members of the Privy Council, or the Council Within the Council, or the Shadow Council(again, depending on your source). Point was, he never seemed to be having a good time; least not that Packer had seen.

For a moment, their eyes actually met. Or maybe ol' Shark was staring at some right near Packer; he was far away, after all. Regardless, there was nothing but cold anger in that man's eyes, and it bothered Packer.

But only for a moment. A bunch of other performers were coming over to congratulate him. After he shook their hands, he'd go change and meet Terrance and Andrew and that other guy. The four of them would head over to the shop, knock back a jigger or two of whiskey, then call it a night. That sounded just fine to Packer, and immediately, The Shark was gone from his thoughts.

Of course, the opposite was not necessarily true.

Day 231, Night, Cape Cod

"I must say this first," Packer said, hunched over on a bench. "My tribe is a strange tribe. We did not always live on the Far Island. We are many different tribes."

He looked up. Around him probably half the tribe was gathered, in a semicircle. There'd been two other stories and two songs so far that evening, and Packer'd had a wonderful time, even if he hadn't understood everything. Now it was his turn, though. The children were seated nearest him, the women knelt or sat on benches behind them, and the men stood. All eyes were on him.

He stood. "It is strange to say this. My tribe is many tribes? Why? How can this be? I do not know this. I can only tell you what I know, and how I came here." He began pacing back and forth as he spoke.

"Before I came to the Far Island, I lived even further away. Far past any boat, far past the Winter Lands. So far that I will never be able to return. There I lived, and there I was happy. I was married." He paused, looking down. "Then, one day, my tribe was gone! I slept suddenly," he fell to the earth, causing a few people to gasp, "and when I was awake, I was in a place. A place I did not know!"

He got on his knees, groggily. "The place was strange and familiar. The houses were like my tribe's houses. The tools," he held up his metal knife, which gleamed in the firelight, "were like my tribe's tools. The clothes were like my tribe's clothes. The words were my tribe's words." His voice suddenly rose to an agonized wail. "But where was my tribe?! Where was my wife!?" Before he realized what he was doing, he roared inarticulately and flipped over the bench, rising to his feet. The children and some of the women squealed in fright and backed up.

"Gone!" he shouted, looking at the crowd. "Gone! My tribe and my wife were gone! They are gone! But," his voice dropped, "I was not alone. Many others were there too. At this strange place. They were like me; they were pulled from their tribes! From their wives!"

Packer set the bench upright and sat on it. "I know that I can never see my wife or my tribe again. So I cry!" he buried his face in his hands, wracking himself with faked sobs and even managing some crocodile tears. He looked up. A few of the women were crying, too. "Many nights I cry for my wife, but she did not come. Is she dead? Is my tribe dead? Did the gods do this? I do not know."

He stood again, walking in a long, lazy loop. "But I cannot eat tears. There were many of us. Some were mad, and they killed! So, we needed to make a new tribe! We needed new Elders! New hunters! New sailors! There were many things to do!

"My work helped. I am skilled in making things," he stooped and slapped the seat of the bench. "In the new tribe, I worked with metal." This last word was in English, and most people knew it at this point. "I made things like my knife, and my crossbow. Other things, too. Our tribe can do many such things, and when I worked, I did not think about my wife. But when work was done, and I was alone..." he let the sentence hang.

"And our new Elders! They are strong men. Warriors and healers and men with big thoughts! But..." he put a sly look on his face. "They were not my Elders! How can I trust new Elders? Are they my family? Are they my tribe?" There were thoughtful nods and murmurs all around.

"I questioned the new Elders!" Packer said, slapping his bare chest with his hand. "They did bad things. They did stupid things. I questioned them!" He went back over to the bench, sitting down on it. "The Elders did not like this!

"I came before them, and they said, 'Packer! You defy us. We make The Way, and you do not follow The Way! You want to change The Way! You must go!' " He stood, spreading his arms wide. "They sent me here. To die!" He choked on the last words, letting them hang. The crowd was eating it up. Packer couldn't tell if the general opinion was that his tale was fabrication or truth.

"So I left the Far Island! I came to the Summer Lands! I met with the Wolf Hunters, and they captured me!" He cast himself backwards, tumbling over the bench and landing in a heap. "And at their camp," he said, propping himself up on his elbows, "I met Duniik and Nara. Captured, too!

"I was in a strange place, but I had tools with me! I had metal! I gave metal to the Wolf Hunters, and I was free! But Duniik and Nara? I first thought of me!" He hung his head ashamedly. "But I had a meal with Duniik and Nara. I could not leave them! So, I gave the Wolf Hunters more metal, and they freed my friends, too!

"It was good, too! I was sick, and without them, I would be dead! Duniik and Nara saved my life, and I am most grateful to them forever!" That last bit was an idiomatic phrase which carried the appropriate weight. "And now, I am here! My first tribe is gone. My new tribe is ruled by fools! Here I am an honored friend of a good tribe! And here I am happy!"

The assembled group roared its approval, hooting and yelling. Packer grinned, then brought his hands together in a mightly clap, as he'd seen others do, to show that his story was done. The crowd immediately broke up. Packer guessed that was the end of the Sing Story.

He turned and hefted the bench, lugging it back to its original position. When he was finished, he turned around and literally bumped into Nara.

He was so surprised that he jumped back and fell, landing square on the bench, jarring his back. It took him a moment to say, "Hello, Nara!"

"Hello Packer," she replied. He was wearing her dress with the red pattern on in, and her hair was done up in a braid that draped gracefully across her shoulder. She sat down next to him, hands folded in her lap. "Was your story true?" she asked plainly.

Packer nodded once. "Yes," he said. "All true."

"So, you have a wife?"

"I had a wife," he said without hesitation, amazed that he actually said it. "She is gone. I can never find her again."

"Is she dead?" Nara asked in a small voice.

Packer paused. "Yes," he said finally. "She is dead. I will never be with her again. No one will be with her again. She is dead."

"You had something your wife?"

Packer frowned. "I don't understand."

Nara repeated the word. "When a person makes you happy. When they are family. When they are a husband or wife."

Packer realized the word: love. "Did I love my wife?" he said. "Yes. Very much. When I was at the Far Island, for many days I think about her, before I sleep. And I cry, because she is not there. She cannot be there. She is dead."

Nara nodded, considering this. "Then you know."

"I know what?" he asked.

"Your wife is dead. My husband is dead. You know." She stood. "Until the morning, Packer." And she left to rejoin the crowd which was milling easily around the nearby fire.

And as Packer sat there, he realized that he did know. The confusion, the feelings of worthlessness, of depression, of betrayal. But he was past that. He hadn't cried for his wife since he'd ditched his cell phone Lewis Bay two months ago. He thought about her, certainly, and those thoughts were always tinged with sadness, but he was able to see past that, all the way to the happiness he associated with her.

What he couldn't get past on Nantucket, he'd gotten past here, on Cape Cod. And all it took was exile, a couple of brushes with death, and immersion in a completely foreign culture. If he'd been 'broken,' he considered himself healed. With a calm smile on his face, he stood and started walking back to his hut.

He'd sleep like a baby tonight.

[CaptainChewbacca]

Just a quick note now that I've disclosed my illness to SDN. Given that the event happened AFTER my accident, I will have lung cancer already when we get sent back. That means after about 2.5-3 years on the island I'm going to start having trouble breathing, and I'll be dead by 5 years. I don't think they've got much stuff for chemotherapy or an oncologist's clinic, and I'm relatively sure we don't have any surgeons.

[GrandMasterTerwynn]

Editor's Note: This takes place on day 108, post-arrival.
Marbles
Clutching my six-gun tightly, I press myself against ice-cold siding. My heart's racing, and my mouth's about as dry as Tombstone in June. I know Paul's a ways back, but he ain't gonna be any help whatsoever, on account of the axe-blow that opened his brains up to the cold winter air. I heard of people goin' stir-crazy during the winter, but this really takes the goddamned cake. Malevolent Powers, I beg you, give me one more day on this Earth. I don't care if y'all keep inflicting your boredom on me, just let me live!

I hear dead leaves crunch in the yard just over the fence of the house I'm hiding behind. If I move wrong, and he's got Paul's shotgun, I'm going to get a face-full of triple-aught and my trip to back in time ends, full-stop. If he's just got that goddamned axe, then I've got a chance. If I don't move, then he'll get past me and we're going to play this game of cat-and-mouse.

Again.

How the fuck did this happen? No, fuck that. Right now, I'm gonna have to do something, and fast.

"Hey shithead!" I yell, rolling back. Truthfully, it was more of a squeak, since I don't think the pucker factor could get any wors . . .

KA-BOOM!

Splinters explode a couple feet from my face. Motherfucker! Run! I take off, ducking below the fence; half-sprinting, half-stumbling, trying not to slip and bust my ass on some random bit of ice. If I do, you'd better bury me with my hat on, and my goddamned six-gun strapped to my side . . . at least we've got a good mortician around these parts.

KA-BOOM!

Fencing explodes into more splinters a yard behind me and I take a tumble. Somehow, I manage not to lose either my hat nor my gun, and I even find my footing. There, between the porch and that tree! Hammer back, and:

Boom!

The old Colt rolls up in my hand, thumb the hammer back, drop the barrel, and . . .

Boom!

I send two big .45 slugs at some motion in that yard as I jog backward and, miraculously, make it back to cover. Guess that answers one of my fucking questions. The others, I'm going to have to think on; while also thinking about what the hell I'm going to do next . . .

Seven days before . . .
"Doesn't look very good, does it?"

I never even heard the Aussie step up behind me. I will never get used to the way the man always turns up when there's trouble about. The casual disdain in his voice, on the other hand, I just filtered out.

"No sir, not very good at all," I reply. We were at one of the community kitchens, and I was looking over their inventory ledger. We were out here 'cause things weren't adding up. Well, they were adding up; they just weren't adding up to be as much as they were supposed to be. Someone was stealing food.

"They weren't even aware that they were short," the Aussie continued. "Or by how much," he added. There was an unmistakable hint of frost in his voice. Inwardly, I shuddered. Come the end of the week, there'd be some mighty unhappy folks who'd be exchanging pens and soup ladles for axes and camp shovels. This was gonna happen to at least one more kitchen. They learned someone was stealing from them when they found they'd exhausted their supply of beef bullion cubes a whole month early.

Today, there were Watchmen tearing apart every cupboard at every community kitchen on Nantucket. We were going to have a proper accounting of all the food in their possession. Even the Old Man was getting in on this, except he was at the hospital, cross-checkin' all the drugs under their control. Goddamn it, if I'd known this was gonna happen, I wouldn't have spent all of last fucking night on patrol.

Someone with an absurdly boyish face came in. I hadn't properly learned his name yet. I know I should; he's Derek's replacement, after all. Derek didn't survive that last day I saw him . . . when those assholes decided to play goddamn suicide by cop.

"Happy thoughts," the Aussie said from behind me. "They're going to want that ledger back, you know. Regardless of how poorly it resembles reality."

I exhale sharply and look down. I had the ledger in my hands, and I was, apparently, fixin' to rip it in half. I put down the ledger and clear my throat.

"Of course, sir," I say. The young Watchman goes up to the Aussie and says something to him; before turning and leaving as fast as he thought he could get away with.

"It looks like at least two other kitchens have developed mysterious holes in their inventories," the Aussie finally said.

"How could this happen?" The new kid said. "Thought you guys had a system."

"We do," the Aussie replied, sizing the kid up. "With that in mind, the answer should be immediately obvious to you."

There was an uncomfortable moment of silence. Feeling generous, I cleared my throat.

"Someone's been gaming the system," I said.

"You're stealing his thunder," the Aussie said, with a chopping motion of his hand. "Let him think this through."

The poor new kid was turning a lovely shade of beet-red.

"Gaming the system," he parroted, clearly trying to beat his brain into some sort of action. "You saying that someone's been entering BS numbers into the inventories?"

The Aussie just watched the kid.

"No . . . no, wait. They had to have done more than that," the kid continued.

"Like what?"

"Umm . . . yeah! They . . . uhh . . . had to have cooked everyone's numbers so nobody would ever notice. Right?"

"So close," the Aussie replied. The new kid seemed to shrink by at least two or three. "They didn't need to alter everyone's books. Doing that would've brought them to our notice sooner. All they needed to do was hijack the chain of custody of whatever they were interested in. I want you to compile a report of everything that's misreported here. Have it ready by tonight, Tommy."

"Uhh, yes sir," the new kid, Tommy, said. Don't think it was possible for him to clear out of there faster without wings. I watched him go.

"Keep that ledger with you," the Aussie said, turning away. "I expect when everybody compares notes, we will see a pattern in short order."

"One that'll lead us to whoever's doing this?"

"Yes," the Aussie replied.

"What are we gonna do when we catch 'em?"

"Now that's an interesting question. People are going to want them drawn and quartered, even though most of them are likely just as guilty of stealing and hoarding food . . . they've just been less egregious about it," the Aussie replied, stroking his chin. "Hmm, we may just put them to work ferreting out other would-be thieves. It all depends, I suppose," he said, fixing his gaze directly at me, "on if they survive the negotiating process."

Now . . .
. . . I'm really not that good at this negotiation shit. Too bad the guy who is; is chasing down the thieves, leaving me to nab this guy. I have to try. If, nothing else, it might tell me where he's hiding.

"C'mon out," I shout. "This doesn't have to be the O.K. Corral. Let's talk, get you some help."

Nothing. I press myself tighter against this wall, half-covered by half-dead shrubbery. Did I get him?

"No need to be shy, pardner, just put the shotgun down and come out!" God, please put the fucking shotgun down before you do. Time-traveling cowboys don't make good backstops.

Nothing. Either I got him, or he went inside. Very carefully, I reach for my radio . . . fuck! No good. Scanning up and down the sidewalk, I spot it two yards away. Where I took that goddamn fall. C'mon, you sonofabitch, say something. Do something. Let me know where you are. I draw back the hammer of my Colt.

The rustle of shrubbery and the splintering of wood make me duck.

KA-BOOM!

Something tugs on my hat in a very unpleasant way. I look up, just catching him working the pump of his shotgun.

Boom!

My shot goes way high, but it makes him stop what he's doing and take off running across the street. I lunge to my feet, chasing after him. We've done this before. I'm a lot fitter than I was going into this long winter, but unfortunately, so is he. He's making for that big-ass house at the end of the block. I push myself harder, I've gotta close the distance if I'm gonna hit him on the run.

Oh shit! He stops and wheels around, swinging the shotgun towards me. For an instant I catch the look in his eye. There's nothing in there but hate. This fucker wants me dead.

Boom!

It's hard to shoot while running, and my shot smacks pavement. He jumps in surprise as he's sprayed by bits of lead and concrete just the same. He lunges off the the side, executes a beautiful ducking half-turn and takes off again. We make it across the street, he ducks around the gutted, burned-out husk of what used to be some rich kid's Lexus. He makes it to the recessed doorway of that big house and slams back against the wall, trying to bring his shotgun up. I throw myself down, slamming up against the fender of that Lexus.

I pop my head up, and he peeks out.

KA-BOOM!

My yelp is drowned out by the screech of lead shredding steel. I'm shaking, I'm not having a good fucking day, at all. He ducks back, disappearing into the doorway. I'm immediately up, dashing around the Lexus, following him in. We were in a part of Nantucket that wasn't good for more than gasifier wood, but the fucker was working his way towards occupied houses. This had to end . . .

Five days ago . . .
"They've been busy," the Old Man growled, chewing on each word like it were rawhide. When he and the doctor had come into the room, fuming like they did, I knew it wasn't going to be good.

"How the hell could we let this happen!" More than a couple of us winced. It wasn't quite a full-bore yell, but coming from the Old Man, it was bad enough.

"Food, medicine, the essential supplies that keep this community going, and we've let them be stolen from under our noses!"

"But," I heard one of the boys start to protest.

Crack!

The Old Man's palm slammed into the table. I about jumped out of my skin just then.

"But what? You all were given the chance to serve the community because you proved you were grown-up enough to handle it. Don't prove me wrong now! If I hear one more excuse out of any of you," he snapped, his voice suddenly lowering. "I'll tell you right now, if you survive me tearing you a new asshole . . . come spring, you will spend the rest of your life digging ditches on Martha's Vineyard."

He took a deep breath, leaning forward over the table. "I'll tell you one thing, gentlemen. We fucked up. We've been too lax, too inattentive. We should've caught this before it became as large a problem as it has. We're not going to let this happen again. Come the next talent show, all of you will be on-duty."

Two days ago . . .
We all stared at large map of Nantucket pinned to the wall. Several addresses were marked by red thumbtacks. Many others were marked by yellow thumbtacks, connected to the red ones by lengths of red yarn. Little sticky notes were pasted all over the place. What struck me was how much of the map was covered, given that there were only three-thousand people on the island.

"Holy shit, they have been busy," someone behind me said.

"Understatement of the century, I'm sure," the Aussie replied. He was up on the podium, standing next to the map. It had been a brainstorming exercise. Take all information we'd gathered over the last few days, and get it correlated. And, goddamn it, a pattern was emerging.

"Looks like we brought the notion of the 'black market' back to the past with us," someone else said.

"That's for sure," Paul replied, sitting next to me. The Watch had moved quickly since the Old Man had jammed his foot up our asses. The curfew was being rigorously enforced now. We'd started to let it slide, you know? I mean, it's the dead of winter, it's too goddamned cold to cause trouble.

But, not anymore. Some of those people who were surprised by the renewed curfew turned up some interesting surprises after we shook 'em down. A little here, and a little there . . . people were swapping and trading things. Most of it, nobody'd care about, and it was the same sort of stuff that'd been going on the whole time we were here. But people were also trading things we were trying to keep centralized control over. Certain kinds of food. Alcohol. Even drugs . . . not the hard stuff, mind you. I reckon we destroyed most anything heavier than pot the first month we were here, but there were signs that some people were trying to abuse narcotic-containing painkillers, antihistamines, sleeping pills . . . whatever would knock 'em out.

I followed the lines of yarn . . . one of those red tacks was stuck smack-dab over the hospital. And there were an awful lot of bits of yarn leading to it. And that's what scared me the most . . .

Two hours ago . . .
"Anti-psychotics . . . are you paying attention?"

"Oh yes, yes I am," I reply, looking over at Paul. "The purpose of the black market seems to be to keep someone supplied with 'em. That's what you said."

Paul looked mollified. "Yeah," he said. "Makes me wonder what kind of people we're gonna be facing."

"If we're lucky, the kind who'll have the sense to give up when they see all the guns we'll be pointing at them," I say. "If not, then they'll be the well-ventilated kind."

That got a laugh out of Paul and the two other guys who were with us. We were all closing on the house that we were all sure that the kingpins of our very own black market had holed up. There were several teams sweeping up the streets leading to that house. The boys up top told us that stealth was our best option. As far as our marks knew, we had nothing on them. The longer they thought we were still looking for our collective asses, the better.

That was the thought, anyway. Not really sure if I agreed with it. As hard as we came down on everybody, that had to have had 'em nervous. But, then again, maybe The Powers That Be figured that if everybody was miserable then that'd prove that we didn't really know who was doing the worst of the double-dipping.

The radio crackled.

"Charlie Team, be on the lookout. Someone tipped them off. We caught several of them trying to make a break for it."

Oh shit.

"Alpha Leader, come again," Paul said, speaking into his radio. "Did you say they're on the run?"

"That's exactly what I said. Where are you?"

"Essex Road, man," the new guy, Tommy, said.

"We're making our way down Essex Road now," Paul said into the radio. There was a pause as we all froze, starting to look around.

"You're in position, then. We've . . . convinced . . . one of the people we've caught to tell us where their ringleader is hiding," he went on, rattling off an approximate address. I looked down the street, at the row of vacant, vandalized houses. The ringleader of the black market operation was hiding somewhere down there. I heard more details, they didn't have guns, only improvised melee weapons.

"So what do we do," the other guy said, easing closer to us.

"There's only four of us," I reply, "And it looks like we've got at least three houses to check. This is one hombre we don't want to let get away." There were nods of agreement.

"Therefore," I said, "I think Paul and Tommy should hang back while me an' John have a look around."

"Why," Tommy immediately said.

"I've got the only long-gun," Paul replied. "It sounds good to me. We'll cover you while you go and knock on doors."

We all nodded and broke off. Paul and Tommy to get to cover, me and John to go waltzing down the street to flush out our man. I thought it was a good plan, at the time. Two against one, with two more providing support? What could go wrong, right?

Bad intel, for one.

Me and John barely got a hundred yards before I heard a commotion and screaming behind us. We wheeled around, just in time to see Paul toppling forward like a sack of bricks and a glint of light on steel as his attacker turned on Tommy. Goddamn stupid kid didn't have his weapon ready, and I saw the blood arc through the air as that axe took a bite out of his arm and his pistol went flying away. John and I started running back up the street, fast as we could. John's Glock popped several times as he fired at the man running down the street, but then we'd gotten to Paul and Tommy.

"Oh god, Paul," I groaned. I could see pink under that bloody flap of bone and flesh that got hacked out of his head. Paul's trip back in time had just come to an abrupt end. I turned my attention to Tommy, who was clutching his right arm, swearing violently as blood oozed between his fingers.

"I got this," John growled. He already had a first aid kit on the ground, and he was rifling through it. "You go get the fucker with the axe!"

I look at him, at Tommy, at Paul, and at the figure running down the street.

"Goddamnit," I shout, throwing myself to my feet, sprinting down the road as fast as my legs will carry me . . .

Now . . .
As I dive into the dark house, I throw myself towards the first cover I can make out. It ain't much, but a recliner's better than nothing. The only sound I can hear over the goddamned ringing in my ears is my thundering heart, so I'm left with my eyes. I peek up, six-gun at the ready. The front door opens up into a living room, and there's a hallway with a big mirror at one end.

I make my way to the back wall, out of sight of the hallway. Directly across from me is a dining area and a kitchen which had been thoroughly ransacked months ago. Someone had camped out here since then. Whatever table was originally here had been carted off, but there was one of those cheap fold-out tables and a couple of camping chairs.

The ringing began to diminish, but the deafening silence that was replacing it wasn't much better. I got to the edge of the hallway. I could make out a staircase in the dim gray light. Great, fucking great. He was either upstairs, or in one of the two rooms that'd branched off from the hallway. From the smell, one of 'em had to be a head. Not much room for a shotgun wielding nut in there. The door was open, and gloomy light filtered in.

So door number two, or up the stairs . . . hope I pick right . . . one, two, three!

I charge towards the end of the hallway. It can't be any more than sixteen feet, but it feels like a lonely, exposed mile. I skid to a stop, whirling around, eyes darting up the stairwell . . . fuck there he is! Oh fuck, he's . . .

KA-BOOM!

Next to me, the mirror explodes. The click as he works the pump and it jams open is icing on what is otherwise a cake made of horseshit. His eyes and mine meet as I level the old Colt at him. He screams, hurtling the shotgun at me, throwing himself down the stairs . . .

Boom!

Goddamn it! Ducking while shooting doesn't make for accuracy . . . no time to think, I grab the shotgun with my free hand and swing it at him . . . just in the nick of fucking time. White-hot sparks rain down as steel meets steel, his axe glancing off the barrel of the shotgun. I duck under, backing up as fast as I can.

Crack!

He buries the axe in the wall, yanking it out in a shower of drywall. He swings it at me again, and the shotgun is wrenched from my hand. I jump back, just barely missing his back-swing.

Crunch!

The axe is buried in the wall again. I scream, charging forward, knocking him back. All the air in me leaves with an explosive cough as he drives his fist into my gut. I whip the barrel of my six-gun across his face, and then it's his turn to charge me. We fall in a tangle of limbs and cursing. My Colt skitters away as he gets hold of my wrist and slams it to the floor. I jam my other palm up his nose and wrench my hand free. We exchange positions, he's on the bottom and I draw back to let him have it . . .

Flying! Fuck! I crash, just barely managing to roll. Suddenly, I see my old Colt, blue steel glinting in the gloom. I lunge for it, but he's already regained his feet. He grabs me by the collar and the back of my pants, and again, I go flying. The only thing to break my fall is that folding table. And, like the cheap piece of shit that it is, it obligingly folds up when I hit it, and I crash to the floor.

I'm dazed. I hurt all over. Nothing responds right. The nut eyes me as he kneels to pick up my gun. Fuck me, this doesn't look good.

"Got me a pig," he finally speaks. "Whaddya suppose I'm gonna do to him?"

"Be . . . be much obliged if you'd . . . give him his gun back," I manage, my eyes transfixed on the muzzle of that six-gun. Many lawbreakers . . . and lawmen . . . have met their end in this way.

"No can do," he says, thumb curling onto the hammer. "You can have one of your bullets back, though."

Click.

Time slows. One of those cheap fold-up camping chairs is just within reach . . . but I'll be dead before I can get to it.

Click.

Big click . . . the gun's at half-cock now. My eyes look into his, but find no remorse. The only thing between him and escape is me, and dead men tell no tales.

Click.

My eyes drop to that old Colt. My mind is racing. How many shots did I fire? Think, goddamn you, think!

Click.

No more time. My hand's already reaching for that camp chair, but a good Colt single-action has a clean, light trigger.

Click!

The hammer falls on an empty chamber. Our eyes meet, even as I am pulling that chair, yanking it towards him. For the first time, he looks surprised. And then the chair smacks him square in the face. He staggers back as I lunge to my feet and throw myself at him for all I'm worth. I slam into him, knocking the air out of him, knocking him back. We both tumble to the floor. Somehow, he keeps hold of my six-gun and that makes it easier as I wrench it from his hand. Without hesitation, I bring that hog-leg grip down on the bridge of his nose, my knuckles white.

"Load one," I scream, smashing him across the cheek.

"Skip one," I open up a gash on his other cheek.

"Load four!" I bring the gun down on his head again. As I screamed the single-action gunfighter's mantra at him; my eyes had to have been as wide as saucers, and I was panting like some goddamned wild animal as I stared at him daring him to move. The fight in him was gone, though, as was consciousness. The fucker was still breathing. My arm was trembling as I held that ol' Colt up; a few more blows would fix that breathin' problem of his good and proper.

And then, something hit me. No, there wasn't someone lurking in the shadows; and no, it wasn't all the aches and pains . . . though I will be alive for that later. Slowly, I lowered the Colt and slid it back into my holster.

