SDN In the Sea of Time

[GrandMasterTerwynn]

Editor's note: The following takes place on day 362/363, post-arrival . . .

Interrogation
I wake up in a jail cell. My heart thunders in my chest as my eyes stare out into the darkness. Cinder-block walls, basic sink and toilet . . . yep definitely a jail cell.

I search the room, trying to remember how I'd gotten here. My eyes follow the light, stopping at propped-open door. And then I remember. With everybody mobilized, there aren't any free cots around. And, since I'm just some yokel from the Vineyard . . . a jail cell was as good a place as any to get some much-needed shut-eye.

New question . . . how long have I been asleep? In trying to answer this question, I find myself staring blankly at the little table. There are still some days where I wake up, not quite remembering the reality of my situation. Seems this is going to be one of them. I'm looking for my cellphone . . . the one I left three thousand years back in the future.

Eventually, my brain decides to start being helpful again. I look up to the window and notice that it's dark outside. Huh, must've been out the whole day, then. I honestly don't recall much after the Council voted itself out of power. Simon, the new Chairman, politely, but firmly, asked us to leave. Surprisingly, the Old Man assented; though he insisted that guards remain posted outside the Council chambers. After that, there was some poking by a nurse at the Watch station, and then I was instructed to get some rest.

Huh. That's strange. Usually, my internal clock would've forced me up at around sundown. I still have my ducks to put up, after all. Though everyone on the Constabulary can be counted on to look after each others' things. It must've been a longer night than I thought. That, or I'm getting too old for this shit.

I heave myself out of the none-too-comfortable bunk, muscles and joints protesting the whole way. It's a few short steps to the door. The Watchman guarding the block takes notice of me, acknowledging my existence with a single nod. I don't recognize him . . . he was brought on after I'd left.

When I leave the block, I frown, looking around. It's definitely been a while since I was last here. I need a moment to get my bearings.

"I was wondering when you'd wake up," a voice says, off to my side. I look over to see the Aussie.

"Good morning to you too, sir," I reply, before frowning. "Just what time is it, anyway?"

"Just after nine at night."

Shit.

"Wow . . . I have been out of it."

The corners of the Aussie's mouth quirked ever-so-slightly upward. "Yes," he replies. "Now that you're awake, and while you're here; I intend to put you to work."

I nod, my expression tight-lipped. It's not that I'd mind doing some copper work while I was here . . . after all, if I hadn't left the Vineyard, that's what I'd be doing right now. It's just that . . . I don't know . . .

"Well, come on," the Aussie says, seemingly unaware of my internal conflict. "The whole Watch is out in force tonight," he adds. "We're not taking any chances, even though it's left the Watch stations a bit thin."

I nod again. "Do you still think Packer's a threat?"

Silence.

"We'll see," the Aussie finally replies. He leads me to the weapons room, and indicates that I ought to strap on my belt and sixgun. Seems we're going for a ride.

"Where are we going, sir?"

"We'll be headed to the Millers Lane Watch House," he replies. I nod, immediately understanding that was the former Nantucket Inn. "Mister Fernandez is currently being held there."

I frown. "And the Shark?"

"The Commandant's elected to limit the number of people who know Dolsen's exact whereabouts. At least until things have settled down enough that we can put him on trial."

"I see, sir."

"I'm glad you do," he replies.

I don't really see. Keep him hidden and his supporters will think we're giving him the Gitmo treatment, while planning to quietly shoot him and throw him in the bay. Keep him hidden, and Packer's supporters will think we're sheltering him and keeping him from the justice he so richly deserves.

I'm almost certain he'll get what's coming to him, in the end. But a little voice in the back of my head keeps telling me he's either too dangerous to be trusted to our justice system, such as it is; or, worse, his connections are too valuable for us to throw him to the wolves. I'd sorely love to spend a few minutes with the man, alone. Just to see what makes him tick.

The Aussie and I pile into a tiny little gasifier-converted econobox. It's so tiny the gasifier sits on a trailer hooked up to the back. He drives, while I watch. As usual, it's almost pitch-black outside. There are a few places with dim, flickering, light inside the windows. Along our route, it's quiet. Dead quiet. Nobody is outside here. I see a couple of flashlights bobbing as we drive past, but as our dim headlights play over the men holding them, I see that they're Watchmen. Heavily armed Watchmen. The long barrels of Remington shotguns gleam dully in the light.

We quickly arrive at the Millers Lane Watch-house, and make our way inside. The lobby buzzes with activity, with armed Watchmen scattered through the room. The Aussie leads me to the front desk.

"Sir," the young man at the counter says, his eyes on the Aussie.

"We're here to see Fernandez," the Aussie replies.

The young man nods. "You want us to bring him here?"

"No, we'll go see him in his cell."

The young man gives the Aussie a room number, and then we're on our way. The old Nantucket Inn is a sprawling complex of buildings directly across from the airport. Watchmen live here, or stay here if their patrols take them too far from home. I guess that's why Fernandez was being kept here, and I felt a pang of envy for the bastard.

It's a brisk walk to the first block of rooms. They surround a courtyard that was once full of trees. None of those are there, now, having been cut down over the Long Winter. It's easy to pick out which room Fernandez is staying in. Two men are watching the door, on top of the men standing watch at the bottom of the stairwells. The fact that the room's windows were replaced with plywood was also a big clue.

"John," I say to one of them, with a nod of my head. "Figured you'd be out on patrol."

John shakes his head. "I've been assigned to the prisoner full-time, until after he goes to trial," he says, as his partner looks at the paper the Aussie presents him.

Sucks to be you, I think, thrusting my hands into my pockets to fend off the chilly November air.

"Okay," John says. "Stand back, we're going to let Fernandez know he has visitors."

I nod, taking a step back. John draws his gun, while his partner knocks on the door. Three, solid, knocks. After a moment, he takes out his key and unlocks the door. As it swings open, I peer into the room. Immediately, my previous pang of envy vanishes. Some of the rooms in the old Nantucket Inn had been thoroughly trashed in the first hours post-arrival, before the nascent Watch had decided it wanted a command post close to the airport. The room Fernandez was in, had been one of them. The damage had been cleaned up long ago, but there wasn't much in there but a cot, a desk, and a chair.

For his part, Fernandez looks like a man who hasn't slept. Dark circles ring his eyes, and his clothes are wrinkled. They're the same clothes he wore to that fateful Council meeting. The look in his eyes . . . vacant and haunted. They weren't the eyes of a man who'd helped guide four thousand near-strangers through their first year back-in-time.

"Daniel," he says, his eyes meeting the Aussie's.

"Mister Fernandez. I trust they're treating you well."

"Of course not!" Fernandez growls, for a moment, the old Chairman was back. "You people have not given me a moment alone since you brought me here!"

"My apologies," the Aussie replies, his voice flat, and his tone conveying nothing of the sort. "We're here to ask you some questions."

"Some questions," Fernandez snaps. "And what . . . " he is cut off in mid-sentence by a single hand-gesture.

"I don't have the patience," the Aussie says. "So let me clarify this for you. I am here to ask you some questions," suddenly, his finger is pointed at me. "He is here to encourage you to answer."

I am? Uh . . . well . . . I guess I am. I nod, silently.

"That's coercion! That'll never stand up in any cour . . . " Fernandez says, trailing off. "You think any tribunal you convene'll accept any answer I give under duress?"

"Perhaps. Perhaps not," the Aussie replies. "My first question to you is: Do you think I care? Think carefully before you answer."

I try not to shiver. I stare at Fernandez, watching as the fire in his eyes dims.

"Look," he finally says. There's no thunder in his voice now. "What do you want from me?"

"We want a lot of things from you, Mister Fernandez, but we will settle for James Dolsen."

Fernandez looks at both of us. I can almost see the wheels starting to turn in his head.

"I know what you must be thinking," the Aussie says. "But protecting him won't save you. You are certainly guilty of ordering the hit on Packer. Which makes you guilty in the murders of two active Watchmen and William Jorgensen in its commission."

"I didn't know!" Fernandez yells.

"Bullshit," I cough. Suddenly, my cheeks flush as I catch a sharp glance from the Aussie. Fernandez blinks and stares at me.

"I'm sorry," I say. "It's the unvarnished truth. Don't think many men on this island hate Packer more than Dolsen does."

"He'd never let his emotions dictate what he does! Not like your friend Packer," Fernandez replies, his stare changing into a glare. "And certainly not like you."

I flash back to that first day, nearly a year ago. To that very first shot I fired on this goddamn island. Bob Fernandez was there to see it happen. I start to scowl, that psychic wound is still fresh.

"Are you quite sure?" The Aussie says, even as he raises a hand. "Don't answer that. Answer this one instead: Do you believe Dolsen will protect you? After all, he secretly allowed the Volunteers to listen in on, and record, your conversations. I wonder what that says about his trust for you."

Is it just me, or is it getting colder in here? I figured Dolsen had been as surprised as anyone that his man was secretly recording him. Even so, the fact that the Shark was instructing others to secretly listen in at all . . . well, you didn't do that to friends. I stared at Fernandez, and it looked like the same doubts were crossing his mind. So, Fernandez, do you realize you were expendable yet?

"The . . . Volunteers had the right to be in the loop," Fernandez says. I almost gape at him.

"Without your knowledge?"

"I . . . "

"I would assume that it was without your knowledge," the Aussie pressed on. "Otherwise, I'd have to assume that you both knew, and you were so confident in your security that both of you would be so . . . loose-lipped. Which should it be, Mister Fernandez? Ignorance, or arrogance? Do remember that we're talking to the Volunteers as well."

Fernandez starts to pale, just as he'd done back in the Council chambers. His lips work silently.

"If Packer'd stayed gone like he was supposed to; none of this would've happened. But the Chartists and the pamphleteers kept wavin' his bloody shirt around, and he was organizin' things behind the scenes." He thrust his finger at us. "If you Watchmen had done your goddamn jobs, the Volunteers wouldn't have been needed."

"Yet, you took advantage of the opportunity," the Aussie replies. As usual, the bastard is unflappable; undisturbed by Fernandez's tangent. "What were yours and Mister Dolsen's ultimate plans for the island, I wonder?"

"The soft landing, you sonofabitch! No more! We're not going to 'go a Sara-Whack' like they did in the Stirling books. Regardless of what some have argued for."

All of whom, conveniently, are on the Eagle . . .

"With you on the top, of course," the Aussie says dryly. "Did it occur to you that, perhaps, Mister Dolsen intended that he be the one on top?"

"Would it really have been that bad," Fernandez starts to reply.

"The only one on top," the Aussie rumbles right over him, a single finger upthrust.

"I . . . " Fernandez hits a metaphorical wall.

"He secretly recorded you. Talked to the Volunteers while keeping you out of the loop. Are those the things that someone concerned for your well-being would do? Jump in, Constable. As Mister Fernandez might point out, you've been on the wrong end of what passes for law here. Educate him."

I look like a deer in headlights. I swallow, my mind racing.

"N . . . no. If I were going to do something like that, I wouldn't do it to anybody I trusted," I say. "Hell," the words come clearer and stronger, "I'd only do it to someone I was pretty sure wouldn't find out about it . . . or wouldn't be in a position to object." I'm about to say more, but the Aussie's sideways glance silences me.

"There you have it, Mister Fernandez," the Aussie says. "I will ask you again, will Dolsen protect you? Or might he use what he's secretly learned about you to pay for his own freedom?"

Fernandez's jaw works. "No," he says. I feel my shoulders start to drop. "No," he repeats. "He's no danger to me."

You've got to be fucking kidding me! The man's so deep in denial that he's hanging out with the Pharaohs. Something snaps in me.

"That's bullshit," I say. For a brief moment, it's my voice that thunders out. My voice that floods a room. My voice carries. My jaw snaps shut, but there's no staying hand on my shoulder, no reproachful glance. "What if they'd succeeded in 'disappearing' Packer and we hadn't stepped in? His friends'd want blood! His supporters in the Council would be demanding answers! Whose head would Dolsen have offered? That Volunteer friend of his would be swearing up and down that you ordered the hit! You heard the tape . . . it's 'the Chairman and that motormouth' . . . the other Volunteers are convinced you're the one calling the shots and Dolsen's just some . . . overbearing jackass!" I feel the inside of my head getting tight. "God, if it weren't for us, he'd be in your seat today . . . what the hell do you have to say about that?"

Suddenly, sharp pain shoots up my shoulder. The Aussie has stepped in, and I realize that I've crowded into Fernandez's personal space. I'm towering over him as he shrinks as deep into his chair as he can manage.

"Let's go, Constable," the Aussie says. I wheel on him, and that flash of anger is crushed under his stony gaze.

"I . . . " I try to say, anyway. I look down at Fernandez, who sits there in shocked silence, and then back at the Aussie. This is getting fucking nowhere.

"Constable," the Aussie repeats. It's the sort of tone you might use on a slow, obstinate child.

"Y . . . yeah," I spit out. I force myself to turn away from Fernandez, and follow the Aussie out the door. The moment we're outside, John locks the door.

"If he says anything," the Aussie says, "you know how to reach myself or the Commandant."

The men watching over Fernandez nod silently. I gape at the boarded up windows of the man's cell, only to realize the Aussie has started back for the stairs. I hurry to catch up with him.

"What a stubborn son of a bitch," I say, mostly to myself.

"Rather, yes," the Aussie replies.

I frown at him in the darkness. "What happens now? He's not talking."

"For now," the Aussie says. "He may not have said much, but he did get to listen. And he's not the only piece of the puzzle."

I grunt, my eyes on the ground. "Wonder how many of their friends on the Council are sweating right now? Wonder how many of them had something to do with all that's been going on?"

"Believe me," the Aussie says, "he'll be thinking about that. With a little help, he'll come to the right conclusion."

I grunt again, nodding silently. "So, where to now?"

"We're going to check on the Couples' District," the Aussie replies. "Things have been," he paused, his lips making a faint frown, "interesting there."

My frown deepens. "Interesting, sir? As interesting as last night?"

"Not at all," the Aussie says. "There's far more restraint tonight."

Not enough to not make it interesting, I guess. I nod, and we make our way back to the lobby.

"Did you get anything out of him," the kid behind the desk asks us.

"It was productive," the Aussie replies, holding the young man in his gaze. "Do make sure that Mister Fernandez continues to have everything he needs."

"Uh . . . yes sir," the young man replies, blinking.

We step out into the night once more. It feels like the temperature has dropped, and I thrust my hands into my pockets as we find our overloaded econo-box once more. As we drop into the seats, I exhale sharply, my breath forming a wispy cloud of white.

Uhh-wuh, uhh-wuh, uhh-wuhhhh.

The motor struggles to crank over. The Aussie scowls, pumps the pedal, and tries again.

Uhh-wuh, uhh-wuh, uhh-wuh.

The motor cranks, and the headlights flicker. The Aussie stops cranking, turns off everything, and tries again. The engine catches on the third try.

"We've got three years to figure out how to replicate those batteries," I say.

"We have three years to figure out how to fix a lot of shit on this island," the Aussie replies. "Especially the simple shit we've all taken for granted."

I nod. This is true. The radios, the flashlights? All run off of batteries. The radios have electronics too. We can probably get by scavenging discrete components out of the other electronics scattered on the island. But that's only for capacitors, resistors, and the like. Forget any IC more complex than a 7400. I try to think about it, and it starts to hurt my brain. Going from Nantucket to the Vineyard, and back again, is jarring enough. It's primitive enough on the Vineyard, but Nantucket's only a radio call away. We've taken bits and pieces of modern technology with us to the Vineyard as well. What happens when everybody has to live like we do on the Vineyard? And what happens when we all have to abandon any technology an old cowboy wouldn't recognize? I can visualize it for myself, but applied to the 3200 or so people left on the island . . .

I shake my head. It's time for a change of subject.

"How do you do it, sir," I say.

"Excuse me," the Aussie replies.

"How do you keep your cool," I ask, as we make a turn down a darkened street. "I think I've seen the Old Man lose it more often than you have. How do you do it?"

The Aussie's expression soured, and we drove on in silence for several moments.

"The night before we all came here, I was shooting the bull with my girlfriend, and my mates," he finally says. "I go to bed and I wake up in Nantucket. It's a load of rubbish, all of it, to wake up in a shit environment like this. I realized, though, that the best thing to do was just to shrug, accept it, and move on. Going off in a panic wasn't going to make life all smiles and roses again; nor was being a depressed alcoholic obsessing over how shit this all is."

Huh. Easy for you to say. I look out the window, at the now-familiar streets. The now-familiar shrubs that I'd taken cover behind the night before. We're almost there.

"Just so you know, I carry none of this with me," the Aussie adds. "None of the shit we do, I take home with me. At the end of the day, I shrug my shoulders, and then I walk off and forget about it," he says, just as the brakes squeal as he brings the car up behind the police cruisers parked along the dark street.

Walk off, and forget about it. The words echo through my mind. Maybe I've been carrying too much of this with me. Al Packer shrugged off all the horseshit that put him out on the mainland, and look how it's paid off for him! If the Aussie didn't do what he did so well, he'd be the Saul Tigh to the Old Man's Commander Adama; and let me tell you, that's a frightening thought. The Aussie has given me something to think about, certainly. Where it will go, I cannot yet say.

"Are you coming, Constable," the Aussie asks. I look at him, blinking dumbly. His tone of voice has that dry snap I've become accustomed to, again. Like the last five minutes hadn't happened.

"Of course," I reply. I step out of that tiny car, hitching up my sixgun, and adjusting the brim of my hat. As I push my glasses up the bridge of my nose, I get a good look at what lies ahead. A barricade. On one side, an uneasy, hostile looking crowd of men and some women. On the other side, Watchmen, with Day-Glo police vests. It's a scene that looks all too familiar to me, and I feel my gut starting to sour at the thought.

I carry none of this with me, the Aussie's words echo in my mind. Right, it's just a fucking job, and it beats chopping down trees. And at the end of the day, I'll go home, and I'll tend to my ducks. Guess it can't hurt to try thinking that way. With that, I follow the Aussie, as he makes his way right up to the barricade.

[Alferd Packer]

Aaaand we're back! Just for me to end things. Actually, that's not entirely true. Yes, over the next several posts, I will be bringing the tale of Alferd Packer to its final conclusion. Insodoing, however, answers to several important questions are going to be omitted by me. What fate awaits the Chairman and the Shark? What became of the Eagle? These and others remain questions because their answers are not important...to Alferd Packer, anyway. No, this is the ending to Alferd Packer's tale, and his alone. The drama that is SDN-Nantucket goes ever onward, I assure you, but Packer's time in the spotlight has drawn to a close, and so too must our focus follow his.

My esteemed fellow co-authors, if they so choose, will fill in the blanks I leave here, and take the story in new directions. The astute among you will, of course, be able to infer a good deal from the clues I leave through my final segments as to what has transpired in the aftermath of the coup, but a great deal of the how and why is, by necessity, absent. But, for now, onward!