"No . . . you killed one of our own. The Watch is gonna want a piece of you . . . and the Council's going to want to talk to you too," I said, rising unsteadily to my feet, looking around for something to tie him up with. It was time to go get my radio.

~~~

Now that you've read this chapter, you can go here and vote in the poll. You will get to decide what happens to this guy!

[Alferd Packer]

Day 234, Morning, Cape Cod

Packer waited nervously outside the house with Duniik. For the first time, in months, he was standing in a line, waiting to get in. The purpose was simple: some months ago, a young couple in the village had a baby, and something rather momentous happened: it survived. Packer guessed the infant mortality rate was around twenty percent, with another thirty percent of kids dying within the first few years of life. It therefore made sense not to get too attached to newborn infants.

So, having judged enough time to have passed, the proud papa of the little kid declared that it was time to see her. The baby had remained in seclusion, and her mother had only been seen rarely. Now, though, it was time to show off. Everyone in the village prepared something--a meal, a blanket, a new knife, whatever--and they all stood in line, taking turn presenting it an saying the traditional blessing, which Packer translated as:

"May your child have a long, happy life."

Simple, pleasant, to the point. Packer liked the way the tribe did things; no long, drawn-out ceremonies. No chanting for hours. No vision quests, or any other of thing one tended to vaguely associated with Native Americans. Celebrations were brief, intense, and then it was back to work. Well, not really work. Packer guessed he spent about four hours a day "working" for the tribe--that is to say, he averaged four hours a day hunting. The other twenty hours he filled as he pleased.

Since the Sing Story, he felt the mood towards him shift, and for the better. Now, when he passed people other than Duniik or Nara, he was actually greeted. Last evening, he'd been working outside his hut on fashioning a bow, when he'd been approached by one of Duniik's friends, Natteko. Natteko had expressed interest in learning how to perform carpentry like Packer. Such an event would've never occurred even a week ago!

So, where Packer would've ignored the debut of a new baby to the village before, now he was an eager participant. For his offering, he elected to give two of his best carvings: chess pieces, specifically, a white knight and a black knight.

And it was his turn to go. He stooped and entered. The house was larger than his own by a good stretch, with several partitions set up as rooms inside. He was led by the father, Ganchiik, around one such partition to where the mother and baby were.

The mother's name was Delaka, and as tradition stipulated, the baby would not be named until she was about one or so. Delaka was reclining on a pile of furs, the bundled-up baby gurgling happily in her arms. Delaka's eyes widened a bit when she saw Packer; since she spent most of her time indoors with the baby, she hadn't seem him more than a paltry few times, certainly.

As Duniik had instructed him, Packer got down on a knee. "May your child have a long, happy life," he proclaimed in his best native speech, and presented the chess pieces.

Ganchiik took them, examining them. "What are they?" He asked.

Packer looked up. "There is a story in my tribe," he said, "of a time when there were two great tribes. Each tribe was the same size. And their warriors went to battle. These," he pointed, "are the greatest warriors of each tribe. They have great strength and power, and lesser warriors fear them. They protect many in their tribe, and they are hard to defeat. Now, these two are with you. You will have their protection, and so will your child."

Ganchiik smiled, as did Delaka. "Thank you, Packer," Ganchiik said.

Packer nodded, then left the hut under Ganchiik's escort. Duniik, having gone just ahead of him, was waiting for him.

"Did they like it?" he asked Packer.

"Yes, I think so," Packer said. He turned back. "The child looks strong, no?"

Duniik shrugged. "I do not know. They say she is healthy. Something something should not think of it."

Packer nodded. Yeah, there is still a good chance that she'll die in the next two years. Don't get too attached. Changing the subject, he said, "Hunt today? You may use the crossbow."

Duniik's eyes brightened. "I will go get my weapons."

Day 110, Afternoon, Nantucket

"Boss, you got a minute?"

Packer looked up from his drafting desk. He'd grown up around such devices; his father and his grandfathers were all engineers of varying degrees, and since their formative years were in the days before CAD programs, they were all skilled in the art of technical drawing. As a young child, Packer spent many afternoons on his grandfather's knee, tracing intricate swirls on massive sheet of paper with delight. Later, when he was fourteen, his dad taught him the fundamentals in a more formal fashion, which were reinforced in his high school's technical drawing course.

Of course, once he starting attending college, majoring in computer science, he forgot all about it. His grandfathers retired, and his dad retrained to learn AutoCAD and various other industry standard programs. But now, back in the past on Nantucket, Packer was straining to dig out that rudimentary training he received.

At best, his drawings were good enough to give a real engineer with proper training enough of an understanding to make a coherent schematic. Still, it was necessary, and with the shop humming at full productivity, Packer had a backlog of work that almost completely prevented him from actually getting his hands dirty and building something.

So, any respite from tedium was welcome. He turned. "What's up, Jason?"

Terrance came in and shut the door behind him. Uh oh. Maybe not any respite. "Mind if I sit, boss?"

"Sure," Packer said cautiously. Terrance never asked permission to sit down. He looked completely off kilter, now that Packer got a good look at him.

"There's a problem, boss," Terrance wriggled in his chair. "Andrew just damn near chopped his hand off with the metal saw. He's been on another planet all day. He's alright though. Physically, anyway." He looked up at Packer. "Remember Will?"

Packer gave his brain a moment. "The guy from after the talent show, when we came back here? Andrew's boyfriend, right?"

"Well..."

"Did they break up or something?" Packer leaned forward.

"He's dead." Terrance looked like he punted the words out of him.

Packer exhaled sharply. "Shit."

"Yeah, Andrew just told me. Broke down halfway through. Rustbucket's sitting with him right now." Terrance leaned back. "It's fucked up, boss. You know how they broke up that hoarding ring, right? Well, it turns out that Will was a frequent customer of their little black market. He was turning tricks for Vicodin and Oxycontin, anything that'd get him toasted. When the supply dried up, he sobered up, started...you know, having to deal with the situation, and decided it wasn't worth it. Walked to the Harbor last night, slashed his wrists, then jumped in. They fished him out after a few minutes, but it was no good."

Packer shook his head. His legs were numb. "Fuck, man. And Andrew came to work? The hell?"

"I asked him the same thing." Terrance paused. His lower lip actually quivered, and he said in a surprisingly choked voice: "Said he was afraid of disappointing you, boss."

An improbable lump grew from nothing in Packer's throat, making it difficult to talk. For a long moment, Packer fought desperately not to cry. Finally winning out, he composed himself. "Alright, Jason. Thanks for telling me. Go get Andrew and send him in."

Andrew entered looking rather like a beaten puppy. His eyes appeared cried out at the moment, but they could probably start fresh at any time, and he was still sniffling. Packer sat on the edge of his desk, and motioned silently for Andrew to sit on the chair. He more collapsed into it than anything else.

"Alright, Andrew," Packer began. "I'm sure everyone has told you that they're sorry, and you're fucking sick of it by now. So, what I'm gonna do is shut up. I want to hear what's on my mind. And if you feel like shutting up, that's cool. Feel like yelling at me? I can take it. So," he reached over to his desk drawer, pulled out a clear plastic bottle and two plastic cups, "have some of this, take a minute, and we'll see what happens."

Packer poured a smidgen of clear liquid into the cup. The bottle contained some of the first test batch of moonshine that the partially-repowered distillery was making. It tasted horrible, being almost pure ethanol and designed primarily as fuel, but alcohol was alcohol was alcohol, so...

Mutely, Andrew took the stuff and swallowed it without a grimace. Packer's eyes widened a bit; this kid must be in a bad way. He took the barest sip of his own and his vision went double for a moment.

"I didn't ever think I was gay," Andrew said suddenly. Packer started; he hadn't expected much of anything. "But the Arrival, you know? It changed everything. There were ten of us, at first, occupying a house. Two guys moved out after a couple of weeks, and two more decided to suicide by cop. This was back in the early days, of course.

"Well, the six of us still lived together, even though we'd been split into different work camps. I got lucky and came here because I know how to weld. After a while, we all got to know each other, right? Well, it turns out that one of the guys was gay."

"Will," Packer finished, immediately wishing he hadn't said his name. He expected Andrew to start crying immediately.

Andrew looked up at him. "Yeah. Well, we were all talking around the fire one night, and we kinda reached the conclusion that we weren't gonna get anywhere near women anytime soon, so Will...offered his services to us. We all balked, of course. I think we were still trying to appear macho or something. I dunno.

"I admit, boss, I was curious. I'd only done over-the-shirt stuff with girls back in the future, and hey, what did I have to lose? So, a few nights later, I took Will up on his offer. He came into my room after everyone was asleep, and he, well...it felt good, having him down there, you know? Like a warm--"

"I'm aware of what a blowjob feels like," Packer interrupted, waving his hand. "Please, go on."

"Oh, sorry boss. Yeah, it kinda became routine after that. He'd slip in after everyone zonked for the night, and we'd do...what we did, and then he'd leave. After a couple weeks of this, though, one of our housemates intimated that everyone knew what we were up to, and they didn't care. There was no need to sneak around like we were. So, Will started spending the nights in my bed. And it was good, you know? You have someone there to come home to, you talk about your day, you gripe about your boss...well, he did. I didn't," Andrew added quickly. Packer smirked, despite himself. "I never realized how comforting it was to just have someone."

"But I didn't know!" Andrew cried suddenly. "I didn't know he was dealing with shit by using pills! How didn't I see that? Stupid!" Without warning, he balled his hand up into a fist and struck himself savagely in the forehead. "Stupid! Stupid!" This eventually gave way to inarticulate sobbing once again.

Packer hopped off the edge of his desk and simply held Andrew, surprisingly not feeling the least bit uncomfortable, letting him cry himself out again. He didn't know how long Andrew took, but he just waited patiently. Eventually, Andrew quieted down, and he let go.

"I didn't think it would hurt so much," Andrew said through the occasional sob. Packer passed him a paper towel and he blew a huge wad of snot into it. "I mean, we were only together for like two months, but...why, boss? Why couldn't he have just talked to me?"

"I don't know," Packer replied. He took the second chair and sat, facing Andrew. "And you know what? It's fucking unfair that I don't know. It's fucking unfair that you don't know. It's fucking unfair that you'll never know, that this'll be a mystery you'll be puzzling over for...fuck, who knows how long? The watchword in your head for for a while is going to be this: why?"

"Will it hurt less?" Andrew asked in a small, pained voice.

"Yes. But it takes time."

Andrew half-sighed, half-sobbed. "But there's so much, and I'm all alone now."

Packer sat bolt upright. "Alone?" he said sharply. "You think you're alone?" He stood up. "I need to show you something."

He grabbed Andrew and hauled him to his feet. He swung the door of his office open, marched himself and Andrew over to the nearest table. He then gave a shrill, piercing, sharp whistle that cut through just about all the sound out in the shop. Immediately, everyone dropped what they were doing and came over. The newer guys took a knee, but the veterans stood or sat up on the work benches.

"Guys, there's something I need to talk to you about," Packer said, keeping a hand firmly on Andrew's shoulder, as the poor kid felt a little wobbly. "I'm sure you all heard about Andrew's boyfriend, so I won't repeat it. We were talking about it back there, and Andrew's somehow got it in his head that he's alone in dealing with this.

"To me, this is unfathomable! I can't say I'm alone when I know I am surrounded by men who've saved my life?" The guys looked at each other, confused. Even Andrew looked faintly perplexed. "It's true. When I feel down, when I'm bummed out, it's you guys who keep me going. The fact that you guys bust your asses everyday for a dumbshit like me lets me know that I'm not alone in this world. Moreover, I know that whatever happens, I'll never be truly alone, as along as you guys are around. I consider all of you my brothers...except for Jason," he added quickly. "He's more like a creepy uncle whose hugs last a bit too long.

"Now do you see? You're not just replaceable cogs in some claptrap machine! You are Machinists! Without us, none of this fucking island works! No cars! No lights! Fuck, they wouldn't even have those metal crossbows we're fabbing up. Wherever you go, take pride in that! And know that you can count on your fellow Machinists to help you when you need help! I have, and I have been richly rewarded for it. Most importantly, know that you are not alone. No matter how badly you feel, you will always have each other.

"And you'll always have me. Remember, I posted directions to my house on the bulletin board. If you need to see me after hours, no matter what the reason, come out and see me. I know it might be a little tougher now that they're cracking down with the curfew again, but if it's important, don't hesitate. I'll deal with the consequences if you get collared by the Watch.

"So, Andrew." Packer turned and faced him. He was redfaced and puffy-eyed, but there was the faintest hint of a smile. "Do you still feel alone?"

"Hell no, boss."

"Guys!" Packer turned back to the workers. "Can Andrew count on every single one of you to be there for him if he needs it?"

"Hell yes, boss!" Thirty-five voices yelled back.

"And that's because you are...?"

"Machinsts, boss!" came the answer in startling unison.

"Good!" Packer barked. Back to Andrew: "And you are...?"

"I'm a Machinist, boss!" An edge of strength had stolen back into his voice.

"Fuckin' right you are!" Packer drew him in for a hug. When he let go, he said, "When you get hurt, you just need to remember that you have each and every one of us to draw strength from. Together, united, we are stronger than anything this fucked up world can throw at us!"

Andrew's tears had come fresh again, but Packer could tell it was a different kind of weeping. Maybe that of relief. He stepped back, and Andrew was suddenly swarmed by thirty-five well-wishers, who did everything from clap him on the back to make earnest offers of support.

Packer watched, a satisfied smile on his face. Terrance slid up next to him after a minute. "You really think I'm a creepy uncle, boss?" he asked.

"Nah, that was just a joke," Packer grinned. "You're more like the super hot cousin that I have inappropriate feelings for."

"Asshole," Terrance said, laughing. "I'll take the creepy uncle, instead." He paused. "You did good, boss. Everyone seems real down, lately."

"I don't blame them," Packer said. "The black market was uprooted and destroyed, and who knows what's going to become of the guys they caught. The curfew is being rigorously enforced. The kitchen staff, because they fucked up so bad, has been replaced by people who can't cook for shit, so the food the sucks. The missing ingredients are making the food suck worse. And to top it off, it's the middle of fucking February and hasn't been above freezing for two weeks. Oh, and we're all stuck 3,000 years in the past and will never see our families or friends again, but that's a given."

"What do you think's going to happen to the black marketeers?" Terrance asked after a moment.

"Up the rope," Packer replied. "And I would not be surprised if attendance to the event--or events--was compulsory."

"Shitty," Terrance grunted.

"Shitty," Packer agreed. "It's been a long fucking winter."

Terrance sighed. "There's still plenty more of the Long Winter to go."

Day 237, Afternoon, Cape Cod

Packer stood on the beach in the warm rain, watching as the Elders walked out to knee depth in Cape Cod Bay. Behind them, supported by two other tribesmen, a third man stumbled as if drunk. Packer knew better, though; the man was in mourning, beside himself with grief.

The man was Kochoko, Nara's abusive brother-in-law...so to say. His brother, Ganchoko, had drowned at sea earlier that day, when a sudden thunderstorm broke hard and fast over Cape Cod. Duniik and Packer had been caught out hunting and weathered the storm in a heavily-wooded gully. When there was only rain and no thunder(Duniik, like most others in the tribe, seemed to be terrified of thunder), they'd trudged back and discovered a somber village, learning of the dismal news.

Kochoko and Ganchoko had been fishing on the same boat when the storm came up. They tried to make it back to land, but it had capsized half a mile offshore. Ganchoko was not a strong swimmer, and Kochoko could only watch helplessly as his brother drowned.

So, the funeral was held. Duniik had explained to Packer that the Rite of Death needed to be performed as soon as possible, so that the deceased would rapidly find his way in the next life. It must also take place nearest to the site of the person's death as was reasonable. If you died in the woods, your funeral was in the woods. If you died in your hut, then the funeral was there, too. And if you died at sea, your funeral was where the water met the land.

Packer was soaked, but like everyone around him, he ignored this condition. He actually found himself wanting to turn his face up and bask; this was the closest thing to a hot shower he'd likely have for a long time. But that urge was easily suppressed, and he stood at the back of the procession as the Elders performed their rite.

The specific rite was called The Three Songs of the Dead. The Elders first sang a song to honor the fallen person; they sang another song to honor that which killed him, then they sang a song to the Gods, begging for mercy. Unfortunately, the liturgical tongue of the tribe seemed to be quite apart from their common speech, and Packer barely understood any of it. He simply stood still, stared straight ahead, and thus paid his respects as the rest of the tribe did.

Once the songs were sung, the ritual and the funeral were over. Couldn't have taken more then ten minutes, he thought. The crowd started drifting back to the village, strolling through the marshes in small groups. Packer opted to walk alone, silently, and he heard the conversations around him. They all pertained to mundane matters: when the rain would let up, what was for supper, who was getting into whose pants.

At first, this struck Packer as strange. He'd expected a lot more crying, wailing, maybe some burnt offerings. After all, no one had died as long as he'd been here, and he'd figured the occasion would be more momentous. But then again, grief was a useless emotion at best to these people. Everyone needed to contribute, so they couldn't tie up the whole village in mourning every time someone died. Maybe this was an especially fortunate summer, and death was a much more normal occurrence. It had to be! Otherwise, there'd be more than a few hundred people here, even accounting for the toll winter must take on their numbers.

Kochoko seemed to be grief-stricken enough. Perhaps mourning was a private thing, left to the family. While they grieved, the rest supported them. In that way, it wouldn't be much different than the hundreds of casseroles that seemed to be baked when someone died back in the future. Same basic idea.

Packer suddenly snapped to. If mourning was left to the family...he looked around quickly. Nara wasn't anywhere to be seen. With a sudden tightening worry in his chest, he hustled back to the village, splashing muddy water as he went.

Duniik and Nara were out in front of their family's house, arguing heatedly in the rain. The most rapid of speech still eluded him, but he was able to get the gist of the conflagration.

"It doesn't matter, how he acts!" Nara shouted. "He is family! I must go!"

"But he is in grief!" Duniik yelled back. "He will act even worse to you!"

"It is the Way!" Nara countered, folding her arms. He dress was soaked and clung to her body. He hair hung in ropey strands, matted down by the rain.

Duniik stammered, furiously for a moment, then noticed Packer. "The Way is not everything!" He gesticulated wildly toward Packer, walked over to him, and literally dragged him into the conversation. "Packer's tribe has a different Way! He told me. You told me, yes?"

Packer winced internally. This was a scuffle he felt ill-equipped to officiate. Still, would he stand idly by and allow Nara to be harmed because of her adherence to orthodoxy?

"I told him," Packer confirmed slowly. "We do not allow harm to women. If any man is cruel to any woman, he is punished."

Nara turned to face him, eyes hard and accusatory. "That is your Way!" she hissed. "Our Way is the Way! We do not live where your Way is! You left your tribe because your Way was wrong, did you not?"

"I did," Packer said. "The Way is many things. I do not like some things of my new tribe's Way. I like some others. I like that our Way protects women from assholes!" He couldn't help himself. The last word was in English, but its point seemed to be conveyed.

"Nara, do not go! He harms you, and I cannot stop him!" Duniik pleaded.

"Do you think I like this?" she yelled suddenly. Duniik's eye's widened. "No! I don't want this!" Her voiced cracked suddenly. "I want things to be good again! But I..."

She wept quietly. The rain pounded down, and Duniik and Packer stood there silently, unmoving. Packer didn't know about Duniik, but he wanted to do anything to get her to stop crying. He could feel the veins in his head pounding.

"Nara," Duniik whispered, almost too quietly to be heard over the rain. "Please..."

She looked up suddenly, but not at her brother. To Packer: "Duty does not end with death. You know."

And Packer did know. He replied, "You say that. It must end sometime."

"Has your duty ended?" she asked.

Packer nodded sharply. "Yes. It has ended."

She considered this, eyes darting back and forth between her brother and Packer. "Perhaps," she said finally, "my duty will end soon, too." And she walked away from them both.

And there, in the rain, with dawning horror, Alferd Packer realized what she meant.

[Alferd Packer]

Day 238, Morning, Cape Cod

Packer awoke from fitful sleep just after dawn. The rain had continued on through most of the day, and combined with his dismal mood concerning Nara, he'd spent the bulk of his time staring morosely at the fire in his hut.

Now, though, in the early light, his dread had turned to mere disquiet, so he went about his morning routine: piss, fetch fresh water water from a nearby stream, give his face, armpits, and junk a quick rinse. If he smelled bad, he certainly didn't notice it, and he certainly didn't notice that the rest of the village smelled, but a whore's bath couldn't hurt.

But after that was done, he was left with nothing to do. No distractions. His worries came flooding back, like a python constricting around his torso. He only tolerated a few minutes of this before he left his hut and went straight to Duniik's family house.

Perhaps not surprisingly, Duniik was awake and standing outside, pacing in a remarkably modern fashion. His eyes lit up strangely when he saw Packer.

"She came back late," Duniik said, dispensing with any form of pleasantry. "But Kochoko was not cruel. He did nothing but grieve for his brother." He rubbed his hands together and gnawed on his lower lip. "But she must go back today. Kochoko will be cruel to her today, surely!"

Packer stood at an oblique angle to Duniik. "She has left?"

Duniik nodded, a helpless look on his face.

"So, we go."

"To Kochoko's house?"

"Yes." Packer folded his arms over his chest. "We will help her. I will help her."

Relief flooded over Duniik. "Thank you, Packer."

As Packer fell into step alongside Duniik, tromping through the mud, his brain frantically fought against his body. Are you insane?! he screamed at himself. You know where this will end up! You on the ground with a stone knife in your gut. You really think you can win a fight with one of these guys?

The strange thing was, though, that Packer thought he could. First, he thought he could defuse the situation with words. Failing that, he trusted his size to intimidate. And, if all else failed...well, then he'd fight.

You've never thrown a punch in your life, and you know it! he thought suddenly. You think you actually learned something watching pro wrestling and UFC? Be real, man! But what else could he do? He couldn't change the culture. Surely, Nara was not the only woman abused in the village; why single her out?

Easy: Packer knew the abuses were taking place. He'd seen the bruises on Nara; he'd seen the frustration in Duniik's eyes that mirrored his own. It was timidity that prevented him from acting in the past. Now, he was on good terms with the tribe and knew his place. And he was willing to risk that to stop this.

They stopped outside of Kochoko's hut. There Duniik faced him. "Do not fight Kochoko," Duniik said. "He is a strong warrior. He likes killing."

Packer didn't really know what to say, so he only nodded. His stomach knotted itself, perhaps in an attempt to be helpful. It was not. Duniik nodded back, then turned to Kochoko's house. "Nara!" he called. "Come here! Something something need you!"

Nara emerged a few moments later, looking at once perplexed and angry. "What is it?" she snapped. "I am--"

"NARA!" a voice roared from inside the house. "I did not give you something something!" Kochoko then emerged. He as muscular as these people got, though he still stood a shade under five feet tall. Nara was actually taller than him. "Duniik! Go away! Take that something something white man with you! Nara is my family! Mine!"

He then grabbed for Nara, who was standing halfway between Kochoko and Duniik. She wriggled away, evading his grasp. Kochoko grunted angrily, then lunged forward again, this time getting a handful of her upper arm. She yelped in pain.

"You defy me?!" he yelled, then he slapped her with his free hand, making her cry out again. He released his hold to rear up for a mighty strike, either a slap or a punch. That was a mistake. Kochoko would not get the chance, because Packer had already been in motion at Nara's cry of pain.

He didn't pound Kochoko to a bloody pulp, much as he wanted to. He simply brought all of his weight, height, and muscle to bear in the form of a mighty shove with plenty of follow-through. Kochoko flew like a leaf and landed in the mud with a fleshy splat. He was on his feet quickly, though, bellowing an inarticulate cry of outrage.

Packer stomped towards him, in an ecstasy of fury. He was fighting a desperate battle inside his head, and his brain had lost control for a moment. "Try it, motherfucker!" Packer screamed in English. Despite everything, his brain noted that you really do revert to your native tongue when pissed. "I dare you, fuckface! I fucking dare you! Lay one more finger on her!" He was now less than an inch from Kochoko, towering, leering, shoulders hunched, emphasizing his greater size as much as possible. He shoved the smaller man again. "Give me a reason to break your fucking head open!"

Kochoko glowered, but remained motionless. Packer hovered on the verge for a second, the white-hot, pulsing fury threatening to overtake him, but his brain managed to get him back on a leash. "Never touch Nara again," he said in a more controlled tone of anger, and in a language that Kochoko could understand.

They remained motionless for a moment. Packer became aware that they'd drawn quite a crowd, but he never took his gaze off Kochoko, staring stonily into his eyes. Finally, Kochoko backed down, and silently went back into his house.

Packer exhaled roughly through his nostrils, snorting like a bull. He glanced around, then turned back to Nara, who'd gone pale as a ghost.

"He hits you, I hit him," Packer said plainly.

Nara opened her mouth to say something, but her look changed suddenly. "Packer, watch out!" she yelled, reaching towards him.

It was only after he landed on the ground that he realized that he'd dove left and rolled. And, as the adrenaline surged through his body, he realized that that wild maneuver had likely saved his life, as Kochoko's axe had sliced through the air he'd been occupying a second earlier.

His brain didn't even bother try controlling him now. It was pure fight-or-flight time, and his body chose to fight. By the time Packer was on his feet, Kochoko had recovered from his missed swing, and it was clear to Packer that Kochoko had no other intention but to murder him then and there. He'd seen that look exactly once in his life before, and he now understood its deadly seriousness.

There was about five feet of distance between the two, and Packer meant to close it rapidly. The closer he was, the less effective that axe would be. But every time he darted in, Kochoko swung rapidly, forcing him to dance back.

It was only after several such circling encroachments that Packer altered his tactic. Calling upon various taunts he learned, he incited Kochoko to attack. Such was his rage that he actually did, and Packer immediately sprung on the chance.

Kochoko's swing was a tight overhand arc. Packer threw his weight back on his right foot to avoid the swipe, then lunged forward, using his greater reach to grab the arm that was swinging the axe. His brain, meanwhile, noted in bemused amazement that the body, left to its own devices and threatened with death, could fight like a motherfucker.

He wrenched Kochoko's arm around, twirling in place. His body followed like a whip, and his shoulder rotated painfully enough for him to yell out. He dropped the axe and Packer let go, allowing him to fall as he might.

But Kochoko didn't fall. He planted his feet and, like a piston, drove himself at Packer. Before he knew what happened, they were on the ground and Kochoko was on top of him, pounding his raised forearms with murderous fury.

Packer's brain, through his own blood-red fury, pointed out to his body that Kochoko had not tucked his chin. Dropping an arm and allowing two painful punches to land on his forehead and cheek, Packer brought his fist up in a tight, nasty uppercut, aiming for Kochoko's uvula by way of his lower jaw.

The angle wasn't ideal, so there wasn't a ton of power behind the blow, but there was enough. Kochoko's teeth clicked and about a quarter of his tongue landed squishily next to Packer's head. In an instant, Kochoko forgot all about his attack and put both hands over his mouth. Packer took the opportunity to slam his fist into Kochoko's temple at full power, thus dislodging him.

As he pushed up into a sitting position, his hand happened to touch Kochoko's axe. Without so much as a thought, he grabbed it and swung. Had he thought, or bothered to look, he would've known that he was holding it backwards, the blade facing away from Kochoko. Also, had he thought, he might've aimed differently, or at all.

But he didn't, and he didn't care. All that was running through his mind was a insanely fast, psychotic heavy metal chant: Kill Kill Kill Bastard Bastard Bastard Kill Kill Kill... No question of mercy or pity.

The strike Packer landed, however, didn't kill Kochoko. At least, not immediately. The blunt end of the axe smashed into the man's right clavicle, and a ringing snap filled the air. Kochoko's eyes bulged, and he screamed suddenly, spraying a mouthful of blood all over himself. His right shoulder immediately drooped and his right arm flopped impotently at his side. He smashed the blunt end into Kochoko's warding left arm twice, shattering bone with both blows. Then Packer was on his feet in an instant, axe now held correctly.

Kill Kill Kill Bastard Bastard Bastard Kill Kill Kill...NO! Packer came to like someone had wired electrodes to his nuts. He actually looked at Kochoko--weeping weakly, one arm powerless, other arm broken, bleeding heavily--and Packer realized the he'd won. Kochoko wasn't a threat to anyone anymore. In fact, given the severity of his wound and the fact that he hadn't brushed his teeth in ever, there was a damn good chance that he'd get a staph infection. Kochoko was dead, he just didn't know it yet.

And Packer had killed him.

He regarded the whimpering man with a wholly new emotion: pity. Then a wave of horror swept over him. I've just killed someone! he thought. Staph, septicemia, starvation, whatever; he's toast and it's because of me. He let the axe fall to the ground, and, zombie-like, he walked away. Away from the scene of the fight. Away from Duniik. Away from Nara. Away from the village and its hillside fields. No one stopped him; perhaps they thought he was going off to nurse his wounds.

In reality, he didn't want anyone to see or hear him crying.

Day 119, Evening, Nantucket

"Look, I'm not arguing that they shouldn't have killed him," Packer said. He was reclining in a chair, balancing on two legs, feet up on the table, his arms crossed. "I'm wondering where they obtained the authority to do so."

Since the curfew was being rigorously enforced, it was generally understood that after one ate dinner, he went straight home. The unintended consequence of this was, of course, that people would stretch a half-hour meal into two or three hours, leaving only when the lights started to flicker because the gasifier's fuel was almost out. Packer was one such person.

Tonight, at one of the long tables, a discussion had started. Its chief participants were Packer and a greenhouse worker named Kevin Dumfries, and the topic was that which everyone had been talking about anyway: the execution. All around them sat an approximately equal number of Machinsts and horticulturists, each flanking their representatives on opposite sides of the table.

"Authority?" Kevin was in his mid-twenties like Packer, gaunt but not underweight--one of those guys who looked good skinny. "Might makes right, Packer! Further, whose food are we eating? Whose cafeteria is this? Under whose planning are we surviving?"

"So they derive the right to kill people from the fact that we participate in society?" Packer retorted. "Look, one thing is clear: we don't have the resources to imprison criminals, and the amount of material harm a small group of people can do, as we have discovered," he gestured to the bowl of stew in front of him that looked and tasted much like an intestinal catastrophe, "is substantial. The only punishment that can realistically be meted out is removal of those elements from society."

"There you go," Kevin said, stirring his own stew without enthusiasm. "Execution is as humane a punishment as we can afford. There's always Muskeget, after all. But then again, there's always the chance that if you stick someone on Muskeget, he'll just be picked up by one of his friends in a sailboat. Regardless, the necessity to protect society means that the Council has the authority to take action to do so."

"No," Packer refolded his arms. "I don't accept that. It's too circular. Their authority over us has to come from somewhere other than the Council. There may be an imperative to protect us, but from where does that imperative come? Their own sense self-preservation?"

"Alright, if you insist, we can say that they derived the power to kill, as well as all their other power, when they stepped up and assumed power. We gave them our consent when we allowed them to fill that void." Kevin held up a finger. "If we didn't want them, we all of us could've spoken up."

"Seriously? Do you remember what it was like back then?" Packer snorted. "Consent of the governed only works when that consent is given freely, not under duress. The government may have ridden a wave of popular acclaim to power, but three things made that possible," Packer counted them off on his fingers. "One: the group rising to power had control of a great number of the island's firepower. Two: they had control of most of the island's women. Three: they knew that we, as a population, were sick, cold, hurt, and terrified. We would've agreed to almost anything, including what we've already agreed to."

"And what's what?" Kevin asked.

"Unchecked power. Consider: we may vote on certain measures at town hall meetings, but we only vote on those issues which they deem votable. If you've been attending recently, you'll notice that we've gotten to vote on less and less important things. They've been reaching increasingly momentous decisions without any input from us. So that's one thing we agreed to. Secondly, and this is paramount: we have consented that these people will remain in power for an unlimited period of time. Do you remember any discussion of term limits? I sure as hell don't. We are a living in a dictatorship, pure and simple."

Kevin frowned. "It's not a dictatorship. There are over thirty Councillors. Who's the--"

"It's an oligarchy," Packer countered immediately. "Those thirty men and women represent an oligarchical dictatorship which can effectively rule. And let me make that clear: they do their job effectively. I cannot say otherwise. This does not change the fact that their power is unchecked and unlimited.

"We are then left to wonder: the Council, when forming, basically could've done whatever they wanted. If they wanted, they could've established a little America, through a ten minute public reading and ratification of the Constitution. Or a little Canada, or little Great Britain, or Germany, or Russia, or Australia! But they didn't. No founding document. No checks on their power.

"OK, maybe that isn't a huge deal. The Councillors are smart people, but they're not perfect, after all. Maybe there was too much shit to do, and they didn't have time to waste on formalities. But last I checked, we are surviving. It's nearly March. Spring's around the corner. We'll be planting in perhaps six weeks, as you horticulturists are surely aware. Once we have our crops sown, the crisis will be officially over. This raises the question: with the crisis over, will the Council relinquish their unlimited power voluntarily? I don't even want to to put the question to them."

"So, you want to change the government, do you? Why? To stop executions?"

"No, I don't particularly care about that," Packer replied. "Look, we are a low-margin society, so we cannot afford to imprison and care for those who damage it. Punishments need to serve society, and executions best serve to remove threats to it. But right now, they are punishing by fiat. They say there's a tribunal. Where is it? Where is our open judiciary? What about trial by one's peers, or even better, by professional jurors? Where are the checks on power?

"But to answer your question, I don't want to change the minutiae of the government. I want to change two things: the derivation of their authority, and their capacity to operate for an unlimited amount of time and do so unchecked."

Kevin leaned back, considering this for a moment. "How?" he asked finally.

"The first is easy: we hold a free and open vote. This vote will be to ratify a governing document. Call it...a charter, if you like. This charter will be a fairly simple document, enumerating duties and powers of government, as well as our own rights and duties. Hell, we could do several rounds of voting. Have anyone who can gather, say, two hundred signatures for his charter be able to put that charter up for a public vote. We do run-offs until we have a single document as a clear winner.

"And the second item? That'll handle itself through the first. We enumerate in the charter term limits, for both elected and appointed positions. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy."

"Sounds so," Kevin said, "But won't the constant changing of officials create an incompetent government? I want qualified people in positions of power!"

"Indeed, don't we all?" Packer chuckled. "But periodic elections would solve that. Incompetent people will be ousted, while good incumbents will stay put. Of course, I'm sure voting blocs with axes to grind will make things less than perfect, but it's gotta be better than leaving our current dictatorship in place indefinitely. I don't know about you guys, but I want to make something out of this life. I know a lot of people are beaten down right now, but I firmly believe just as many aren't, and I am one of them."

"Oh, so you want power for yourself, hmm?"

Packer shook his head. "Absolutely not! I like being a private citizen. Besides, my legacy as the gasifier guy is already secure--if we manage to solve the impending demographic crisis and get ourselves some Bronze Age trim, so there are kiddies to learn about it, that is."

Kevin snickered, then leaned forward. "OK, Packer. How do we start?"

"Start?"

"Get the ball rolling. Ratify this charter of yours. Where do we begin?" Kevin looked around the table. "We horticulturists are, as a group, like you, Packer. We grow things for our living. We emphatically want to make something out of this life, too." Nods all from Kevin's side of the table. "I'm sure if you were having this conversation with one of the wrecking crews, you'd get a load of blank stares. Of course you would! All they do is destroy, all day long, from dawn to dusk. You Machinists are like us. We, each in our own way, create."

Packer was silent for a while, considering Kevin's words. Packer had been party to various discussions on this topic over the last week or so, but they'd been strictly off-the-cuff, food-for-thought affairs. Ways to to kill time. No one had every suggested to take it to the next level, least of all Packer.

But then again, was he lying when he said he wanted to make something out of this life? And Kevin and his fellow horticulturists were sincere, weren't they?

"Well, uh....OK," he said finally. "First thing we do is write up a charter. Doesn't need to be complex. Maybe five hundred words total; you could probably do it in less. After all, this ain't a constitution or something. Then, once we have our charter, we present it at a town hall meeting. We'd need to get the word out as wide as we could in a single stroke. I'm sure plenty of the Councilors are good people, but I'm equally sure some of them are dicks and don't want to give up their power, ever. Any why not? On top, they don't have to worry about food, or heat, and I'm sure that all of them have gotten women by now. Or significant others, anyway."

Packer shook his head. "Anyway, once we present it at the town hall meeting, we request the Council endorse the process. With their blessing, we then throw open the vote, allowing, as I said, anyone else who thinks they can do better to come up with their own charter. Then, after a period of, say, a month, we have the vote or votes, as needed. Once a charter is ratified by the people--and it can be any charter, not the one we posit--it immediately takes effect and we hold elections. The first elections will probably see everyone re-elected to their positions, but they'll be definite term limits this time. And that will make all the difference.

"After that? We all sit back and have a beer, because we've just created a government whose power is legitimately derived from a mass mandate and whose responsibilities are clearly defined."

Kevin nodded, as though Packer's words mirrored his own thoughts. There were murmurs all around the table, from both the horticulturists and the Machinists. "Sounds reasonable. When can we start?"

Packer gave it some thought. "Pick five or six of your guys and come by the shop tomorrow, after dinner. I'll pick five or six of my guys and we'll start hammering out details. The next meeting's in a week, so it might be possible to have one drafted by then." He then grinned. "Worth a shot, right?"

Day 238, Night, Cape Cod

There was a quaint little pond about a mile and a half from the village that Packer loved to visit. The water was cool and clear, and there was a tiny beach where inch-high waves periodically broke. Reedy marshes clung to other shallow areas, but the area around the beach made for perfect swimming. If Packer had his druthers, this would be where he'd build his log cabin when it came time to retire.

It was where he spent the whole day. He'd cried the entire walk out, traipsing loudly and clumsily through the woods, shaking from the adrenaline like an alcoholic in withdrawal. Then he'd sat on the beach for a while and cried, but then the sun was too high in the sky and he wanted to avoid burning, so he sat in the shade a little ways away from the water and cried like a baby, mindlessly, blamelessly.

Either dehydration or exhaustion eventually stopped his tears, and he was finally able to deal with his emotions. He could ask himself: why was he crying? Because he'd beaten someone within an inch of his life? Or because, in the end, he couldn't kill him? Did he think that Kochoko didn't deserve it?

No, he definitely didn't think that. Even now, visualizing Kochoko's face and Nara's bruises made he veins in his neck pulse, which made the lump on his forehead and the bruise on his cheekbone ache even more than they already did. But then, what was it?

He spent most of the day pondering this, napping periodically, but otherwise remaining quiet. Eventually, around the evening, as he snacked on some blueberries from a nearby bush, he figured it out. He realized what truly upset him was that he was losing his modern sensibilities.

Back in the future, had he'd witnessed such abuse, he'd simply call the police. They'd do the dirty work. They'd enforce the law. Hell, even on Nantucket, if he'd witnessed woman, or, more likely, a man being abused, he'd alert the Watch and that'd be that. Out here, though, there was no law. There was only some vague pseudo-religious nonsense that was anathema to him. Moreover, by definition, there was no recourse.

So the actual violence he committed, while it bothered him, was not the core of his current problem, but rather a symptom of a struggle. The fact that he had to commit it to stop a transgression was a horrible reality, because it meant he was losing his civilized self. Piece by piece, Packer was adapting to the tribe. Language and custom came first. Mutual cooperation was there; what else was his hunting with Duniik? His brutalizing Kochoko was an inevitable clash between his modern sensibility and the freedom from rule of law that he was experiencing.

So, with dread, he was forced to wonder: what would happen the next time this happened? What if pedophilia was tolerated among these people? Suddenly, he was forced to ask: would I even find out? That he wasn't being actively hunted down at the moment suggested that he wasn't considered a criminal, but who could say what would happen when he returned to the village?

But that would come all in due time. In the mean time, Packer considered what spending time out here meant: it eroded the hallmarks of modernity that he built his modern ethical foundation upon. It ground down those refinements until base animal was once again exposed, as had happened today.

And eventually, when he returned to Nantucket, what would he be? A brute? A superstitious putz who nearly pissed himself every time lightning struck? Would he simply murder those who'd sent him out here to die? But Packer didn't think on this too long, because that was still better than three months off. A lot more could happen between now and then.

But what could he do, in any term? Resist? Impossible! He needed to survive, and to survive, he had adapt to the society he was in. And he was in a primitive society with fucked up morals that he could not reconcile. Lacking that reconciliation, the only response to an inevitable clash was violence. And so it would have to be. He demolished Kochoko to stop him from hurting Nara, because she was his friend. He owed her, and would always owe her, his life. Kochoko was unstable, and with his brother dying just yesterday, who knows what he could've done?

By the time the sun set, the bugs were making life intolerable for the shirtless Packer, even with frequent dips in soothing water of the lake, so he walked back to the village through the deepening twilight. He actually hadn't been out by himself after dark before, and he was unarmed, so he was rather on edge for the journey. Still, it wasn't a far walk, and he made it back to the village fields before it was fully dark.

From his vantage, the village looked exactly the same. A few large fires burned in the central gathering areas; perhaps there was a Sing Story. Further out on the beach, other, smaller fires burned. Smoke, barely visible against the blood-red horizon, rose from most of the buildings.

SSDD. Oh, what's that you say? Someone got beaten half to death today? Hakuna Fucking Matata, Packer moped.

He took a wide, looping route to his hut, staying well away from where he thought people might be. He was noticed as he crossed more lighted areas, but he was left alone, to his surprise. Guess no one's calling the cops on me.

Packer made it to his hut, where the fire'd gone out. He didn't want to go light a stick from one of the public fires, so he utilized his second and only remaining flint striker for the first time in months. When he had his fire popping and crackling again, he sat on his bed, staring at it, trying get his mind to go blank.

He'd almost gotten it there when there was a scrape outside his hut. He'd draped a hide across his doorway, a sign he wanted to be left the fuck alone, but he guessed whoever was out there was going to ignore that.

"Packer?" A voice called out timidly. It was Nara.

He sat up a bit straighter. "Nara, come in." Actually, the phrase he used was more subtle in its intonation. Its full translation might go, "Enter my house in friendship and peace, trusted soul," but for his own mental health, he simplified things in his mind.

The hide pulled back and Nara stooped to enter. As usual, she was wearing her dress, but she'd styled her hair in two separate braids that ran down either shoulder and shined brilliantly in the firelight. Packer never recalled her sporting that particular hairstyle. Additionally, she was sporting a bright blue flower of some sort tucked above her left ear.

As far as the tribe went, she was dressed to the nines.

"Where have you been?" she asked, a look of soft concern on her face. "I was worried that Kochoko had hurt you."

Packer blinked. "I am not hurt. Not badly hurt. I left because..." he patted his bed, gesturing for her to sit, as he'd did so many times when she'd stopped by before. He slid over to the far end as she did so, to leave her ample room, but even with that, her left knee nearly touched his right.

"Nara," he began a touch unsteadily. "I am not a warrior. I make things. I speak. I sing. I do not fight."

She considered this. "You fought well today," she offered finally.

"I was lucky, I think," Packer said. "But I am not a warrior. I do not like to fight. In my tribe, not every man is a warrior. Today, I was scared."

"Why did you fight?" Nara asked.

"To protect you," Packer replied plainly. "The Way does not protect you, so I must."

"You fought twice, then," Nara said thoughtfully.

"Twice?"

"You fought your fear first," she went on, as if she was sounding out the solution to a riddle, "then, when you defeated your fear, you fought Kochoko. All for me."

"Yes," Packer confirmed. "Nara, without you, I would be dead. When you need help, I will help you. I do not care what The Way is. If it cannot help you, then it is wrong."

Nara looked at him for a moment, then down at her hands folded in her lap. Packer noticed that she was trembling. Thinking that she was perhaps crying again, he placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, not realizing he'd done it until after it was resting there.

"Nara, don't be sad, please," he said.

She looked up at him, and her eyes were dry. "I am not sad. I am scared."

"Why?"

"I want you something something me, and that is frightening." Then she gave him a sly smile. "But only a little frightening."

Of course, since he missed the main point of the sentence, he replied with a stupid-sounding, "I don't understand."

But even as he said it, she reached up under her arm and gave the lacing there a tug. With impressive suddenness, the upper half of her dress was barely on. Same sly smile on her face, she then gently moved the hand on her shoulder down to her left breast.

"Understand now?" she said, her smile changing to an expectant one.

And Packer did, and despite that, he almost didn't do it. His brain, ever the rational one, was still at the helm, and it was screaming Bad Idea! Bad Idea, dead ahead!

Of course, a captain is nothing without his crew, and his body successfully mutinied in about two seconds. Now the message changed to: Well, she obviously wants you to touch her. Might as well go with the flow. And he did. Nara sighed throatily.

Now there was no message. Pure instinct, augmented by years of practice, took over. Still massaging her breast, he slid his other hand gently up between her legs. She gasped, parted them for easier access, and leaned back on her arms. And holy shit, was she wet!

That must feel pretty good. Better keep going. He leaned forward so he could get a better angle with his hand, and she moaned sharply. Her arms went briefly wobbly, then collapsed. Packer took that as a good sign and continued.

It didn't take long. There was no mistaking it, either; her moans became cries, and a flailing hand somehow managed to pinch his side, involuntarily and without conscious intent. He stayed close to her until her orgasm had subsided, then sat back up.

Brain back in command, he regarded her dispassionately. He guessed that this was something--

"More," she said. Simple, imperative.

He only looked at her dumbly. His brain spun frantically, despite what just happened. What, one orgasm wasn't good enough? Is this some ritual or something? Why is she here? What the hell else could she want?

He had the answer quickly, though; she was tugging at the front of his shorts insistently. "More," she repeated, eyes blazing.

"Oh," he said with a smirk, "that!" And conscious thought left him again for some time.

[The Vortex Empire]

I don't think that will end well. He'll have to take her, and maybe more of the tribe, back with him to Nantucket. Not sure that the council will appreciate it.

As for the charter, does he really think the Councilors will allow him to threaten their power? This is likely the event that makes them send him to the mainland.

[Simon_Jester]

I'd like to think some of the Councillors honestly don't intend to set themselves up as oligarchs-for-life and would actually support a charter enshrining the concept that their positions are eventually going to go up for election. But as a practical matter, yeah, this is probably what put him thoroughly on the shit list of enough of the Council to get him kicked off the island to die.

[GrandMasterTerwynn]

Thanks (and/or apologies) to all those who contributed to the poll thread.

Editor's note: This takes on day 116, post-arrival . . .
Hangin' Judge
It was cold. Bitter cold. The goddamned skies were dark and gray, and yes, there was a wind. All of Nantucket was here, crowded onto the tarmac of the Nantucket Memorial Airport . . . the only open space large enough for everybody to fit onto; even with our very own automotive boneyard occupying much of it.

I tried not to think about what we'd be losing by everybody coming out here like this. Everything that was idle right now. What this would do to those who'd already been pushed to the edge.

My back was to it, but I knew that in the cleared area behind me, there was a tall, hastily thrown-together scaffolding. Scaffolding topped by a platform . . . and a single gallows. A length of rope would be swinging to and fro with the wind, awaiting its intended victim.

There were also chairs set up on another raised platform. The whole Council was out. The whole Watch was out too. Nobody was being left out today, and that had me on edge. My eyes scanned the crowd. Some were fixed on the monstrosity behind me. Others, down on the ground. But some of those eyes met mine . . . and the looks they gave me sent chills down my spine.

I wouldn't let it show. I wouldn't feel for my gun. I refused. Instead, I thought back . . .

Three days before . . .
"Who speaks for the accused," the Old Man said, looking over the rest of the tribunal. Before them were seated the seven young men who took part in the black market. Me and two other Watchmen were positioned around the room. Needless to say, it was very crowded there.

The rest of the tribunal was silent. I glanced over them. Half of them were from the Council. A third of them were from the Watch. The rest had been drafted in from Nantucket's population. To give the rest a voice . . . not sure what good that was going to do; those who'd been drafted onto the tribunal were urged to keep their mouths shut and not tell the "outside" what they were doing.

"Very well," the Old Man said, leaning back. Not sure how I felt about the Watch heading the tribunal. "Gentlemen," he went on. "We've outlined the evidence against you. Several of you confessed to your involvement in the recent events."

I looked at a couple of the marketeers. One of them still had fading patches of ugly yellow . . . bruises he earned on that day when we brought them all down.

"We have had people come forward and confess that they made use of your services, gentlemen. I see no reason to assume that any of you are innocent. So what remains is to determine what happens to you."

"Hey," one of the marketeers shouted. "When do we get to tell our side of the story?"

"All of you were interviewed already," someone replied. "The Watch has your statements on file."

"Yeah, but," the marketeer started to reply when the Old Man brought down his gavel.

"We don't have the time and resources to waste on a trial with lawyers and a jury. We don't have time to drag this out," he said, before falling silent for a few icy moments. "If you have anything new to add, you may approach the tribunal."

The man got up. "In fact, I would. I'd like to say that we were providing an essential service. Y'all know how shitty our situation is. If it weren't for us, the island would've descended into anarchy by now."

"And thanks to you," the head of the kitchens growled, "we may get to anarchy sooner than we were planning to! I've had to sack two whole crews thanks to you assholes. You think everyone's gonna be happy to be eating slop cooked by kids who don't know a souffle from a heap of shit?"

"And yet, he has a point," one of the Councilmen, Simon, replied. "This exposes a glaring shortfall in our ability to provide services to the community. To encourage people to do their best to serve the community."

"Is the answer to encourage theft of our common resources," a woman, Gail, said.

"Ladies, gentlemen," the Old Man said. "This is a debate for another time. A debate for the Council, and not the court," he added, before turning his attention to the marketeers.

"As for you," he said. "I, personally, fail to see how the 'service' you provided was in any way essential to the survival of this community. In fact, we may be worse off, because of you . . . Let me tell you something," his voice started to get softer, and softer. "Since we broke up your little ring, at least three people have committed suicide because they were unable to face the reality of our situation. Unable to face it, because you gave them an escape! If any of you are thinking that we murdered them by taking away their pills and alcohol, let me disabuse you of that right now. If you want to know who their killers are, look in the mirror! You doped them up, never gave them a chance to adjust."

For a few moments afterward, it was dead-silent in that room.

"With that being said," the Old Man finally continued. "We can't afford to execute you. Not when all of you are still capable of swinging axes and digging ditches. You will all go to Muskeget for a month."

The seven men gasped as one.

"Fuck that, man," one of them shouted. "We know what happens to people who go there. They die!"

"Yeah!"

"I'd rather be shot than freeze to death!"

They were silenced by the banging of the gavel.

"Gentlemen! You won't be going alone. There will be those who took the greatest advantage of your . . . services accompanying you. The Watch will be watching over you. You will be given axes and saws. If you wish to survive your month on Muskeget, you will construct a shelter."

"But it's February!"

The Old Man nodded once. "Think of it as motivation to do your best. Kartr, get these men out of here!"

A burly Watchman, ex-military, nodded and approached the seven men. Without much fanfare, they were all pulled to their feet and marched out.

"And now," the Old Man said. "The tribunal will address their leader."

Kartr re-entered the room. Behind him, there were two other Watchmen and the black market ringleader. Our eyes met, and I saw unflinching hatred in them. His face was still decorated in fading, but still-ugly bruises. Bandages covered the parts of him that had needed stitches after his arrest. Don't think I can blame him for hating me, but to be honest, the feeling was still pretty mutual.

"Please," the Old Man said, "be seated."

"I'd rather stand," the ringleader replied.

"As you wish," the Old Man said, nodding once. "Let me level with you. The tribunal has had the Devil's own time deciding what to do with you. As I understand it, you knew you were diagnosed with a condition that we could've treated, had we known about it. Instead, you chose to hide it from us, and enlist the aid of others to get you what you needed. At community expense."

As the Old Man spoke, I thought back a couple of days, when the tribunal was debating what we'd do to these people.

Five days before . . .
"Send him to Martha's Vineyard come spring."

"You're kidding, right? You do know what he orchestrated . . . what he did."

"Yes, but that's going to be the dirtiest, hardest work we've got. Until we start digging for Pennsylvania coal. Then I'd suggest sending him to the mines," Simon, one of the Councilmen on the tribunal, said.

There were murmurs from the other members of the tribunal. I'd just finished giving my testimony about what'd happened, and they hadn't yet lead me out.

"This may surprise some of you, but I think we should just shoot him and get it over with," Mike replied, the light glinting off the top of his head. "No bullshit pageantry, no dragging it out."

"On the other hand," Gail said, "Simon does bring up a good point. We need all the helping hands we can get. The others are already going to build our first real 'jail' on Muskeget, and many of them will probably end up on Martha's Vineyard come spring. He should go too."

"I would like to agree with you, ma'am," the Old Man said. "Unfortunately, the magnitude of his crime is such that we simply cannot handle him like we would anyone else. Down that path lies anarchy."

"That's why we ought to make an example of him. To show the rest that we're willing to do what it takes to keep them in line."

"And what would we do to him," Simon asked. "Coming up with particularly gruesome and horrible ways to kill criminals only makes sense when you need an extra deterrent above and beyond 'if we catch you doing this, you die.' We're not yet in the medieval times. Let's not go there."

"Simon's right," the Old Man added. "As it is, the people will be demanding that we kill him by jamming rusty nails into his feet, or something similarly barbaric. Even though many of those same people benefited from his 'black market' in some way."

"All the more reason to make an example of him. That way, we punish everybody who got something from the black market."

"And what about the people who had nothing to do with any of it," Gail asked. "Is it right to traumatize them for something they didn't do?"

"But yet, we have to do something, to keep the community in line. I would submit that the best thing to do would be to execute him in a very public fashion."

"This isn't the fucking Old West," Mike said, shaking his head. "And this isn't the Internet. We didn't take any pseudo-macho bullshit posturing there, and we shouldn't here."

"As much as it pains me to say this, Mike, I'm going to agree with my colleague here," Simon replied. "If we're not going to send him to hard labor, I favor execution for the sake of deterrence . . . but both humanitarianism and society's duty to see justice done suggest that we should not execute him in the most inventively hideous way we can devise. We don't want people wandering around in shock after this guy takes three weeks to die in agony, asking themselves 'what is wrong with us that we are willing to do that to someone?' That's going to invite open revolt."

"Gentlemen," the Old Man said, raising his hand. "It would appear that we have three options on the table. Hard labor, private execution, or public execution. We will not give in to our base instincts here. If he is to be executed, the Watch will carry it out in the quickest, most humane manner possible."

He looked at me, and the other witnesses. Then, he looked to Kartr, who was guarding the door.

"Kartr, escort these gentlemen out. The tribunal is going to have its first vote now . . . "

Three days before . . .
"Are you ready to receive your sentence?"

"I already know you're going to send me off the island to freeze to death," the sullen young man replied. "Let's get it over with."

"No," the Old Man replied. "You lied. You stole. You murdered. The life of the man under my command that you took, and the lives of the three who have committed suicide since . . . are squarely on your shoulders. As are the lives that will be prematurely cut short because of what you stole. I cannot imagine a more grave insult to the community. But you may yet make the community stronger . . . with your last contribution. After much deliberation, the tribunal has decided that you are to be taken out into the public . . . and . . . "

Now . . .