---

Year 2, Day 1, Noon, Nantucket

"Hurry up!" Nara called to Packer from downstairs. "I see people walking outside! I want to go!"

Packer finished urinating with a flourish and flushed the toilet. Pausing to wash his hands at the sink, he took a look at himself in the mirror. The bruises on his face had ripened quite a bit in the last few days, but it didn't bother him all that much. They stopped hurting, by and large, instead merely looking awful. The freezing cold water coming out of the tap was more painful; there was a gas-fired tank heater in the basement, but, of course, no gas to keep it hot. Packer had idly considered various ways of utilizing the hot water heater, but for now, all their hot water had be made so the old-fashioned way, so it was used economically.

He stepped out of the small bathroom, slipped on his boots, and tromped down the stairs to the ground floor of the house. His and Nara's house.

In the end, Gail Underhill had been correct in her assessment; the only way Nara and Packer could live in the Couples' District was to place them in an empty house. They'd been uniformly rejected from every single building with space available for another couple. That hurt, of course, but thinking back on it, Packer now realized that he actually preferred this situation. Since the only other girl Nara knew on the island was now living at Point Breeze, there was no way of telling how housemates would react to Nara. At least he'd known that Bill and Kaley were good people. Well, Kaley was still a good person, but...

Their house was a cedar-shingled colonial that sat on the outer edge of what was arbitrarily designated the Couples' District. It was mid-sized as far as houses in the Couples' District went, but it was old, with several fireplaces on both the ground and second floors, and true to its turn-of-the-century construction, it had only a single bathroom. Still, it was more than enough for Packer and Nara, and it looked like they'd have it all to themselves for the winter. After all, what couple would willingly move in with an Agent of Chaos and his Stone Age wife? One only need look at what happened to the last couple who did that.

Maybe I should've brought my whole family back with me, Packer thought suddenly. It'd be less lonely. But that vanished as Nara came over and gave his arm an insistent tug.

"Let's go," she demanded, a grin on her face. She was eager, Packer had realized, because she wanted to learn about her husband's tribe, as he had hers. And, like him, she knew the best way to do so was through immersion. There would be no further isolation.

Packer nodded, though he was feeling decidedly less chipper. This would not be the first time that he and Nara were out in public, but it would be the first large gathering they attended, and that made Packer more than a bit nervous. He seriously doubted anyone would try anything, but one could never be sure. He refused, however, to live his life afraid. Besides, he had his hatchet, and Nara had his knife. The story of him effortlessly hucking it at the Shark had made its rounds in the last few days, so no one in their right mind (or without superior firepower) could be expected to try anything...right?

Packer shut the front door behind them and locked it. Nara waited through this impatiently on the front stoop. The idea of locking a door had been utterly alien to Nara, until Packer had reminded her of what had happened and Kaley and Bill's house. More than Packer, she was not one to live in fear, and, in truth, she forced Packer to be more courageous.

The day was sunny and probably in the low sixties--the last remnants of summertime heat in the ocean keeping temperatures mild. It might have been ten degrees cooler on Cape Cod, for all Packer knew. They stepped off their stoop and onto their narrow street. A few couples were out and about, and though people noticed them, no one said hello. God, this is the most modern aspect of our entire situation, Packer thought wryly. New neighbors move in and everyone pretends they don't exist. Welcome back to suburbia, AP.

Nara caught him smiling and gave his hand a squeeze. "Tell me more about this game we'll see," she said happily.

"Yes," Packer replied, taking his hand back so he could gesture. "It's called football. Two groups of men each try to move an object called a football across a field in opposite directions. Each time they do this, they get something called points. Whoever has the most points at the end wins."

Nara listened solemnly; Packer could tell she was trying to visualize his explanation. He went on, "There are rules. You simply cannot run away with the football whenever you want. There is...a ritual that is repeated before every attempt to move the football. If this ritual is done wrong, then everything stops and it begins again."

"Doesn't that become boring?" Nara asked with a frown.

Packer chuckled. "Perhaps. I myself enjoy it. Maybe you will not. But, we can leave if you don't like it. There is much more to do today." He continued to try to explain the rules as best he could, though the game itself, by example, would satisfy most of Nara's questions.

The festivities for Arrival Day, long planned-for and long-awaited, would not be canceled by something so trivial as the collapse of a government. Indeed, this very fact illuminated another: whatever Nantucket had become in the last year, it was undoubtedly a society. The anarchists, killers, and criminals had more or less all died over the Long Winter, or were out on Martha's Vineyard, carving out their own corner of the world. The twenty-eight hundred or so people who remained wanted to live, and they wanted to thrive, or so Packer surmised. Upon further thought, maybe he was simply being optimistic.

As they strolled towards the high school, Packer's thoughts briefly turned to Sixgun, for some reason. He hadn't seen the man since the Abdication; he wondered if he was back on Martha's Vineyard, doing his constabulary thing. Maybe he was helping keep the peace somewhere on Nantucket, still.

As they were now out of the Couples' District, they were no longer being ignored. Most people they encountered offered at least a tentative hello, while the bolder joined them for a brief conversation. This was quite pleasant, though Packer found himself all but invisible next to Nara. He guessed that would be something he'd have to get used to. At least everyone remained respectful; beyond a few handshakes, no one got within two feet of Nara, and kept the ogling on the polite side of blatant. At least they'll be able have a good wank later, Packer thought suddenly, and had to suppress a laugh.

They approached the football field from the north; Packer could see the underside of the bleachers and the amount of legs there, so he knew it was fairly packed. He was surprised that a bunch of nerds from across the world would be so interested in American Football. But then again, their intellectual pursuits had all but ceased a year ago, so it was this, or stare at a wall. Packer wondered if baseball and soccer leagues had been organized over the summer, as well.

They looped around the stands, pausing a moment to let Nara take in the sight of the field. The two teams were warming up at opposite ends of the field, and their equipment looked pretty decent. One team wore red, the other yellow. Home-made uniforms? Packer wondered. They then turned to ascend the bleachers, and Packer was faced with a new quandary.

He had no idea where to sit. Sure enough, the usual segregation was in effect. The women clustered near the lower left corner of the bleachers (as Packer saw it), the core of the larger couples group. It was arranged such that no woman sat on an aisle. Strangely, there were few Watchmen around; perhaps the husbands/boyfriends were armed in some fashion, or perhaps the single men now knew better than to even try.

At any rate, he scanned that portion of the crowd for a few seconds, picking out several familiar faces, but not getting a welcoming vibe from them. Well, he could always sit amongst the gaggle of single men, right? No law against it, right? No rule that said that you couldn't plop your pregnant wife down like a shank of raw meat in front of slavering wolves, right?

Except the single men weren't slavering. They'd behaved decently so far. Packer could guess why: it was a combination of the rumor about him, the story floating around about the coup, and the fact that he was wearing his hatchet and Nara was wearing a knife. And, to be fair to them, they were simply well-behaved.

Packer wavered for a moment, unable to make his decision. Then, it was made for him.

"Heyyyyy, Packer! Nara! Up here!" They looked, and Miles Jameson was grinning and waving his busted hand. He was sitting near the top, with a small cluster of men around him. Packer waved acknowledgement, and they started up, allowing himself a sigh of relief as he went. If anyone was going to keep whatever unruly men there might be in line, it was Miles.

"Make room, guys, make room!" he crooned as Packer and Nara reached the top. "Here, come on, Nara, have a seat." She did so with a grin, and Packer sat next to her.

"Hey man, what jerk made you climb all these bleachers?" Packer asked. "That musta hurt."

"No, it's fine!" Miles said. He hefted his right leg, showing off the brace encasing his foot. "It distributes the weight and guards my toes. I could run a marathon, if I wanted to."

"Are you still hurt?" Nara asked Miles, a ripple of concern passing over her face.

"Not me," Miles said. "I'm tough. Right, guys?" He introduced the six or so men around them as fellow sailors. Each man, be he tall or short, was thick with muscle and fat; while life at sea was hard, they appeared to eat quite well.

"So," Packer said, "why are you here, Miles? I didn't figure on an Irishman enjoying American football."

Miles shrugged. "I don't really get it. I'm just here to cheer on my boy, Justin."

"Oh, the kid that came out to get us?" Packer said.

"Yah, he loves this game. He's a runningback or some damn thing. He's on the Mariners."

"Huh?"

Miles chuckled. "Oh, right. How would you know? They guys in red are the Madaket Mariners. The guys in yellow are the Nantucket Privateers." Miles turned to Nara. "Did he explain the rules of the game to you?"

Nara glanced at Packer, then back at Miles. "Some. Not everything, though. It...seems like the rules make it more difficult to play. Why do they stop? Why don't they just keep going?"

Miles grinned. "I wonder that myself, Nara. This game isn't popular where I come from." He suddenly looked panicked, like he'd blabbed about a surprise birthday party to the guest of honor. "I mean, that is...I come from a--"

"Your old tribe?" Nara finished. "That is why your talk is not like my husband's talk?"

Relief flooded Miles' face; Packer deliberately kept his smile down. "Yes, exactly. We played different games at my old tribe."

Nara looked like she wanted to say something, but a voice boomed out over the loudspeakers. "Attention, ladies and gentlemen! Your attention, please. Thank you for coming to the First Annual Arrival Bowl." Some in the crowd, Packer included, chuckled at this. "The game will begin soon! We ask that any remaining spectators leave the sideline area at this time. Team captains, please come to midfield for the coin toss." The board in the endzone lit up, the individual bulbs that comprised the numbers flickering hesitantly to life.

Packer was impressed that they'd powered the game, and even more impressed that everything worked. Apparently, such things could sit idle for a year and change, exposed to Nantucket's harsh winter, and still function when needed. Packer wondered where they'd stowed the gasifiers for the job. Maybe they'd used a gennie truck.

Nara's bewilderment at the disembodied voice was short-lived, as she'd apparently recalled the scene with the tape recorder in the Council Chambers. Packer put his arm around her, and they settled in, happily, to watch the football game.

Year 2, Day 1, Afternoon, Nantucket

The game ended with applause from all. Miles and his friends cheered extra hard for the Mariners, as they took the game. Packer had expected a one-sided, high-scoring blowout, but as it was, it had been a well-played, hotly-contested affair, going eventually for Madaket's team with a score of 23-20. Packer and Nara waited until the stands were mostly empty to leave. As the players had gone to their locker rooms(or perhaps they shared one), Packer took Nara out on the field.

"So, did you like the game?" he asked her as they walked, hand in hand.

She was peering down at the divots in the ground caused by cleats and gang tackles. "It was...slow," she said finally. "But when things happened, it was quite good." She added, "A little frightening, too."

"How so?" Packer asked.

"They move so fast!" she exclaimed. "And you can hear them," she brought her fist and the palm of her hand together with a meaty smack. "What if they are hurt?"

Packer nodded; maybe they could check out the padding the players wore. If there were more games, of course. "There is a chance that they'll get hurt," he said. "But they practice hard so that they won't be hurt much."

They moseyed back across the field, in the general direction of the town. Before they got far, they were stopped by a young man with a camera. "Hey, Mister and Missus Packer!" he said jovially. "Can I get your picture?" He proffered up a very expensive-looking DSLR as evidence that, perhaps, he was not bullshitting.

"Sure, what's the occasion?" Packer asked.

"Oh, I got a dispensation to document Arrival Day for, you know, posterity." He grinned. "There's fancy printer ink and dyes that don't adapt well for pens, so we might as well use it for something, right? With the modern dye and modern paper that we have, the photos could last a hundred years of they're taken care of, easy."

"Cool," Packer said. "How do you want us?"

"Oh, however you're comfortable." He fired up his camera, which chirped happily to life. "I've been collecting SDHC cards from people all over town--I've got like 200 gigs worth." He chuckled, thoroughly enjoying himself. "I'll just take a bunch of pictures and print out a good one. I'll even give you a copy."

Packer smiled warmly--he certainly never thought he'd have a picture of himself and Nara together. To her, he said, "Look at that and smile." He didn't want to let on too much--let the picture be a surprise.

Naturally, she thought the idea was idiotic. As the photographer snapped away, Nara turned to face Packer. "Why would I smile at him?" she asked. "Is this part of the football?"

"No, it's a surprise. For later." He lifted his eyebrows at her, giving her a just-trust-me-look. She rolled her eyes as a sign of acquiescent and turned back to face the photographer. It was then that Packer had an idea.

He reached both hands up along her ribs, just underneath her armpits, and tickled. He'd found out, quite by accident, that Nara was extremely ticklish. As such, he didn't do it often, or for more than second or two. But it worked. He heard, nearly simultaneously, the shocked peal of laughter from Nara and the click of the camera's high-speed shutter. Packer immediately let up and had to fend off a counter-tickle attempt by Nara. He himself was ticklish, too, just nowhere near Nara's intensity.

As he squirmed and Nara laughed, he called to the photographer, "How's that?"

The photographer was reviewing the photos he'd just taken on the DSLR's screen. A grin suddenly bloomed on his face. "Oh, I think we got it, Mister Packer. That's great." He shut his camera off. "I'll be sure to get you a copy, OK? I'll find a frame, too."

"Much obliged," Packer said, and he waved at the departing photographer. Nara had ceased her attack, but now glared at him with mock anger. To her, he said, "It will be worth it. You'll see."

"We shall see," she said after a minute, then, laughing, took his hand. "Let's go. There is much more to see, yes?"

"Yes, there is," he replied happily, and they headed off the football field and back towards town.

They next found themselves heading towards a crowded street, where a combination of a block party and a harvest festival was taking place. The decor around the buildings was straight out of some sort of chic country living magazine: bales of hay, pumpkins and gourds, dried corn stalks bundled and woven together. It was done not merely because it looked pretty--it was practical, disposable, and on hand, so it was used.

Stalls displaying various items from the harvest lined the street. Packer and Nara went up to the nearest one, manned by a jolly teenager who'd once been fat, but was now in shape and loving it. "Hey, Mister Packer! Long time no see!" Packer didn't recall ever meeting this particular kid, but it was damn nice to see so many happy people.

"Hey, what's up?" he said pleasantly.

"Oh, just handing out some cider," he said. "Not alcoholic, that is, so your lovely wife can try it, too." From a one gallon plastic jug, the kid poured two cups out for them. Packer handed a cup to Nara, then took one for his own.

"There's an apple orchard on the island?" Packer asked as he gave the cider a sniff.

"Oh, sure!" The kid seemed boundlessly enthusiastic. Maybe it was the break in the monotony. Or maybe he really liked apples. "A lot of people had apple trees in their backyards, but the actual orchards--like, hundreds of trees--are usually near mansions. Part of the grounds." The kid beamed. "I live out in one of those mansions now. A bunch of us tend the trees, and we've been planting new ones. We'll have quite a large output in a few years."

Packer listened to this, nodding when appropriate, then took a sip. It was so fresh and tasty, it almost hurt. The kid was a plethora of information: apple cider was a great fall drink, full of nutrients. And it was easy to ferment, and then distill into applejack, too. And you could make vinegar for preserving food. Lots of uses. Hmm, maybe Packer would have a little orchard of his own one day? Fat chance.

Nara said between sips, "This is very good."

The kid beamed again. "Thanks, Missus Packer. Have some more. Apples are very healthful, you know."

And as Nara chatted with the appleman, a sudden thought came out of nowhere, rising like a terrifying juggernaut in Packer's head. Somehow, he must have been keeping track of the time, because he suddenly realized that it was imminent. It was now very nearly the exact time of the Arrival.

And Packer was suddenly, horribly, irrationally sure that he would now be sent back.

It had all been some kind of awful test, a joke played on mortals by a prankster god. Exactly a year. Oh no, he thought sickly, his heart thumping. What did I do? Why did have to rock the boat? People are fucking dead because of me! How can I live with myself? How can I live with Jenny?!

Time seemed to stop. The air around him grew still, while he seemed to vibrate like he was touching a live wire. Any second now, they'd fall asleep and be back where they'd left. Or would they? Would they do this over and over? Be displaced a year? How would he explain? Packer fought desperately not to vomit, lest he aspirate while unconscious.

Then...the moment passed. Packer blinked, then shook his head. Everything was exactly as it had been. If that was the moment of Arrival(now Packer was seriously doubting it was), he now realized that nothing so momentous was going to happen. It had just been a stupid flight of fancy, a lingering fear rising up for one last, halfhearted swipe as it left his mind forever.

Nara turned to him. "Are you well? Do you not like the cider?"

Packer took a deep breath. Calm was returning. He smiled. "It's very good. And I'm fine." He thanked the kid for the cider, and he took his wife by that hand, so that they could see what else the Arrival Day festivities had to offer.