" . . . hanged until he is dead," the Chairman of the Council said, standing atop the Council's dias, a megaphone clutched in his hand. He'd just read back the list of the ringleader's crimes, and his sentence, for all to hear. I glanced around, saw the expressions of numb horror in the faces looking my way. The reality of the situation was starting to sink in.

I knew that at the top of the scaffold, the condemned man had been brought forward to face all of Nantucket for the first . . . and last time. I quickly glanced back and saw him standing between two burly Watchmen. No . . . not standing between, but supported by. The doctor had insisted that if we were going to do something so "barbaric" as hang him, we ought to let the doctor give him as much narcotics as he could take without passing out. He didn't trust our hanging gallows and, to be honest, I wouldn't have trusted them either. They'd been built by the very same men who'd been the condemned's accomplices and friends.

Yet, right then, I found myself trusting the men and women in front of me even less. Without them, we wouldn't even have to be here today. What was I thinking? These are the men and women the Watch is sworn to protect. Why the hell does it have to come to this? We'd killed before, but never like this. Everyone who'd died by the Watch had died on their feet, guns blazing. Never like this . . . lead in a drugged stupor to a long rope and short stop.

I shivered as the breeze picked up. Looked like a storm was getting ready to blow through. I looked back as I pressed my hat harder onto my head. The breeze didn't seem to faze the two men holding the condemned between them. Not as a third man slipped the noose around his neck and drew it snug. Not much time remained. What would happen to us when that time was gone, and it was time for the condemned to fall?

To his credit, the Chairman remained standing on the dias. Even as the three Watchmen stepped away from the edge of the platform. The condemned man stood alone, wobbly-kneed and shaking like a leaf; the impending horror of his fate seeming to cut through the bonds of his narcotic-induced stupor.

"Sir," the Chairman said, turning around to face the condemned, "this community will not stand by and let dishonesty and greed tear us apart. Men like you," he said, raising his voice, "will not be tolerated among us! May whatever gods you worship have mercy on your soul. Members of the Watch . . . carry out your duty."

That was the cue. I heard the collective intake of breath as both boys grabbed a rope and pulled, hard as they could.

Snap!

The safety pins were out, and with a crash of wood, the front edge of the platform dropped, and the condemned man dropped into the abyss.

Snap!

A hanging is a very precise thing . . . too short a drop, and the man takes a long time dying. Too long a drop, and . . . well, it would've been less messy to use a guillotine. Our drop . . . was all too perfect. The body that hung off that swinging, creaking rope was limp. Its head canted at an unnatural angle. The shocked gasp of the crowd that marked his passing rippled out. It was a soft sound, but one I'll carry with me to my dying day.

Dead, bulging eyes stared out accusingly at us. Sweeping over Nantucket's errant population as the dead man swung at the end of his rope. For a terrible, extended moment of silence; death stared at us, and we were compelled to stare back. The only sound to be heard was the mournful whistle of the wind through the scaffolding.

Eventually, everyone blinked, or turned away from that dread, dead-eyed gaze. Many folks started to edge away. Some started to draw closer, morbid curiosity compelling them to our barricades. Others looked to each other, the ground, or the sky; seeking what solace they could. The silence was broken, bit by bit. Shuffling feet and rustling clothes. Borne on the wind were bits of words, muttered and indistinct. Yet their tone was shocked. There was a sudden shuffling of bodies and feet and then . . . retching, followed by the wet splatter of a day's meal hitting the cold, unyielding tarmac.

Above it all, I knew that the dead man still swung. Dead eyes sweeping over us, judging us . . . I reckon that dead gaze will stick with us for a very long time to come.

[Formless]

I am simply in awe of this chapter. As I am of all of what you've written so far, GMT. Its amazing. What's more, if it didn't makes sense why Packer would choose to risk getting on the bad side of the council, it does now.

[Alferd Packer]

Day 239, Morning, Cape Cod

Packer drifted easily back to wakefulness. This was the first day in a while that he'd slept in. Outside, he could hear the sounds activity all around him, but that didn't matter much. What mattered was that Nara was next to him, still sleeping, snoring lightly.

It was only after they'd finished that Packer's mind attempted to think again, and boy, was it cynical. He'd wagered that the wild romp they'd just had was a basically a pity fuck. Packer'd stuck his neck out for Nara and solved her problem, so she repaid him by thoroughly cleaning his pipes. As he'd drifted off to sleep, he suspected that Nara would steal away sometime in the night, probably just after he started snoring.

But he was, happily, wrong. When he awoke some time later, he found Nara was still with him. In fact, it was because of her that he had awakened; she wanted to make love again. Who was he to say no?

Actually, no, it wasn't lovemaking, because that word had all sorts of sappy implications: champagne and roses and tender kisses and crackling fireplaces. It was something simpler than that. Fucking? Nah; it wasn't a savage act, but it was thoroughly intense, borne out of a mutual need to please and to be pleased. As Commander Riker had once said, it was plain old basic sex. That was it.

And Packer enjoyed it all the more for that. No question of reciprocation. No worrying about blowing his load too early or going too long. No thinking about baseball, or how best to grep through an Apache log file to find IP addresses from Pakistan. If it felt good, do it. If it made Nara feel good, do it. All solutions--and resolutions--were that simple.

The only idiosyncracy Packer had experienced was, apparently, they didn't kiss. A kind of nuzzling was all that seemed take place, which Packer found bizarre, but at the same time enticing. And the forced eye contact during sex made it that much more intense.

Packer sat up, numerous muscles screaming protest. After the previous day's fight and the night's exertions, he was sore as hell. Chief among his pains was his throbbing cheek, and he probably had a bit of black eye by now. Of course, there was the ache downstairs, but that was a good ache, and one he hadn't had in a good long time.

As he got the fire going again, he tried to remember how many times they'd had sex last night. Three? Four? Yeah, it was four. There was a certain amount of macho pride in that, and suddenly, he felt the urge to brag to his buddies about both the fact that he was got laid and that, despite the interval between the last time and this time, he was by no means rusty.

He imagined Jason Terrance saying, It's like fucking a bicycle, boss. You never forget! Wait, I think I messed that up. He laughed out loud.

Nara stirred on the bed behind him. It was good thing he had built it wide enough for two people to sleep comfortably. For a moment, he wondered just why he'd done that, but the thought evaporated as Nara rolled over and placed a hand on his thigh. He turned, and she smiled at him sleepily.

His heart skipped a beat. "Hello," he said. "Sleep well?"

She yawned hugely. "Yes. Sleep was good. In between sleep was better." She grasped his shoulder and pulled herself up into a sitting position, hooking both arms around his neck. "Good for you too?"

Packer laughed. "Better than good. The best." They hung there for a moment; Packer thought she might suggest another round of sex, but instead, she stood up. She was in amazing shape and had certainly been up for last night's exertions. Packer didn't even mind the fact that she'd never shaved before; after all, he certainly wasn't setting a hairless example. Aside from the expected thickets of pubic and underarm hair, the rest of her body was pretty sparsely covered. He could certainly cope.

"I must go back to my family," she said, pulling on her dress. At some indeterminate point last night, her braids had come undone. With a practiced move, she jostled her hair to into a more respectable pattern. "I will see you later today."

Packer nodded, a smile on his face. "Until then."

She smiled back, but it was hurried, hollow. She finished lacing up her dress, then ducked out of Packer's hut.

Packer shrugged. Wonder what that was all about. No matter. Time to start the day, and the first thing Packer wanted to do was clean himself off. It felt like his entire lower half was sticky.

When he wanted to bathe fully, he went to this tiny little pondlet out in the fields. It was really just a deeper pool in one of the several rivers that ran down the hill, but there was bit of a waterfall one could stand under, and that make it the best approximation of a shower that he could reasonably get.

As he scrubbed his skin with his hands under the falling water, he wondered why Nara had come to him. Was it as simple as quid pro quo? Or was there something deeper? Had he been unwittingly courting her all this time?

That thought made him stop. What if that was the case? Looking back on their interactions over the last two months from Nara's perspective, it made an uncomfortable amount of sense. He stopped one of the Wolf Hunters from raping her. It wasn't because he expressly wanted her, but how would she know that? She wouldn't know that rape was so disgusting an act to him that he would risk his life to save a complete stranger from it.

And then she'd cared for him when he was sick. She certainly saw him naked then, so perhaps she decided she liked what she saw...or, at least, she wasn't disgusted by his body. And, of course, he'd learned her language, the customs of her tribe. They often took meals together. He was good friends with her brother. Her father seemed to be ambivalent to him, but certainly not hostile. And, now, for a second time, he risked his life to stop her from getting knocked around.

Packer resumed washing himself, but distractedly, now. Apparently, premarital sex was part of the courting process. But...no. It couldn't be! Surely, pairings had to be approved by the Elders, and there was no way they were going to let the strange white giant into the tribe.

"Packer!" He looked up. Duniik was approaching. He didn't look mad, so, presumably, he wasn't about to get his ass kicked. Then again, he didn't look ecstatic, either.

Packer was done bathing, anyway, so he stepped out of the water to let the sun dry him. "Hello, Duniik," he said cautiously.

Duniik didn't reply. He stopped just about a foot in front of Packer, regarding him impassively. One of the things you got over quickly out here was an aversion to nudity, Packer thought suddenly. Duniik certainly never cared if Packer was letting his meat swing in the breeze. As they stood, Duniik's face exploded into a mask of joy, and he laughed. "Brother!" he cried out, and he threw his arms around Packer in an impressive bear hug.

Packer reeled, even as the breath was squeezed from him, and he grunted, "Brother?"

Duniik let him go, and he almost fell over. "Yes! Nara just told us. You two are married!"

"What?!" Packer screamed in English. There was a stone slab a few feet away, and Packer stumbled over to this and sat down. "Duniik, I...married?"

Duniik looked over at him with some confusion. "Yes, Packer. You and Nara something something, yes?"

"I don't understand," Packer said, immediately regretting saying it.

Duniik pantomimed vigorous hip thrusting. He even threw in a few grunts and moans for good measure. Packer pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger; Duniik was talking about his sister, for fuck's sake!

Mainly to get him to stop, Packer said, "Yes, Duniik, we...did that. But how am I married? Is that The Way?"

"Yes!" Duniik cried excitedly. Then, "No. Well, it is both. I will explain.

"When you want to marry, you first have sex. The girl must say that you are good. Then the Elders must say you can get married. Then you get married. But, if you are like Nara, and you have been married already, you do not need the Elders. If you have sex, and the girl says you are good, you can get married. Of course, the Elders will still bless you, but that is only for the Gods. For you and her, you are married!"

Packer felt like puking. "Duniik," he began helplessly, "I...how can I marry Nara? I am...I..."

Duniik's expression darkened. "You do not want to marry her? Why? She is a good woman."

Packer's mouth worked helplessly. What the fuck had he gotten himself into now? "It is...in my tribe, marriage is...it takes longer than one night to decide! I know Nara is a good woman, but this is so...strange to me!"

Duniik folded his arms. "I understand. It is strange for us, too, to take one night, but you have to do it."

"I have to do what?"

Duniik's expression was grave. "If you do not marry Nara today, you will die."

Day 128, Noon, Nantucket

"It's a damn good thing you're a nice guy, Packer," Tim said, holding up the wide sheet of paper, "because your drawings are making my life a living hell. You know, this is only one of several jobs I have to do. I can't spend all my time puzzling over your chicken scratch. Tracking the parts and materials you guys use is enough to keep me occupied."

Packer kicked his feet up on his desk. "Listen, Tim," he began. "I don't want to do this nonsense. I build shit. I've always done that. Back in the future, I could name you half a dozen things around my house that I built myself." He spread his hands apart, palms outward. "Besides, I've seen your finished stuff. You do fine!"

"Yeah, but I usually need to involve my wife to figure 'em out," Tim said with a grin. "And God, will she bust my balls if she deciphers something I can't."

Packer laughed. "Sounds about right. How is Emma doing, by the way?"

"Great!" Tim's face lit up like a flashbulb. Tim and Emma made up one of the perhaps dozen couples on the island who were couples back in the future. Since, unlike several others, they were only dating before the Arrival, they decided to make it official in light of the current situation. Emma was one of about six women that Packer had actually met face to face.

"We finally got approval to move in together last week," Time continued. "She's free from the Point Breeze Hotel forever. We picked an unoccupied apartment in a building at the corner of Federal and Main. That's the new Couples' Housing District, unofficially. Right by the church. It's got a fireplace and everything. I know some of the couples in the other apartments; they're all friends."

Packer smiled. "That's terrific. Is she pregnant yet?"

"I don't think so," Tim replied, rolling the diagram back up and taking a seat. "I mean, we're trying like crazy. You know, it's funny. Back in the future, she was on the pill and we used condoms, too. Now, it's like...I dunno. It's pretty wild how your priorities change. We can't wait to get pregnant."

"You think you can provide for the baby?"

Tim shrugged. "Hell, I'm sure that there are natives out there managing it at this very moment. I'm sure we can."

"Good point," Packer replied. "Well, when you knock her up, you be sure to stop by the shop. We'll have a drink to celebrate."

"Drink? I thought most of the booze was gone. I know the beer is, and..." Tim wagged a finger at Packer. "Wait a minute. You've got some stuff from the distillery, don't you?"

"I never kiss and tell," Packer replied. "But for you...I will. The distillery got pretty trashed just after the Arrival. I pulled a couple of all-nighters with the distillery guys to get it back up and running. I may have received some...compensation for my efforts."

Tim grinned. "That's why people like you, Packer. You're always willing to lend a hand."

"We're all in this together, right?" Packer stood. "Now, what exactly is your problem with my expert schematic? It's for the Jenny Truck, right?"

"Yeah. Essentially, I have no idea what you did to the front differential. It looks like you bored a hole through it. Also, your perspective is way off. Emma couldn't figure it out, either. So, I figured I'd stop by and actually see this monster."

"Cool. We're field testing it right now. It's out back."

The Jenny Truck was another prototype the Council had requested, and its goal was simple: It had to be a mobile powerplant/pumping station/tractor/bus. The idea was that it could be parked in front of buildings during certain times, like the upcoming planting season, and either generate electrical power for that building, or power some kind of mechanical apparatus, tow a plow or trailer, or simply haul people to and fro.

Given these monstrous requirements, they were working on an equally monstrous vehicle: a 2006 Dodge RAM 3500 Quad Cab Dually 4x4. And yes, it had a HEMI. Cthulhu only knew what idiot had used such a massive vehicle to drive around Nantucket, of all places.

"Holy shit, what did you do to that truck?!" Tim shouted when he saw it. "Frankenstein, couldn't have done a better job." They were standing on the loading dock; the day was sunny and warmer, but that was a relative feeling. It might have been flirting with 45, though that was certainly better than the two brutal months of winter weather they'd just gone through.

The truck itself looked Borgified. Wires and pipes snaked all over it. A bank of electrical outlets was bolted to either side of the bed, as well as to the hood. A huge gasifier sat in the bed of the truck, near the cab. Next to it was a compartment built for holding woodchips or other fuel. There was a bank of valves and tubing; this let one redirect the woodgas from the truck's engine to, say, a generator on site; fifty foot of flex gas line was part of the standard load-out. They'd also taken the entire front end off, so that the protruding U-joint could be reached.

The truck was running angrily, Jason Terrance at the wheel. "Hey boss!" he called out. "The modified transfer case checks out!"

Packer gave him a wave, then drew his hand across his throat. Terrance killed the motor. "What's going on, Tim?"

"Hey, Jason," Tim had jumped off the loading dock and shook hands with Terrance. "Your boss' drawings made me have to pay you guys a little visit. I have no idea what you did up front."

"Oh, it's fairly simple, I guess." Terrance got out and led Tim around front. "We popped the front driveshaft off the transfer case and moved it to in front of the differential. We then ran a chain off the front crank and we're using that to turn it. You have to shut the engine off and pull this lever here," Terrance pointed, "to engage it. Then..."

"I gotta run back inside," Packer said. "You gonna be good, Tim?"

Tim looked up. "Oh, yeah. No worries, Packer. I think I see what you guys did now. I'll just double-check your measurements."

"Right on. Say hi to Emma for me, OK?"

"Will do, Packer." Tim then got on his hands and knees and crawled under the truck. "Holy shit!"

Packer laughed, then went back inside. He did a double-take as he crossed the shop; one of the guys on the Watch was standing outside his office door.

"Hey, Mister Packer," the guy said. "Need you to come with me."

"What's going on?" Packer was a little more guarded than usual; he, Kevin Dumfries, and the ten other guys who'd been working on the charter hadn't quite gotten it finished yet, so they'd missed the opportunity to present it at the town hall meeting two days ago. Everything, however, suggested that they'd have a final copy ready for the one in twelve days. Now, Kevin had assured him that no one from his crew was talking, and Packer knew he could trust his own guys, but still... "Is this about the day off thing?"

The guy replied, "Huh?"

Packer pointed to the bulletin board next to his office. Foremost among the postings was the following, written in thick magic marker:

New Shop Hours, effective 3/1 - M-Sa 8-6. Closed Sundays for Spring Training. Batter up! -AP

"We're doing six nine hour days instead of seven eight-hour ones," Packer folded his arms. "It's only two hours less per week. Has that really got the Council that mad?"

"Uhh...no idea," the guard replied. "My partner has the orders, and he's outside. I'm just a gofer today."

Packer grunted. "Alright, my bike's out front. I guess I'll follow you guys."

"No need, we have a taxi."

Packer's eyes widened a bit. One of the ongoing projects was to convert cars to run on woodgas; the Watch used these to patrol more effectively, as well as run errands more quickly and comfortably than on bikes. Of course, only high priority stuff got the taxi treatment.

In this case, the taxi was a 1998 Honda Civic. The gasifier loomed huge in the trunk, causing the whole thing to ride low. It was idling happily, the second Watchman was sitting at the wheel, taking the downtime to fill out some paperwork on a clipboard. Packer got in the back seat.

"Afternoon, Mister Packer," the driver said. Through the gap between the two front seats, Packer noted that this guy was carrying. A revolver, too. He'd seen this Watchman(Watcher? Packer never figured out what exactly to title them) around a couple times, but had never caught his name. Word was that he'd been instrumental in apprehending the kingpin of the smuggling ring. Packer wasn't concerned about being around this guy while armed; from his limited interactions with him, Packer deduced that he was a decent guy.

"Sorry to pull you out of work like this," Ol' Sixgun went on. Packer made a note to ask him his name later. "We just got the order ourselves. If you need some lunch, I got some hot soup in a Thermos here."

"Nah, I'm alright," Packer said. "Where are we going on this fine afternoon, gentlemen?"

"Point Breeze," Sixgun said. The other guy got in, and they started off, pulling away from the shop.

Packer arched his eyebrows. "Uh, is there something up with the gasifier or something? Should I have brought a toolbox?"

"Couldn't say," Sixgun replied. "All I was told was to get you over there ASAP."

Packer frowned. "Huh." They rode in silence for the while. Then Packer said, "You hear the one about the kindergarten class? A kindergarten teacher one day is trying to explain to her class the word 'definitely' to them. She asks them to use it in a sentence. The first says, 'The sky is definitely blue.' The teacher says, 'Well, that isn't entirely correct, because sometimes it's gray and cloudy.' Another student says, 'Grass is definitely green.' The teacher says, 'If grass doesn't get enough water it turns brown, so that isn't really correct either.' The third student raises his hand and asks the teacher, 'Do farts have lumps?' The teacher says, 'No, and why are you asking that?' So the student replies, 'Because now I know that I definitely shit my pants.' "

The gofer chuckled, but then glanced at his partner and stifled it quickly. Sixgun didn't react audibly, but Packer thought he saw him, by way of the rearview mirror, give a hint of a smile at the joke. Packer figured that the Watch had pretty much the worst job on Nantucket, so he always made it a point to tell at least one goofy joke when interacting with them. Even if they laughed at him for being such an unrepentant moron later, rather than at the joke itself, Packer thought that any levity in their lives would be a good thing.

His mind then turned to their destination, as the Civic wound its way through Nantucket's cobbled streets. Something was up, but this probably wasn't related to the charter. But Packer couldn't fathom why he'd be dragged over to the women's enclave. The only time guys went to the Point Breeze Hotel was to A) visit their girl, B) fix something that was broken, or C) if they were part of the Watch and taking a shift guarding the girls.

None of the three apparently applied to Packer, so he was left to puzzle until they pulled up to the Point Breeze Hotel. Centrally located and huge(as far as Nantucket's buildings went), it was the ideal enclave for the island's women. Some one hundred fifty girls lived there, though as marriages and other pairings occurred, that number was slowly decreasing.

Packer was escorted through the main entrance and across the lobby. Some women were lounging in chairs there, reading what looked like textbooks and chatting; they stared at him like he had three heads. After some twists and turns, he found himself in a small conference room. There was a round table, six chairs--and a guitar resting on a stand in the corner.

He was left alone in the empty room, so, seeing no reason not to, he went over and picked up the guitar. Looked nice enough. Sounded awful, through, as he tried some chords. One of the things he was confident in, though, was his ability to tune. The fluctuating temperatures in his house meant that he had to re-tune his instruments every time he picked them up, so he could do it by ear and in a few seconds.

He sat on the edge of the table, looking out of the the windows, idly plucking notes, when he heard the door open behind him. He turned and his jaw dropped.

"Kaley?"

"Packer?" She looked just as dumbfounded as him--perhaps even more so. She was wearing a pair of low-riding jeans and a somewhat dressy blouse. While not as made up or expertly coiffured as the last time he saw her, she was still put together quite nicely. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Packer shrugged, then stammered, "I wish I knew. The Watch swung by, picked me up, and dumped me in here. What are you doing here?"

"Duh, I live here," she replied, coming into the room. "Well, not here. I'm, uh...well, I was expecting someone else."

Packer cocked his head momentarily, then figured it out. "Oh, I see. Well, then I guess one of us is in the wrong room." He set the guitar down and headed towards the door. "See you around, I guess."

"Wait!" She stepped in front of him. "Don't be like that. I mean, I don't know why you're here, unless someone else has taken an interest..."

"Kaley, you better than anyone know that that's impossible." He crossed his arms.

"Oh...yeah," she sighed. "Look, Packer, I'm really sorry things went down the way they did. I was more pissed off at Gail than anyone else; she said she had to pour three drinks down you to get you admit that you were...uh, snipped. I'm also sorry that I blabbed about it. I didn't even think, and I ruined your chances with any other girl." She sat down in one of the chairs.

Packer was momentarily nonplussed. He'd essentially forgotten the sea of shit that descended on him back at the Sausage Fest, but now it was all coming back. Should he tell her the truth? Would she understand now, that she'd moved on?

"Kaley, would you believe me if I told you a little secret?" he said, taking a seat next to her.

"What is it?"

"I'm married."

"What?! Who? I would've heard!"

"No, you see, she's not here. She didn't come back with us. Only I did." He pulled out his wedding band. "But what's 3000 years against true love, hmm?"

Kaley put a hand over her mouth. "Oh, Packer," she whispered. "I..."

"I know, I understand. Believe me. I've spent more nights crying myself to sleep than I care to count. It hurts a whole hell of a lot, even still. I may get better in time, but who knows? The point is is that Gail concocted that little story to spare your feelings back during the Sausage Fest."

"But now that everyone thinks...oh God, Packer. I mean, you're never going to have a chance with anyone!" she said with horror.

"Kaley, it's alright. I've made peace with that. It's just not in the cards for some people. Actually, a lot of people." Packer regarded her for a moment. She still looked quite distraught--maybe telling her was a mistake. He got up and went to the guitar. "Want to hear me play?"

She looked up at him blankly. "Huh?"

"You asked me to play something for you once. Well, I've been practicing, like I said I would." He sat back down and adjusted himself. "Any requests?"

She frowned. "No. I mean, I don't know. Play whatever you want."

He thought for a moment. "Oh, I got one. Been working on this for the next talent show." He started re-tuning. "Usually, I'd play this with a capo, but you can also do it by dropping the tuning a half-step. There we go. OK, ready? I gotta warn you, I can't sing for shit, so my sincere apologies in advance."

He ran through the chord progression briefly to make sure his fingers were working right. When it sounded good, he began to sing:

"Words are flowing out like endless rain into a paper cup,
They slither while they pass
they slip away across the Universe..."

Since the first talent show, Packer'd received dozens of requests to do Beatles songs. Unfortunately, Jordan, and Matt were less than amenable to this, and they decided to part ways. Luckily, Mike would sing just about anything, so Packer decided they could get by just doing acoustic stuff. "Across the Universe" was a fairly straightforward song, he found, so it was up for the next talent show...if he could ever track Mike down for some rehearsal time.

When he was done, he set the guitar down and waited. Kaley smiled at him--wow, did she ever have a smile! "That was great, Packer." Her smile turned a bit devilish. "Although you really can't sing for shit."

Packer laughed. "Told you. But hey, I'm a guy who keeps his word."

"There you are!" a third voice called out.

Packer looked up, and his heart sank down somewhere into the vicinity of his scrotum. The Shark was standing in the doorway.

Kaley turned, her face lighting up. "James!" She got up and was swept into his waiting arms. Packer watched, a blankly stupid look on his face, as they swapped several rather passionate kisses. When they were done, they stood arm-in-arm.

The Shark--James, Packer guessed--looked at Packer, who was still sitting. "Nice guitar, son!" he said with impressively false sincerity. He turned to Kaley. "You have fun listening to Mister Packer here? I thought I'd arrange a little surprise for you."

"Oh, James!" Packer wanted to wretch. Obviously, The Shark had her wrapped around his little finger. "Thank you! That's so sweet!"

He accepted a fresh kiss with aplomb, then said, "Ready to go?" She nodded eagerly, apparently only having eyes for him. "Then why don't you go get your coat? I'll be along in a minute. I just want to thank Mister Packer privately for coming up here."

A few final kisses, then Kaley stepped out. Didn't even say goodbye to me, Packer noted. She's really got a thing for him.

"Off you go, now!" The Shark said, giving her a tiny slap on the ass as she left. Packer could hear her giggling as she went down the hall, and he had to fight off a dry heave. The Shark stepped into the room and shut the door, adjusting his tie and smoothing his hair after doing so.

Packer didn't move. Instead, he gave him as flat a stare as he could. It was one of the things Packer was good at--stonewalling assholes and letting them talk, to see what they were really up to.

The Shark took the chair that Kaley was sitting in. "I'm glad you came. Of course, for more reasons than the social visit. For one, it's nice to see that when I say 'jump,' you'll still say, 'how high?' " He grinned. Packer didn't move a muscle, didn't even blink.

"So, I'm sure you're wondering why you're really here. Well, I like to economize things as much as possible. So, I wanted you to play a song for Kaley, because she'd mentioned that to me a few months ago." The Shark paused. "What? Oh, you're wondering about us? Well, I guess you didn't notice me at the Sausage Fest, but I noticed you. After you failed to close the deal with that sweet young thing there, I decided to give it a shot. My patience has paid off in spades."

Packer couldn't help but making a face. "Oh, don't look so shocked, Packer. I'm on the Council. I've got my pick of the litter, so to say. You have no idea what you missed out on!" He grinned. Whenever he smiled, Packer thought of Stephen King's most famous arch-villain, Randall Flagg. "But," The Shark went on, "there's really no point in wasting something like that on you, is there?"

Packer cocked his head sharply, cursing himself for reacting again. "That's right, pal! I've heard about your little snip-snip. I know you're shootin' blanks. In fact, I know an awful lot about you, Packer. And you know," he threw his left ankle over his right knee and leaned back a bit in the seat, "the more I find out about you, the less I like you.

"But I'm not one to hold a grudge, especially against half a man like yourself. What's the point? After all," he grinned again, "In about twenty minutes, you're going to be back at the shop, bending pipe. Meanwhile, in about twenty minutes, I'm going to be balls deep in the sweetest, tightest pussy you could imagine." He laughed like Packer'd just told him a really good joke, then he braced Packer on the shoulder. "Have fun, asshole!"

Still chuckling, The Shark rose and headed for the door. Packer's contained rage swelled suddenly, and he almost got up and smashed him over the head with the guitar, but he then remembered that he was on the second floor, and it was a pretty long jump out the window to the ground. And after that, he'd still be on Nantucket.

So, instead, Packer let him walk out the door. A few minutes later, after he was mainly done seething, the Watch was there to escort him out. And twenty minutes later, he was indeed back at the shop, bending pipe for a new gasifier, trying his best not to think about The Shark. The fact that he was fucking Kaley didn't really matter to him--though he found it personally disgusting, it was her choice. The real issue was this: he had a clear enemy on the Council now. No guessing; no doubt about it. And there was no longer any doubt in his head that pursuing the charter was the correct course.