[GrandMasterTerwynn]

And on that note, I've managed to shamble back from the dead overcome my writer's block. I've been holding onto this chapter for a while, because I didn't want to release it until I had a follow-up chapter done (for reasons that will become obvious by the end of this chapter.) So, without further ado . . .

~~~

Editor's note: The following events occur on day 363, post-arrival . . .

Full Circle
It's a scene I'm all too familiar with. A police barricade is stretched out across the road, dividing us from them. Watchmen stand on one side, some equipped with riot shields crafted from salvaged sheet metal. On the other side, a motley collection of men, and even a few women. I peer over their heads, and see Bill Jorgensen's old house. Police tape criss-crosses the property. There are things out in the yard that I can't quite make out. There are things on the other side of the police line. Papers, and even flowers. Where the flowers could've come from at this time of year, I couldn't tell you.

I look down our side of the line. I see that four men and two women sit on the cold pavement, their hands tied behind their backs, their faces bruised and battered. One of them catches my gaze, and returns it with a hateful glare.

"Great, more fudgepackers," he shouts, the emphasis on the last two syllables. It was something that might've gotten him banned from the old board, but it gained him sympathetic nods from the others who were tied up next to him.

"Shut your goddamn mouth," one of the Watchmen snaps. I look at the man, see the circles under his eyes, and the livid bruise on his cheek. Things really have been interesting tonight.

"Or what, you're gonna do to me what you did to the Council?"

"Yeah, I heard all about that," someone on the other side of the barrier chimes in. "Heard that fucking savage tried to scalp someone with his ax, and got cheered for it!"

"I don't know where you get your information, but nobody tried to scalp anybody last night," one of the Watchmen replies.

"And why should we trust your story," someone else shouted. The voice sounded familiar. I look out into the crowd, and I see Timothy, with Emma at his side. "Where's Fernandez? Where's Dolsen? When, and where, is the trial going to be held?"

"Their whereabouts," the Aussie said, while breaking away from the cluster of Watchmen he was conferring with, "are being kept quiet, for now."

"And why the hell is that?"

"I assure you, it's for their own protection," the Aussie replies. I hear jeering from the crowd.

"Yeah fucking right," someone says. "I got a fucking question. When's Packer going on trial, huh?"

"The Watch is going to be careful in how it handles Packer," the Aussie replies.

"So careful, he'll get off scot-fucking-free! You know what me and my wife fucking woke up to this morning? There was a goddamn bullet on our bed. We were lucky we didn't get hurt, or killed. And my wife is ten weeks pregnant!"

"I assume you've filed a report," the Aussie says, fixing the man in his gaze.

"You're damned right I filed a fucking report."

"Bet the fudgepackers already 'lost' it," the tied-up man says.

"We will give your concerns the full attention they merit," the Aussie replies, his voice even. "We're not going to play 'witch-hunt.'"

"Then tell us where you're keeping Fernandez and Dolsen," Timothy says. "Prove to Nantucket that you 'Chartists' really stand for transparency. And I insist you make Packer answer for what he's done, too."

"And what has Mister Packer done," the Aussie asks.

"Don't give me that," Timothy replies. "He's endangering the public health. He's also threatened members of your Watch. He's committed murder, and he's put every married couple on the island at risk!"

"The hospital pronounced him, and his wife, clean . . . "

"That doesn't matter!" Timothy says. The crowd buzzes behind him. "There are viruses with long incubation periods! They can't possibly be sure that he's clean!"

"Yeah!"

"What if he makes us sick?"

"What if he makes our child sick?"

"Ladies and gentlemen," the Aussie says. "Let's calm down, be reasonable, and think about what we're doing . . . "

"That's the problem! Packer never did think! First he starts a political movement by filling the heads of young, impressionable, members of society with the notion that they can effect change by just asking for it . . . without thinking through the consequences, leading to a militant reaction when the movement fails! Now he potentially brings a whole host of diseases to the island without the slightest concern for the public health!"

I look around. The crowd has pushed closer to our barriers. The old feelings of fear are back, and I can see them reflected in the eyes of the other Watchmen. Their eyes also dart back and forth, staring out at the crowd.

"I can assure you that Packer is being very closely supervised."

"Supervised," Timothy says. "Supervised? For God's sake, why? He's a Seditionist!" He stops, takes a deep breath, and shakes his head. "I never thought the Watch would ever err on the side of dismantling our government, when we need it the most."

What about the new elections? The new government the Council's supposed to hammer out?

"Arrest Packer!"

"Yeah!" The crowd snarls.

"Arrest Packer!"

"Yeah!"

"Free the Council!"

"Yeah!" The crowd is pushing up against our barriers. I swallow nervously. Was it just me, or are there more people here than there were a few minutes before. Who's spreading the news? If it were up to me, I'd burn the grapevine to the ground tomorrow, and salt the earth just to be sure.

"Arrest Packer! Free the Council!" The crowd chants.

"Ladies! Gentlemen!" The Aussie says. He has a bullhorn in his hand now. "The Council is free. They are in charge of putting together elections for their replacements. To hammer out a new cha . . . "

"Where's the Chairman!"

"The Council has a Chairman . . . "

"That fudgepacker's no Chairman," the bound man shouts. "We want all the Council freed! We're not going to be silenced!"

"I said, shut the hell up!" The Watchman closest to the six bound men and women approaches them. The Aussie takes a step back, just enough to get in his way. The two Watchmen lock eyes, but the Aussie is unmoved.

"The Council," the Aussie replied, "elected their new chairman on their own."

"After you'd forcibly removed the first one!"

"Arrest Packer, free the Council!" Timothy shouts.

"Arrest Packer, free the Council!" The crowd chants. Behind them, I can see lights in more and more windows.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" The Aussie's voice is firm, echoing between the houses. The mob is utterly unmoved. Even in the chill of a fall New England night, I feel sweat on my brow.

"Those who seek to destroy our government have no authority here," Timothy shouts. "We won't let you let Packer destroy our future!"

"Arrest Packer, free the Council!"

"Free the Council! Free the Council!"

"Stop Packer!"

"Stop the Packerites!"

I feel the warmth of bodies all around me. The other Watchmen are starting to crowd in, backing away from the barriers. Their eyes shifting, darting back and forth. The Aussie stands in front of us all, unmoved by the mob's growing energy.

"Let our people go," Timothy shouts. "The Watch isn't welcome here! Not till you've gone back and undone the damage Packer did last night!"

"Arrest Packer!"

"And what will you do in the meantime," the Aussie says, turning the volume up on the bullhorn. "In several days, you will get to vote on your future! If you want to return the Council to power, it's in your rights to do so."

"We want all the Council! We want Packer stopped!" Timothy says. He has no bullhorn, but the way the crowd is reacting to him, the way his wife and several couples are standing defiantly with him, tells me he doesn't need it.

"Fernandez and Dolsen face serious charges. We cannot let them go!"

"Bullshit," Timothy says. "If you'd do your jobs, they could be free tomorrow and Packer's Seditionists would be where they belong!"

"Free the Council!"

"Free the Chairman!"

"You're proposing a counter-coup, then. Am I right?" The Aussie asks. "Am I right?"

"We want the legitimate government restored," Timothy replies, after barely a moment's pause.

"The old government, legitimate or not, has been deposed," the Aussie says. "You will get to choose its replacement. So I suggest that you go home and campaign. If you stay here, then you are all 'seditionists'," he adds with a jerk of his head. There was a signal. The Watchmen spread out, all of us, falling into a single line. The Aussie just told them to go home. We were the 'or else.'

"We're no Seditionists," Timothy replies. There's an angry, dull roar that rips through the crowd. "Packer and his are the Seditionists on Nantucket! You want us to go away? You want us to go along? Fine! Our price is Packer! Free the Council, or give us Packer!"

"Free the Council!"

"Free the Council!"

"Arrest Packer!"

"Arrest Packer!"

The wail of more police sirens cut through the air. Unless I missed my guess, the Watchmen coming up behind us would have rifles and shotguns. They'd be ready to handle a mob that's just set itself up.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the Aussie says. "We will determine what, if anything, is to be done with Packer. We will have no show-trials. No witch-hunts. Now, you can go home, or the Watch will arrest the whole lot of you. This is . . . "

Thunk!

Screeech! The sound of feedback fills the night air.

No, wait, what was that sound before? Why has the Aussie stopped talk . . . oh Malevolent Powers, don't you do this to me; don't you fucking dare!

Q and Haruhi ignore me, as they always they have . . . The Aussie has dropped to the ground like he were a sack of rocks. Right where his throat meets his chest, the shaft of an arrow sticks out. Time slows for me. He isn't moving, and somehow, I just know that he isn't gonna ever move again.

I'm lunging forward, even as the other Watchmen are falling back. I hear the massed scraping of metal on plastic and nylon. The soft clicks of thumbs brushing aside safeties. My old Colt is free of its holster, but the whole of my universe is focusing on that bullhorn. I hear screaming ahead of me as the shock of seeing someone die finally registers. I stumble, just barely catching myself. I can feel the fractions of a second slipping by me. Time running out. Why am I going for that bullhorn, why? The right hand of the Watch has just been chopped off; what can I do about that? What am I going to do?

My fingers wrap tightly around the grip of that bullhorn. It's still warm. The thought turns my stomach, but it's gone as quickly as it arrives. I know what I'm going to do.

I stand up straight, thrusting the muzzle of my sixgun up into the air, the bullhorn smashing into my lips.

"Hold your fire! Hold your fire! By God, nobody fucking shoot!"

[GrandMasterTerwynn]

Presenting the conclusion of the longest 36 hours in the history of SD-Nantucket.

~~~

The Devil's Canyon

"Nobody fucking shoot!"

The words echoed through the streets. I'd said those words, me. Why?

"Nobody fucking shoot!"

By God, why not shoot?

Most of 'em are innocent.

None of 'em are innocent. They're all guilty of something!

Some of 'em are innocent!

All those fuckers are guilty. Look at that man over there . . . caught him stealing tools during the summer. Look at that woman over there . . . she was complicit in trying to prostitute a number of boys under the age of fourteen. The only reason she never went to Muskeget was 'cause we don't have the women to waste. That fella over there, he did go to Muskeget for robbing someone at knife-point.

They're all guilty. No ten of 'em is worth one Aussie. Just pick one, any one. Shoot him, by God!

We're an island of fucking laws!

They didn't care. And the boys would back you up. They've lost their leader. The Watch can have its revenge, and those goddamn ingrates will learn what it means to be afraid.

Fear . . . did we want to rule by fear? Isn't that why you helped the Old Man and Packer knock down the whole damned old order?

. . . . .

Isn't it? Isn't it? Answer me, you goddamn sonofabitch!

The Aussie is dead, and this mob killed him. The asshole with the bow. The fuckers who are hiding that asshole. The spineless shitheads who are going to pretend they saw nothing. Who are so fucking malcontent they're going to stand around and bitch, but are so goddamned pussy that none of 'em is willing to die for what they believe in. Oh, I can show them.

An eye for an eye? A tooth for a tooth? A nail for a nail? Thought we prided ourselves for our reason here.

And look where it got us?

Hey, we ain't done too bad. Most of the people who went back are still here, and of those who died . . . we only had to shoot a handful of 'em.

So what the fuck do you want from me?

Give 'em a chance.

They didn't give the Aussie no goddamn chance!

We're better than they are.

Damn straight!

We ought to act like it. We're better than they are. We don't have to carry any of this shit home at the end of the day.

What?

You heard me, Cowboy. You heard what he said. Take none of this home. Walk off, and forget about it.

How the fuck can I forget?

By not doing something you'll regret.

But I regret every goddamn day I've been on this godforsaken island! Every goddamn misstep. Every goddamn miserable day trying to stay alive. Every goddamn little sonofabitch I've ever had to kill, or I've had to watch die on this goddamn, fucking, motherless shithole!

Whoa, pardner . . . bitter much?

Damn straight! And those sons of bitches just took away one of the few good things on this goddamn island.

Then don't give 'em the satisfaction of getting your goat. That's what they want. They want martyrs. They want an excuse to take away every other good thing on this island. Don't give 'em that. Don't take this shit home!

They got everything else. They'd might as well get the fucking goat too . . .

How 'bout your ducks, then? And your cozy little shack on the Vineyard? If you start gunning these sumbitches down, you think the Old Man's gonna let you go back?

I . . .

Alive?

No . . . God damn it! God damn fucking conscience! You're right, you know?

Yes. We're nearly out of time . . . they're expecting you to say something.

Fuck you.

Something productive.

They don't deserve it.

But they're going to get it anyway, aren't they? Because we'd like to go home, without having to take any of this shit with us.

What the hell do I say to them?

I think you know . . .

Yeah . . . nice knowing you, I guess. No, I take that back. I fucking hate you, just so you know.

. . . . .

I slowly lower my gun, my eyes sweeping across the mob. The Aussie's dead body is right at the bottom of my field of view. None of this matters any more to him, as his trip back in time has come to an end. Guess it's up to the rest of us now.

"One chance. One more fucking chance!"

The words crackle and echo. I carefully, deliberately, slip my old sixgun back into its holster.

"One last chance to fucking play nice, boys and girls," I say, holding out my hand. I'm now unarmed. If that asshole with the bow decides to take another shot . . . if nobody sees him, or stops him . . . I can't out-draw an arrow in flight. I hear the sirens getting closer, but they'll still be too far away to affect the outcome.

I stare out at the mob. "Your move, boys. What's it gonna be?"

Tense silence, and then, there's screaming. I hear screaming. I can't distinguish the words, but it's coming from somewhere back in the mob. There's some more yelling.

Crack!

Something strikes the pavement about a foot from me and skitters away. I'm already wound up tighter than a preacher's daughter on her wedding night, so I don't even manage a flinch. Somewhere off to the side, I hear a surprised yelp. The voice sounds like it belongs to the most vocal heckler we'd got tied up on our side of the line.

The crowd surges, and I hear swearing.

"Hey Cowboy!" Someone shouts behind me. "What are we doing? They just took a shot at you!"

"I know, I know," I reply. "Hold your fire. Nobody shoot. Yet." I pick up the bullhorn again.

"Make a hole, make a hole!" Someone yells from within the mob. I recognize the voice as Timothy's. A moment later, he reappears, and the mob shuffles away from him. He looks me in the eye.

"We got 'em," he said. I silently return his stare.

"We got your shooter," he says. His gaze drops to the Aussie's body.

I scowl. "Well, bring him here, then!"

"Not so fast," Timothy replies, raising his voice. "We have someone you want now." I almost do a double-take. I search his face, but all I see is an hard, emotionless, mask. "And you have people we want."

I wanted to jump the barrier and shake the man to within an inch of his goddamn life.

"You hear those sirens," I finally say, after rejecting quite a few choicer words.

"I do," Timothy replies. "Are you going to tear the Couples' District down looking for your shooter?"

"We could. We could do a lot more too."

"You wouldn't," Timothy replies, his voice flat. "Look at the women behind me," he says. "Guess how many of them are pregnant?"

"You'd protect a cold-blooded killer just to spite us? You'd hold the whole Couples' District hostage?" It's becoming harder to keep the incredulity out of my voice.

"Nobody forced these people to be out here," Timothy replies. "And your people would allow mob rule to hold the future of Nantucket hostage. A mob swayed by the words of someone like Packer? I'd say we're even."

I'd disagree, you sonofabitch.

I depress the button on the bullhorn. "Give us the shooter," I say. "Give us the shooter . . . and the rest of you can go home."

"They who can give up essential liberty to obtain a little temporary safety, deserve neither liberty nor safety," Timothy shouts. He looks me in the eye again. I'm momentarily impressed. He got the quote right. "Not good enough," he says to me. "Free the Council. If you're not willing to do that, then give us Packer . . . a murderer for a murderer."

"And then a tree'll bear some mighty strange fruit," I reply.

"And Muskeget is any better than that? I never implied that we'd kill him!" He shouts that loud enough for the mob to hear him. "We just want him off the island, never to come back! Never to stir up more sedition and treachery!"

"He's going to go back!" I shout.

"On whose say-so? On the word of seditious Packerites?"

The mob is beginning to get restless again, but the gambit is over. I hear the snarl of tires on pavement, the scream of sirens. The whole neighborhood becomes lit up in bright, flashing lights. The cavalry is finally here.

"What are you people doing!" I hear a voice behind me snap. I blink. That voice!

"Mike!" Timothy exclaims. I file that away, but Mike Wong isn't important right now. What's important is what the hell is the old Chairman doing here?

"Are you out of your goddamn minds?" Bob Fernandez growls. The footsteps behind me quicken. "Daniel . . . is that Daniel? What have you people done!" Fernandez stops right next to me. I'm shoved to the side by John and another Watchman, but Fernandez's attention is fixed on the Aussie.

"Mister Chairman," Timothy says. "We'd heard you were their prisoner, what's going on?"

"I'm not the Chairman anymore," Fernandez snaps. "And who did this?" He says, gesturing to the Aussie.

"We have the one who did this," Timothy replies.

"Well, then bring him forward!"

"Gentlemen, gentlemen," Mike Wong growls, pushing his way to the barrier. The man looks very, very tired.

"You look rough," Timothy says, as he shoots the Watchmen, and myself, a sharp side glance.

"Not because of them," Mike replies. "We've been trying, desperately, to get a charter drafted so the elections can be held."

"Charter?" Timothy echoes.

"Yeah," Mike replies. "The Council, as it is, really is done." I note that he says this just loud enough so that everyone can hear him.

Several warring emotions cross Timothy's face. Emma emerges from the mob to take his arm. In the relative calm, Mike Wong looks over the mob on one side, and the Watch on the other.

"I'm fucking sick of asking people 'what the hell are you thinking,'" he finally says. "It's become clear to me that nobody on this goddamn island has really been doing any. I assume the rest of the engineers are with you?"

"Yeah, yeah they are," Timothy replies. The shock hasn't left his face.

"That's good. I want them all of them over at your house. Right now."

"I'll handle that," Emma says. She takes a moment to kiss Timothy's cheek, and then she's gone. Soon after, a few men and women start melting away from the crowd. The copper in me wants to stop them, as does the ugly voice of vengeance. The rest of me follows the cue of the other Watchmen and says nothing.

"I must interrupt," Bob Fernandez says. "You know who murdered this man," he snaps, gesturing toward the Aussie. "Just because the Council is removing itself from power doesn't mean that Nantucket degenerates into anarchy! If you have this man's killer, bring him forward, and turn him over," he suddenly gestures towards us, "to the proper authorities!"

"What authority do they have?" Timothy says, seeming to come alive. "They backed Packer's coup!"

"Point Breeze," Mike replies. "And the full backing of the Council, such as it is! Will that be good enough for you?"

That seemed to deflate Timothy. He looks around at the slowly dispersing mob, and at the Watchmen. "Yeah, okay, I get it." He eyes me. "We're going to demand a fully-public trial for them. Tell your boss that."

No guarantees.

"Right," I reply. "I'll let the Old Man know."

"As will I, when I'm done here," Mike says. I blink. "A lot of things on this goddamn island need to be revisited. Timothy, bring the man forward already."

Timothy looks back, making a gesture. From one of the remaining groups of people, emerge a man and a young woman. My evaluation of the man ends as abruptly as his stump of a right arm.

"You did it," Fernandez says. He's looking at the young woman.

"Yes . . . I did," she says.

"And I protected her," the man says, thumping his chest with his good arm.

There are so many questions I want to ask her, at that moment. I don't get a chance, as John and the other Watchmen push aside the barricades, and hurry the man and woman past me.

"My God, what are we coming to," Fernandez says, staring out into the night. Here's a question I can ask.

"Mister Fernandez . . . why'd they bring you here?"

"You again," Fernandez says. He stares at me for a few moments, and then shakes his head. "It should be obvious to you. I'm here to corroborate everything Michael tells these people. Every. Last. Thing."

"And what are you going to tell us," Timothy asks.

"You'll hear it with the rest of the engineers," Mike replies. He then lowers his voice so that only we can hear him. "I'm also here to tell you that I'm done. I'm sick of all of this. First chance we get, Rebecca and I are moving to Madaket. You're in charge of the damn engineers now, Timothy. And new elections will be held. The old order is done, and the engineers are going to need representation in the new one." He looks at me and scowls. "You . . . Get the Watch out of here," he said.

"Excuse me, sir?"

"You heard me," he growls. "You people have nearly destroyed the Couples' District two nights in a row! Everyone here is free to go . . . you understand? Completely free to go. And the Watch is not welcome in the Couples' District until after the elections, either."

My head starts to spin. "But what about Packer? Fernandez?"

"Packer will be safe here. I'll make damn sure of that," Mike replies. "Fernandez is also my responsibility. Now get your men out of here! There are some things Fernandez and I need to talk to Timothy, and the others, about."

"I . . . yeah, okay. Yes sir," I finally say. What else could I say? In many ways, Mike Wong was still the spiritual head of Nantucket's weary time-travelers. If he said Al Packer would be safe here, then that was how it would be. Somehow, I force myself into action. Even as a pair of men from the hospital shoulder past me with a gurney between them, I'm barking out orders. There's barricades to be taken down, weapons to be accounted for, and squad cars to be directed out.