But, there was still a tiny, gathering bit of dread. What was The Shark's plan? Packer decided to be prudent.

Later that night, at his house, Packer gathered some stationary and envelopes, and he began to write letters.

Day 239, Morning, Cape Cod

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck, was all that was running through Packer's mind, even as he said to Duniik, "Why will I die?" He already had a pretty good idea, but he wanted to hear it out loud.

"You idiot!" Duniik said with sudden sharpness. Packer made no physical response to this, but noted in his head how oddly similar his delivery sounded to Hugh Laurie's titular character on House--made odder still by the language difference between the two. "You fought Kochoko. I said do not fight him because you cannot fight with anyone in the tribe! You are an outsider! If you fight one of the tribe, you must be killed!

"You something something our plan, too," Duniik went on. "Our plan was simply to see if you would fight for Nara. Not to fight! Packer--"

"A moment!" Packer barked. "You planned this?! You planned...me and Nara?"

Duniik faltered. "Yes," he answered finally. "Don't you see? You are an outsider! If you married Nara, she would be free of Kochoko's family! From the time with the Wolf Hunters, Nara was interested in you. She made us bring you to the village when you were sick!" Duniik braced Packer's shoulder with his hand; Packer looked up. "Packer, she wants you! We had the idea to make you want her, to show you that Kochoko was cruel! Nara was unsure that you wanted her, though, so I remained silent."

"Unsure until yesterday," Packer said.

Duniik nodded sharply. "It was clear. You did not run, even though Kochoko had an axe. You fought for her. You protected her. That is why she came to you last night. She knew! She still knows!"

"Why will marrying Nara save my life?" Packer asked suddenly.

Duniik actually rolled his eyes, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. "You marry Nara, you are not an outsider. You are part of the tribe."

"But I was an outsider when I fought Kochoko," Packer retorted.

Duniik shrugged. "You are married. What you did before your marriage is nothing. You are a new person. It is The Way."

Fuck The Way. "It is The Way," Packer repeated blandly.

"Go before the Elders," Duniik continued. "With Nara. Say that you are married. They must welcome you into the tribe!"

"Must they?" Packer wondered out loud. Then, as his mind spun off idea after idea, he suddenly shouted, "Why did you not stop me?"

"In the fight?"

"No, at our last hunt!" Packer snapped back. Man, I am getting catty, he thought disjointedly. "Why did no one stop me? Kochoko is of the tribe. I am not. The Way must say that you protect your tribe!"

Duniik rubbed his hands together, as he did when he was nervous. "I hate Kochoko. I want him to die for his cruelty to Nara. No one in the village likes Kochoko. He is a good fisherman, so he something something stays. But he has no friends here. He is an asshole." Duniik said the last word in English, it being one of the hundred or so words that he'd picked up from Packer.

"Yes, he is an asshole." Packer agreed. "But me? You know, I fight and I win, but I can lose, too."

"No," Duniik stated emphatically. "You are big. No one can win against you."

"He had an axe!" Packer retorted.

"Kochoko is not skilled with the axe. He is a fisherman. You think you can fish with an axe?" Duniik snickered at the thought.

Packer sighed. "Why did you do this? I am your friend, no?" He didn't have the word for 'betrayal,' but he hoped the point was conveyed.

"You are my friend," Duniik confirmed. "But Nara is my sister. She is family. She is more important than friends."

Strangely, Packer found that response comforting. He had the choice: risk his friend or risk his sister, and he chose his family.

"And," Duniik went on. "When you are married, you become family. Since you have no family here, you enter our family. You are my brother. My father becomes your father. My tribe becomes your tribe. Our tribe."

"My tribe," Packer repeated. He looked down, then back up at Duniik. "And what about Kochoko?"

"He is with the healers. He is sick. They say he screams when he is awake, and he bleeds. Soon, he will beg for death, and they will give it to him. Then his family is no more. We will have a Sing Story, perhaps, to celebrate."

Wow, they really must've hated this fucker. "How do I know that I will die? Is this part of your plan?"

Duniik took Packer by the arm and brought him to his feet. He pointed down the hill, towards the village, without a word.

Packer squinted. Ten--no, eleven men were lined up at the bottom of the hill, just at the periphery of the village. All of them carried spears and dart throwers.

"They were coming to kill you before I stopped them. I told them that you and Nara were married." He looked back at Packer. "You must say it to them, or you die." It wasn't a threat. Just a simple, matter-of-fact statement. That was the deal.

Packer looked down at the men below. No way to outrun them; nowhere to go. No way to outfight them, either. He turned to Duniik.

"You have saved my life once again," he said, adding, "brother."

Duniik grinned and laughed, bearhugging Packer once again. "Before I go to the Elders with Nara," he said, "can I put on my clothes?"

[PhilosopherOfSorts]

One thing I've been wondering since the truck-tractor conversion. Doesn't Nantuket have any municiple equipment? I mean, I live in a town with less than half of Nantuket's perminent population, and it has a small fleet of dump trucks, garbage trucks, bulldozers and other equipment. There's also a National Guard armory that usually has three or four humvees and a deuce-and-a-half parked outside. I think something that's already built for industrial use would make for a better, and possibly simpler conversion. With the generator truck, for example, I'd be looking for something with a PTO shaft rather than trying to jury-rig one onto the Dodge.

It might seem like a wierd thing to pick up on, but if I was there its the kind of suggestion I would be making. Or question I'd be asking, at least.

[Simon_Jester]

Hmm. I seem to have been promoted to minor Councilman; wonder how that happened. I mean, I'm a physics grad student with a mid-grade amateur knowledge of history and philosophy and a head for arithmetic; I can't think of any significant community on the Island I'd make a good representative for.

Probably the sort of thing that gets labeled as "historical accident" later on. There often isn't as much rhyme or reason to that sort of thing as someone might expect.

I can sort of picture myself as a disposable guy who winds up getting booted off the Council for being an unreliable jackass after whatever incident gets Packer exiled. If my interactions on the board are any indicator, I'm likely to wind up disagreeing with the core leadership a lot, often for what they (often with cause) see as marginal reasons. And anyone with real political talent (like, I infer, the Shark) could probably outmaneuver me in anything but direct debate, and quite possibly there.

Failing that, I'd probably wind up being one of the big boosters of the expedition across the Atlantic...

[Formless]

Maybe you got promoted due to Dibert's Rule.

It can always be handwaved that there is someone else named Simon IRL around here. Or maybe you were called in as a juror of some sort. Between GMT and Packer they have outright invented characters that do not come right out and state which board personality they are supposed to represent (mostly antagonists, it seems...), so...

[Simon_Jester]

That's reasonable, since neither Simon nor Jester is my real name. On the other hand, "Simon" used a couple of direct me-quotes in his own argument.

On the first hand, I find it at least vaguely plausible that I could wind up in a position like that, with a certain amount of luck. I'm not sure how rigorous the Council selection process was, or exactly how it was formed, after all. The Council is not that small a body, and we're not talking about my having any substantial direct power. It may just be that I happened to be one of the guys who helped organize the collection of essential supplies on Day One, came up with some moderately useful suggestions in the first week or two, and wound up popular enough that no one objected to having me on the Council when it got semi-formalized.

So I don't mind being a character this way at all; it doesn't require a handwave. It would be interesting to see how someone else (who's presumably seen me argue in a few threads) thinks alt-me would act. I like to think I wouldn't go violently insane or mad with power-lust or anything like that, but I also like to think other people would believe it just from watching me here... so if "I" do end up doing something like that, it's still interesting.

One thing I can say: no way in Hell am I the Shark. That's all I'm confident of.

[Alferd Packer]

One thing I've been wondering since the truck-tractor conversion. Doesn't Nantuket have any municiple equipment? I mean, I live in a town with less than half of Nantuket's perminent population, and it has a small fleet of dump trucks, garbage trucks, bulldozers and other equipment. There's also a National Guard armory that usually has three or four humvees and a deuce-and-a-half parked outside. I think something that's already built for industrial use would make for a better, and possibly simpler conversion. With the generator truck, for example, I'd be looking for something with a PTO shaft rather than trying to jury-rig one onto the Dodge.

It might seem like a wierd thing to pick up on, but if I was there its the kind of suggestion I would be making. Or question I'd be asking, at least.

Basically every medium and heavy duty truck I've ever encountered has a diesel engine. I'm sure there are exceptions, of course, but I'd wager dollars to donuts that almost all of Nantucket's municipal motor pool (aside from light duty stuff like pickups) is diesel.

Unfortunately, you can't convert a diesel engine to run on woodgas alone; you still need a liquid fuel to compress and ignite. Woodgas (or any other type of gas injection, for that matter) can supplement diesel fuel (more than halving the consumption rate, as the governor on the engine will simply throttle back on the fuel intake). Gasoline engines, since they use a spark to ignite the fuel, convert entirely and pretty easily to run on woodgas.

I wager that most of the diesel on the island is reserved for larger watercraft, like the Eagle, or for things like firetrucks or other emergency vehicles.

[Alferd Packer]

Day 239, Noon, Cape Cod

By the time Packer emerged from his hut, reclothed and clean, there was a palpable buzz to the village. On their way back, Duniik had explained that only a few marriages happened in the village every year--most of the others happened in the during the winter, apparently. How they could occur without the blessing of the Elders was a question Packer almost asked, but he refrained. Reflecting on it further, he realized that word he was translating as "marriage" must possess several different levels of meaning. Out the wilderness, in the depths of winter, it could be said that common-law marriages occurred. At the village, couples actually got the benefit of the clergy, so to speak. Perhaps the winter marriages were simply legitimized the following spring, but since they'd already been 'married,' no one thought of the ceremony as such.

At any rate, Duniik accompanied him to his hut and helped him dress. Well, he watched him dress. He'd brought with him several examples of seashell jewelry, and Packer was decked out in bracelets and anklets, as well as an armband that barely fit over his bicep.

"Here," Duniik said, holding a final necklace of seashells. "You should give this to Nara in front of the Elders. You should have made something yourself, but this happened too fast for that. This will do."

Packer considered it. "Does Nara have something for me?"

Duniik nodded. "Yes, she made it some time ago."

Packer held up a finger. "A moment." He ducked back into his hut, emerging a few seconds later. "I have something for her."

"You made something?"

"Yes." Sort of.

Duniik grinned. "Let's go get Nara."

As they walked together across the village, Packer tried to get a handle on how he felt. On the one hand, shotgun weddings(blowgun weddings?) could never be ideal affairs, but he felt like he should've been more nervous or apprehensive than he was. After all, he was marrying someone! That was the ultimate commitment, and one that was made for life. It was certainly not a light undertaking.

Was he in denial? Did he expect some last-minute intervention to save him? He could name half a dozen times in the last eight months when he'd been more nervous. And this wasn't a bad nervous, to boot! Why wasn't he freaking out?

Am I...am I actually looking forward to this? he thought suddenly.

That had to be it. Somewhere, in the deepest recesses of his brain, he wanted Nara. For whatever reason, he'd kept that buried for the last two months. But looking back, patterns were starting to emerge. Whenever she cried, he felt like his head was going to burst if he didn't make her feel better. When she laughed at one of his stories(regardless if she was simply being polite or not), his heart beat quicker. He almost always sat next to or across from her when they took meals together, and they took meals together often.

Do I love her? he asked himself.

Hard to say. She definitely had a personality that attracted him. She was sharp-witted, especially when bantering with Duniik or someone else. She was also fantastically stubborn, something else he liked. Most of all, though, she was thoughtful, which bespoke an inherent intelligence. Though she interacted less with Packer than Duniik did, she knew more English than him. Before yesterday had changed everything, Packer had planned to start teaching her how to read and write, because he estimated her to be the most capable person to teach others.

But did that equal love? He certainly enjoyed having sex with her, and she apparently enjoyed having sex with him. In fact, he was already looking forward to tonight...or later this afternoon, as it might be. He'd kept his pipes clean over the months, but that was a mechanical act, undertaken once a week, and simply a preventative measure(the last thing he needed out here was a prostate infection). Mentally, he was as backed up as you could get, and he sensed that she was, too. But all that was just physical attraction, or a symptom thereof. Packer was too old to confuse that with love--though it certainly helped.

OK, so the jury was out. He was still marrying her; because the alternative was death. He had no doubt that if he balked at the last second, he wouldn't make it out of the village alive. But he had absolutely no intention of balking.

"Packer!"

He looked up. Nara was waiting outside her family house, hands clutched in front of her. She was similarly ornamented with anklets and bracelets, and this time, a trio of ruby-red flowers decorated her hair, which was held back in a single ponytail. She was up on the balls of her feet, happily swaying back and forth. Her smile was that special, overstretched grin that you made when you were trying desperately to contain your excitement and failing.

She fairly floated over to him and Duniik, stopping just in front of them. She looked to Duniik, who simply nodded with a grin of his own. Nara leapt up and threw her arms around Packer's neck, laughing happily. Packer couldn't help but laugh, too; it was infectious.

He then set her down, still holding her close. She looked up at him, smiling. "Before we go, may I try something?" he asked.

"What is it?" Nara asked.

"We do this is my old tribe," Packer said, and he leaned in and kissed her.

Of course, since she had no idea what he was doing, she didn't kiss back immediately. Packer didn't expect her to. He just wanted to kiss her, because...well, that's what you did. God, it felt good to kiss her, even if she was probably wondering what the hell he was doing. After about second or two, though, Packer felt the shift in Nara's posture, and she started kissing him back--timidly, at first, but then with a bit more force. He kept it up for a few seconds longer, then broke off, floating on a cloud of endorphins, heart racing.

OK, this'll work, he thought happily. Nara, for her part, looked a little unsteady on her feet. Her eyes were closed. Wonder how long it took her to figure that out?

He looked over to Duniik. "I am ready."

So, after Duniik prodded his sister back to the here and now, they all went over to the large community tent. Duniik entered first, followed by Nara, then Packer. The Elders of the tribe were waiting in the center of the tent, as decked out as Packer in seashell jewelry and other finery. As Packer entered, they formed up in a semicircle around Nara and him. They weren't armed, which Packer took as a good sign.

Nara's father, Chottekan, stepped forward. "Packer!" he began. "Nara has said that you and her are now married. My son has explained to you what this means. Do you say that you are married, as well?" Right to the point.

He felt Nara's hand slip into his own. He gave it a squeeze. "I say yes," he replied in his most carefully-enunciated native speech. "I know what it means to be married, and I am married to Nara."

Chottekan nodded, then turned back to the other Elders for a moment, conversing quickly and quietly. When he turned back to the couple, he said, "Your something something?"

Duniik nudged Packer when he didn't move right away. Packer realized he meant the thing that he was supposed give to Nara. He reached into the back pocket of his shorts and pulled it out.

Even Chottekan gasped when he saw it. It was Packer's wedding band, strung on a loop of leather so that it could be worn as a necklace. Tungsten carbide does not scratch, tarnish, or fade, and the band gleamed even in the dim light of the main hall. He passed it to Chottekan, whose hand began to tremble as he marveled at it. The other Elders disregarded protocol and crowded around, getting a good look at it, a few even daring to touch it.

Finally, Chottekan passed it to Packer. Nara's offering was an intricately beaded and braided necklace, with two inlaid seashells. The beads were seeds with holes punched through them that had been painted or dyed various shades of red and blue. Chottekan took it, gave it a perfunctory look, then passed it back to Nara.

Packer, however, could not take his eyes off of it. How many hours had she worked on that? How many attempts to get the pattern of the beads just so? Packer was suddenly conscious of how...cheap his offering felt, even if everyone else thought it remarkable.

Nara went first, standing on tiptoe to get the necklace up over his head. When it was in place, he looked down at it and beamed at her. She smiled back. He quickly put her necklace on, and she couldn't resist holding the wedding band out a bit, looking at it in amazement.

Chottekan smiled; it was the first time Packer had seen him do so. He signaled Duniik, who vanished out of the hall, shouting something as he ran off through the village. "It is done!" Chottekan proclaimed. "By giving something something to each other, you will have the blessing of the Gods!"

One of the other Elders began either singing or praying--Packer had trouble telling which, because both were so hard for him to understand. The others, including Chottekan, joined in. He followed Nara's cue and simply stood there. Nara fidgeted next to him; Packer presumed she wanted this to be over, and he didn't blame her. The song seemed interminable, and none among them seemed to be able to carry a tune...or perhaps that was the point? He gripped her hand and glanced at her. She looked back at him and smiled, that ultra-excited grin creeping back onto her face. He suppressed a laugh.

At last, the song was Chottekan came over to them and embraced Nara, hugging her tightly. When he let her go, Packer saw tears in the corners of his eyes. He then turned to Packer. "I welcome you to my family, Packer," and he bearhugged him. Chottekan was probably about forty, but he was devastatingly strong, and he crushed the breath out of Packer's lungs. Packer did his best to match his display.

"Father," Nara hissed a bit impatiently.

Chottekan laughed, and let Packer go. "You two may go. I am certain that many await you outside."

He wasn't kidding. Just about everyone in the village was outside, and they threw up a mighty cheer when Packer and Nara emerged into the sun and heat of the day. Nara was swarmed by the young women among them, and Packer by the men. A current of raw jubilation pulsed through everyone around Packer, engulfing him like a jet of flame, as he received well-wishes, hearty slaps on the back and shoulders, discreet praise for handling Kochoko so ably, and above all, the same phrase over and over: "You are one of us now!"

And perhaps because of that very phrase, an odd, but pleasant feeling took root in his heart as he beheld the crowd of smiling and laughing faces around him. It was something he hadn't thought or felt in almost a year, and its absence had definitely made its reappearance the stronger. Suddenly, he was not beholding the faces of strangers or arm's-length acquaintances. They were his people, and he was of them.

I'm home.

Day 140, Evening, Nantucket

It had taken a lot of browbeating, but Packer was up on stage for the second time at a town hall meeting as a guest speaker. His previous entanglements with the Council had taken place with him as a member of the audience. Tonight, though, the playing field was as level as he could make it.

The charter was done. It had been finished a week ago, and a late-night trip to the public library with a charged UPS device allowed them make five hundred copies of it. True to Packer's word, it clocked in at about four hundred words and covered only a single page at a reasonable font. One of the Horticulturists had experience with calligraphy, and he was working on a fancier copy, written on vellum in some kind of high-grade ink.

But the charter itself wasn't of prime importance. The main step--the process of ratification--was Packer's focus. They'd finally agreed upon a framework to present at the town hall meeting, and that would be Packer's job today: get the proposal out into the open by hook or by crook.

So he all but ignored the warm applause he got when the Chairman introduced him. He strode to the podium and gripped it with familiarity. He couldn't help but glance reproachfully down at the microphone, and about a quarter of those attending laughed. In all, it was far less crowded than the last time; there were perhaps five hundred people in attendance, and almost everyone had a chair to sit in.

He took a deep breath. His bomber jacket, already well-aged before he became its owner, creaked. "Well then," he began. "Thank you, Mister Chairman, for allowing the opportunity to speak to everyone tonight. If you'll bear with me, I'm going to get something off my chest before I talk about the public hazard that gasifiers may pose." There was some stirring behind him, where the Council was seated. He ignored it.

"We've lived here for nearly five months," Packer began, "and I think we've begun to realize that there's no going back. Perhaps those of you in attendance realize it more than those who are at home, crying themselves to sleep each night. Spring is almost upon us; a season of growth, renewal, and new life. I can think of no more fitting a season to undertake what I am about to propose."

He let the words hang for a moment, and almost everyone actually leaned forward. "It has come to this. A group of us have realized that if we're to thrive here--not just survive, but actually thrive--we need more from our government." Definitely some shuffling chairs and panicky whispers going on behind him. "We need a clear framework in which the Council operates, and in which our role as the public...as, dare I say it, citizens, is defined.

"We need a founding document, which the group I represent calls a charter. This charter will be ratified by us, in an open, transparent vote. Kevin? Jason?" There was now a bit of commotion out among the seats.

"Several Machinists and Horticulturists are now passing out copies of a charter which we have drafted. If you're interested who exactly was behind this, our names are on the reverse side. This document is simple in scope: it enumerates the powers and duties of the Council, and the powers and duties of us, the public. It also calls for mandatory elections every eighteen months for all elected positions on the Council, as well as term limits of eighteen months for all appointed positions. It also outlines a rotating tribunal system for dispensing of justice, and, of course, a mechanism to modify the charter when needed through another public vote.

"Now," Packer hazarded a glance to his right. Some of the Councillors were fuming, other were merely sweating, and still others (a good amount of them, in fact) looked ambivalent to pleased. "This charter is just one of many possible frameworks. We wrote it mainly as an example of how we think Nantucket should be run. The process of ratification which I am calling for tonight includes the provision for anyone who thinks he can hack it to try their hand. The process is as follows," he pulled a sheet of notepaper from his jacket and started reading, his tone changing to an imperious one, his voice booming throughout the auditorium.

"One! The vote to ratify will be a run-off election wherein any number of charters will be voted on in successive rounds, with any charter receiving greater than ten percent of the total vote being allowed to advance to the next round of voting. In between said rounds, a period of one day will elapse to allow for amendments to each charter. No charter may have elements redacted from it during the voting process; additions may be made.

"Two! Any person living Nantucket Island as of the reading of this proposal is entitled to draft and present his own charter for public vote, provided that said charter has affixed to its body the signatures of one hundred fifty persons, who also reside on Nantucket Island. Charters may be submitted up to one week before the first scheduled round of voting, to allow time for proper dissemination and analysis by the population of Nantucket Island, so that an informed vote may be placed by all who desire it.

"Three! Voting rounds will continue until A) a single charter receives a vote count greater than two thirds of the total amount of votes cast, or B) until exactly two charters survive to be voted upon, at which point the charter receiving the majority vote will be the victor. All records of all votes will be preserved and made available to the public upon request.

"Four! When a single charter has been ratified, it will take effect immediately, and any provisions in that charter that must be acted upon immediately will be acted upon immediately.

Packer then folded up his paper. In the audience, people were rapidly reading over the document they'd been handed, whispering to each other. The Chairman took the lull as an opportunity to jump in.

"Mister Packer, thank you for...that. We'll take your proposal under advisement, but if I may be perfectly frank, we're nowhere near out of the woods yet. There are crises on the horizon that--"

"Mister Chairman," Packer snapped back, his hard tone causing a hiss of feedback. "There will always be a crop failure, or a water shortage, or a building fire, or a blizzard, or the remnants of a hurricane, or any other crisis you can name, threatening us. I don't accept that reasoning. That sounds like an excuse for you and the Council to exercise your power over us in perpetuity!"

"Now really, Mister Packer, that is prepo--"

"I wasn't finished yet!" Packer slammed his open palm down the podium. The Chairman, a man not easily rattled, jumped a little. If anyone had been reading the charter, they weren't now. Packer was impressed with himself, and more than a little scared. Where was all this coming from?

"I put it to you, Mister Chairman, and all of you on the Council," he turned and swung a finger over them, "to take all necessary steps to make this happen! Further, I demand that you abide by whatever charter is ratified, and that you respect the mass mandate it represents! With a legitimate government framework in place, we'll be in a better position to build the best society we can. Do you realize the chance we've been given? A world almost empty, with almost all its resources intact, and us, the cradle of three thousand extra years of knowledge and development! The things that we could accomplish, Mister Chairman!

"But we have to start right! No excuses for keeping the masses ground down! No unchecked power. We have to get this..." he swung a hand all around him, "...right, before we shape the rest of the world in our image. So please, Mister Chairman, Councillors...do not dismiss this as an idealistic flight of fancy. We all have the chance to lay the foundation for something great. Do your part, so that we can do ours."

You could hear a mouse fart in the auditorium, it was so quiet.

Packer licked his lips, looked back to the crowd, and said, "But with that out of the way, I'd like to talk about gasifier safety..." the rest was lost in a rush of applause, started by the Machinists, no doubt.

While it was rolling, Packer looked back at the Council. There were still plenty of angry faces, but just as many thoughtful ones. I think we might have a shot, he dared to hope.

Day 258, Evening, Cape Cod

"And so Skywalker went to the cliff," Packer narrated gravely. "He could feel the evil in the air. And there, from behind a tree, was Vader!"

The assembled crowd gasped. Packer took up his hatchet, which he wrapped in excess leather strips that had been soaked in tallow, and plunged it into the fire. "So Skywalker took up his fire axe, and Vader took up his fire axe, and they fought!"

As he waved the flaming hatchet through the air, he took a moment to gauge the crowd. They'd loved his adaptation of the original Star Wars saga, though bastardization might be a better term. Among the things he changed was the lightsaber into a fire axe, as these people had no idea what swords even were. Obi Wan's name had to be shortened, as it sounded like hobehwen, which roughly meant 'constipated.' The Millennium Falcon was simply a giant falcon, and instead of crossing space, they crossed oceans. Chewbacca was a talking bear...which was close enough, anyway, and the droids were simply dwarves.

But the remarkable thing, Packer found out, is that the general plot of the story remained unchanged. He could alter details to make things understandable, but he didn't have to rewrite the plot to do so.

"They fought fiercely!" Packer bellowed. He leaped up onto the bench, which was his only other prop. "But Vader was too strong! Skywalker was forced down, and Vader cut off his hand!" He staggered to his knees, howled with agony, and let the axe drop.

"But Skywalker would not let Vader get him." Packer began inching backwards across the length of the bench. He put on his 'Vader Voice,' a deep, yet rasping baritone." 'Come with me!' Vader said. 'We will destroy the Great Elder and rule all tribes together! You are strong! I can make you as strong as me!' "

" 'Never! I will never join you,' Luke said." Packer was almost to the edge. He felt the tension building. Everyone was leaning forward, waiting on his every word.

" 'Obi Kenobi did not tell you about your father,' Vader growled! He could almost reach out and touch Skywalker!"

" 'He told me that you killed him!' " Packer pointed his hand at the invisible, looming Vader. He took a deep breath. He wanted to get this right. Here goes...

" 'No. I am your father.' "

The collective gasp was worth it. The shouts of outrage and shock made it a hundred times better. Packer had to fight to keep a straight face, and he screeched in Luke's voice, " 'NOOOOOOO!' "

Packer was at the edge of the bench. " 'Join me, my son!' Vader cried out again. 'We will lead all the tribes as family!' But Skywalker would not do it! He was at the edge of the cliff...and he jumped!" Packer fell back off the bench, counted to three on the ground, and shot to his feet. Everyone craned forward.

"What happened to Skywalker? That is another story." He brought his hands together in the customary clap, and a hundred people groaned at the ending of the Sing Story.

As people broke off into smaller groups, Packer brushed the crud off of his shoulders. It was remarkable how eager they were for a new story, and engaged they could get. Several spent the intervals between Sing Stories seeming to do little else than hound Packer with questions about the previous and next installment. At first Packer thought they were just being annoying, but then he realized that they were trying to learn the story so that they could retell it.

Packer felt some dirt on his back, so he began contorting himself to brush it free. He was only at it for a second before he felt hands on his back. Hands that were starting to become familiar.

He allowed himself to be cleaned off before he turned. "Hello," he said, unable to keep a smile from his face.

"Hello," Nara replied in English. It was one of the many games they played; he talked in her language, and she talked in his. He was amazed at her acumen for picking up words, and trying to put them together in new combinations to express different ideas.

"You liked the story?" She nodded.

"The story is very good," she said, only halting a bit. Her accent wasn't bad, either. "I want...to hear?" Packer nodded silently, she grinned, then finished her thought: "...more story. Later. Sleep now?"

Packer laughed. The twilight was still strong, and the village was quite active. And neither of them planned on sleeping for a while. "Yes, sleep," he confirmed, and offered her his hand. They left the site of the Sing Story together, moving through the shadowy village leisurely, but at the same time eagerly.

Of course, Packer had been married back in the future, but he still had no idea what to expect here, in terms of the tribe's expectations. He had spent a the better part of a decade in a monogamous relationship, and remained pretty goddamned happy throughout it, so he liked to think he knew a thing or two about being with someone.

But that knowledge couldn't really apply here. At least, not yet. Packer didn't kid himself; this was the honeymoon stage, pure and simple. The days hadn't changed much, aside from waking up next to someone. He still went hunting with Duniik or showed Natteko the basics of carpentry, though now he was apt to pick some wildflowers for Nara and bring them back to her when he was finished. The biggest difference during the day was the fact that everyone wanted to talk to him now. If he passed someone, he was engaged in a conversation. Sometimes it'd be brief, sometimes it'd last so long that he forgot what he was doing.

But the nights! 'Fuckfest' wasn't the right word(it wasn't even a word), but it was close. The attraction was intense and it was mutual, and each night was as wild as the first. Of course, Packer knew it couldn't last forever, but he was perfectly happy going with the flow. Nara made him feel good, and he made Nara feel good.

On the subject of love, though, Packer still remained unconvinced. He couldn't fathom falling in love with someone so quickly, and thus he attributed his current feelings to intense infatuation. He chose to ignore the possibility that those feelings might fizzle out in the months to come. It still bothered him, though, but he did his best to avoid thinking on it too long.

So, after about an hour of vigorous foreplay and sex in his hut, Packer and Nara drifted off easily to sleep. At some point in the night, Packer got up and stepped out of his hut...

...and into the backyard of his house in New Jersey.

This didn't bother Packer at all. Inconsistencies hardly mattered in dreams, after all. For example, his backyard took on qualities of the fields surrounding the village, even though the lot was only an eighth of an acre in size and surrounded by other houses. When he looked back at his house, he saw his hut, though it shimmered and merged with the suggestion of his house's dimensions.

He strode or floated easily around the place. There was someone sitting at the picnic table in the rear corner of the yard. It was his mother. The fact that she had been dead for seven years didn't bother Packer in the slighest. He sat down next to her.

"Hi mom," he said casually.

"Hi," she replied. She was dressed in her business suit, which was what Packer most often saw her in and remembered her by. He was momentarily disquieted by the image of her, jaundiced and dying, in a hospital bed somewhere, but he pushed those out of his mind as an obvious incongruity. She was here, after all.

"So," she continued. She was rooting through her purse, her face turned away from him. "You've got a new wife? What happened to Jenny?"

It was like someone threw a bucket of ice water on him, and then clobbered him upside the head with the bucket for good measure. "Mom..." he began. "You can't be here. You're dead."

She continued looking for something in her purse. "So?" she said distractedly.

"So that means I'm dreaming," he finished, his tone dejected. He sighed. "Shit. I'd heard about lucid dreaming...but why this dream?"

His mom shrugged. "Beats me. Like you said, I'm dead. You didn't answer my question, though."

"Huh?" He was still marveling that he was aware that he was dreaming.

"Your wife. In that hut over there." She pointed. "What happened to Jenny?"

"I...don't know." his shoulders drooped. He was already forgetting that this was a dream. "I've...traveled through time, or something. I can't get back to her. And things...well, it's a long story."

"What's her name? Your new wife?"

"Nara," he replied, looking at her. He still couldn't see her face clearly, but he knew it was her. A sudden wave of sadness washed over him.

"Nara," she repeated. "Are you good to her?"

"I try to be."

"Is she good to you?"

"She is."

"Do you see any reason why either of those things will change?" she asked him.

Packer gave it some thought. "No," he replied. "She's a good woman. I want to be a good man for her."

"So you love her?"

Packer did not reply.

"Okay, let me put it another way: do you want to be with any other woman?"

"No." Packer knew that for sure.

"Do you enjoy spending time together?"

"Absolutely." He thought about telling his mom how fast she was learning English, but she was already moving on.

"Can you imagine a future without her that you'll be happy in?"

Packer frowned. "No...I can't. I want to be with her. I want to make her happy."

"Sounds like you love her to me." She resumed rooting through her purse.

"Yeah, I suppose it does," Packer confirmed, nodding to himself. "Thanks, mom."

"Not a problem, honey."

"So, what now?" Packer looked around him. The scenery had changed; it was now an amalgamation of the village, his backyard, and the backyard of the house he grew up in.

"The dream ends, sweetie. You wake up."

"I don't want it to," he whispered, his throat suddenly thick. "I miss you."

She put a hand on his cheek, but there was no substance to her touch. "I know. I miss you too. But you've got a life to live. You've grown up into a fine man. I'm proud of you." He looked at her; she was starting to actually fade away in front of his eyes. "You always were my favorite son," she added.

He smiled, despite himself. "Mom, I'm your only son."

"All the more reason you're my favorite. Good--"

"--bye."

He was awake again. The dream was fresh in his mind. "Thanks for the words of wisdom," he whispered to himself, then he started crying.

He almost never dreamed of his mom, but when he did, it affected him greatly. He sobbed quietly, his eyes stinging, his throat burning, but not quietly enough. Nara rolled over suddenly, facing him. "What is it?" she asked. The fire was almost entirely out, but there was just enough of a glow to see the concern on her face. Her hands played over his cheeks, feeling his tears.

He almost balked at telling her, but it came out anyway, barely understandable. "I dreamed of my mother. She is dead."

"Oh..." and she held him tight to her, comforting him, letting him cry.

After a while, he regained enough composure to stammer, "In the dream, she spoke of you. She said you are a good woman, and that I must be good to you." He pulled away from her a bit, so that he could see her eyes. "Please...am I good to you?"

She smiled and kissed his forehead. Ever since he'd introduced kissing to her, she'd become quite the adept at it. She held him again. "You know you are good to me," she said soothingly. "Please, don't be sad."

He was nearly cried out anyway. He took a deep breath. "I am alright," he said. "I am glad I dreamed of her. Even though it makes me cry. I am glad that I have you."

She didn't say anything. She simply held him tightly, until he faded back to a calm and dreamless sleep.

[Alferd Packer]

Day 266, Afternoon, Cape Cod

Packer twanged the bowstring idly, watching Natteko nock and draw his own bow. He aimed carefully at the crude target, set up about fifty feet away, and loosed.

The arrow flew true, but unfortunately, that meant it sailed high, vanishing into the berry patch behind the target.

"Almost!" Packer said encouragingly, but that didn't keep Natteko from swearing rather impressively in English.

"Fuck! Shit! Asshole!" Natteko grunted. He turned to Packer. "This is difficult."

"I know," Packer replied. "I am not good at it, either. But these weapons are better than your dart throwers."

The bows Packer had learned to build back on Nantucket were flat bows, which were actually constructed by the descendants of this tribe, who lived in the Cape Cod area during Columbian times. It was remarkable to Packer, anyway, that he was showing them something that they'd one day figure out on their own. The flat bows themselves were powerful enough, of course, but since no one had ever shot a bow before, skill was quite low.

Natteko drew another arrow and shot again. This time, the arrow thumped into the target, and both Packer and Natteko let out a whoop of joy.

They were making bows and arrows as fast as they could. A few weeks back, Packer had demonstrated the bow for the Elders and the young men of the tribe, and now everybody wanted one. Between him and Natteko, they'd managed to build a dozen bows since then. All bow owners now spent at least a few hours a day out in the fields, practicing. There was a bit of an informal contest going on: whoever managed to get the first kill with a bow would gain great notoriety within the tribe.

As Natteko retrieved his arrows from the area around the target, Packer wiped the sweat off his brow. Hot today. It'd been hot for the last week; a classic July heatwave, and proximity to Cape Cod Bay had made it just bearable. Most people left the village during the day and went to the beach, cooling off in Cape Cod Bay periodically. Packer used to hate when it was this hot, but now he found that he didn't mind it too much. It was probably due in large part to his physique; he was at least forty pounds lighter than he was at the Arrival, and there wasn't much fat on him at all anymore.

Packer went over to a nearby clump of trees and lounged in the shade of one, sprawling on a blanket he'd brought out for that purpose. There was a gourd of water there, and Packer took a long pull. He could see heat waves rising from the village in the distance. Gotta be ninety, ninety-five maybe, he thought.

Too hot to want to do much of anything, but Natteko wanted very badly to be the first to make a kill with a bow, so he roped Packer into practice, hoping to glean that extra edge from Packer's superior knowledge on the subject. Of course, aside from actually constructing a bow, Packer knew next to nothing about archery. He was passable with the crossbow, but he'd been using that almost every day for nearly three months now.

Three months! Amazing he'd been away from Nantucket that long. It was even more amazing that he survived. No, he was doing more than simply surviving, he was thriving! He was a full-fledged member of the tribe, and a valued one, at that. They didn't care that he was bigger than them, or that his skin color was different. He contributed to the overall prosperity of the tribe, and that was enough. And, of course, he had Nara.

Since he'd dreamt of his mother, Nara's behavior towards him had shifted very slightly. Packer guessed that before then, she'd thought him some kind of impervious superman, with no vulnerabilities or sensitivities. Now she displayed a...protectiveness? Yeah, that was a good way to describe it. The footing of their budding relationship had changed to a more equal bearing--more of a partnership than before. She'd realized that he wanted...hell, he needed her just as much as she needed him.

A shadow passed nearby, and Packer glanced up. It was Nara, a basket in her hand. She'd been out in the woods, picking blueberries while Packer and Natteko practiced. Packer was making a bow for her, as well, but he wanted to decorate it before he presented it to her. Besides, she hadn't seemed too keen on using a bow, for whatever reason.

The nice thing about the heatwave was that Nara wore even less. The one-piece dress was gone in favor of a skimpy bikini-style top and what could only be called a skirt, allowing Nara to show off her flat tummy. Of course, such an getup was designed for purely practical reasons, as the tribe didn't have exactly the same considerations when it came to beauty and admiration of the female form that Packer did, but that really didn't matter, did it?

"Many blueberries," Nara said in English, placing the basket next to Packer. It was indeed overflowing.

"Very nice." Packer craned his head up, and she kissed him as she knelt beside him. "Did you walk far?"

"No," she laid down on her back perpendicular to him and rested her head on his lap. "There are many blueberries close." He fed her a couple, then chowed down on a handful of his own. They sat there for some time, munching on blueberries and listening to the chirping of birds and the buzzing of bugs. No mosquitoes were out yet, thankfully. Periodically, Natteko would yell in triumph or frustration.

A perfect summer day, Packer thought lazily. Without being quite aware of it, he found that he was stroking Nara's hair, and when glanced down, she appeared to be in a trance. He chuckled; one of her eyes peeled open.

"What is it?" she asked.

A undoubtedly goofy grin on his face, he replied, "I am enjoying this day."

"Me too," she sighed happily. They must've dozed, because the next thing Packer knew, the shadows had jumped. Not much, but enough to notice.

"Nara," he said. She stirred, groggy. "I want to show you something."

While she got her wits about her, he produced a wide, flat sheet of birch bark and some charcoal. He then laid it out on front of them.

"How do I say 'dog'?" he asked her.

She thought about it for a second, then repeated in English: "Dog."

"Right," Packer confirmed. "In my old tribe, we use a way to draw things that is easier than drawing. It is called 'writing.' "

"Rye-ting," Nara repeated.

"Correct," Packer said. "If I want to use writing to show a dog, I do not draw a dog. I 'write' with 'letters.' " Using the charcoal, he wrote down D-O-G on the birch bark.

Nara was supremely interested. "That doesn't look like a dog," she said quickly. She'd slipped back into her native speech.

"Yes. It should not. It sounds like it, though!"

She looked at him like he'd sprouted a third eye and arched an eyebrow.

Packer laughed. "It is true. When I see that, I know it means dog. This kind of seeing is called 'reading'."

"Ree-ding." She frowned, still puzzled.

"Watch," Packer said. "This letter is always the same thing. It means 'duh.' I see that, I think 'duh.'" He repeated the process for the other two letters. "So, when I say the sounds of each letter altogether, I get a word."

"Duh-ah-guh...dog!" she exclaimed. She looked at Packer with excited eyes.

He grinned and kissed her. "Every sound can be made with a letter or by putting some letters together." He wrote down B-L-U-E next.

"Those two letters look similar!" she pointed at the D and B.

"Yes, they do," Packer confirmed. "You must be careful, because they are different sounds. That one is 'buh.' "

Nara's brow furrowed as she concentrated. "If I take away the 'duh' and put a 'buh' there, is that a word? 'Bog'?"

Packer grinned in amazement. "It is. That is what we sometimes call the marshes, like those between the village and the beach." It wasn't strictly true, but it'd work for now. "Now, I will say the other letters, and their sounds."

When he was done, he watched her. Her lips moving silently, and she stared hard at the word. Finally, she ventured: "Bluh-oo...bloo?" Her head perked up suddenly: "Blue! Like these!" She grabbed a blueberry from the basket and held it up.

Packer's grin said it all. He hugged her with a fierce pride swelling in his chest. She was incredibly smart! He couldn't even fathom how long it would take him, were he illiterate, to grasp the fundamentals of it. He vaguely remembered being able to read before kindergarten, but his parents had read to him every night since he was two.

"How many words can you make?" Nara asked, snapping him out of his reverie.

"All words," he replied. "There are letters for most sounds. And other sounds can be made with some letters together." He wrote down N-A-R-A, sounding out each letter for her.

"Na-ra," she said with frightening speed. "Nara! That is my name!" She gazed down at the charcoal markings with wonder.

"Yes," Packer confirmed, his heart beating rapidly with joy. He thought she would grasp this quickly, but never this quickly. "I can use the letters to make words in your speech, too. It works for all words. And there's more."

She looked at him. "I think I see. If you can make every word, then you can make the words of a story."

"Yes!" Packer exclaimed. "If you can read it, I can write anything and you will have it always. You could write stories. Or how do things. How to make a bow. Or a dart thrower. Or how to cook food. Or how to hunt."

Nara laughed excitedly. "Tell me more. I want to know all the letters. I want to make words."

Packer nodded, the day of the heat forgotten. "Yes, I will. We will need some more bark, though."

Day 154, Evening, Nantucket

"So, I fucked a horse today," Terrance said as he and Packer walked through the hallways of the high school.

Packer took a second to look up. "Huh?"

Terrance laughed. "Christ, boss, you've been on Mars all day or something. You didn't say two peeps at dinner, and now that we're going to the meeting, you're still quiet. Shouldn't we be talking? Making a plan?"

"A plan for what?" Packer asked distantly.

"You know, if the proposal is shot down. What then?"

"Oh. Well, I haven't given it any thought. Let's worry about that stuff only if we need to, OK?" But he had given it thought. A lot of thought. And he was scared shitless of what would be next, if the Council decided not to endorse the ratification process. Work slowdowns. Strikes. Arrests. Tenures out on Muskeget. Maybe even exile. But not just for him, or even Terrance, or Kevin Dumfries. It was the men who worked under him. They could be swept up, too. Stripped of their status as Machinists. And if someone fought back too hard, or didn't go quietly or passively enough...

There was a time, back in the future, when Packer and his wife were buying their first house. It placed him, perhaps understandably, under extreme stress. He got heartburn. He didn't eat, and what he did eat wasn't healthy. He got sick more easily. He drank too much. He didn't talk to anyone about his fears or his problems. All the things you weren't supposed to do to cope, he did. And now he was doing it all over again; shutting himself down, turning away from his friends. The same friends who he knew, without a doubt, would do anything for him.

And that was part of the problem. If he wanted to take any action against the Council, he had but to speak it, and every Machinist would jump to it without question, even if it meant harm to themselves or others. But no. He wouldn't do that. And if Kevin got any ideas about that, he'd come out against it. Veto it. Turn Kevin in, even. No sabotage. No guerrilla actions.

They sat as a bloc. Every Machinist and Horticulturist turned out for the night's town hall meeting, and they sat themselves front and center, Packer and Kevin Dumfries being at the foremost seats and in direct view of everyone on the Council. As they had discussed, there would be no hiding from whatever consequences were decided(and, Packer noted cynically, there were more than a hundred of them there. At best, there were ten members of the Watch present, so short of an unprovoked shooting, no one was getting at either of them). They were two reactions permissible:

Should the Council endorse the vote, everyone was to lavish a standing ovation upon the Council for a full five minutes. The others in the auditorium would take their cues from the Machinists and Horticulturists, and though their applause would not certainly last as long, the message would be conveyed: We Approve.

By the same token, the action taken in light of the Council's refusal to endorse the process was simple: a silent, orderly exit from the auditorium immediately after the Chairman made the announcement. No shouts of outrage. No foolish attempts to charge the stage. Just leave immediately. Perhaps others would follow their cue, but Packer doubted it. Regardless, the message would be conveyed: We Disapprove.

After the meeting, regardless of how it went, the plan was the same: the drafters of their charter would return to the metal shop and begin planning the next step.

Aside from the women on the right-hand side of the auditorium, the place was empty except for Machinists and Horticulturists when Packer and Terrance arrived. Packer plopped into a chair next to Kevin Dumfries. "Ow, the fuck?!"

"Sorry," Kevin said immediately. Packer looked down; he'd clipped his ass on the gardening trowel slung on Kevin's belt.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, you guys are doing that, too?" Packer rolled his eyes.

"When in Nantucket..." Kevin said simply. Packer snorted. As the months had worn on, the hierarchies among the various professions emerged. The higher-ups began to distinguish themselves by carrying around symbolic tools of their trade. Lumberjacks carried hatchets, Horticulturists trowels, hunters big fucking knives, and so on. Some guys, mainly field engineers and logistics managers, carried around the short swords that Packer's crew had made from the leaf springs of old pickup trucks.

Even Packer's guys had gotten into it. Terrance, Rustbucket, Andrew, and half a dozen others were carrying around ball peen hammers. It was something Packer steadfastly refused to do; at first, it was all he could manage to not laugh in someone's face when he saw such a adolescent display of machismo. But, with little else to distinguish them, he mainly got over it and only let the occasional snide remark slip. Still, he never imagined that he'd go around with a weapon at his side.

"Anyway," Packer began, leaning close and speaking quietly to Kevin, "Your men know what to do?"

"Yup," Kevin replied. "Yours?"

"Yup." They then waited in silence for the meeting to begin.

The meeting was a bit more heavily attended than last time, but not by much. Packer estimated six hundred, or an extra hundred or so on top of last time. That probably wasn't good, because it meant that so many people just didn't care.

As the meeting went on, Packer reflected on what he'd been told by the one person on the Council whom he considered a friend. He'd swung by the shop three days ago, and in Packer's office, had said the vote would be close, however it would go. He and nine other Councillors were definitely voting to endorse the ratification process. That meant that he needed six out of the remaining twenty-one Councillors to agree with them to get it go through. Sounded like good odds, but...

"And on the proposal voiced last meeting by Mister Packer," The Chairman said. Packer snapped out of his reverie. How much time had passed? "We considered the written proposal submitted by Mister Packer, countersigned by Mister Dumfries, and by a vote of fourteen yeas to seventeen nays, we have rejected it."

It was like someone punched him in the gut with a pin sticking out from between their fingers. Packer felt himself deflate. The Chairman went on. "It is the opinion of the Council that while Packer's proposal is sound, the timing is not. Perhaps next year will..."

He didn't hear anything else, as chaos had swallowed his mind. Automatically, he and Kevin rose and broke off, Kevin heading up the left-side aisle, Packer the right. Silently, the other Machinists and Horticulturists followed. It was only after they'd left the high school that he could recall the excited chattering their display had invoked.

The early April night was chilly, but not cold. Clouds hung low, obscuring the stars, suggesting rain either that night or tomorrow. Once outside, wordlessly, the bloc separated. Most went home, but twelve went straight over to the machine shop.

It was only when they were seated around one of the workbenches that Packer even dared to think. And, just as quick as he'd sat, he stood up. He entered his office and emerged seconds later with a plastic water bottle filled with moonshine.

"The doors locked?" Packer asked no one as he returned to the bench.

"Roger, boss. I checked all of them," Andrew said. The gasifier had long run out of fuel, but the room was lit well enough with Coleman lanterns and flashlights.

"Okay then," Packer said, and he took a pull of moonshine. "Fuck me!" he rasped, passing the bottle to a wary Kevin.

After the bottle had made a circuit, Andrew continued Packer's thought. "Fuck me! I can't believe they didn't endorse us!"

"I can," one of the Kevin's men, a German fellow by the name of Mark said. "While we may all hail from democratic nations of one form or another, we are no longer citizens of those democracies. The Council knows this. There may be those among them who want to see some form of democracy return. Perhaps these people are even the majority. There are definitely those, however, who want one thing."

"Power," Terrance finished. "I read 1984. The guys up top only want power. Not wealth, or happiness, or long life. They want to be in charge, and fuck everyone else."

"Let's be fair," Rustbucket chimed in. "Mark said that those powermongers are in the minority. They probably cajoled the rest into voting against endorsement. We can hardly hold the Council as an entity responsible of the antidemocratic notions of a few."

"Can't we?" Kevin said. "They lacked the spine to stand up to those people, or perhaps they are, in some way, amenable to remaining on top forever. I won't lie, I'd have a hard time turning down the chance to become what is in effect nobility, to say nothing of getting a crack at some pussy."

A rough ripple of agreement passed through them, save Packer, who was silent. "Well, fuck 'em," the Horticulturist who went by Vine Boy said. "They said no. Now what do we do?"

And only because it had gone silent did Packer realize that everyone was looking at him.

"Why the hell are you looking at me?" Packer snarled. He wanted to stop himself, but he couldn't. "You're big boys. Figure it the fuck out for yourselves." Foolishly, he took another pull off the moonshine, spending the next thirty seconds trying not to barf it back up.

Kevin grunted, "Well, I hate to be the one to say it, but our little walkout can be dismissed easily. I think we should consider efforts that cannot be ignored. A start would be in mandating that gasifiers be taken offline for...maintenance, shall we say? Unavoidable consequences of poor workmanship? Or, perhaps new projects could be completed with less than your usual alacrity. The damage you gentlemen could do simply by working a forty-hour week..."

"Hey hey hey, why should we be the goddamn lightning rod?" Terrance said. "You guys are the ones getting the crops ready for planting. You've got everyone by the hairs of their taint. Why don't you 'simulate' a crop failure? Make it look like you miscalculated the pH of the soil, or some shit?"

"Now where the fuck do you get off telling me how to do my job?" Kevin suddenly barked.

"Cuntrag, you're the one that suggested we shitcan every project, when you goddamn know that we bust our fucking asses--"

"Shut the fuck up!" Packer hollered. The room went silent. Packer stared imperiously at Terrance.

"Sorry, Kevin," Terrance muttered. Kevin's reply was unintelligible, but not hostile.

Packer sighed. "I will not effect change through sabotage. Nor will I deliberately starve innocent people of food because I can't handle losing. Why the fuck are we even bothering with this process if we're so quick to turn to violence? What are we gonna do if our charter isn't selected, huh? Burn down the polling places?

"Christ, you guys don't get it! They have everything, and we have nothing! They have the women. They have the guns, and the people who know how to use them. They have the power, and illegitimate though I may think it, it's fucking real, and it is to be feared. How many of the black marketeers survived that month out on Muskeget? You guys anxious to give that a shot?"

Packer rubbed his face with his hands. They were listening to him, but they weren't happy. "I will not allow any kind of negative action to be taken in bringing this change about. Don't you see? Let's say we arm all one hundred and four of us with crossbows and metal pipes, and we storm the homes of all the Councillors, drag them out of their beds, and hang them. You think we're gonna get a legitimate mass mandate out of the population then? One that's not inspired by fear? No, that's simply replacing one group of cunts with another. Well, I'm no cunt, and neither are any of you.

"If we truly value having an open, transparent election, our means of protest must be passive and non-injurious. As it was once said, 'violence is the last refuge of the incompetent.' "

"Who said that, boss?" Andrew asked. "King? Gandhi?"

"Isaac Asimov," Packer replied with a wan smile. "By way of one of his characters in the Foundation novels."

There was silence. Finally, Kevin spoke. "Okay, Packer. We'll do it your way. Non-violent protest. How?"

"You start by doing your jobs," Packer replied. "You guys are gearing up for planting. Don't stop. Since most of the island is going to be involved in plowing, crop sowing, irrigation schemes, or whatever else, we have an opportunity to talk to a lot of people. Don't waste it.

"Second, we protest. We demonstrate. Hold rallies outside of the Council offices. Stage alternate meetings during their town hall meetings. No incitement to riot, just advancing our agenda. If we're told to disperse, we disperse. If things get rough, we don't resist. It may come to arrest, but if we behave with civility, who do you think the public will side with when they hear that some of us got shipped out to Muskeget for having the audacity to hold a rally in public?"

There were quiet murmurs around. Packer said, "Look, I know some of you want blood. You perceive this as an insult. Frankly, I don't blame you. Were it not for this moonshine, I'd probably be incensed, too. Maybe I am. But we can't win a stand-up fight with the Council. They can hit way harder than we can, so we won't provoke them. Agreed?"

"Agreed," came the less-than-enthusiastic reply.

"OK," Packer continued. "Let's talk about a rally. I think we should hold the first one tomorrow afternoon, down at the harbor..."

Day 287, Morning, Cape Cod

The last five days had been brutal. Packer was used to August being a hot month, as he lived in a very similar latitude as Cape Cod and Nantucket for all of his life. Each year, as they dog days of summer gripped the land, there descended upon everyone and everything a kind of sallowness, a premature wilting brought on by the heat.

And when a heat wave had struck, as had happened six days ago, everything came to a halt. Packer would not be surprised if it broke a hundred during the days, and very surprised if it got below eighty at night. The only relief was Cape Cod Bay, and just about everyone in the village spent most of the day, each day, on the beach or in the water. Each night was an uncomfortable adventure in trying to sleep, as well as ward off the choking tide of mosquitoes that had invaded their environs.

But this morning was blessedly different. Yesterday, cold front had blasted through, and in the chaos of the thunderstorms, as he tried to comfort a trembling Nara, he knew one thing: he'd finally get a good night's sleep.

And he had. He even hit the snooze alarm, so say, refusing to get up at dawn. When Duniik came, trying to get him to come along for a hunt, Packer sent him away and went back to sleep. When Natteko came to see about doing some bowcraft, Packer simply pretended to still be asleep.

Finally, Packer's bladder overwhelmed his desire to stay inert, and he finally stepped out into the cool morning. The air was crystal clear, the sky a brilliant blue, and breeze wholly pleasant. Packer inhaled deeply through his nostrils, then traipsed off, ass-naked, to go hose down the same poor shrub he'd been drenching every morning for the last three and half months.

As he emerged from the woods, his hut coming into view, he started. Nara was outside, naked as well, doubled over. With horror, he watched as she barfed an impossible volume of sludge onto the ground.

He didn't remember actually covering the distance between her and himself, only that he was instantly at her side. She was still bent over, wracked by the occasional dry heave, but apparently empty now.

"It is fine!" she said in her native tongue, holding out a warding hand. Now wasn't the time to try to figure out English, apparently. "I am done, I think."

"But you are sick!" Packer's heartbeat was fast and thready--so fast, in fact, it felt like he wasn't pumping any blood.

"It has happened the last few days," Nara made a dismissive wave. "I feel fine in the afternoon. Can you get me some water?"

Packer, no sprinter, never moved so quickly in his life. When he brought her the gourd of fresh, clean water, she drank a bit, gargled, and spat the result onto her pile of vomit. One of the several dogs that hung around the village was lapping it up. Momentarily, Packer felt like topping off the pile himself. Mercifully, they went back into their hut.

Inside, she sat on the bed and drank some more water. "I feel better now," she said when his expression of worry did not change. "Really, I do."

"I will go speak to your family," Packer said immediately, pulling on his shorts. He had to go digging for his t-shirt; it wasn't warm enough to go shirtless today. "And the Elders, too. I must see if anyone else is sick."