Even then, at the back of my mind, I'm wondering what'll happen next. And, how I was going to explain this all to the Old Man . . . . .

[TimothyC]

I hope the sections that I talked with Simon about are going to make it in.

As for my avatar, now I'm really in it.

[Alferd Packer]

Year 2, Day 8, Morning, Nantucket

Packer sniffed the morning air. The day was cloudy and chilly. Not a fun day to be waiting at the bus stop, but he wouldn't be waiting long.

The bus stop was for the preggo van. It was, of course, officially called the Point Breeze-Couples District-Hospital Loop Shuttle, and its sole purpose was to allow women to get around as they needed. Men were only allowed board to go from the Couples District to the hospital or Point Breeze and back again, and only with their woman as an escort.

But Packer wasn't going to the hospital today; Nara was going to Point Breeze for the first time.

They'd been approached about this a few days back by Gail Underhill, and the proposal was simple. A few days per week, Nara would spend the day at Point Breeze, socializing, improving her English, and continuing her education. There were, evidently, a few single women who were teachers back in the future, and the idea of having a student overwhelmed any prejudice that might have existed (not that Packer thought it did). Similarly, Packer realized that Nara couldn't be by his side the whole winter. She needed a life outside him. What's more, she needed to experience Nantucket, and she could learn about a facet of its society that Packer couldn't.

Nara stood at his side; he glanced at her. She was sniffing the air, too.

"Will it rain today?" she asked him, suddenly. Nara had a nose for the weather--literally. Not only could she tell when it was going to rain, but she also predicted when the temperature would spike or plummet, or when the humidity would rise or fall. Packer didn't have the faintest idea how she did it. A lifetime of living outdoors, he guessed.

Now, she was quizzing him, seeing if he could determine what she felt. In a broad sense, he could. He'd grown up out in the boonies, and he always knew when it 'smelled like rain.' There were degrees and subtleties to that smell, however, that would probably elude him forever. Still, Nara was waiting, so he had to make a guess.

"No," he said with conviction, though false.

Nara arched an eyebrow and sniffed again. "I think you are right. It will rain in the night. It's not quite here yet."

Packer smiled. Looking over Nara's shoulder, he saw that two other girls were waiting for the bus, being as far from the bus stop as one could reasonably be and still be considered a potential passenger. Every now and then, they'd sneak a look over at Packer and Nara. He found himself wondering just what it was they'd been told; why they were afraid. Or even if they were afraid, as upon a closer look, one of the girls was assessing him, much like a Watchman would. Packer looked away. Apparently his antics during the Long Winter had soured their opinion of him permanently. Oh well.

Judging from the baby bumps they were concealing beneath sturdy coats, they were headed to the hospital. Packer wondered which shuttle would come first. As it happened, the shuttle heading toward Point Breeze arrived, possibly the same gasified Ford van they'd ridden in a week ago. A man and woman debarked, and the driver announced out the window, "Point Breeze next! Point Breeze!"

Packer gave him a little signal of acknowledgement. He then noted that the woman who'd been giving him the hairy eyeball suddenly shifted her attention to the couple and patted her right hip three times. He wouldn't have noticed it if he hadn't spent the last six months forcing himself to read and analyze everyone's body language. Christ, he thought, they're signaling each other. They must be keeping tabs on my movement.

Since there was very little Packer could do about that, he escorted Nara around the side of the van; she opened the sliding door without a problem. For a moment, as she climbed in, he had the ridiculous feeling of sending a kid to their first day of kindergarten, rather than seeing his wife off. With resolve, he squashed the image and forced a smile.

"Seatbelt," Packer reminded her. She buckled the lap belt without difficulty; Packer didn't think there was any danger, as the van moved pretty sedately, but it never hurt to be cautious.

"Be well today," she said. She looked nothing but excited, and Packer took it as such. Nara was not one to mask strong emotions.

"I will. I'll be back here before sunset." He shut the door, stepped back, and waved. She waved back, and the preggo van moved down the street.

The girls who'd been waiting at the periphery of the bus stop had assumed a more central position. As the van had been between them and Packer, they didn't see him not get on. Packer was amused to hear one who was not in on the apparent recon job peep when they saw him standing there, sans wife.

Packer put his hands behind his back and walked over to them. For a second, he imagined that, in a house across the street, there was a crossbow trained on him. Or something like that. He had to fight the urge to turn around and scan the windows. Instead, he stopped about a yard away, put on a smile, and said affably, "You can think whatever you want of me, but I think that if you give her a chance, you'll find that she's a real sweetheart." And he left the girls standing at the bus stop as he walked back to his house.

As he turned the corner onto his street, he saw a man and two dogs approaching him from a distance. Oh great, another asshole's keeping tabs on me? he thought. These people need to get a new hobby. Then his pulse quickened--not because he felt himself in danger, but because the dogs were so familiar and dear to him. Long black fur on the bodies, a regal blaze of white on the chest, brown paws and muzzles--Bernese Mountain Dogs held a special place in Packer's heart.

As it turned out, the dogs were pulling a wagon full of splitting logs, and the man was walking alongside as a guide. They each reached Packer's house at the same time, where they stopped.

"Morning," the man said. He was about six foot even, with salt-and-pepper hair that was starting to thin, but not too bad, brown eyes, and a drawn face. If Packer had to judge, he was probably about forty, though he could've just as easily been a well-kept fifty. "You Al Packer?"

"Yessir," Packer replied. Without thinking about it, he offered one of the Berners his hand to sniff--palm facing toward his body, as he'd been taught as a child. The panting galoot gave it a big wet kiss.

"Well then!" the man had been a tad cool beforehand, but now he was smiling. "Sasha's usually not big on strangers. How about that."

"I grew up around Berners," Packer said, crouching to give Sasha a scratch on the chest. She(he was familiar enough with the breed to tell the difference between genders) chuffed happily. At the same time, he let the other dog sniff his hand. "Always loved 'em."

"Me too," the man said. "By the way, I'm Ryan. Ryan Chandre."

"Nice to meet you, Mister Chandre," Packer replied, standing up. Sasha whined and pawed at him. "Okay, okay," he said with a chuckle, and resumed petting her.

"Please, call me Ryan," Chandre said. "At any rate, I'm here with your wood delivery."

"Ah, great," Packer bluffed. Hmm. No one told me about this. "Come on back, we'll get this stuff unloaded, give these two a chance to run around."

He led them through a large, low gate, along the short driveway, and into the backyard of the house. The lot didn't have much to it, but there was room enough for a fire pit and a barbecue, along with a toolshed and a nice patio. Packer and Nara had already eaten a few meals outside, when the weather cooperated.

"If you want to take them out of their harness, feel free," Packer said. "I don't mind if they do their business back here."

"I'm sure they'll appreciate that, Packer," Chandre said. He set a chock on one of the wagon's wheels, then removed the harness. The dogs immediately set to scoping out their new environs.

"What's the fella's name?" Packer asked.

"Vitaly," Chandre replied. "Got a Ukrainian fellow out at the kennel, he names the dogs after his cousins...or so he tells us."

Packer considered that. "But they look full-grown. Berner that big can't be less than three."

"Yup," Chandre said. He had a bit of southern twang to his words--North Carolina, maybe? It was rather pleasant. "I happened upon them first day we got here. Up in a mansion out in Siasconset. They're brother and sister--I saw the pedigree. Anyway, we took over a kennel and housed Siasconset's dogs there. The useful ones, that is. We're trainging the working breeds for, you know, farm stuff. Pulling plows, wagons, that sort of thing."

"What about donkeys or horses?" Packer asked.

"Well, no donks on the island that I'm aware of," Chandre mused. "Horses you can find here and there, 'specially out on the east side of the island. Lotta rich folks had stables for riding, but there are also some draft horses. Thing is, horses take a long time to breed. We can get dogs bred and trained up a lot quicker."

"Sure, sure," Packer said. "Any other dog types? Hounds, terriers, that kind?"

"Yup. We got a few hounds for coursing and other hunting activities. Our focus as that goes, however, is smaller breeds. We're training a lot of terriers for ratting--we've got a harvest to protect, after all. And, of course, got a couple shepherds for, well, herding." He paused for a moment, adding, "I hear there are some toy breeds in the girls' place, but not out by us."

Packer didn't reply, as one would be hard pressed to follow up the implied statement that nearly all the toy breeds had died over the Long Winter. Indeed, the number of dogs living on Nantucket today must be a mere fraction of the pre-Arrival dog population. Packer wondered, with some discomfort, just how many times the cafeteria had served dog stew. Or horse stew, for that matter. When one was ravenously hungry, one tended not to ask questions.

Sasha, having just finished laying a serious loaf over in the corner of the yard, bounded over to Packer. "Say, that's a good dog," he cooed. Crouching down, he gave her sides a scratch. She immediately flopped on her back.

"Well, I guess I can't say no to that..." Packer rubbed her stomach. She stretched out and grunted. Chandre laughed. "I gotta say, I've never seen her react this way to a stranger."

"I think they can tell if a person is a dog person," Packer said conversationally. "They're so good at reading body language, tone of voice, and all that." He glanced down. "She had a litter recently?"

"Wow, good eye," Chandre said. "Back the end of August, yeah. Purebred. Three bitches and three dogs."

Packer stood up. "You mean to tell me that there are some eight-week old Berner puppies on Nantucket?" He grinned. "I don't what the hell it is you might've heard about me being a badass or a tough guy or whatever. If I were to lay eyes on those puppies, I do believe I'd squeal like a little girl."

Chandre laughed loudly, holding his sides. When he had control of himself, he said, "Tell you what. If you ever find yourself out in Siasconset, our operation is off Milestone Road, about two miles west of Siasconset proper. Smack in the middle of farm country. Just ask anyone to point you towards the kennel."

"Well, I might just take you up on that offer, Ryan." He stood. "Let me go scrounge up some leather gloves, and I'll get this wagon offloaded for you."

Year 2, Day 8, Noon, Nantucket

The wheelbarrow was in serviceable condition, though its axle definitely needed a thorough lubing. As he pushed it along, empty, Packer wondered where he might scrounge up some WD-40. Hell, some fish oil would work. Oh well, he'd ask Jason.

He was on his way to the metal shop; he wanted to see the old place, and right now, he had a couple hours to spare. He'd split the wood Ryan Chandre had dropped off in around an hour. It felt good to exercise; he'd been taking it easy ever since he'd had his ass kicked the night of the coup. And the hypothetical Couples District informant would've gotten an eyeful of him getting all sweaty while shirtless, as well as the bruises staining his torso. He had the rather silly hope that a girl had drawn observation detail, then dismissed the entire train of thought as a flight of fancy.

Outside the Couples District, he found himself less of a pariah. There were lot of people out and about, more than usual, in fact. That was, of course, because it was Ratification Day.

Ratification Day was the topic of conversation. The polls were going to be open all day, or so Packer'd heard, so that people could go either before or after work. Deliberately, kept himself in the dark; his honest ignorance of the minutiae would give the notion that he was beyond domestic politics much more credence. It allowed him, also, to maintain a detached curiosity about the whole event. Perhaps he'd need to remember what he'd observed for some future crisis. At the least, it'd make a good story to tell his kids.

He passed a polling place, and was pleasantly surprised to see a line. Must be the lunchtime crowd. He was encouraged by the seemingly high turnout.

The shop was much closer to his current house than his old one. Remarkably, a pang of nostalgia struck him as he sighted the building. I did have some pretty good times there with the guys, he thought with a small sigh. Before I set everything cockeyed by turning into a firebrand populist. He set the wheelbarrow down next to the line of bikes in the parking lot, and, on pure muscle memory, opened the door.

The shop was humming along as it always did; it was November, so Packer wagered that anything that provided heat or power was getting a tune-up, or having replacement parts fabricated. He stepped onto the floor, unnoticed, reveling in the noises and the smells--the smell of flux, of hot metal, of sweat. It was the smell of industry and enterprise.

Rustbucket was the first to notice him and thus interrupt his waxing poetic. He was clamping a section of copper tubing into the pipe bender when he happened to look up. Of course, he dropped the pipe with a clang loud enough to catch the attention of his neighbor, and so on.

Had Packer not been near the wall, he would've been crushed by the swarming Machinists.

Fortunately, Jason Terrance saved him. "Hey! Hey! Assholes! Just because you got time off to vote doesn't mean you get to gangbang your old boss! I get first crack at him. What with his shiny, long hair. Back to work! You'll have plenty of time to catch up after I'm done." Reluctantly, they complied.

"Come on," Terrance said, a smile on his face. "We'll go shoot the shit in the office for a while."

He took in the office as Terrance shut the door behind them. It was largely the same, though Terrance seemed to be a good deal more organized than Packer was. There were additions: in one corner sat a couple of cardboard boxes, and lined up along one of the walls were Packer's instruments: two acoustic guitars, an electric, and a bass, along with a his amp. Each rested on a stand, in its case.

"You mind if I try 'em out?" Packer said, pointing. He'd been unable to keep the eagerness out of his voice.

"They're yours," Terrance replied with a wave. Packer pulled up a chair and plugged the amp into the wall outlet he knew worked. It was weird not sitting behind his old desk.

"So how's life been treating you, boss?"

Packer had the first acoustic on his lap, the one he kept in standard tuning. As he plucked and tuned, he said, "Well, the people in the Couples' District seem to have it out for me. I don't blame them a stitch, but it does get lonely, just me and her."

"Better than being all alone," Terrance remarked. He was sifting through a stack of what looked like work orders.

"Well, sure. But we came from...well, it's hard to describe what the tribe is like. It's like...the first day of a family reunion, before everyone's sick of each other. Sure, there may be little frictions here and there, but on the whole, everyone's like a big extended family. It's quite comforting."

"And you really want to bring a bunch of assholes back out there with you next spring? Won't that spoil everything?"

Having satisfactorily tuned the guitar, he started running through some chords, to see how his fingers responded. To his delight, his muscle memory allowed him to change as crisply as he ever did. "Well, I'm not going to bring back assholes, Jason."

Terrance looked up. "You know what I mean, boss."

"Yeah, but I'm not the jealous type. Just because I feel a marvelous sense of community doesn't mean I have to hoard it all. Trust me on this." Emboldened, he suddenly played a progression of bar chords at full speed, repeating the pattern twice. When he was done, he looked up at Terrance.

"Boston," he replied. " 'Peace of Mind.' "

Packer smiled. "Kinda loses the impact without the lead electric kicking in, but it's good practice." He set aside the standard tuned one and started working on the one he usually kept dropped a whole step. "I hope at least some of you guys sign up for the class."

Terrance shrugged. "Honestly, boss, I don't see what good it's worth. For a farmer or even a carpenter, sure. Not us."

Packer glanced up. He started plucking the intro to Metallica's "Nothing Else Matters." He didn't expect Terrance to be able to name it. "Jason, how much feet of copper tubing is left? Roughly?"

"Roughly?" He thought about it for a minute. "Two hundred thousand feet? Two-fifty? We used a lot for irrigation over the summer, but the wrecking crews keep pulling more out of houses."

"And that's great. But guess what? They're going to run out of houses someday soon. And there's going to be no more pipe after that. Whatever you have in storage will be it. You can't make more copper pipe. For one, you don't have the tools for it, and you can't build them. For another, you can't gather enough copper. Too much labor is tied up elsewhere, Jason. And the same goes for all of your raw materials. It's more finite than you think." He started playing another song.

"Beatles?" Terrance asked. He was obviously guessing.

"You're just playing the odds. You happen to be right, though. 'Yesterday. ' "

"You have weird taste in music, boss," Terrance said with a grin. Then, a bit more seriously: "So? The island is a dead end. We all know that. But there's equipment enough here to keep us running for...what, twenty, thirty years. More, if we're careful."

Packer shook his head. "And you're fine with that? You want to stick around that long? Building gasifiers? Patching car motors? Making crossbows? Listen," he now had the electric in his hands and was messing with the dials on the amp, "what about a family? You're thirty-six now, Jason. Ain't gonna be no drugs to keep your cholesterol in check. No chemotherapy. You still have time left, but odds are good you're past the halfway mark."

"Asshole, you're only eight years younger than me," Terrance said without malice.

"I know, and I've already made my start. But whatever, Old Man," Terrance flipped him off, and Packer grinned, "you may not feel the urge, but I guarantee you your guys out there do. Some of them."

Terrance shrugged. "I'm sure. And I'll allow them to fit the the class into their schedules. But you're not going to take any of them out to the mainland next spring, so what's the point?"

Packer cranked the distortion all the way up and started messing with some power chords. "Well, that depends on you, Jason. You should be turning this place into a blacksmith's forge. Experiment with melting down engine blocks. Making tools, that sort of thing. You need to have foresight, to make sure that they're still skilled laborers, no matter what."

"What? Why?"

"Because you have people gunning for you, Jason. During my encounters with the Council, I learned that they're so pissed at you swiping the plans, that they're trying to train up a second batch of Machinists. Machinists who'll play by the rules. Now, I don't know the new government will follow through with that, but you have a lot of enemies. Mostly the same ones I do, I'm sure."

"Well, that explains the paper today," Jason said.

"Huh?"

"Someone prints up a weekly circular, maybe fifty copies, that runs down the doings of the island in brief. Today's was about the vote and the upcoming elections. I usually post it on the corkboard, but I haven't just yet. Here." Terrance handed Packer a sheet of low-grade scratch paper, like the kind you got in school for a math test. It made the text a little hard to read, but Packer scanned it until he found...

"...'He went into further detail on this point,' " Packer read, " 'stating that his group, when given representation, would hold sacred the principles of transparent government and free information. "The negligence committed by the former Council and monopolists like the Machinists will not be practiced or tolerated," Timothy said.' " Packer looked up at Terrance. "Wait, Timothy? Like, Tim and Emma?"

Terrance nodded gravely. "He has been pissed ever since we swiped the plans. I mean, they were his drawings, after all. I tried apologizing to him once at a baseball game back in August. I thought he was gonna deck me."

Packer shrugged. "Hmm. I wouldn't be surprised if he had tried to keep me out of the Couples' District, too." Packer looked down at the paper. "Timothy, huh? And I always said 'Tim.' Wonder if he secretly hated that."

Terrance replied in an exaggerated voice, "There are some who call him...Tim."

"Greetings, Tim the Enchanter," Packer said with a smirk, to show that he knew his Holy Grail as good as anyone. They sat silently for a moment, then Packer added. "So he's labeling you monopolists. I like that. He's put you on the defensive before you even knew you had to fight."

"Christ, boss, whose side are you on?" Packer handed the sheet back to Terrance, who looked at it ruefully. "I mean, if he means to get a spot in the new government, I guess someone on our side will have to run to oppose him. Or check him, rather, so he can't dismantle our operation."