Before she could protest, he left the hut. Christchristchrist, what if it's food poisoning? he thought. Or bad water? Giardia? E.coli? Vibrio? Shit, we were eating oysters the other day! They were cooked but...how many other people might be sick?

Quickly, he crossed the village to Nara's family house. He committed a slight breach of protocol by not chatting with everyone that he encountered, but such things were forgivable, Packer estimated. The entrance was not obscured by a hide, which, according to social custom, meant that everyone was welcome.

Packer stepped up to entrance. "It is Packer!" he called out, trying to keep the panic out of his voice.

A woman's voice answered jubilantly. "Packer, come in!" Packer ducked in. Being a family house, it was much larger and elaborate than his hut. There were half a dozen partitions of various purposes: smaller ones for sleeping, another for food preparation, and the largest still for eating and spending time together.

The inviter was Nara's aunt, Chokora. A tiny woman even in this tribe, she barely cleared four and a half feet. She was, like Chottekan, probably on the far side of forty, but she was still in fine health, even if she complained frequently and good-naturedly about her stiff joints. She was, apparently, the only one home at the moment.

"Hello Packer," Chokora said with a smile. "Why have you come? Where is Nara?"

"She is sick," Packer said worriedly. Chokora's smile faded. "She said she has felt sick for some days, and she just..." he realized he didn't know how to say vomit, so he pantomimed barfing, complete with noises. "I am worried that she ate some bad food. And perhaps others are sick because of the bad food."

Chokora looked thoughtful. "Does she sweat? Is her head hot?" She put the back of her hand on her own forehead.

"No," Packer replied. Frantically, he was trying to remember if food poisoning gave you a fever. "She says she feels better in the afternoons. She is only sick in the mornings..." he trailed off.

Chokora's expression changed, a smile spreading across her face. "I will take her to see the healers." She touched his arm briefly, then left. He didn't respond. His brain was distilling an idea:

She'd only sick in the mornings. She's fine by the afternoon.

Morning is when she feels sick.

Morning sickness.

"Oh, fuck," Packer groaned.

Well, the good news is that there's probably no epidemic to worry about. his brain told him. The bad news is that you might have a whole new problem in about eight months.

Packer left the house and sat on one of the benches outside. Could she really be pregnant? Of course! It wasn't like she was on the pill or anything. And he wasn't using condoms, or even pulling out. He had to have known this!

Of course you knew this! his brain chided him. You act like a moron from time to time, but you're not that stupid. You just ignored it, because then you might show restraint, and Nara might have interpreted that as a slight against her--as you not wanting her.

Packer sighed. There was another possibility: he wanted her to get pregnant. After all, his priorities had gotten a great deal more...basic over the last several months. Why not knock her up?

Because pregnancy is goddamn Russian Roulette out here! he screamed back at himself. First off, there's no guarantee that she'll bring the kid to term. Even if she does, the odds are at least one in five that the kid dies. Probably one in ten that she dies during childbirth.

Packer took a deep breath. He was getting himself worked up into a lather over what might be nothing. After all, she may just have puked because of bad oysters, or just a minor stomach bug, even. It happened.

But then again, he'd been living with her for a month and a half, or more. Had he seen her having to deal with her period? It should've come at least once!

"Argh!" he muttered to himself. "I wish my fucking brain had an 'off' switch."

So, round and round he went in this fashion for some time, until Nara and Chokora came walking up to him. Chokora was smiling quietly, and Nara was beaming.

Packer stood. His legs were rubbery. Actually, to call them rubbery would be to imply that rubber had the compressive strength of wet spaghetti.

Nara came up to him and took his hands. "I have been to the healers. I am not sick. They say I will have a baby."

And of all the possible reactions he pictured himself having--from running screaming into the woods, to suffering a panic attack, or even bursting into tears--none of them came to pass. He instead heaved a huge sigh of relief and wrapped his arms around her, picking her up in the air.

"I am so happy!" he said. And he was! "I will be a father!" The words rang in his mind. He set her down.

She laughed. "The healers say that my sickness will pass after some days. After that, my stomach will start to grow." She patted her tummy, which was still flat. "Many other things will happen, they say."

"Whatever happens," Packer said solemnly, "I will care for you. Do not worry." She slid her arms around him, hugging him contentedly.

"Congratulations, Packer," Chokora said with a grin. "Now I must go tell everyone the good news."

[Simon_Jester]

Well don't blame me, I'm pretty sure I voted "yea..." assuming Councilman Simon is me at all.

Well, I hope so, anyway...

[GrandMasterTerwynn]

Editor's note: This takes place on day 141, post-arrival . . .

Stampede
"Is he trying to get us all killed," the shark, James, was his name, snapped. It was rare to see the man so angry, so I could immediately guess what'd caused it.

"I suggest you calm down," the Old Man said, leaning back in his chair. "Being angry will not make it go away."

"The hell with that!" There was a crack as James slammed a piece of paper on the table. "I'm sure you all know what this is."

Well, I didn't. And neither did the two other Watchmen watching the doors. But the Councilors clearly knew.

"That goddamned fucker just doesn't know when to quit. Always pushing, prodding, and testing his limits!"

Crack!

"Councilor! Calm down," the Old Man said. "Or I will have my men remove you until you do."

James took a deep breath. The other men in the room stared at him.

"It's not a terrible idea," one of the Councilors, a teacher back in the future, said. "I've said it before, and I'll say it again. We're writing ourselves into a corner here, with the way we have things set up. Tell a bunch of people used to the concept of "democracy" that they're going to spend the rest of their lives in a dictatorship, and there's going to be trouble. And it's only going to get worse the harder we sit on them."

"Would you trust most of the people here to rule themselves? Especially with assholes like Packer giving them what they want to hear? They're kids, they're wet-behind-the-ears. Half of 'em wouldn't know a pussy from a cat without a goddamn textbook. I'm sure you all remember the Senate and the House of Commons and how well those turned out."

"And here we are acting like the Senate did," Mike said. "If we're going to be so resistant to the idea of any kind of charter, then I have to ask whether our being here is, in fact, becoming a sort of entitlement?"

As I looked around, I reckoned there were a lot of very thoughtful looks just then. I was sure nobody was going to come right out and say it, but you can bet the phrase "Why not?" was being thought pretty damned loudly.

I wondered if we'd have been here at all if the shark hadn't decided to up the ante in his vendetta against Packer . . .

Thirteen days before . . .
"Never, ever thought I'd end up being a taxi driver," I remarked as I pulled the converted Civic through the corner.

"It's for a good cause," John replied. "For God and country, and all that."

"Hah. Is it, now?" I asked. Go fetch Al Packer and bring him to Point Breeze. That was about the extent of what I'd been told to do. Who wanted him there? Who knows, but it was someone with a lot of pull with the Council. Otherwise the Watch would've told 'em to go screw themselves. "What sort of 'good cause' requires us ferrying Packer to the womens' dorm?"

"Maybe The Powers That Be want to reward him with a night on the town."

I chuckled. "Have you been playing doorkeeper at the same Council meetings I have? I can think of some places more than a few Council-critters would like to send Packer, and Point Breeze just doesn't make the list."

"It's rude to eavesdrop," John replied. "Moreover, it's a good way to end up with an earful of shit."

"With words like that, I reckon you've just volunteered to be the one to tell Packer to come with us," I said, as we pulled up to our destination.

"Right, I know," John replied. He took off his gun belt . . . we both understood that spooking these men was something we didn't want to do. After he got out, I pulled out the clipboard and reviewed . . . to be honest, I don't really recall what I was reviewing. I was probably sketching zombies or something. The important thing was to look busy. Our orders had flummoxed my bosses almost as much as they'd flummoxed me. There was something fishy goin' on, and I had side-orders to keep my eyes open.

After a few minutes, John came back, with Packer in tow. I spoke my words of greeting to him. The other man's eyes dropped to my gun, and then back up again. It was hard to tell what he was thinking, but if he was worried, he didn't show it. I offered him some of our soup.

"Nah, I'm alright," he said. "Where are we going on this fine afternoon, gentlemen?"

"Point Breeze," I replied, watching him carefully. His expression changed to one of genuine puzzlement . . . whatever was going on, he seemed to be out of the loop too; that, or he was a damned good actor. I couldn't say for sure, and I didn't want to press the point. He asked if it was the gasifier. I spoke truthfully when I told him I didn't know.

As soon as John got into the car, it was time to go. We drove in silence for a while. Packer tried a joke. Something about the word "definitely." It got a chuckle out of John, but didn't do much for me. Besides, I was too concerned with sizing the man up; trying to figure out who in the hell wanted us to schlep him all the way to Point Breeze.

Sooner than you could say the word, we were there. We escorted him inside. Glancing at the women as we passed; my heart sank. All of them looked about as confused, if not moreso, than I was. Way past "What the hell" territory, even. Well into "Whiskey Tango Foxtrot," if I was any judge of people.

We delivered Packer to the room we were supposed to drop him off at, and then waited outside, a little ways down the hall.

What in the hell?

I watched her walk up and tried to pick my jaw up off the floor. I recognized that girl . . . she and Packer had hit it off in the way that stray neutrons and a critical mass of plutonium did back at the Sausage Fest. What was she doing here? Did she and Packer hit it off after all? No. Can't be right. Nobody would've made the Watch play taxi service if that were the case.

I looked at John, and he returned my look with interest. Things were getting interesting, and not in the nice happy way, but in the way that; were this anywhere else, it'd end with gunfire and screaming.

The girl glanced at us, a momentary frown crossing her face, then replaced by indifference. Watchmen were like flies on the wall here. She went into the room that Packer was in, and we couldn't help but slide up closer to the door.

Contrary to the worst of my expectations, we didn't hear yelling, screaming, or anything out of the ordinary, really. What we heard were faint strains of music. An acoustic guitar, and singing.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw another man coming down the hall. Recognition struck me like a thunderbolt moments before he spoke.

"Hey boys," the shark said, grinning. "I see you noticed the private concert I arranged for my girl." There was something in his expression that didn't match up. Typical for the man, but I didn't like the undertones.

"Uh, yes sir," John was the first to reply.

"Sorry to yank your chain like this," the shark said, insincere grin firmly affixed. "But I really wanted it to be a surprise. I know that man plays his heart out at those . . . talent shows we've been having. Only the best for my Kaley." He leaned closer to the two of us and lowered his voice. "And, to tell you the truth, I needed to have a chat with Packer too. You know what they say; kill two birds with one stone."

"Right sir," I replied. That sinking feeling just kept getting worse and worse.

The shark leaned back.

"Now, I'm sure there'll be no trouble, but I want you two to stay close. Got that?"

All we could do was nod as he went to that door. A minute later Kaley came back out. After that came the waiting.

"Sure hope he doesn't take the bait," John said, leaning back against the wall.

"Packer?"

"Yeah. He's a nice guy. If we could trade one of him for that fellow on the Council, the world would be a better place. Don't want him to go to Muskeget."

"And I think," I said, "that he could easily clean the Councilor's clock. If he wanted to."

John looked at me.

"Don't look at me like that," I said. "The Council could use a good shaking up. Just don't let anybody know you heard me say that."

"What the fuck have you been smoking, man? You want to lose your job?"

"Nah," I replied. "But I know a setup when I see one, and I don't have to like it."

Just then, the shark threw the door aside. With a mixture of relief and disappointment, he looked no worse for wear. He did, however, look like he'd eaten a lemon. A few minutes later, Packer came out too.

"Let's go," he said. Whatever the shark'd told him had steamed him up pretty good. The ride back was none too comfortable. He didn't even try for another joke that time. In fact, if I didn't know better, his eyes kept going back and forth from John to me. As if he was wondering "Were you assholes in on this?"

Now . . .

"This brings us to the question of what we're going to do about this 'charter'?"

I sat up. Standing guard at Council meetings was slow business sometimes. Fortunately, nobody'd noticed that I'd been off gathering wool.

"The concept is fundamentally sound. We ought to discuss it before the whole Council and take a vote on it," Simon said.

"Like hell we should," James interrupted. "It'd be like letting the goddamned lunatics run the asylum if we passed Packer's charter."

"There is the theoretical risk that you are correct," Simon replied. "As a practical matter, we need to begin the transition to democracy if we're going to have any hope of making it to the next winter."

"And how is letting this charter get passed going to help us make it to the next winter?"

"Giving people more of a say in what we do will reduce the risk that they'll desert Nantucket the moment spring arrives," Simon replied. There were several thoughtful nods."

"If people are going to bullshit around, do we really want them to stick around," Mike asked, leaning back in his chair.

"I'd say 'yes,'" the Old Man replied. "Can any of you imagine going to the mainland and recruiting the natives . . . teaching them everything they would need to know to function in our culture . . . only to use them as manual labor because our technological edge would make them second-class citizens by default? Another point: Even if we didn't have a choice, we want to avoid contacting the natives for as long as possible regardless. Not until the Mess can get enough people trained here that we could overcome the native knowledge of the turf. If it came to that."

"Our people would be fucking stupid if they tried to desert," another Councilman, a Finn, said. "Like the man says, they'd be eaten alive by the natives."

"Gentlemen, gentlemen," James said. I looked at him. He looked much calmer now. "We're getting off the subject. "Clearly, this charter represents the gravest threat to our survival. I mean that in the most respectful way possible, of course," he said, looking at the other Councilors in the room. "It's already dividing us, which is what troublemakers like Packer want."

"Bullshit," Mike said. "That's fallacious reasoning, at best. Fear-mongering at worst. That argument's not going to fly here. I haven't seen anything sinister about Packer's motives. Unless you can convincingly prove to me that Packer has ulterior motives in putting this charter forward; I too don't see any reason not to put it forward for a vote."

"Neither do I," the Old Man said, standing up. The silence that descended on that small room was heavy and suffocating. All eyes were on the shark; whom, without batting an eye, cleared his throat.

"Perhaps I'm guilty of a little . . . hyperbole," he said. "But only a little. Surely you've all seen it . . . Packer trying to undermine us at every opportunity. That 'Sausage Fest' of his; the 'talent' shows, and now this charter. Fine ideas by themselves, sure. I'm sure you all remember that those ideas came up here . . . but only when the time was right. I ask myself 'why is he pushing so hard?' and 'what's his angle?' and, respectfully speaking, so should you."

"Don't think we're not," the Old Man replied, leveling his gaze at James. "The Watch, the members of the Mess, all ask themselves that every single day; of every single person on Nantucket."

James nodded. He looked unfazed, but I suppose he knew where the boundaries were. "As you should, gentlemen. As you should," he said. "What the hell. You all have convinced me. Let's take Packer's charter before the whole Council. We could make a Coliseum-style debate out of it too, present our sides, and let the votes fall where they may."

[Alferd Packer]

Day 310, Afternoon, Cape Cod

Packer had watched the sun throughout the summer, so even though he didn't have the precise count of the days, he knew it was about early to mid September. Of course, as far as the weather went, it was still summer. There apparently was a microclimate here due to the proximity of the shallow water of Cape Cod Bay, and as a result, summer was lingering. Back in northern New Jersey, the trees were no doubt turning already. Hell, maybe they were starting to go on Nantucket. Here, though, there wasn't anything but green.

The fields surrounding the village were ripe with plants to harvest, the yields, of course, were such that that when dried or preserved however possible, it'd only last the village a few weeks. But that was enough to get most people to their winter hunting grounds.

Presently, though, Packer was watching Cape Cod Bay. It was calm, and the day was wholly pleasant. He was atop a very a steep hill or a very shallow cliff overlooking the water, and behind him were the other men of his family: Chottekan and Duniik, of course, but also Duniik's two cousins, that is, Chokora's sons: Choren and Koross. They sat around a small fire, chatting agreeably and cooking a rabbit that Duniik had shot with his bow on the way out here.

Their purpose for the trek was important, but in many way it was a formality. They were, at least nominally, discussing and planning where to go for the coming winter. In reality, it was assumed that they'd go to the same valley that Chottekan had been going to since he was a boy. It was three day walk in a northwesterly direction, which, Packer guessed, was about forty or fifty miles inland and off the Cape. It got colder there, of course, but there was much more to hunt. So, in reality, it was just an excuse to get away from the village and do a little male bonding.

The male bonding Packer looked forward to. Ruining the mood he did not.

"Packer," Duniik called out. "Have some rabbit! It is done!"

Packer turned from the ocean, plastering a false grin on his face. Duniik handed him a rear leg as he crouched down, and Packer ate with forced zeal. The meat was good, and quite pleasantly greasy. Rabbits were typically ultra-lean meat, but this one had apparently been pigging out in preparation for the coming winter.

The rabbit thus devoured, Chottekan spoke. "We should complete the task so we can enjoy the rest of the day," he said with a smile. "I am, as always, returning to our winter house."

"I will return with you, father," Duniik said.

"I will return with you, uncle," Choren said.

"I will return with you, uncle. My wife will come, as well, as will my mother, your sister," Koross said.

"I will return to the Far Island for winter," Packer said. "And Nara will come with me."

They all stared at him. Packer did not flinch away from their gaze. "Packer," Chottekan began, "you...how will you get to the Far Island?"

"I have friends," Packer bluffed. "They will come for me." Actually, he had no idea how he was getting back to Nantucket. He only knew that he must get back to Nantucket if he wanted to survive the winter. Where there's a will...

Chottekan stood. He was trembling, and Packer quickly realized that he was furious. "And you speak for my daughter? She will not go with you! I forbid this!"

"No," Packer replied quietly, but firmly. "She must come with me, and you will not stop her. I am her husband. I protect her. It is The Way."

"It is The Way," Duniik said, and Chottekan looked down sharply at his son. Duniik winced.

"You have said many times that you an enemy of the Elders on the Far Island!" Chottekan continued. "How will you survive there?"

"As I said, I have friends. They will protect Nara and me from the Elders. It will be safe. next spring, when we return, you will be a grandfather."

"Grandfather? How do you know that the baby will survive?!" Chottekan sneered, as though he thought Packer was trying a cheap shot by invoking Nara's pregnancy.

"My old tribe knows many things. We have powerful medicines. And there, it is the Way to help all women who will have babies. Nara will be safe. No one can harm her, because all will help her." Packer was still sitting. "Tell me, how many babies were there this summer?"

Chottekan shrugged. "Ten, I think."

"And how many are alive still?"

"Six? Five?"

"At the Far Island, all ten would be alive," Packer folded his hands just in front of his chin gravely. It was a fib, of course, that infant mortality rate was zero, but going ten for ten was certainly possible, assuming that they were healthy pregnancies to begin with.

At any rate, Chottekan's anger softened. "And the mothers?"

"They would all be alive. If they get sick, or they bleed, we can do things. We know how to save them." Packer wagered this was actually true; keeping women alive and fertile was probably the top medical priority on Nantucket right now. Pregnant women were probably getting the last of the vaccines, antivirals, and all that nonsense, while everyone else was getting Ibuprofen and swift kick out the door. Packer wondered if they'd managed to make fresh antibiotics by now. He knew that sulfa drugs were actually simple to make, but penicillin? Did the labs at the high school and the hospital have the right equipment?

Chottekan sat back down. Packer continued: "I know you want her to stay. I want to stay, too. But I can't. I am not a good hunter. I am a poor fisher. Maybe next year I will be good enough to stay." He looked down for a moment.

"I had a dream," Packer said darkly. "It was winter. I was in a cave. I was hungry. And weak. There was no food. Nara was with me. Her belly was big, but not with a baby. She had no food, either. Her teeth were gone. Her tears were blood."

The only sounds were the chirping birds and the cracking fire, along with the waves breaking somewhere below. "Chottekan...father-in-law. I cannot ignore this dream. I cannot ask you to feed me in the winter. I must protect Nara from everything...even myself. She comes with me to the Far Island."

Chottekan replied gravely. "I suppose you cannot ignore dreams. Very well, Packer. You go to the Far Island."

Later, as they walked back to the village in the late afternoon, beams of golden sunlight flaring all they touched, Packer spoke with Chottekan again. "You are my family now. This tribe is my tribe. But, my old tribes knows many things. Together, we can make life better for all of us."

Chottekan asked simply, "How?"

"Next spring I wish to return with more than just my family. I want to bring other people from my tribe to live here, too. I want to bring tools of ours. I want to make it so that there is enough food to last the winter here. I want to make sure that every healthy baby lives. And I want people in my old tribe to know my new tribe. I want them to know your stories. To know The Way."

"Why do you want to do this, Packer? To change us?"

"Because my old tribe is coming here, no matter what," Packer replied. They hopped over a stream. "There are too many people on the Far Island. They will come to the Summer Lands. They will not understand you. They may scare you. Someone may get hurt. I cannot allow harm to come to my tribe."

"So you will bring the right people here," Chottekan finished.

"Yes," Packer confirmed. "Good people. Wise people. Like me, they will learn from you. And you will learn from them. Together, we will make a new tribe. The best tribe. Our houses will be warm in winter. Everyone will have enough food. When people get sick, there will be powerful medicines to heal them. We will give this to you, and we will all use it together."

Chottekan stopped and faced Packer. "And what must we give you?"

Packer shrugged. "The only thing we need are women. But you have more women than men in the tribe, so we will get that. If you know of other women who live in the Winter Lands, bring them with you next spring. They will find good husbands here."

"If they are like you, Packer, I think they will." Chottekan braced Packer on the arm.

Packer smiled briefly, but it faded. "But I must warn you. If they come next spring without me, bad things may happen. Bad men may come. They may try to take your women. You must be wary. And you must be ready to flee."

"Flee?"

"Go west. The whole tribe. Find a new home. It is better than fighting them."

Chottekan frowned. "But if you are among them, then they are safe?"

"Yes," Packer replied. "I will make sure the good people come. The bad people will stay on the Far Island."

"How will you stop them?"

"However I can. With my words, I hope. If I have to fight, I will. My friends want the same things I want. I will not be alone in this struggle. And Nara will be safe. Always."

Chottekan nodded. "I trust you, Packer. We will have to discuss this with the other Elders, though. We shall want to plan."

"There will be time, father-in-law." Packer smiled. "We are, after all, not leaving tomorrow."

Day 160, Morning, Nantucket

Alferd Packer came up from the basement of his house, having turned off the breakers that controlled the electricity for the well pump and water heater. He was running low on both soap and shampoo, but he still liked taking a hot shower every other day.

He snagged his keys, cell phone, and wedding band from the table near the front door, put on his bomber jacket, and stepped out into the beautiful April morning. There was a glimmer of warmth in the air, and the songbirds were in rare form today.

"Morning, Mister Packer," someone with an Australian accent said. "You're coming with us." The tone wasn't exactly threatening, but it wasn't a request, either.

Packer stood on his stoop, regarding the speaker. He was about six feet away, arms folded matter-of-factly. About four more feet to his left, standing in the small front yard, was none other than Sixgun. Both men were stone-faced, showing absolutely no emotion.

Packer sighed. So it had come to arrest? So quickly? They'd held three rallies in the last six days, which was aggressive, to be sure, but the events went so well! The Watch hadn't even broken them up; they'd been allowed to run their natural course. And last night's rally was actually a lecture, with none of the bombast of the previous two. One of the woodcutters, while having no practical skill, was extremely well-read in political theory, and in one of the cafeterias, had schooled everyone who'd listened.

But, to be sure, the Council had noticed the rallies, so...here he was: face to face with two armed men that could probably bash seven shades of shit out of him without breaking a sweat. And they were being smart about it too, nabbing him here, rather than at the shop.

"Morning, gentlemen," Packer said as affably as he could manage. Don't panic, he told himself. You can worry, but don't panic. Think before you speak. Think before you act. "Given the separation between myself the two of you, I'd wager that you've got someone in that empty house across the street, covering you with...what, a rifle? So, if I somehow manage to fight my way through the two of you, I probably get one warning shot, right?"

Sixgun looked at the Aussie for a moment. The Aussie never took his eyes off Packer. "Something like that," the Aussie replied. He made to speak again, but Packer continued, seemingly oblivious.

"And, I would assume, in the event that I attempted to run back into my house and escape through the back door, that you have one or more members of your team or squad or whatever stationed in my backyard, ready to play a home run derby with my gonads?" Packer lifted his eyebrows expectantly.

"Again, something like that," the Aussie said with a hint of cold impatience. Something in his bearing made Packer decide that he wasn't getting out of this.

"Very well, then, you've got me," Packer took a deep breath, trying to control his heart rate. "When you tell the story to the rest of the Watch, can you make me out into less of a pussy than I'm acting like right now?" Packer raised his hands. "I am unarmed, of course, but I imagine that prudence demands that you search me. Should I get down on the ground?"

Again, Sixgun looked at the Aussie, and again, the Aussie never took his eyes off Packer. Dude's not easily rattled. But, he reminded himself, regardless, you need to remain completely nonviolent. Don't even bump into one of them, if you can avoid doing it.

The Aussie issued a directive with a silent flick of his head, and Sixgun moved up the stoop and patted Packer down. Packer had to desperately fight the urge to lisp, Ooh, you've got such strong hands, officer! He had the distinct feeling that now was not the time for jokes.

Sixgun detected and removed Packer's keys, which he tossed to the ground--presumably, to be retrieved later. He then resumed his search. Packer felt like he was being inspected before going into a concert back in the future. When Sixgun pulled out the cell phone, he could only offer Packer a baffled look.

"If you have to keep that for the duration of...whatever this is," Packer said, looking Sixgun in the face and fighting a waver in his voice, "I understand. I will appreciate it, however, if you return it to me ASAP."

Sixgun frowned uneasily for a moment, but he said nothing. He pocketed Packer's phone. Packer allowed himself a brief sigh of relief--Sixgun either missed Packer's wedding band, or ignored it as trivial.

"Cuff him," the Aussie barked.

Packer opened his mouth to protest, then thought better of it. As Sixgun pulled out a set of cuffs, Packer slowly lowered his arms, finally saying, "Front or back?"

Silently, Sixgun pointed towards Packer's front, and Packer moved his hands into position with great deliberation. There would be no mistaking his motion. As the cuffs clicked around his wrists, Packer found himself saying, "Ya know, I ain't never been cuffed before. Busted once for trying to buy beer with a phony ID, but they just sent me on my way. I ain't never been cuffed before." Sixgun regarded him strangely, and Packer at once realized why. His Jersey accent had suddenly thickened up, because he was furious.

He took another deep breath, trying to get himself under control. The Aussie, either oblivious or a truly cold bastard, said, "Alferd Packer, you are hereby arrested. You will be taken before an emergency tribunal, where your punishment will be determined."

Packer snorted, unable to keep acidity from bubbling out. "Oh shit, I'm arrested? I thought you guys were here to paddle my ass for being a naughty little boy!" He held his hands up. "Well, at least now I understand the handcuffs. Although, if you were here to paddle my ass, the handcuffs would still make sense. I tend to be a rough bottom." Oh well. Sarcasm isn't really violence, right?

Packer was prepared to go into disgusting detail, but the Aussie cut him off with a snarled, "Shut the fuck up. Let's go." Sixgun grasped his left arm and guided him, patiently but firmly, off his stoop, across his yard, and down the street a stretch.

"Wow!" Packer exclaimed. Two Crown Vic police cruisers were parked about a hundred feet down the road. Packer knew for a fact that they'd never touched any police vehicles, so that meant that these were running on gasoline. Or moonshine. Or maybe a little of both. It also meant that someone on the Council thought it was important enough to use precious liquid fuel in apprehending him.

Packer was stuffed in the backseat of one of the Crown Vics. Sixgun got in the passenger's seat. Sixgun's radio squawked, and he turned the volume down. Probably the Aussie telling the rest of them that the dangerous, psychotic Hannibal Packer was safely in shackles. Packer chuckled.

In a few seconds, the Aussie slid into the driver's seat. The Crown Vic roared to life, its big V8 grumbling with a lusty note. "Nothing like Detroit rolling iron," Packer found himself saying with a twinge of sadness.

As the cruiser rolled off slowly, Packer tried to keep himself occupied by looking out the window. It didn't work. Within a minute or two, Packer turned back to the members of the Watch in front. "Hey, uh, Australian guy...sorry, I didn't get your name," he began. "Isn't it weird driving on the wrong side of the road?"

The Aussie did not take his eyes off the road, and he did not reply.

Packer sighed and leaned back in the seat. He suspected that an arrest would occur sooner or later, but not this soon, and certainly not like this. Packer expected to be arrested at a rally, but the Councilors were not stupid people; no sense in making a martyr out of him when you can just have him quietly go away.

Is that what he was going to do? Go quietly? Just vanish? Packer frowned, now losing himself in thought. It wasn't until later that he remembered the only thing that someone other than himself said during the car trip. At some point, the Aussie said very quietly, but pointedly, to Sixgun: "Put it away."

After some time, they arrived at a nondescript two-story office building somewhere near the high school. It might've been a real estate office back in the future, but apparently, it was now the building in which the Council determined someone's fate. Packer was led inside, where he passed presumably other members of the Watch: hard-nosed, unsmiling military types. Packer was placed in what was once an office with Sixgun, while the Aussie left--probably to report the stunning success of his operation.

Packer leaned against the cheap office wall, feeling it bow under his weight. A sudden, disjointed image flashed through his mind: him smashing through wall after wall in an escape attempt, screaming I'm the Juggernaut, bitch!

He was forced to wonder where that came from; things were starting to become a little chaotic up in his head. He'd need to have his wits about him, but his mind kept wandering to all sorts of strange areas. No matter. He looked at Sixgun. "Any chance of getting these off?" he held up his cuffed hands.

Sixgun, leaning against the office door, shook his head.

"Hmph," Packer grunted. "Well, I guess those were your orders. You're probably under orders not to talk to me, either, lest I corrupt you with my seductive tones." Another image emerged from the roiling chaos in his head: Packer as Gandalf the White in that forest, and with The Aussie as Aragorn and Sixgun as Legolas. You must be quick, the Aussie said, and do not let him speak. He laughed quietly and briefly at the thought of him with a big ol' white beard.

Coming back to reality, Packer said, "Since I do not have the right to remain silent, or, well, any other rights, for that matter, I'll do enough talking for the both of us." There was a chair in the room, and Packer plopped down into it. Sixgun remained motionless, his eyes on Packer.

"I am forced to wonder," Packer began, his voice a little unsteady, "where I went wrong. Was it pursuing the charter in the first place? I never had any doubts while I was doing it, but then again, I wasn't looking down the wrong end of a gun...figuratively speaking, of course.

"I also wonder what they have planned for me. No trial, to be sure. I'll probably be in there, what, a total of five minutes? Who's the judge? One of the Councilors? Maybe it's the Chairman. Hmm." Packer frowned, eying Sixgun. He was watching him, but was giving little indication that he was interested in what Packer was saying.

"You know, I don't think I'd have done it differently. I'm sure that you don't believe me," Packer looked pointedly at Sixgun, "but I want this change to come about peacefully. I want it to be civilized. I'll admit, the threat of violence certainly deterred me from getting physical during my arrest, but I also want to make it clear--clear to you, and clear to the Council, that we will not resort to violence. At least, that's my position. Some of my guys are younger. Hotheaded. I can only hope that they control themselves."

Packer flexed his hands. They were tingling. "Fuck, these things are on tight. Say, what's Muskeget like? They say there are some buildings out on it now. Like a prison barracks or something?" Sixgun stayed mum, and now Packer's brain called up images of Cool Hand Luke. What we have here is a failure t'communicate.

Packer looked down for a moment. Gotta get it under control, pal. Bad shit's gonna happen soon. Someone must've been reading his thoughts, because there was a knock at the door. Sixgun knocked back twice, then stepped forward, keeping his eyes on Packer.

The Aussie peeked his head in. "They're ready. Bring him out."

Dead Man Walking! his brain called out. Packer frowned. This wasn't good; it seemed like some gear in his head had lost some teeth and stuff was starting to slip. As the Aussie watched, Sixgun motioned for Packer to stand.

They walked in a line: The Aussie in front, Packer in the middle, and Sixgun bringing up rear. Packer found himself wondering if they'd rehearsed this, and he almost asked. The other people they passed looked at Packer stonily, and without sympathy.

The trip lasted about twenty seconds before they stopped in front of a set of cheap double doors. The Aussie knocked and waited. Packer, on an impulse, decided to take a psychological shot in the dark. Not daring to turn around fully, twisted his head to the right as far as it would go and said, "Her name is Jenny. We were married for three and a half years. The phone's all I have left of her. So...thank you for not breaking it, or anything like that."

Then Packer was hauled before the emergency tribunal, his words to Sixgun completely forgotten. At least, by Packer.

Packer couldn't help but gasp. There room contained not one, but almost a dozen people! The Commander of the Watch sat front and center behind an impressive oak table. He was flanked by Councilors on both sides--and with horror, Packer realized that just as many of them had voted for his proposal as had voted against it. Gail Underhill was there, too. And sitting behind everyone, grinning a wolfish grin, was the fucking Shark!

The Commander of the Watch--the Old Man, Packer remembered him being called(though perhaps not to his face), banged a gavel twice. He looked tired. They all did. Some of them looked scared, too. Others simply grim. Packer realized that they had probably been up all night, deciding his fate. Oh man, oh man...this is bad.

"Mister Packer, please have a seat," the Old Man said, gesturing to the single chair in the center of the room. Dumbly, Packer complied. He realized that the table behind which they all sat was actually on an elevated dais. The effect was profound. Packer wondered just how many people had been in this position so far. How many more would be, too? his brain added, before it went back to churning up random images to distract him. "Guard, would you be so kind as to remove Mister Packer's restraints? I've read the arrest report; we are in no danger."

In a few seconds, Packer's hands were once again free. He couldn't resist rubbing the red marks on his wrists a bit; those fucking things pinched.

"Mister Packer," the Old man went on in a grave tone, "you are no doubt aware of the circumstances that have brought about your arrest. The actions of your...bloc, shall we say, while perhaps well-intentioned, are extremely damaging to our community. It is therefore incumbent upon us to stop them. Since you and your bloc have committed no violence against people or property, we have responded in kind. It is our wish that your demonstrations cease immediately, and to that end, we have arrested you."

"Sir," Packer jumped on the slight pause in the Old Man's statement. "Did it occur to anyone to ask me to stop the demonstrations? Have open talks between my people and yourselves? You do realize that this is a drastic escalation?"

"Undoubtedly," the Old Man replied in a mildly annoyed tone. "We considered negotiations. However, to yield to you would be a show weakness, and we calculated that as you were granted clemency, other partisan groups would surface. We would find our authority constantly challenged. Furthermore," the Old Man leaned forward, "it was argued--successfully--that your motives are not pure, and you cannot be trusted. Do you deny that you seek power for yourself?"

Packer gaped at the Old Man in horror. He then glanced and The Shark, who wore a smug grin of triumph. "Yes!" he cried out. "I deny it with all force! I thought what I wanted was self-evident!" He shook his head; his brain was trying to point out how his last statement sounded like something he'd read in an Asimov book once. "You don't get it, do you?"

A Councilor--Simon, Packer thought--asked, "What don't we get, Mister Packer?"

"I want you guys to be a legitimate government!" Packer crowed. Adrenaline surged through him as his voice filled the room. "Might makes right isn't good enough, guys! If you bully us long enough, keep us down for enough time, we'll never be able to bounce back to anything like the society we knew! We'll be back to square one: the guy with the biggest club gets the best stuff, and fuck everyone else!"

"Then it'd benefit you to undermine us, so that you could be elected as part of this little scheme of yours?" another Councilor asked with red-hot hostility. He then sneered, "Leave it to a fucking American to try something so blatant!"

Packer rubbed his face in his hands. "You idiot!" he snarled back. "How can I pound this through your thick skull? Oh, okay, here. Is there a stenographer in here?" Packer cleared his throat. "If nominated, I will not run. If elected, I will not serve! Can I make it any clearer?"

"That's quite enough!" the Old Man barked. "Mister Packer, regardless of your intentions, your disruptions to this community are real and we will stop them. How we will stop them depends fully on your cooperation."

Packer dared not unclasp his hands, lest he show much they were shaking. He ran his eyes over the dais. "Cooperation, sir?"

"You wield strong influence, Mister Packer. We've polled--informally, of course--and you come up consistently as one of the best-liked individuals among virtually every occupation. It goes without saying, of course, that you command extraordinary loyalty from the Machinists who work under you." The Old Man shifted his papers like he was reading a weather report. Packer's brain commented, I'm Ron Burgundy. Go fuck yourselves, San Diego! "However, you have injured this community and you will be punished for it. Due to your...unique status, however, your punishment will be determined by you."

Packer frowned. "In that case, I sentence myself to a slap on the wrist." He slapped the back of his left wrist with his right hand, then looked back up at the dais.

No one laughed. No one even smiled. That ain't good. The Old Man continued: "Should you elect not to cooperate, it will mean your death. Worse, though, it will mean death for others under your command." Packer's blood ran ice cold, and he suddenly felt like either shitting or throwing up.

The Old Man was now reading off of a list. "Jason Terrence. Andrew Mullin. Russell 'Rustbucket' Baquet. There are others on this list, Mister Packer, but I'm sure you understand our position. You and the men I have listed here before me, should you not cooperate with us fully, will be hanged. Today. In a private execution. The other Machinists will be stripped of their status and sent to Martha's Vineyard to serve as brute labor for our colony efforts there, and they will not be allowed to return to Nantucket. Ever. As for Kevin Dumfries and his Horticulturists, our intelligence suggest far less cohesion amongst them, so punishment will be less severe by comparison."

Death by hanging. In a few hours. The image projected from the depths of his brain with shocking ease. He could see himself standing at the gallows out at the airport, a new noose being hung. Them dragging away Jason's body and dumping it into the bed of a woodgas-powered pickup truck alongside a few other indifferently-piled corpses that were once his closest friends. He could now taste the bile in the back of his throat.

His voice barely above a whisper, Packer said, "So, I guess I'm cooperating, then?"

"It would be most prudent," the Old Man said. "If you cooperate, your men will be spared any punishment for current actions. I cannot, of course, promise them immunity from future prosecution, but if they harm no one, they will operate with the same autonomy they now enjoy...though, without you in their midst."

"So, it's Muskeget for me, then?" Packer found his voice. "For how long?"

The Old Man did not answer, but continued. "Your conditions for cooperation are as follows. You will sign a statement provided by us, addressing the general public. The statement will elucidate how you were misguided, though well-intentioned, and call for immediate cessation of action which injures the community, including all public demonstrations and rallies. Second, you will sign a statement addressed to your men, which will command them to abandon any and all action against us, and that you have accepted your punishment to avoid harm coming to them."

Packer inhaled deeply, then let it out in a rapid whuff! "If that's how it has to be, that's how it'll be. Beg pardon, sir, but you didn't answer my question. I feel I've behaved reasonably, and I'm not out of line in asking this. How long am I going to be on Muskeget?"

Silence from the dais. The Old Man shuffled his papers, as if he was trying to buy himself time. The other Councilors and attendees were, literally, looking the other way--all of them suddenly fascinated by ceiling corners, window treatments, or the shitty paintings on the walls. Only the Shark would make eye contact with Packer, and his was an expression of pure, savage triumph--the look that primitive man must've made when he bashed his rival's skull in with a rock.

The Old Man finally spoke. "Mister Packer, it is the ruling of this tribunal that you are too dangerous an individual to simply maroon on Muskeget for a month or two. We would waste inordinate amounts of resources in patrolling the entire island to ensure you aren't rescued by someone. No, we have determined a more fitting punishment.

"In two weeks' time, you will board a boat bound for Lewis Bay, on the southern shore of Cape Cod. This location is the site of our first and, so far, only confirmed contact with natives. You will make landfall there, and a boat will return in three days to retrieve you. Of course, I need not tell you that, alone in an exceedingly hostile environment, you will most likely be killed before your rescuers arrive. This is our aim."

Packer simply looked on vacantly. The chaos in his mind had ground to a halt, the jumble of words and images fading to a damp grayness. The Old Man continued. "Of course, pretense must be maintained, by both ourselves and by you. For the next fourteen days, you will receive survival training by relevant experts we have among our population. As part of this cover story, your trainers will be told you are part of an expeditionary team, and that you are being brought up to the level of the rest of the team. The captain of the ship who will serve as your ferry will, as part of his cargo, take salted cod and metal axes, to reinforce the pretense that you are attempting to make first contact with the natives.

"Mister Packer, if, at any point, you reveal the true nature of this 'mission' to your trainers, you will be sent to Cape Cod. Immediately, with only the clothes on your back. And you will be under observation. If you maintain your obligation of silence during these fourteen days, you will be sent out well-equipped. You will have a tent, sleeping bag, provisions, changes of clothes, and a modern crossbow. We will even maintain the pretense of coming to fetch you after three days have elapsed."

The Old Man folded his hands and leaned forward. "You are, perhaps, wondering what will happen when people start asking about you. One of the Council has graciously volunteered to be a scapegoat, insisting that he and he alone was responsible for arranging your expedition, and that you, in your zeal to serve, did not appreciate the danger of your position. He will be 'forced' to resign his post on the Council and will spend several months on Muskeget, as a means to placate the suspicious."

Packer could only stare vacantly ahead. Perhaps the Old Man appeared concerned and the other Councilors appeared uncomfortable; Packer couldn't say. His mind was frantically and vainly attempting to find a way out. You could beg! his brain shouted at him. Beg for mercy! Beg for exile on Martha's Vineyard! Surely, they would...

"To agree to these terms, you have but to sign the prepared statements," the Old Man said, interrupting his panicked train of thought. "Once you do that, you will begin your survival training. You won't be working at the shop or have any contact with your men over the next two weeks. We will allow you to sleep at your house, though it will be under observation. Should you attempt escape at any point, or should they attempt a rescue, we will issue arrest warrants for both you and your men, and you will all be hanged upon capture. We realize that such a course could precipitate a wide-scale conflict, with potential for great loss of life. I trust that you'll make the correct decision, Mister Packer."

The Old Man waited. Packer's head spun. It had been spinning all morning, but now was overwhelming, snuffing out external stimuli for a kind of blind, wallowing, washed-out haze, sticky and confusing. Dimly and with panic, Packer realized that it had been trying to cope with his arrest and trial, and it was failing spectacularly--and there was nothing he could do about it.

For an apparent eternity, the phrase NO WAY OUT blared in his mind, pulsing with his heartbeat. Then, at once, there was a great, painless snap! inside his head. The haze cleared. Packer blinked, as though he'd just awoken.

"Sir, you'd better get me those documents to sign," he said with clarity and cheerfulness, though his smile was hauntingly vacant. The Old Man did a double-take, as did most of the other people on the dais. "I've got a lot a learn for this mission, and only fourteen days to get it all done."

As he signed the pieces of paper presented to him, Packer felt a kind of eager nervousness building inside him. He was going to make first contact with the natives! There was a thin string of disquiet running underneath his thoughts, but he simply dismissed that as jitters. After all, this was a dubious honor, but hell, he was up to it. It was like Jason always said:

You're Alferd Packer. You can do anything if you just put your mind to it!

The Old Man was talking again, but Packer felt he could safely ignore it. He had to put all his efforts into getting trained up. The thin string of disquiet in his brain thrummed insistently, as though it was trying to tell him to listen to the Old Man, but Packer continued to shut him out. Eventually, Packer was escorted out by the Aussie and Sixgun. Sixgun was even nice enough to give Packer back his cell phone, and Packer thanked him with a wink and vacant smile.

Day 319, Noon, Cape Cod

A lack of fixed schedules made, in general, for a more relaxed lifestyle. One worked as hard as he needed, but could work as hard as he pleased. Packer liked to think he worked hard, but he certainly wasn't against taking a long lunch. And a nooner just made things more fun.

For whatever reason, after finding out that Nara was pregnant, his libido went ballistic. He couldn't get enough of her. Fortunately, she was more than willing to oblige him. Now that they'd been together for a little while, they were really starting to click, sexually--it wasn't all about raw, animal lust anymore. Well, not entirely, anyway.

Presently, a sweat-soaked Packer lay supine on his bed, breathing hard, trying to get his wits about him. Nara lay atop him, attempting the same thing.

They then got some help. "Packer?"

Social convention being what it was, a covered doorway meant either "I'm not home" or "I am home, but go the hell away." Since, until just a few minutes ago, Nara and Packer were, among other things, loudly advertising that they were home but otherwise occupied, someone choosing to try to get Packer's attention now was being either rude, or he had a serious matter to bring to Packer's attention.

The post-coital high that Packer was enjoying evaporated rapidly, and he was none-too-pleased. "This must be important," he called out a bit hoarsely, and in an annoyed tone. Nara rolled off him and lay on her side, propped up on one elbow.

"It is important!" the voice outside called out. Packer recognized it as Natteko. "There are men here. From your old tribe."

Packer sat upright. "How many?"

"Two. They were brought here by Gankosiik. He said that they said your name, so he took them here."

Packer looked at Nara, worried. "Where are they?"

"They are in the fields. I saw them first, and told them to stay back. Duniik is there now. He is talking with them. He says they say that they are your friends."

"What are their names?"

"Keh-ven and... My-ulls."

Packer smiled. "Yes, those are the names of my friends. Bring them food and water, but keep them away from the village. Tell them I will be there soon." He turned to face Nara. "Would you like to meet my friends?"

She smiled. "Yes. I will try my English with them."

After he and Nara cleaned up a bit, they dressed and left their hut. The weather had gotten little cooler, so Nara was back to her longer dress, and Packer wore the deerskin pants that had been sown especially for him by some of the older women of the village who were skilled at making and mending clothes. They were also working on a full shirt for him that was everyone's standard autumn and winter garment, but right now, his t-shirt would work just fine. The sun was out and it felt good on his back.

Packer expected that the two visitors would be mobbed. But, perhaps due to his presence at the village, white people had become mundane. As he and Nara rounded a hut and they came in sight, Packer counted exactly five people around them.

As they climbed the hill, they came into clearer focus. They towered over everyone else, and they each wore huge backpacks. Duniik was there, talking both of their heads off. Packer caught him talking rapidly in a pidgin of English and his native language, and the other two trying to follow along with futility. Packer laughed.

"Hey, Packer! Lookin' sharp!" Miles Jameson had chanced to spot Packer first. The other, Kevin Dumfries, turned. Both dropped their packs.

"Packer! Holy shit, I'da never believed it!"

"Gentlemen, good to see you both!" Packer gave both of them a big bearhug in the tribe's style. "What the hell are you guys doing here? No, wait, that's a long story. We'll have plenty of time to talk. Guys, let me introduce you to my wife."

Packer would remember the look on both of their faces until the day he died. "Guys, this is Nara, my wife." He held out an arm and she stepped up. "Nara, this is Kevin, and this is Miles."

Nara held out her hand. "Miles, Kevin, it is nice to meet you both," she said in crisp English. Packer tried desperately to contain his grin; Kevin's eyes were almost entirely out of his head, and Miles' mouth was open so wide he'd probably start drooling a few seconds. They shook her hand without, apparently, any conscious realization of doing so.

Packer turned to the others around them. "Go down to the village. We will celebrate the arrival of my friends with a Sing Story tonight. We will tell you of the story of the fight between Vader and Skywalker and the Great Elder." At this, they broke off, shouting the good news down to the village below.

"Packer, did you just say 'Vader?'" Kevin asked.

Packer turned to him with a grin. "Yup. I hope you guys remember Return of the Jedi. Kevin, you're gonna be the Emperor."

Miles and Kevin exchanged glances. "So!" Packer continued. "You've already met Duniik. He's my brother-in-law. And Natteko there is, well, I guess you can say, he's my apprentice. I've been doing a lot of carpentry here."

"We saw," Miles said. "They guy who spotted us was carrying a pretty nice bow with him."

"Hey, let's go sit somewhere and talk, alright?" Packer said. "You don't mind if Nara comes with, right? She probably speaks better English than some people on Nantucket."

"I don't mind," Miles said.

"OK, follow me." As he was leading them over to a nice, wide flat rock that he and Nara often sunned themselves on, Nara gave his hand a squeeze.

"Is Miles sick? Or perhaps stupid?" she asked quietly in her native tongue. "He sounds different. He is hard to understand."

Packer laughed loudly. "No, he isn't. Some people on the Far Island talk differently. That's all."

"Hey Packer, what's the joke?" Kevin asked.

"Miles' Irish accent is giving Nara a bit of trouble," Packer replied. He turned to Miles. "She thought you were an idiot or something."

Miles flushed. "Sorry."

Once they were seated on the rock (technically, Nara was in Packer's lap), Packer said. "OK guys. We'll be left alone for a while. First off: how did you find me?"

"Well, we knew you were on Cape Cod," Miles answered. "About two miles east of Lewis Bay there's an inlet that leads to a series of bays and brackish ponds. Some guys were fishing in there about two weeks ago and they saw evidence of natives on the shore. Well, when we heard about this, we decided to sail up and see if we could meet them. If we could meet them, we knew we'd find you."

"Oh?" Packer said. "How's that?"

"Well," Kevin said, "It stands to reason that if a native sees a one of us and doesn't run away, then he's not scared of us. The only natives that wouldn't be scared of one of us would be the ones you're living with."

"So you sailed up as far as you can go, and you met Gankosiik," Packer finished.

"Yep," Kevin said. "Actually, he met us. Stepped out onto a beach and waved us over. We gave him some food, dropped your name, and he took us right to the village. It wasn't a far walk at all."

"Yeah, I know that system of ponds and bays that you're talking about," Packer said. "Lots of good food over there. OK, so that's how you found me. Why are you guys here? Well, Miles, I get you. Lost in another squall, or whatever. But you, Kevin?"

Kevin uncrossed and recrossed his legs. "Well, when Miles got back the first time from encountering you, he came straight to the machine shop. I happened to be there at the time. He told Jason and me at the same time; I thought he was gonna pass out. Well, from us the word spread like wildfire. A lot of us had had our will to fight taken out of us when you got arrested, but now that we knew you were alive!

"Well, we started holding demonstrations again. Small ones. But the Council came down on us hard. They arrested twenty of us at one rally, and I was one of them. I spent most of July out on Muskeget. Then, they shipped me over to Martha's Vineyard to split firewood for the rest of my life. There hasn't been a rally since, I hear."

"Hmmm," Packer grumbled. "So they still hold all the cards?"

"Not quite," Kevin replied. "For one, Miles told you correctly; we stole and hid all the copies of all the plans you'd drafted up for the Council. I think the mere fact that we were able to pull it off has them scared. When some guys from the Watch tried to lean on Jason to give them back, he burned a diagram of a gasifier in front of them. Told 'em that if any Machinist was ever touched, everything was getting torched. The Council's had engineers looking at the stuff you built, trying to figure it out, but that kind of stuff takes time.

"Also, the Council seems to think that we know where you are. They're not looking for you, but I think they think that you're secretly funneling us instructions or something. Maybe they think that you're hiding out on Nantucket somewhere. Regardless, they've been treating the Machinists with kids' gloves since you've been gone."

"And the island's becoming increasingly divided," Miles said. He glanced at Nara, who was watching his lips intently. "People are choosing sides, and it's everywhere, from the farmhands to the Watch, to the ladies, to even in the Council. Someone gets arrested almost every day, it seems."

"I'm surprised it hasn't exploded into a civil war," Packer muttered.

"Well, I think everyone's waiting," Kevin said. "They're waiting for you to come back. They're waiting for the harvest to be over. They're waiting for the Eagle to come back."

Packer was surprised. "They sent the Eagle out?"

"Yup," Miles confirmed. "Back in July. There was a problem with the irrigation system, so they thought the harvest would go bad. Sent a bunch of people across the ocean. To Spain or something. To get food and livestock, and set up a permanent presence out there. The Council said that they were gonna bring women back with them, too. But we'll see."

Packer was silent for a moment. "Interesting. So, Kevin, you were on Martha's Vineyard..."

"Oh, right! Well, the thing about Martha's Vineyard is that they don't watch us that closely. As long as your work gets done, you can do pretty much whatever. So no one even cared when Miles started visiting me."

"Yeah," Miles continued. "We made it seem that...well, you know."

"Yeah," Packer said. "I know." Nara looked at him, confused. He whispered the explanation in her ear, and she looked back at Miles and Kevin, horrified.

"But we're not!" Miles said defensively. "I was running messages between Kevin and Jason. They decided that we needed to make arrangements to get you back to Nantucket. The Machinists are watched constantly, so he couldn't do it. Kevin and I decided to go."

"How are you going to explain your absence this time?" Packer said.

Miles shrugged. "There's a lot of autonomy on Martha's Vineyard. Also a lot of people who like operating out of the Council's sphere of influence. We cover for each other. As far as all the paperwork shows, Kevin and I never left. And if someone comes looking for us, it's easy to say we're off on the other side of the island."

"Fucking?" Nara said.

Packer laughed heartily. Miles and Kevin looked appropriately shocked. "Yes, something like that."

"Nara," Kevin began, "Have you understood everything so far?"

"I understand most. There are many problems on Nantucket." She turned to Packer. "Must we go there?"

"Yes," Packer said soothingly. "It will be safe. I have many friends there, like Miles and Kevin."

"That's right," Kevin said. "And to be honest, I think we have had some help that we're not aware of. Mainly from the Watch. I feel like we should've had our asses nailed to the board so many times, but...nothing. It's like someone--or several someones--are looking the other way at just the right moments. Anyway, that's why we're here. It's September 14th, and autumn is due to arrive any day. We need to figure out exactly when to come get you."

"Can you guys risk another trip up here?"

"Sure," Miles said. "One thing that's certain is that I'm off the Council's radar. They check up on Kevin from time to time, but they consider him a non-factor. I'm too unimportant to be noticed."

"Besides," Kevin added. "We have contingencies. I know a couple of boat captains out on Martha's Vineyard who could help out. They specialize in helping people escape permanently."

"Escape?" Packer frowned. "To where?"

"To the mainland. Usually Rhode Island or the south shore of Connecticut. I heard that twenty or so people have made a start of things out on Long Island. They say that the soil is especially good there."

Packer stroked his chin. "Yeah, but it can't be a lot of people. The Council would've noticed."

"Oh, I think they've noticed," Miles said. "It's just that they don't care. Maybe they want to let the troublemakers go. After all, it's expensive to punish people. And all the really valuable stuff is under their control; at best, all most people can mange to bring with them is hand tools and personal items...of which more can be made."

"But at any rate," Kevin interjected, "these captains know me. They'll be able to the pick you up if Miles cannot."

"Okay, guys, I'll trust you," Packer said. "But understand that it's not only me who's counting on you, but Nara, too."

Miles said sternly, "Don't worry, Packer. I promise I'll take care of it."

"Good. Well, why don't I show you guys around the village? You can meet the Elders, have some food, all that." Packer gestured to their packs. "I take it you're staying the night, yes?"

"Well, we were planning to camp out," Kevin said. "It takes most of the day to sail, and we didn't want to try to find Martha's Vineyard in the dark.

"Excellent. Well, we'll have ourselves a bit of a party in your honor tonight. If you play your cards right, you'll probably even get laid."

Kevin's jaw dropped. Miles blushed like a schoolgirl. Packer laughed.

"It is true," Nara added. "I have told the women of my husband. He is very good," she said emphatically.

Miles was blushing so hard he was turning purple. "I'm sure he is," he stammered.

"Point being, gentlemen, that there are many young ladies in my tribe who are...curious. You're taller than the men they're used to. You dress differently. You smell differently. You look different." Miles looked like he might pass out. "It's not a big deal, guys. Sex is part of growing up, and it's a very important part of our culture. It's one skill of many that you learn on your way to adulthood. You won't get in trouble, I swear."

Miles and Kevin looked at each other. Finally, Kevin said, "Well, Packer, I would've just been happy to have a roof over my head and a full belly. You're quite the generous host."

"Well, you ain't fucking me," Packer laughed. "The generosity--and your gratitude--belong down there." He gestured to the village. "Come on, let's go."

And as they walked, Kevin asked, "So, why do we have to remember Return of the Jedi?"

[Simon_Jester]

So... who's the scapegoat Councilman? I like to think I wouldn't get maneuvered into that...

[Darth Nostril]

And as they walked, Kevin asked, "So, why do we have to remember Return of the Jedi?"

Guess they don't remember, or never saw, Reign of Fire