"Not good enough, Jason," Packer admonished. "Tim...Timothy's probably gone around to half a dozen groups and promised them Cthulhu knows what for their votes. Building alliances. You need to be doing the same."

Terrance looked at Packer like he had suggested he reach into an unflushed toilet, scoop out a handful of crap, and eat it. "Ugh. I swear, this is going to be the death of me, boss. I was so eager for you to take your job back..."

"I know, Jason. And I'm sorry. But I can't go back to this. I've changed too much."

Terrance leaned back in his chair. "Well, I could've told you that." He watched Packer hook the bass up to the amp. "You have a different look about you."

"Yeah, yeah, my long, flowing hair, and my clothes."

"No, it's not just that. Your eyes are different. You're...calmer. Some days over the Long Winter, it looked like you were wound tighter than a crab's asshole, like your head was gonna pop clear off from the pressure. But now, even after all this..." Terrance gestured helplessly.

"I dunno why, Jason. Maybe it was because I had a couple of close calls out on the mainland. I just...I dunno. My whole perspective has shifted. I can tell you exactly when I knew things couldn't be the way they were, though."

"Yeah?"

Packer didn't reply...with words. He played a riff on his bass, then looked up. "Well?"

Terrance shrugged. "Got me, boss. I was never huge into music."

"Good God, man!" Packer cried in feigned exasperation. "That's Bon Jovi. 'Living on a Prayer.' "

Terrance snorted. "No wonder. Bon Jovi sucks. Always has, always will."

"Don't say that to a man from New Jersey, you buckeye corn pone."

Terrance's face darkened. "Better than being from a state which glorifies assholes with popped collars and blowouts. Ready to go down the shore, are ya?"

Packer snarled back, "No, I'd much rather spend my youth fucking farm animals and cooking meth, you landlocked douchenozzle!"

They studied each other for a moment, the hum of the amp the only sound in the room, then they burst out of laughing.

[Alferd Packer]

Year 2, Day 8, Afternoon, Nantucket

Packer tried the fully-loaded wheelbarrow out. It was heavy, but he'd manage. He set it down, turning back to face Andrew, who'd helped him load it up.

"So," Andrew said, "what did you say to him?"

Packer grinned. "I just told him a little story. No biggie. He'll be fine." Actually, Terrance had looked about ready to faint after Packer shared a story from his time out on the Cape Cod. Just before Miles and Kevin had shown up, there had been a big end-of-summer party(at least, that's how Packer characterized it), complete with a huge amount of food, music, and even dancing. The dance was something everyone learned as a child, so the steps and moves were unknown to Packer. But Nara was there to teach him, and to his surprise, he had learned just how subtly erotic the dance was.

It wasn't ostentatious. It was nothing so flagrant as, say, the dancing at the Sausage Fest had been. Instead, it focused on keeping physical contact as fleeting as possible. If you were clumsy about it, you tended to knock into your partner. The goal was to just barely touch one another, but retain eye contact at all times. After a short while, Packer had found himself utterly entranced; he had completely given himself over to the music.

Naturally, he and Nara had topped the evening off with mind-blowing sex.

Packer didn't quite know why he'd shared the details of the night with Terrance. It just seemed like a thing to talk about--just a good ol' fashioned bull session, to use a phrase Packer had once read somewhere. But the effect had been profound: redface, Terrance had stayed behind his desk while Packer and Andrew moved his instruments and boxes into the wheelbarrow, and no amount of ribbing would dislodge him.

"Come on, boss." Andrew held his hands out, palms up. "It must have been juicy."

"Juicy?" Packer shrugged, grinning. "Perhaps. But not important in even the short term." His smile faded. "The main thrust of my visit was to light a fire under his ass, so that he'd watch out for yours."

"Yeah, I read that interview with Timothy when I went to vote," Andrew said. "We haven't even ratified the damn document and he's already talking about elections."

"That's because he's smart. He recognized a power vacuum and--I'm guessing here--recognized the potential threat to himself and his wife. He has no choice but to try to fill that void with a stabilizing authority as fast as he can. And if you want something done right, you might as well do it yourself. At the same time, he must begin to lash out at those he perceives to be the enemy."

"Us," Andrew finished with a frown.

Packer nodded emphatically. "Yup. I mean, imagine the fear the Couples' District must feel. What's their worst case scenario? A government, legitimately elected, and the first thing it does is, say, outlaw monogamy, because it's the will of the people. If you were in his shoes, wouldn't you try everything to make sure something awful like that never happens? He might go too far and sour public opinion, or he may wind up running the whole show."

They were silent for a moment. "So, you seeing anyone?"

Andrew seemed surprised that that Packer would ask. "Actually, yeah. For about four months now. He's a chef in one of the cafeterias. His name's Chris."

"Yeah? He treating you good?"

"Yeah, he is." Andrew suddenly had a faraway look in his eyes, and he smiled. "It was a hard road, getting over Will. Chris helped a lot. Then I fell head-over-heels in love with him, and here we are."

"That's great. Thinking about tying the knot?"

Andrew shrugged. "Not really. Some of the gay couples have gotten married, but, I dunno. I guess I still have this notion that you're supposed to raise a family, if you're married. Cultural inertia, that kind of bullshit. Kinda hard for two dudes to have a kid."

"Not at all," Packer said. "Why not adopt?"

"From where? The...the mainland?"

"Sure. Lots of kids are abandoned when times are tough. Lots of orphans, too. Seems to me like having two loving dads is a pretty damn good deal for those youngsters."

Andrew didn't reply; he appeared to be lost in the notion. "Sorry," Packer said. "I don't mean to tell you how to do your thing. I merely advance the possibility, for consideration."

"Well, I will consider it, boss," Andrew said, coming back to himself. "It's just...wow. You know, for some reason, it never occurred to me that we could have a family like that. I just thought it'd be me and him..."

"My goal is to make it so that everyone can have a family, if they want it." A cold wind gusted; the air smelled ripe with impending rain. Packer glanced around. "Alright, I gotta run. My wife's due back from Point Breeze, and I've got to meet her."

Surprisingly, Andrew gave him a hug. "Good to just talk with you again, boss."

"You too, Andrew. Don't be a stranger."

The wheelbarrow was heavy, but it was also well balanced, so he didn't have to strain too hard as he walked along. He had his bass strapped to his back, and the other instruments hung off the handles of the wheelbarrow. Packer imagined he looked like a total bell end shoving all this stuff down the street, but he didn't have time for multiple trips, and having Machinists come back to his house in the Couples District was a decidedly bad idea.

As he walked near what was perhaps a salt marsh, he caught a whiff of soap. For whatever reason, his nose was quite sensitive to the acrid-smelling stuff that Nantucket was bathing itself with. It stood out against the rich, fecund smells of the nearby water.

Packer set the wheelbarrow down, and called out, "You move very well, pal. But your scent is giving you away."

There was a rustle, and a young, bearded man stepped out onto the road, about ten feet in front of Packer. He wore a pistol on his belt, suggesting he was a Watchman, but his hand was nowhere near it. His face was well-tanned, which surprised Packer, given that was November. Packer's own tan was fading rapidly.

"I greet you," he began in native speech, "as a stranger meeting another. May we speak with each other as friends?"

Packer couldn't help but let his surprise show. The idiomatic greeting the Watchman had just recited was part of a carefully scripted routine. Trade, frequent but in no way regular, took place between the settlements on the mainland, but due to rogue elements like the Wolf Hunters, an encounter with an unfamiliar face was a dangerous prospect. Accordingly, The Way described a strict protocol, to allay some fears and make the encounter less likely to turn bloody.

"I greet you, stranger, in friendship," Packer replied. He held his left hand to his chest, and his right straight up. The Watchman mimicked the pose. "See that I intend no harm."

"I see," the Watchman confirmed solemnly. The exchange thus concluded, Packer and Watchman regarded each other silently for a moment.

"Your accent's pretty damn good," Packer said with a small smile.

"I always had a knack for languages," the Watchman said. "I'm David, by the way."

"Nice to meet you, David," Packer said with a nod. "So...I guess you're my shadow?"

"One of a few," David replied. "I've spent the most time out there, I know the language the best, so I got assigned to tailing you here."

"Tailing me? Why?"

David shrugged. "Despite the superficial calmness today, the Old Man is wary. He wanted someone on you at all times, without making it obvious. Plus, it gave me a chance to see how good I am at moving through the woods."

Packer nodded. And maybe the Couples District is the doing the same thing. "So, David, let me ask you something. You made friends with the--"

"Not friends," David said. "Those guys...the ones that captured you? They're bad news. They're like those creepy kids in the school cafeteria, the ones you swear are gonna go all Columbine one day. We used them to gain knowledge, we were respectful, but I would never call them friends in a million years."

"Hmmm," Packer said. He hefted the wheelbarrow and continued along. "So, I guess the Commandant filled you in on their status."

"Yeah," David said. "Honestly, I'm amazed they lasted as long as they have. They fight with each other all the time, the Wolf Hunters. And they provoke the anger of just about every native settlement on Cape Cod. But, we don't need them anymore. There are several of us on the Watch who can speak...pretty well, anyway. We know the lay of the land. We were also able to track when Jameson and Dumfries came to visit you in September, and not get spotted."

"Yeah, the Old Man told me about it. So, would you like...watch me from the woods, or anything?" Packer found himself frowning. After all, he had considered his privacy inviolate when he was out and about with Nara...

"Nothing so direct. We asked the Wolf Hunters to keep an eye on you at first, but we...well, the guy you kicked the shit out of? He made it pretty clear that he wanted to kill you, so we had to call them off. After that, we only asked them to listen in on gossip from other villages. You made enough of a splash to be discussed elsewhere."

"Ah." Packer set the wheelbarrow down, hitched the straps up on his bass, then continued on. "Did you make contact with any other settlements? Say hello?"

"Nope. Unfortunately, we have a bit of a problem. When Martha's Vineyard was being settled, some asshole shot a native. So as not to make matters worse, the Old Man forbade any contact except with the Wolf Hunters." David seemed at ease, but he was keeping his eyes moving.

"Hmm. Well, it might be hard to mend that particular fence, but we probably can," Packer mused. "Someone might need to turn himself in. Take his punishment." David glanced at Packer and lifted his eyebrows, silently asking him to elaborate. Packer guessed the order to do so came from the Old Man himself. And Packer, in his dicussions with the Elders, learned what the protocol was for a situation such as this.

"Let's say," Packer began, "that there are two tribes living in the vicinity of one other. Their territories overlap, but it's OK, because the populations are low and there's plenty to go around. Now, one day, a young fella from the first tribe and a young lady from the second tribe meet in the woods and hit it off. He impresses her with the rabbit he caught in a deadfall trap, and they decide to share a meal. Well, things turn intimate, and then it so happens that a warrior from the second tribe happens upon them. He takes exception to the first guy nosing in on this girl, and they fight. The first guy kills the interloper and runs off.

"Now, what's a tribe to do? There are two things: the first tribe and the second tribe can form what are essentially posses, head to an arranged location, and huff and puff and pose and strut and maybe even fight a little bit. Someone might even get hurt during the grandstanding, but everyone takes their licks and goes home, having blown off the tension. Basically, it's a way for both tribes to save face, and say, 'yeah, our guy shouldn't have killed your guy, but your guy should've left the two lovebirds alone.' Relations may be strained for a while, but they generally mellow out...though the family of the dead man might have a problem with his killer being alive. You follow?" David nodded.

"Now, let's say the young fellow from the first tribe is a troublemaker. The only reason he's out and about is because he's not well-respected in his own tribe: he's lazy, he steals rabbits out of other people's deadfall traps, and so on. Or even worse, he raped the girl and murdered the guy who tried to stop him. Now, the tribe has to decide if they want to risk escalating the problem, or if they want to apologize. In this case, they choose to apologize.

"They tie the murderer to a post and carry him to the second tribe, the one with the dead man. They physically throw him at the feet of the family of the dead man. There's a ceremony or ritual of apology, then representatives of the first tribe and second collectively execute the man. The methods vary, but they are not pretty."

Packer paused for a minute. "Finally, after the man is dead, the representatives share a meal together, showing each other that it's all water under bridge. 'You killed our guy, we killed your guy, we're even.' I mean, it's not really, but again, relations will mellow out in time."

"Hmm," was all David offered.

"It's all risk management," Packer said. "If the offender is so clearly in the wrong that protecting him will ruin the image of the tribe in the eyes of the greater community, then no one is going to want to stick his neck out. If the offender is a well-respected man(or woman) with high status in the tribe, then there might be cause to fight. Remember, the notion of being part of the tribe, like any society, is that you must be net positive to it if you expect it to protect you. The various settlements in our vicinity have the same basic religion, so there really are no ideological disputes to get lathered up about. Their population is low enough that they aren't overrunning the carrying capacity of the land. It's usualy a distinct action--or lack thereof--that causes problems between groups.

"Now," Packer stopped so he could look David square in the eye, "the question then becomes this: is the guy who shot this native worth protecting? Are you willing fight for him? Or are you willing to help a bunch of natives slaughter him, then eat a meal together before his body's cold? Because that's what it's going to take to mend this fence." He held David's gaze for a moment, then continued on. They walked in silence for a while, the chilly breeze swirling around them.

"So!" Packer said briskly, attempting to change the subject. "You going to be joining my language and culture class?"

"Yup," David said, "and not just because the Old Man's ordering us to. We're lacking a lot of cultural knowledge that you have." He added, "I myself would very much like to know how to court a young lady."

Packer grinned. "Ha! Sounds like as good a reason as any, I guess. So really, your assignment is to keep tabs on me? Am I in trouble? Should I not have gone to the shop?"

"It raised an alarm bell or two," David said in a matter-of-fact way, "but I can see that you just went to get your stuff. If you don't mind, though, I'll need to go through it. And soon, actually. We're coming up on the border."

Packer grunted in surprise. "What border?"

David gave him a look. "The Couples' District. We're not allowed in there until after the elections and the new government takes power."

Packer thought that a whole hell of lot more was going on, but he chose not to pry further. Instead, when they next stopped at what was the outer edge of the Couples' District, just a few short blocks from Packer's house, he dropped the wheelbarrow and said, "Well, I don't think there's anything incriminating in here. Maybe a bottle of bourbon or something. I barely peeked myself, and I certainly didn't have any say in what they took. For all I know, this could be an elaborate prank on the part of my former men, and I could be carrying a bunch of gay porn and butt plugs."

As it turned out, the closest thing to gay porn Packer had were the Sookie Stackhouse novels. Stammering and redfaced, he explained to a professionally amused David that he only ever got to see the first season of True Blood back in the future, so he'd been reading the novels as a way to see what might have been. Packer had never quite figured out why they were in his house in the first place(and, fortunately, David didn't ask). Other than that, it was pretty standard stuff: a iPod (though he'd be hard pressed to charge it now), a bunch of classic sci-fi novels, clothes, and some other odds and ends.

As he searched, his head down, Packer standing a bit away from the scene, David said, "We have an audience."

Packer crossed his arms. "Oh yeah?"

"House at my nine o'clock," David went on, not looking up. "Nominally unoccupied, but a week ago, we noticed the blinds drawn. And, if you hazard a glance at the middle window on the second floor, you'll see that we're being watched. As you might now suspect, I'm conducting the search here for their benefit as much as yours. They'll see what I see: you have weird taste in books, but you're bringing nothing illicit into their District."

Packer frowned, then looked up at the sky above the house in question. Sure enough, in his peripheral vision, he saw one of the blinds was bent down, offering a gap of about an eyeball's width. Packer didn't think blinds bent like that on their own.

"Now, this all checks out," David went on, standing up and taking a step back. I've also deposited a little present for you. I would've given it to you personally, but, as you now see, we're under scrutiny, and I don't want these people getting any funny ideas."

Packer glanced down at the wheelbarrow and spotted it. "An SD card? But..."

"It came from your phone," David said bluntly.

Packer did a double-take. "Does...does it work?"

David nodded. "This is actually a copy of the original. That one was corroded, so it probably wouldn't have worked for much longer. I hear the one of the cafeterias will charge electronic equipment if you ask 'em nicely. Or the machine shop. Or the hospital, for that matter. A laptop that has a built-in reader should be easy to find."

Packer didn't reply immediately--he suddenly found himself desperately aching for his old life, despite everything that had happened. But that subsided quickly, and finally, he said, "Sorry, man. Thanks. This is...well, it means a lot to me. And I think it'll mean a lot to Nara, actually."

He shook David's hand, and they said their goodbyes. As he left, Packer saw another Watchman join David as he walked down the street--a partner Packer had never even noticed.

You may know the language best, David, but someone's got us all dead to rights on tracking, Packer thought. He cast another glance up at the window that David had pointed out--was there really someone there?--then headed back to drop everything off at his house. He had to hustle, as the afternoon was rapidly waning, and Nara would be back soon. He also moved quickly so he wouldn't have think about when and how to show Nara pictures of his first wife, or even if it really was a good idea.

There were several men waiting by the bus stop. He caught snippets of conversation, mainly about the ratification vote, but it died as he approached. He gave a kind of tight little smile and a sharp nod to the group, then stared, apparently fascinated, at the darkening clouds above him. It was going to rain any minute; he was sure of that.

The men continued their conversation, though in deliberately hushed tones. Packer pretended not to notice, but he did roll his eyes to himself at one point. He also found himself wishing that the winter would just be over with, so he could go back to people who'd actually give him the time of day, so to speak.

The preggo van came about ten minutes later. It rolled up, its headlights already on, and half a dozen girls debarked, Nara included. Remarkably, they exited as a group, chatting rather excitedly, and laughing about something. Packer glanced over at the others; to a man, their jaws hung open. Packer suppressed a grin.

Nara was carrying two duffel bags that looked to be bulging. She said goodbye to the girls, and bounded over to Packer (as much as her encumbrances would allow her to bound).

"A good day?" he asked with a smile.

She nodded vigorously. "Everyone at Point Breeze is very kind. They showed me so many things!" Packer gave her a kiss, and took both of her bags. As they left the bus stop, a few drops of rain started falling.

"They gave you...clothes?" Packer asked. He was trying to judge the bags by their weight.

"Yes, they said they have more clothes than they will ever need." Packer thought on that: the clothing of the former five thousand female residents, plus clothing of vacationers, plus what was in the island's boutiques and outlets, for a hundred and fifty women? Yeah, they could spare a few outfits for Nara. Hell, they probably even fit.

Nara then said, "And one of the girls had a dog, but it was so small! And its ears were large! It sat on my lap and it licked my face." Packer grinned; probably a chihuahua or a teacup Yorkie that one of the Point Breeze girls adopted during the Arrival.

Nara went on, describing her day, until Packer interrupted with, "Did Kaley say hello?"

She frowned. "No, she stayed away. Her friend was there. Hannah. She said that Kaley was not feeling well. But her baby is alright."

Packer sighed, and nodded. About as good news as he could expect. He honestly did not think he or Nara would ever see Kaley again, but his sense of guilt would probably cause him to keep asking after her...at least, until her child was born, or perhaps he found herself a new man. It was just another shitty fact of life that he would learn to live with.

As they entered their house, Nara spotted the guitar cases and asked, "What are those?"

Packer smiled. "Let's eat, then I'll show you."

[Alferd Packer]

Year 2, Day 26, Afternoon, Nantucket

Packer enjoyed the smell of a wood-burning fire. He associated it with a kind of homey nostalgia; it evoked memories of snowy days and nights, of Thanksgiving dinner at his grandparents' house, of reading by firelight during a power outage. Well, the power outage was now permanent, and the fire in the wood stove was the only thing keeping their house livable. But this, in turn, made it feel a little more like home.

And, pleasantly, the house he Nara were occupying in the Couples' District was starting to feel less foreign. It was, in the final estimation, too strange for Nara to feel completely at ease--though she was no longer acutely afraid of breaking something. She still tended to tread lightly, especially in the kitchen. She was at her most comfortable when she was outside, but the late autumn temperatures and her growing baby bump made extended time out there an impossibility.

Presently, Packer was in the dining room, sitting at the table. Spread out before him was everything that had to do with his language classes: syllabi, notes, schedules, supplies, and so on. He was reviewing the final scheduling. Aside from a few latecomers who hadn't confirmed their availability, it was basically a done deal. He added a note onto the margins of his sheet: MAKE SURE YOU GET CONCRETE TIMES FROM THESE FLIP-FLOPPERS.

In the end, too many people had signed up to have a single lecture, so he split the roster in sections, like an honest-to-Zoidberg college class. There were four sections of approximately one hundred students apiece, so he was looking to be in for a busy winter. Four hundred students, including almost all of the women still living at Point Breeze, and about seventy-five percent of the Watch. That was almost fifteen percent of Nantucket's population. What amazed Packer the most is that all of them knew they odds of being selected to go out to the mainland next spring, and they still signed up; they simply wanted to learn.

He pushed back from the table, got up, and banked the fire with some wood. All the firewood deliveries he'd received and split were still laid up out in the toolshed, seasoning. He was presently burning the firewood from the house next door. The couple there had been so incensed and offput by his proximity that they'd actually opted to move out, choosing to live in one of the apartments in the center of the Couples District, instead. Fortunately, and perhaps as punishment from someone above, the huge pile of seasoned wood they had was, in toto, bequeathed to Packer and Nara. Since it would take months to properly season the wood he was splitting now, this worked out quite well. Seasoned wood formed less creosote, which reduced the risk of chimney fire considerably.

Indeed, there was now no one living in a house whose lot touched that of Packer's house. In his spare time one day, he'd done a quick circuit around the block, attempting to gauge his closest neighbors, in case of an emergency. The nearest occupied house was four away. He imagined that the empty ones would remain so for the rest of the winter.

Packer turned back to look at the table. Despite the mess of papers, notebooks, and binders, it was all in place. They even had a venue: an old restaurant in town had a stage for lecturing, and enough seats for about a hundred people at a stretch. Nothing to do now...but await the new government to give his plan the official Seal of Approval.

He deliberately kept himself in the dark during the Ratification Day Vote, and that was doubly true for the two week election period that followed. He accurately guessed that his opinion would be asked on many things: candidates, their positions and platforms, structure of government, and so on. He needed to be able to give the questioner a blank look and say, "Whuh?" in a legitimately ignorant way. He needed to be able to keep his word, to stay out of the political process. Sure, he had told various people to start building coalitions, but that was hardly meddling; they probably would've figured it out on their own. Packer had just been...leveling the playing field. Yeah, right.

It was good thing the election period had only lasted two weeks, because his limited observations had suggested that it had been vicious--even worse than the flamewars of the old board. Strident public debates had been held nightly, and many gripes of the past year had been used as weapons in the political war. But, happily, Election Day had proceeded in a nonviolent manner, and the new government had taken power a scant two days ago.

True to his word, the Old Man had seen that Packer's language classes get railroaded through, and Packer was sure that Gail Underhill played no small part in it, too. Last he'd heard, his final approval would be given sometime in the next day or two, and he'd be able to start class, hopefully, before the first of December.

Packer went over to the hearth; a kettle was sitting near the fire. He poured himself a cup of steaming rose hip tea. Without oranges or other citrus, rose hips were their main source of vitamin C. It didn't taste half bad, either, and no one would have to worry about scurvy.

There was a crisp series of knocks on the front door. Packer perked up. It had to be one of the new Councilors(or whatever they were called now) with the rubber-stamped approval to begin his class. Nara was off at Point Breeze for the day, and she wouldn't be back for a few hours yet and it was rare that anyone outside of the few expected deliverymen came to visit him.

He walked to the front door, mug in his hand. Drawing the bolt, he swung it open, a small, but expectant smile on his face. Tim (no, Timothy) stood on the stoop. He was carrying an attache case. He did not look happy.

"Well!" Packer said after a pause that was a second too long. "Hey, man. Haven't seen you since I've been back. What's up?" He tried to smile in a way that didn't look totally forced, and he held his hand out. Packer had heard through the grapevine that Timothy did indeed have it out for Packer, and now he was an elected official. What specific position Timothy held, Packer didn't know. Regardless, Packer disabused himself of any notion of the next few minutes being pleasant. Still, he would at least try to be civil. Timothy surely would, too.

Timothy glanced down at Packer's hand. "Don't bother. I'm not going to shake with you."

So much for civility, Packer thought. Given the importance attached to handshaking in their post-Arrival society, Packer probably would've been justified in slamming the door in Timothy's face. But, he'd resolved to attempt to be polite, so, he simply turned the gesture into a welcoming swoop of the arm. "Well, come on in, then. You want some tea?" Packer held up his mug.

"No." Timothy stepped in, eying his surroundings with either surprise or...disappointment? Packer was puzzled. Did he expect that I live like a savage or something? Animal hides stretched to dry? Dirt smeared everywhere? In point of fact, Nara thought the mechanism of soap was downright marvelous. She enjoyed cleaning as much as one can enjoy a menial chore. Accordingly, the house was pretty much always in good shape.

Packer chucked his head. "Let's go have a seat by the fire, yeah? It's starting to get cold out there." Wordlessly, Timothy followed him into the dining room. He pulled out a chair for his guest. They both sat; Packer put his feet up on the dining room table. "So," he said, "what brings you out this way?"

Timothy set his attache case on the table and opened it. He extracted two separate folders, holding up the first one. "Eviction notice," he said bluntly.

Packer tried not to look surprised, but he couldn't help but frown. Before he said anything, Timothy elaborated, "So you don't hear it from someone else and get the wrong idea. The conditions upon which I secured my seat on the Council demanded that I try to oust you from our District. I couldn't get it authorized, but I had to try to please my constituency. There are, of course, more people sympathetic to you than hostile, on the whole. I knew this going in, but as I said, I had to try. So, you're safe here."

Packer didn't reply. He was a little angry, of course, but he decided not to let it show. Controlling his breathing, he took a sip from his mug of tea, and gestured for Timothy to continue.

He held up the second folder. "This is your language class. All the authorizations for manpower tradeoffs, resource allocations and distributions. Everything. Once you have it in your possession, you can begin class as soon as you want." He set it back down. "I couldn't stop that, of course. The Commandant is a very persuasive man, and I am smart enough not to cross Gail Underhill. Fighting them---and this--would have been political suicide.

"What I can do, however, is hold it up indefinitely. As part of my new responsibilities, I have hold of the proverbial purse-strings, and your class is definitely an extraneous expenditure. It is a substantial investment for an uncertain return. If I decide the risk is too high, I can shelve it. And I am sorely tempted to do that, Packer."

Packer sipped his tea thoughtfully, then inhaled the aroma. It seemed to calm him down, which was good. Whenever he tried to form a response, it kept starting with the word 'fuck.' Instead, he came back with: "Makes sense. Just delay it until my daughter is born, and send me off from whence I came, right?"

"Something like that. From the transcripts I've read of your meeting with the Council and, of course, the coup, it looks like you'd actually be alright with that?"

Packer grimaced. "Well, I did say if I wasn't wanted, I'd leave. But I don't really want that solution. If you're really that spiteful, I can't stop you--"

"It is not a matter of spite, Packer!" Timothy said, his voice rising. "It is a matter of stability. I can't help but marvel at how dense you act sometimes! Coming back from the mainland with no regard for quarantine? You know many pregnant women you put at risk? I mean, this isn't rocket science!" Packer didn't reply.

He snorted with utter derision. "It's like no matter how well-intentioned you are, you cause problems, and you don't even realize it! Problems that threaten the security of my family and my friends. I cannot allow that! And now that I'm in power, I will not! I will do everything I can to check you."

Timothy took a moment to compose himself; Packer drained his tea, and belched with deliberate rudeness. Real civil, AP, he chided himself.

To his credit, Timothy ignored this, and said, "I have to be practical, though. Too many people are looking forward to your class. Important ones, too. There is a...wanderlust amongst those people which, left to fester, could develop into even more sedition down the road. So, the class is yours." He set the folder down on the table. "But I want you to promise me something, Packer."

"Yeah?"

Timothy leaned in a bit. "When the time comes for you to leave, you do it. And you stay gone. I don't want you back on this island. I don't want the problems you bring. I don't want your well-intentioned chaos.

"Even though I wasn't on the Council," he went on, "I worked with many Councilors. I understand what they were trying to do: they were creating a society. The anarchists, the criminals, the seditionists...each threat must be removed before the damage done by it reaches a critical mass. To make use of a rather trite analogy, it's like carving a masterpiece out of marble: the flaws must be chipped away, lest they ruin the whole work."

Timothy then held up his hand. "Of course, I'm never going to call the society we have a masterpiece, but it is better off without those elements. First to go were the out-and-out criminals. Then your seditionists--they're either playing by the rules now, or they're out on the Vineyard. You're next on the list. I won't say that you're the most disruptive man that Nantucket has seen so far, but you're definitely up there. So, for us to be able to thrive, to move on, you have to go. I want a stable Nantucket, so that the soft landing can proceed without any more deadly interruptions, and that cannot happen while you're here."

Packer almost started to say, "We're not so different in that regard," but decided that Timothy wouldn't care. So instead, he said, "So...what happens if I break an arm? Need my appendix out? What happens when my wife gets pregnant again? Or my little girl needs vaccinations...if such things will exist in a couple years?"

"Of course I'll grant you that," Timothy said plainly. "I don't want you dead or in pain. Nor would I ever dream of withholding medical care from an innocent woman or child. If you or your family need medical attention--what little we can provide, anyway--you can come back. Or, if we call you back for something of importance. Otherwise, I want you to stay off Nantucket. No vacations to visit your Machinist buddies. No campaigning for a friend during election season."

Packer sighed. This is what you wanted, isn't it? You never wanted to stay here. Why are you upset? "You know, I think I'd actually find that agreeable. Alright, it's a deal. I'll do my class, select my people, and I'll stay gone when we go. But you know, I only want to offer the chance--"

"Save it," Timothy barked, putting the eviction folder back in his attache case. "I'm not interested in your little song and dance." He stood. "We have a huge task ahead of us, and the less you influence things on Nantucket, the smoother they'll go. I've gotten your promise, I've given you your final approval. Now, I can truly begin focusing on more important work."

He turned to leave, and said over his shoulder, "The people I represent elected me because I told them I'd get rid of you. That I would seek stability in all my efforts. This solution will satisfy those requirements and cause no harm to you, so I figure it's optimum. It's also politically convenient. But remember, if you go back on your word, and if I have to try a messier solution to get you off this island, I will do it. My constituents will demand no less, and I am beholden to them, not you." And without another word, he left.

It took Packer a while to calm down, but when he did, he felt...strange. It was ironic: when he said he wanted nothing to do with Nantucket, he felt superior and liberated. But when Nantucket (by way of Timothy) said that it wanted nothing to do with Packer, it pissed him off. Packer went over to his notes for himself and added the following: ONE OF THESE DAYS, YOU SHOULD REALLY GROW UP.

Pouring himself another mug of tea, he looked out onto the backyard. The sky was leaden and cold-looking, and it was probably going to rain again. Are you upset because you're being cut out of the loop? That you'll spend the rest of your life in a backwater farming settlement, at best, a big fish in a small pond? Did you actually want more? Or did you just want to be everybody's friend? After all, you can't please everyone, nor can you be friends with everyone...much as you tried. Sure, it sucks that you lost a buddy, but you still have most of your other friends. And you now have your class!

That was right! Packer picked up the folder Timothy had left and leafed through it. It was indeed all there, with everything authorized. He'd be teaching his first class in less than a week.

Year 2, Day 30, Morning, Nantucket

"Good morning, everyone," Packer began, his voice rising just a bit to be heard over the clamor. "If you'll all take your seats, we'll begin." He waited as chairs were shuffled around, notebooks opened, pens uncapped. He couldn't help but smile--the scene just seemed so odd, yet so normal at the same time.

Packer was up on the little stage in the restaurant's main dining room, where mediocre cover bands had no doubt once played to the delight of drunken tourists. He had a table and chair, along with a couple of mobile blackboards, as his accompaniment. Nara, now quite visibly pregnant, was nearby, but just off the stage; she was working on getting a fire going in the big fireplace that was also in the dining room.

Packer surveyed his students. They were mostly men, but he'd sprinkled the women who'd signed up throughout each section, so there were about twenty or so girls in attendance, too. Gail Underhill was there, as well, sitting front and center. Most amusingly, though, was that the Old Man himself sat next to her, his notebook opened to fresh, blank page, his pen at the ready. There were at least half a dozen other Watchmen there as students, too. At least, Packer recognized them as Watchmen--there certainly could've been more, but he wouldn't recognize them out of uniform.

Packer was wearing the nicest clothes he'd ever worn on Nantucket; a pastel button-down shirt, tan slacks, along with some penny loafers. He felt like a dapper fellow, though he suspected that his classroom attire would revert to something more comfortable as the winter wore on.

"It's nice to see such a turnout," he said, smiling. "I've passed around the attendance sheet; make sure you sign next to your name, and that it gets back to me at some point. I'm sure this is all familiar stuff to you.

"So!" he brought his hands together, "we're here to learn how to speak another language. We're also here to learn how the native culture on the mainland operates. To understand how they think, what's important to them, and so on."

He sat back on the edge of the table, holding a nice, easy pose. "Of course, you've heard that this class is also a selection process. That I'm going to pick sixty or seventy of you to emigrate to the mainland next spring. And that's true, too. So, you may be wondering, 'how can I improve my odds? How can I suck up to the teacher?' " A few people chuckled. "Well, my selection criteria are pretty utilitarian, so the answer to the question is: not a lot. About the only thing you can do to affect my decision is perform well in this class...but of course I'd say that.

"Finally, as it comes to selection, I must exclude you ladies off the bat." He gestured to the girls sitting around Gail Underhill. "Your experience here, however, will be invaluable, because women from the mainland will be coming back here, and they'll look to you for information, for cues on how to behave in a strange new environment. Being able to bridge the cultural gap will be an extremely important asset in the future.

"This, of course, holds true for the men among you who do not make the cut. Just because you are not leaving Nantucket in a few months does not mean that you'll never interact with natives. Rest assured, you are going to be learning a practical and valuable skill." He paused. "So, having said all that, if you're reconsidering taking this class, no hard feelings. Enjoy the rest of the lecture, and I'll see you around the island."

He got back to his feet, drifting easily around the stage as he spoke. "Now, we will be meeting four times a week, Monday through Thursday, for ninety minute lectures. Friday, you'll have a recitation of one hour, which will begin at the class' normal time. You will not have assignments in a traditional sense, by and large. As you can imagine, the language you are learning has no written component, so there's not a lot I can do in the way of normal testing. As for as that goes, you need to be able to get your point across," he gestured, palm up, to his wife, "to Nara. There will be a pair of written exams, however, covering the cultural aspects I will teach. They'll be short-answer style, and you'll be writing those out in English.

"In addition, you'll be doing short oral presentations at intervals, as means of demonstrating your proficiency in dealing with various topics and situations you would encounter when speaking with natives. These will be done both on your own and in small groups. They--yes?"

A pimply kid, probably just shy of eighteen, had raised his hand. "Will we select our own partners?"

Should've mentioned to save the questions until the end, Packer thought. "To a point, yes. For one of the group projects, however, I will be assigning you to work in mixed-gender groups." There was stirring at this. Fortunately, he'd cleared it with Gail Underhill long before this moment.

"The reason behind this is simple: the language you're about to learn has both feminine and masculine pronouns in both the second and third person. You will need to demonstrate the ability to switch between these forms in ordinary discourse. It is, I have learned, a grave faux pas to address a man as a woman, and vice versa." Some more polite chuckling.

"In addition to the practice you'll have here in class and during recitations, I strongly encourage you to form groups outside of class to practice. As I said, your fluency will factor in my decision, so this practice can only benefit you. If you find yourself puzzled by something, I'll hold office hours every Saturday from two to four, location TBD. And if that's not enough, you can ask to schedule an appointment with me at some other time. I'm nothing but available. Ladies, the same will apply to you and Nara; she'll be setting aside some of her time at Point Breeze for that purpose."

He now turned to his wife, who was still at the fireplace. "Nara, how's it going over there?"

She was working with tinder and a flint; she threw these down in frustration, and faced him. "I cannot start this fire!" she said sharply in her native speech. Packer eyed the class; about a third of them had realized that the lesson had begun. Good enough.

Packer smiled at Nara, then turned back to the students. "Any guesses as to what she was saying?"

A few hands went up. Packer called on one of the girls seated in the front row. "It probably had something to something to do with not being able to get a fire going. She seemed angry."

"That's pretty much exactly it," Packer said. To Nara, he suggested, in English, "Why don't you try again?"

"I will not start this fire!" Nara said, crossing her arms defiantly.

Packer shrugged, then turn back to the class. "Any thoughts now?"

"She said the same thing," someone in the back called out.

"Wrong," Packer crooned. "I will tell you that right now. She did not say the same thing."

They were silent for a bit, then someone said, "But she's speaking the same words. I mean, they sound the same to me."

"Very interesting!" Packer said. "So, we have the same sounds. Yet I've said that she didn't say the same thing. Now, I could just be jerking you around, but I assure you, I'm not. What's the difference, then?"

It took a few tries, but eventually, one of the Horticulturists present said, "She moved her hands differently. Is that it?"

"Gold star!" Packer said jubilantly. "That is the first, and most important, difference between English and native speech; there is a component of the language that is gesture." A hundred heads bent down to take notes, and Packer smiled to himself. "As we will explore, gesture fits many roles. In this case, it acts as a modal verb, modifying a placeholder word that lets the conversation partner know to expect a gesture."

Another girl raised her hand. "What do you do when you can't see the person you're talking to?"

"Good question," Packer said. "Nara, how would we talk in the dark?"

Nara gave it a moment's thought, then said, "When you cannot see, you must listen. To every word. And think back on the words from before. How the person spoke. Was he happy? Mad? Sad? It is then mostly clear."

"Context is very important," Packer added. "And, as I've discovered, once you learn to listen with both your eyes and your ears, it improves both as independent senses. You begin to automatically fill in gaps that you might not have seen or heard. But, we'll get to that in due time." Packer went over to the blackboard. "Why don't we start, first, with how to say a simple hello?"

[Alferd Packer]

Year 2, Day 84, Night, Nantucket

The kitchen stove and the hearth fireplaces in the dining room and living room threw off enough heat to keep most of the first floor nice and toasty. It was cooler upstairs, in their bedroom, of course, but they had plenty of blankets. It was actually more comfortable sleeping that way. And if it got really cold, they'd simply curl up in front of the fireplace for the night.

Packer sat on the couch, which used to face a flatscreen TV, jangling some chords on his guitar. He understood what sounded good together, of course, but he didn't quite grasp why. If he'd had more free time, he'd do more research, but of course, his class was occupying most of his spare time. Still, he liked play for a half hour or so each night, even if it was just jangling.

He glanced up; Nara was sitting on the floor, at the coffee table, doing her homework. Her tutors at Point Breeze were very pleased with her progress so far, and she had progressed to take-home assignments. Tonight, she was writing about the day's trip to the greenhouses.

Part of Nara's studies were visits to the various industries of Nantucket. This served several purposes. One, it gave Nara an idea of just what was involved in their society, or what it was that people spent all day doing. At the same time, she was seeing, firsthand, things she might otherwise dismiss as impossible, a trick, or even too complicated to understand. The plan was to have her reinforce Packer's descriptions of the people, skills, and tools that were coming out to her tribe that spring. Her education would show the rest of her tribe just what was possible to accomplish with Nantucket's collective knowledge.

As means of reinforcing and checking her understanding, she was asked to summarize what she saw, and how it could be applied to her tribe that spring. In this way, she both gained familiarity with the language, and gave back valuable information that would be used to help plan the integration. She enjoyed the process, as well as the praise she received from her tutors.

Speaking of, you need to grade some exams, bub, he thought suddenly. In Packer's language class, the first test had come and gone a week ago, and he was still methodically grinding his way through the four hundred essays. It'd take him another week or so, which he thought was reasonable, since he was doing it on his own.

Nara set down her pencil, taking a moment to re-do her ponytail. More than seven months pregnant now, she moved rather ponderously in most things. She was turning to face him now, and it took her a bit of time. "Should I shave my pubic hair?" she asked, deadpan.

Of course, since they were talking in creole, she didn't say exactly that. There was a distinct word for pubic hair (and some obscure reason for its existence), so Packer was able to understand. He had the good sense not to burst into laughter, at least. Still, she'd knocked him silly with that one, it took him while to reply with, "I'm not sure. Why do you ask?"

"After my trip, I was talking with the girls today," she began, "and they asked me what hair I remove. I didn't understand at first, so they told me. They shave almost everything. Their legs. Their arms." She pointed at her armpit. "And even their pubic hair. They said it was The Way for women to do that before you all came here. Is that true?"

Aha, Packer thought. This old theme. One of the side-effects of Nara's time at Point Breeze was a desire to fit in, to be another one of the gals...or as close as could be reasonably expected. To that end, Nara started wearing modern outfits at Point Breeze, though she tended to wear her own clothes at home, as she was now. She dabbled in applying makeup. She tried using slang she picked up.

And, apparently, she wanted to groom herself like the other girls did. Packer found himself distractedly wondering what they used for shaving cream. He then remembered, however, that he had to answer Nara.

"Yes, that is what most girls did in my old tribe," he said carefully.

"Did Jenny do it?"

Packer grimaced internally. In some ways, sharing with Nara the pictures from his cell phone of his first wife was a good thing. Nara had enjoyed the stories he'd told alongside each image for the glimpse they offered into Packer's past. Packer wasn't quite sure what Nara thought of Jenny. In many ways, she appeared to admire her, but since they'd been childfree, Nara declared herself the better wife for being able to reproduce. As the idea of explaining the notion of First-World demographics made Packer's head spin, he let that stand.

Unfortunately, Nara now sought to compare herself to Jenny in all aspects. Even though she declared herself better, she seemed resolved to prove herself such in as many aspects as she could. Any passing mention of Jenny would draw a comparison out of Nara. With this in mind, he said, "Yes. But in my old tribe, girls did that because they wanted to, not because they were supposed to."

Nara's brows furrowed. "The girls said that they men liked it better when had no hair."

"Some, perhaps. But not all men."

"You did with Jenny," she snapped.

This was getting out of control in a hurry. They were arguing over pubic hair, for fuck's sake. "And Jenny is dead," Packer fired back, with deliberate brutality. "It doesn't matter what I enjoyed in my old tribe. They are gone, and I have you." His tone softened. "I want you, Nara. I don't care how the other girls behave. If you want to shave you hair, do it. I will love you no matter what you do."

She got up, ponderously, and came over to the couch. "I don't want to shave," she said, curling up in the crook of his arm. She looked down at her stomach. "I don't even think I could see what I was doing, if I tried."

Packer laughed. "And after a few days, it starts to itch."

Nara replied, "Why would anyone want to do it, then?"

He shrugged. "I honestly don't know. It was just something to do. Like when you would wear flowers in your hair for me."

Her smile turned devilish. "Oh, should I put flowers in my pubic hair, then? Would you like that?"

He grinned back. "Your flowerbed is just fine the way it is." She giggled, drawing herself close to him. They sat in silence, watching the fire for a while. Packer congratulated himself on defusing the situation--Nara's moods were mercurial, and the dismal weather was starting to wear on him, too.

"I miss my family," she said suddenly.

He hugged her tighter. "I know. I should have asked them to come with us. I thought it would be less lonely than it is. That we would have more friends."

"We have friends," Nara said. "There is Miles, and Simon, and Gail, and the girls. And you have many friends."

Packer sighed. "I know. But...this house is big and it's just us. And no one is nearby. I wish..." He didn't have to finish the thought. Nara found his hand and squeezed it tightly.

"You must stop casting blame on yourself," she said. She then added, "But, you know this. So I will not pester you about it."

"It is what it is," Packer said, though he was unable to keep the morose tone out of his voice. Even though things were quite quiet now, in the wake of the elections and a few nasty snowstorms that shut the island down for a week or more at a stretch, he sometimes found himself desperately wanting to take it all back. And, of course, one or two times a week he'd find himself shocked awake, soaked in sweat, absolutely convinced that the Volunteers were in the house again.

But Nara was his rock. Perhaps because she was hardened by her upbringing or because she'd been sheltered from the worst of it, she offered her support to him, and he greedily and blamelessly took it. She would soothe his fears, assure him it was a simply a bad dream, and lie with him until he slept again. It shamed him to appear so weak, especially when she was pregnant. He was the one who was supposed to be strong for her.

He'd come to think of his time on Nantucket as some kind of hazard duty, a necessary task with few compensations. Sure, plenty of people were happy to see him when he entered a room. And Nara was, in a word, flourishing in her environment. But it was the dead of winter, and the cold, sleety, snowy, awful weather kept people indoors. If you were in a house with half a dozen other people, you could easily manage something to pass the time.

Packer and Nara tried, of course. They would take turns telling stories. When he could get the laptop charged up, they'd watch a DVD that was lying around the house. Packer read book after book--anything he could get his hands on. But that inscrutable human element was missing--the feeling of belonging that he'd grown accustomed to. A year ago, he had the Machinists. On Cape Cod, his tribe and his new family. Here, they were isolated in from the rest of Nantucket by the Couples' District, and isolated from the Couples' District by virtue of social custom.

It would've been better in the summer, to be sure. Nice weather, hanging down by the beach, cookouts and parties, the whole shebang. But, there was nothing for it. Packer could only endure it, and count the days down until they left...and never came back.

Well, maybe someday. When Nara got pregnant again, they'd probably want to spend the last few months, at least, on Nantucket. Or would they? Maybe they'd have serviceable medical facilities out on Cape Cod.

A snort brought Packer out of his reverie. He looked down; Nara had drifted nearly asleep and snapped herself awake. The fire was noticeably dimmer, too. How long had he been woolgathering? Whatever this winter was, he certainly had time to do a lot of thinking.

"Want to go to sleep?" Packer asked. Nara nodded drowsily, then reluctantly got up, wincing as she stood.

Packer appraised her. "How bad is it today?"

She shrugged. "Not as bad as it has been. One of the girls does...massage?" Packer nodded. "She did it to my back today. It feels better than it has in many days."

He banked the fire with a large log that would burn slowly overnight, then he put an arm around her. "If I could, I'd take the pain for you."

"I know," she said. They started upstairs, Packer bringing a lit candle with them. "But it's part of having a baby. Chokora told me that she could barely walk just before she had Koross. And there is a woman at Point Breeze who has to stay in bed." She smiled at him. "But thank you."

And, as Packer lay awake, he counted his blessings. The class was going well. Nara was enjoying herself, for the most part. At a more basic level, he had food, clean water, shelter, and his health. And it wasn't too terribly cold, most of the time.

Still, he found himself increasingly looking forward to the day when he could leave Nantucket behind.

Year 2, Day 122, Morning, Nantucket

Packer turned the knob on the door that led to the exam room. He had it timed perfectly; he'd usually arrive within thirty seconds of Doctor Reynolds finishing up. Usually, they'd then have a quick conversation about how Nara and the baby were doing, and then they'd be on their way. It had become a comforting routine over the winter.

"You," Doctor Reynolds said to Nara, as Packer took his customary seat over in the corner, "are about ready to pop, I think." She removed the stethoscope from her ears and stood back up. "Are you excited?"

Nara, now mountainously pregnant, pushed herself up into a sitting position. "Yes. I am anxious, too. Everything is so difficult now."

Doctor Reynolds nodded sagely. "Any new pains? Loss of appetite? Trouble going to the bathroom?" She was asking these in Packer's presence, of course, in case he'd noticed something that Nara had not.

Nara shook her head. "I am just tired a lot. Sometimes I get mad for no reason. Or I cry. When do you think the baby will be ready?"

"Let's say three weeks." Then, remembering, she added: "Twenty-one days. Could be more, could be less. But, the good news is that your baby is at term right now. If you were to give birth at any time moving forward, your chances would be very good."

Packer breathed a sigh of relief at this. Doctor Reynolds looked over at him.

"I think you're more anxious than Nara here," said with a calm, professional smile. "What's up?"

Packer swallowed. "Well, we heard about...you know..."

"The baby we lost last week?" Her expression turned serious.

"Yeah," Packer said, rubbing the back of his neck. "I won't lie, it's got me freaked out. Nara, too. Though not as much. I heard that it died because of something called Rhesus Disease?"

Doctor Reynolds said, "I cannot say, of course, what exactly happened, but neither am I going to ignore that rumors spread as fast as they ever did. Is that what specifically has you worried?" Packer nodded.

"OK, the least I can do is educate you about it a bit. Rhesus Disease is the most common form of something called Hemolytic Disease of the Newborn.

"You know about blood types, yes?" Doctor Reynolds leaned against the counter in the exam room. To Nara, she said, "Not everyone's blood is the same. Remember when I examined your blood? It was so in case you needed blood at some point, we could give you the right kind of blood."

"Yes," Nara said. "I asked for my husband's blood, but you said it was different from mine."

"That's right. At any rate, Rhesus Disease is caused by the mother's immune system reacting to the blood type of her baby. If the mother is, say, A-negative, and her baby's blood is A-positive, her body can attack this blood. Her body will actually destroy it, as if it is foreign invader. If the mother's reaction is severe, there is, unfortunately, nothing we can do. We used to be able to moderate the mother's immune response with a single injection--in fact, doing so was part of standard prenatal care--but we don't have the medicine for it anymore."

"And what about us?" Packer asked.

"Well, Mister Packer, the problem occurs, most commonly, when a baby has some kind of positive blood type: A-positive, B-pos, and so on, and the mother has a negative blood type. Do you know your blood type?"

"O-positive...but I know my dad was O-negative. He donated blood every eight weeks."

"Well, that means you're carrying the negative allele. But, in all likelihood, your daughter will either have a positive blood type."

"But wait," Packer said. "Isn't it like...a one-in-four shot for a recessive trait to show up?"

"In certain cases, yes. But for Nara's people, it's extremely rare for their blood type to be any sort of negative--it's something like one percent. And only about ten percent of their population even carries the negative allele, compared to upwards of sixty percent for us."

Packer nodded. "So Nara's blood type is most likely positive, and she doesn't carry the negative allele?"

"Correct. Nara is, in fact, A-positive." Doctor Reynolds folded her arms. "Because of this, your children--all of them--will be either A or O-positive. If a sensitizing event were to occur, where Nara was exposed to the blood of you daughter, or any other children you might have, it won't matter. Nara's immune system will almost definitely not react badly. Of course, there are other forms of hemolytic disease of the newborn, but they are much rarer."

Packer breathed a sigh of relief. "Thank you, Yasmine. I just...I dunno, I guess as the date draws near, I keep expecting the other shoe to drop."

Doctor Reynolds rewarded him with a patient smile. "Understandable. We have had some difficult births, as I'm sure you're aware. But we've had plenty of them go very well, too. In fact, I just delivered a healthy baby boy earlier this morning."

"Who was it?" Nara asked. She had, apparently, become fairly close with several girls at Point Breeze who were about as far along as she was.

Doctor Reynolds paused just a second before saying, "Ah, Kaley Jorgensen."

Packer flinched as if she'd kicked him in the groin. The months of winter had done little to dull the pain and guilt he felt. He looked down at his feet.

"I only mention her name," Doctor Reynolds went on, "because she asked me, specifically, to see if you'd come and visit her. She's right here in the maternity ward."

Packer looked up. "Really?" He couldn't keep the childish hope out of his voice.

"I could not and would not disclose the information otherwise," she said.

Nara turned to Packer, a smile on her face. "Let's go see Kaley."

[Alferd Packer]

Year 2, Day 122, Morning, Nantucket

As Packer strolled and Nara waddled down the hall towards Kaley's room, the first person they saw was Hannah, her roommate. Packer hadn't seen her since the night of the coup, and he was pleasantly shocked to find that she looked completely different than the impression he'd gotten then. She was walking towards them in long, eager strides, grinning from ear to ear. She spotted them and veered comically to intercept.

"Hi, guys!" she nearly squealed. She looked like she was about to burst into song. "I just got done visiting with Kales. Oh, her little boy is...well, he's hardly little! You should see him!" She pushed her glasses back up her nose. "What am I saying, you will see him!" She laughed. "He's so big!"

Nara grinned, and Packer was fighting not to do the same. "I gotta go back to Point Breeze and tell everyone the birth went well. I'll be back later, though, with Simon. Are you guys going to be around long? If so, I'll see you soon!" And she sashayed down the hall, having not allowed either of them to get a word in edgewise. Packer and Nara exchanged a look, then went on.

Packer gave the door a brief knock. "Come in!" came from behind the sturdy door, and he opened it.

Kaley was in the hospital bed, looking tired, but happy. Gail Underhill sat in a chair nearby; it looked like she'd been knitting. The baby was swaddled in Kaley's arms, apparently sleeping. Nara stifled a gasp when she took in the scene.

"I'm glad you guys could make it," Kaley said. The timbre of her voice had changed since Packer last heard her. Her playful tone was still there, but it was reduced, tempered. By sadness? She was probably just tired, Packer decided.

"Hey, how are you doing?" Packer said timidly. "Mornin' Gail," he added with a nod in her direction. She gave a wave and a small, tired smile.

"Kaley," Nara went around Packer, obviously excited, "how was it? And you had a boy?"

Kaley nodded. "That's right, Nara." She lifted him up so that they could see better. "Say hello to William Ronald Jorgensen."

Packer peered down, feeling a simultaneous surge of wonder and a lancing stab of guilt. The baby boy stirred a bit in his blanket. "He looks like Bill," Packer found himself saying. "I mean, I know they say all babies look alike, but that jawline! It's all dad's."

Kaley smiled sadly. "I noticed that. His eyes, too. He opened them for a few minutes when I first held him."

Nara asked, "Is he healthy?"

Kaley nodded. "Perfect Apgar score. And he's fed three times, even though he's...how old? Eight hours?"

Gail glanced at her watch. "Yup, eight hours. He'll probably be looking for you soon."

Packer had pulled up some other chairs, and they sat. "So," he said. "Tell us all about it. I mean, if you feel like talking. Looks like Hannah might have worn you out."

Kaley laughed softly. "Oh, Hannah. She has it bad, now."

"Has what?" Nara asked.

Kaley grinned, her whole face lighting up. "Baby fever. Though she'd never admit it, I sensed she was a little jealous of me when I got pregnant. If I teased her, she would immediately start lecturing me. She'd cite all these facts and figures about the resources needed to care for expectant mothers and their children, and how she felt she needed to wait a while, so that the doctors were not overwhelmed with births, or the laundry services overwhelmed with diapers, or...well, you get the idea. But man, when she held William, I saw the look in her eyes. Mark my words, she'll be pregnant just as soon as she can manage it."

Packer chuckled. "Poor Simon. I wonder if he'll see this one coming."

Kaley rolled her eyes. "Oh, he'll have a hell of a good time. When Hannah gets focused on something..." Packer laughed.

"Anyway," Kaley said. "My water broke at like, eleven last night. I thought I wet the bed, but once I realized it..."

"She made such a racket that I heard her six rooms down," Gail finished.

"Yeah, Hannah was spending the night at Simon's, thank goodness!" Kaley glanced down at her son, then back to Nara. "We got to the hospital, and, well, he basically fell out of me. It only took like four hours, which is pretty good for a first birth, I hear."

Nara said, "Did it hurt?"

Kaley grinned and held up William a bit again. "You tell me. Two feet long. Eight pounds, fourteen ounces. He's already running big, just like his dad."

The movement caused the infant to stir, and he let out a lusty cry. Kaley said, "Oops. Chow time." She deftly popped a boob out of her shirt and teased the baby into opening his mouth wide. Packer didn't want to seem like he was staring, so he glanced over at Gail. She was watching the procedure critically, then nodded with approval when the baby was latched on.

Why, I do believe that we have this little fella's grandmother right here, Packer thought with admiration.

"But yes, Nara. I won't lie. It hurt a lot. But now I have my son," she stroked the baby's face, looking down at him, "and I'm happy again. I'm truly happy again."

They were silent for a while then, allowing the new mother time to enjoy her son a little. Gail dozed off, and Nara watched Kaley with a well-intentioned envy. And Packer felt the knot in his chest slowly letting go. He thought that maybe, just maybe, he'd be able to have a clearer conscience. Maybe even the nightmares would stop.

"So, guys," Kaley said suddenly. "I hear the class is going well."

"That it is," Packer said. "I've already got some candidates in mind for our trip back. Nothing formal, of course, but I've got to make my choices in the next couple of weeks."

"And when do you head out for good?"

"April 25th or so. It depends on when we have our little bundle of joy," Packer took Nara's hand in his own. "I want to give both mama and baby a chance to recover before we make the trip."

"I heard that's it for you, yeah? You're not coming back in the fall or anything?"

"Looks that way," Packer said with a slight frown.

"We may come back when I am pregnant again," Nara said, looking at Packer. "But I think we will wait some time for that."

"One thing I'm coming to grips with is that my projects are growing beyond me," Packer said. "Jason's running the machine shop as well as or better than I ever did. The linguists and anthropologists among us are sorting out Nara's language and culture and will have a full curriculum in place and staff to teach it. The Council will have an official emigration/immigration protocol set up, as well as an adoption program. The surrounding areas are going to be scouted and trade initiated. And it'll be done right. No land grabs, no campaigns of extermination. But it won't be done by me. I think it's important to know when to...let go. To settle down, to fade into the background. To focus on providing for my family."

"Mmmm," Kaley said. "I like that." William detached from her breast, and she bundled him back up. "Packer, would you do me a favor and put him in the bassinet?" She chucked her head to the other side of the bed.

"Uh, sure," Packer said. He suddenly started to sweat, his heart pounding. Sure, he and Nara had attended plenty of birth counseling classes provided by Doctor Reynolds and one of den mothers who was a midwife. He knew the theory behind everything; bundling them up tightly, talking to them, holding them, changing diapers, recognizing the types of cries they used...but actually holding a newborn?

Quickly, though, he realized this was ridiculous. Any day now, he would have a daughter of his own, and he couldn't be awkward with her. He needed, quite simply, to nut up. He stood, and gently, Kaley transferred William into his hands. For a moment, he stopped, transfixed, staring down at the little face.

"Wow," he breathed. He turned to Nara, "I can't wait for ours."

Kaley said, "Nara, go ahead and hold him, if you like."

One more gentle transfer, and Nara had the baby. "Hello, little one," she cooed in native speech, her eyes shining. "You are a big baby. You'll be strong and healthy. You have a good mother, and your father was a very brave and noble man. I hope that one day, my daughter meets a man like the one I know you will become."

She handed William back to Packer, who had to blink back tears. He brought the infant around the bed and set him gently in the bassinet. Kaley handed him a tiny skullcap. "Yeah," Packer mumbled thickly. He put the cap on the baby and returned to his chair. Thankfully, both women granted him a moment to get himself under control.

"You know," Kaley began, "I don't blame you, Packer, for what happened. I never did. It just hurt too bad, and for so long. That's why I couldn't see you. Or you, Nara," she added.

"But now that I have my son, I have...a part of Bill." She looked down at her hands. "I guess I just refused to realize that he would live on through his child. But I see that now. And I know what I'm going to do.

"I'll stick to the plan. The one we had for our lives together. I'll learn how to farm, and one day, I'll have a place of my own on the mainland. I'll find a man. I won't love him like I loved Bill, but he'll be a good man. He'll have to be. I'll give him as many children as I can, and he'll accept and raise William as his own, and we'll build a life together." She glanced at Packer. "Actually, one of Bill's friends from the Bartlett farm has been asking after me. Maybe..."

She sighed. "I think the endorphins are starting to wear off. I'm tired."

Packer stood immediately, as did Nara. "Then we'll let you sleep," Packer said.

"Congratulations," Nara added. "He is a strong boy. You are lucky."

Kaley nodded sleepily and smiled. "Thank you. I'm looking forward to seeing your daughter. It's going to be soon, right?"

Packer nodded. "Couple weeks, give or take." Nara had gone over to nudge Gail awake, and Packer stepped up to the edge of the bed. Kaley took his hands.

"It's not the happiest of endings," she said, "but I have my son, and that's all that matters."

"From the moment I first met you, I knew you were something else," he replied. "Whoever you wind up with is going to be a damn lucky man."

A playful grin crept onto her otherwise exhausted face. "Jealous, are we?"

He winked. "Who knows what could've been? But I'm glad you're going to be happy, and that you're going to have a good life." He leaned down and kissed her forehead. "Now get some rest while you have the chance."

"Thanks," she murmured, as he pulled his hands back from hers. Her eyelids were already drooping. "Bye, Nara," she added drowsily, and was out like a light a few moments later.

Packer waved a silent goodbye to Gail, and, taking Nara's hand, left the room.

Year 2, Day 130, Noon, Nantucket

The door to the conference room swung open, and Packer looked up. Hal and Gordon strolled in, lugging folios and binders and all sorts of paraphernalia with them. They dumped these indiscriminately on the table, adding to the pile.

"Alright, we ready?" Packer asked. "Is Simon coming?"

Hal grinned. "Eventually. Hannah stopped by the office." Gordon chuckled. "He might be an hour or two late."

"Well, I'm not going to hold it against him. Why don't we begin?"

Hal flipped open a binder. "Yeah, OK...here's your preliminary list. I've already brought it to Timothy, and he only vetoed half a dozen people. Said they were too critical." Hal passed a sheet to Packer.

"Hmmph," Packer said, reading it. "I picked 'em because they came so highly recommended by their bosses. Oh well, there are plenty of competent people on the list. What do you guys think?"

Gordon spoke up. "You might have a problem with your second carpenter."

"Oh?"

Gordon squirmed in his seat a bit. "He's a Christian."

Packer couldn't keep the surprise off his face. "Really? There are still Christians?"

"Not many," Hal said. "Most of them either renounced their faith and/or killed themselves during the Long Winter. After all, they're believing in a Messiah who will never be born, but whatever. It brings them comfort, and all that jazz."

"So you think he'll have a problem with the pagan beliefs of my tribe?" Packer opened a binder and flipped to the sheet of the man in question, which was basically a simplified C.V.

"When I interviewed him last week," Gordon began, "I was sticking to the questions you provided, and he kinda got off on a tangent. The short of it is that he thinks going to the mainland will give him the opportunity to re-form the Christian faith. Start it over from square one."

"But...the law against proselytizing," Hal said in protest. "That was one of the first laws the new Council handed down: no shoving your religion in someone else's face."

"Yeah, on Nantucket," Gordon said. They both looked at Packer. "Who's going to enforce that on Cape Cod?"

"Mmm, quite salient," Packer said, rubbing his chin for a moment. "And he's a carpenter. How appropriate." Packer scanned his sheet. "Man, he's a good carpenter, too. He does a lot of stuff by hand, and it he does it well. I saw some of his work when I visited the woodshop last month. So, the question is: do I test the strength of my tribe's religion against Christianity, or whatever this guy wants to do? I mean, the tribe's spiritual side seems to be pretty flexible, so I guess they could...but then again, what happens if we start a group of pushy monotheists?"

"Honestly? I got the feeling that he wants to create a religion around himself. There was a look in his eye that just...it gave me a little chill."

Packer looked up at Gordon; in Packer's estimation, the man was pretty straight-laced. Simon had placed a good deal of trust in him during the first year, and Gordon had risen to the challenge. The odds that something else was at work here were just about nil, so Packer decided to take Gordon at his word.

"Alright, he's out," Packer said, tearing the C.V. out of the binder. "If he wants to form a religion, I want my tribe to have a sizable skeptic population before he has the chance. Or he can try being a missionary out in the Connecticut hinterlands. On his own. As for a replacement, there's a competent young carpenter in the third section...Benjamin something?"

Hal flipped through a booklet. "Oh, Benji! Yeah, he lives a few doors down from me. Good kid. He's only eighteen, though."

Packer had found the C.V. of the kid. "It shouldn't matter. He's damn enthusiastic; he aced both exams, and he's really good with the language. Any health problems that we're aware of?"

Gordon found the appropriate list: the medical staff had refused to list specific health problems, citing privacy concerns. Instead, the same question had been asked of each candidate, with a simple yes or no answer given: is there any medical reason why this candidate should be prevented from emigrating to the mainland?

"Nope," Gordon said, "he's healthy."

"Then it's his lucky day," Packer replied, making a note of it.

"I'll swing by his place tonight and drop off the offer letter," Hal said. "I think he'll sign it on the spot," he added with a grin.

"Great," Packer nodded. "Who else do we have to worry about?"

Hal got out yet another binder. "Well, you've had a couple of people turn you down already, a few more accept the offer, and the vast majority are still thinking about it. We have a good number of alternate candidates on the waiting list. Food, water, construction supplies, tools, it's pretty much all been earmarked."

"We're still trying to figure out the shipping logistics of it," Gordon added. "The problem is that there are no docks for the larger craft, so we need to optimize the loadouts of the first craft."

"But forget the heavy equipment," Packer said. "There's still plenty of time to get the smaller modules on the transports."

Hal laughed. Gordon only looked puzzled. "I guess that was a bit too esoteric a quote from Empire," Packer quipped.

"You think?" Hal said with a wink.

"I've been watching the OT over the winter, making sure it's firmly rooted in my mind. It's a very popular story back at my tribe."

"Well, the themes are pretty universal, I guess," Gordon offered, Hal nodding in agreement.

"Anyway!" Packer said. "What's the count? How many people are we figuring?"

"The upper limit is seventy-five," Hal replied. "Based on how it's going so far, I'd expect you to wind up with sixty or so."

"Sounds reasonable," Packer said. He leaned back in his chair. "Wow, sixty! That's about a quarter of the tribe's summer population."

"And you think a majority of these men are going to find women?" Gordon asked. "I've checked the ages of the the proposed emigrants, and they're skewing way young. And you said that a lot of the women had kids already. Are those May-December romances going to work?"

"Why would the younger men pair off with the older women?" Packer asked, puzzled.

Gordon frowned. "Well, you know, they're older, and their looks are probably starting to go, plus all that baggage..."

Packer laughed. "Oh, duh! I'm sorry, I can see where you'd get that notion. You actually have it backwards, my friend.

"Everyone in the tribe has a certain status...an unspoken ranking, relative to everyone else in the tribe. The same, of course, is true for our modern society. Our modern values, however, are basically the opposite of my tribe. It breaks down like this. Among the women, the ones with the lowest status are old, unmarried, and childless...unless they distinguish themselves by being, say, an adept healer. But we'll stick with the uniquely feminine aspect of the ranking, for the time being. Occupations and skill would just muddle the explanation.

"As a woman gets younger, her status rises slightly. She receives another bump up if she is married, young or old. The big boost, however, is children. There is a great deal of uncertainty in having children," Packer said gravely. "Infant mortality is twenty percent. That's one in five babies. In famine years, it can shoot up to eighty percent. A woman who can demonstrate that A) she has successfully given birth in the past, B) her children are still alive and healthy, and C) she is still of child-bearing age, has the highest status in the tribe, and is thus the most desirable, if unmarried or unattached.

"So don't worry about age disparity. The young men coming out with us don't have much of a shot with those women. What will wind up happening, however, is that the younger, unmarried girls, whose child-bearing ability is a mystery, will pair off with these younger men. The young men, as Outsiders, don't have much intrinsic status, but since they're all skilled labor, they'll be able to bring a measure of prestige to their potential mates."

"And they're not going to...crowd out the native young men?" Hal asked.

Packer shrugged. "Perhaps, but it will be much easier for those men to go afield and find themselves a woman anyway. Remember, my tribe is used to spending half the year away from the village. There's a whole 'nother set of relationships out in the winter areas, and plenty of opportunity to find wives. It probably won't even be worth it to break them of their traditions. Instead, when they see what kind of haul we can bring in with farming, they'll want to stay of their own accord, or, better yet, bring the knowledge of agriculture to the people living inland. And I know, I'm painting a rosy picture of the whole thing. I don't expect this to be easy, go off without a hitch, or happen quickly. But with some effort, I firmly believe that it will happen."

"I like it," Gordon said. "I mean, I honestly never want to leave Nantucket, but I know it's necessary that we get out there. Now, we'll have descendants. Future generations to carry on our work." He put his arms up, lacing his fingers behind his head. "I wonder what they'll look like."

"Tall versions of Nara," Hal said. "No offense, Packer. Our genes governing appearance are going to get diluted pretty quickly. They'll probably be a few people with blond or red hair popping up every now and again. Or some blue-eyed beauties. We'll leave our mark, but it'll fade into the background in a hurry."

"I think he's right," Packer said. "I have no doubt that my daughter's going to look a lot more like her mom than she will me. Thankfully." Hal and Gordon chuckled politely.

"OK," Packer said, "enough of my lecture. We've got a lot of work to do." He opened a binder. "Let's talk about that idea Hal had for setting up a regular ferry between Nantucket and Cape Cod. What do you need from me to make it work?"

[Alferd Packer]

Year 2, Day 139, Afternoon, Nantucket

On the day Packer's daughter was born, it snowed. Packer was watching it come down with a baleful look in his eye; he seemed to recall that some poet or author had named April the cruelest month, but here on Nantucket, it was March. Just a week ago, it had flirted with seventy degrees for a couple of days, and now there were three inches of wet, sloppy snow on the ground and it was still coming down hard. It would probably freeze tonight and turn the island into a hellish ice-capade tomorrow. Lousy Smarch weather, Packer thought in silent tribute to Homer Simpson.

He turned away from the window and sat back down on the couch. On the coffee table in front of him was his docked iPod; he'd paused it when he'd gone to check the weather. He picked up his book(a catalog of botanicals native to New England) and started up the music again, Abbey Road trickling out of the dock's small speakers.

Packer set his book down when "Here Comes The Sun" started up. He wanted to be able to play that song, but his attempts to learn it so far had been frustrating failures. Still, the song was too goddamn feel-good not to enjoy it, so he did, closing his eyes. It has indeed been a long, cold, lonely winter. Preach it, George, he thought.

Clang! The sound of a metal bowl falling to the kitchen floor snapped him back to life. Nara had been puttering around in there since noon, experimenting with a new bread recipe. She'd received a hand-made cookbook from some of her friends at Point Breeze as an early present for her birth. It contained dishes for both adults and newborns, and in that way, served a practical purpose if, for some reason, Nara lost her ability to give milk.

At any rate, she had spent the last few days trying recipes out. It kept her distracted, Packer thought, from the constant discomfort of the final days of her pregnancy. Nara had said that the Way described the stages of pregnancy, the final one being so irritable that the woman's desire to finally give birth would overcome her fear of the event.

Packer hoped the bowl was empty, lest he have a mess to clean up. He left George Harrison singing and walked to the kitchen. "Nara, what's--"

She was hunched over, holding her belly with one hand and gripping the counter with the other. "I think it is time," she said. "I felt some smaller pains this morning, but they have been getting sharper." She looked up at him, unable to keep a smile off her face. "Our baby is coming!"

He was still frozen. His mind was completely blank. A moment passed. Then another. Her smile faded, and she straightened up. "Are you--"

Before she could finish, Packer turned on his heel and walked out of the kitchen.

Because he wasn't thinking, instead operating on autopilot, he wound up in their bedroom, in front of the dresser. It was, in fact, exactly where he needed to be. There was a handheld CB radio resting next to an index card; he picked up both.

Turn radio on, the card read. That brought him back to life; he found himself asking what idiot wouldn't turn the radio on before trying to use it?

He turned it on, tuning to channel 9. He depressed the mic and spoke, unconsciously slipping into trucker talk, as he'd done when he was a teenager and had a CB in his car. "Breaker nine, breaker nine, calling dispatch at the hospital. Do I have a copy? Come back."

He listened, holding his breath. A few seconds went by, then the amplified voice of a man spoke. "Ten-two, this is hospital dispatch. Identify yourself, over."

He exhaled. "This is Alferd Packer. My wife has gone into labor. Requesting an ambulance, over."

There was a pause, then: "Alright, Mister Packer. I just need you to read me back the number that's on the reverse side of the index card. Over."

Packer flipped the card over. "Seven-three-three-zero-eight-niner. Come back."

As he waited, Packer vaguely remembered the reason for this: during the Long Winter, someone had faked an emergency. When the ambulance arrived, the medics were distracted while every scrap of narcotic was looted from the vehicle. Because of that, ambulances were now only deployed when a Watchman called in a emergency, or a woman was going into labor. To reduce the risk of someone faking the latter event, the index card deployed with the radio had a numeric code that corresponded with a file back in the hospital. That file contained the relevant medical information, and, more importantly, the home address, so that the ambulance could not be directed to an ambush.

"I copy and confirm, Mister Packer," the voice said. "The ambulance will be on its way in ten minutes. ETA should be twenty to thirty, because of this damn snow. If the situation is urgent, I can see if a Watch patrol is in your vicinity. Come on."

For a moment, Packer panicked. He actually had no idea what the situation was. He was not in the mood to gamble, however. "I would appreciate that," he said, wondering how much the average Watchman knew about giving birth. "Please pass along that the front door will be unlocked, and both the Watchmen and medics can enter. Over."

"I will do that, Mister Packer. You and your wife sit tight. The cavalry is inbound. Over."

"I owe you a beer," Packer said, trying to sound glib. "Should you need to contact me, I'll monitor channel three to keep this one clear. Over and out."

He switched the radio to channel three and stuffed it into the front pocket of his hoodie. He went over to the closet and dug out a duffel bag which he and Nara had prepared a month ago.

When he came back downstairs, Nara was pacing around the living room; she'd shut off the iPod. She looked up at him, anxious. "Are you okay?" she asked. "You looked like you were going to be sick."

Packer shook his head, clearing the final cobwebs out. "I'm fine," he replied. "I called the hospital. The ambulance will come soon." Remembering, he went over to the front door and unlocked it. "If the Watch is nearby, they will come, too." He appraised her, realizing that she was standing up. "You should rest. Do not become tired. Who knows how long this will take?"

She considered it, and sat on the couch. He sat by her. "You are right," she said. "I'm just very excited. We'll see our daughter today!"

Packer smiled at her. "I am so lucky that I have you," he said, smoothing her hair. "I can't wait to welcome our little girl into the world."

Nara looked like she was about to say something, but she gasped suddenly, gripping Packer's arm with the tenacity of a hyena. Jesus, Packer thought, as he watched the cords of muscle in her arm bulge.

Taking measured breaths, Nara waited out the contraction. "I think I would like to see her sooner, rather than later," she said.

"I won't tell you not to worry, but if can relax at least a little bit, you'll feel better," Packer said. Remarkably, his heart had stopped pounding, and a kind of otherworldly calm had descended on him. "I'm here. And soon, we'll be at the hospital. The doctors will be there, and everything will be fine."

"The pain is frightening," Nara admitted in a small voice.

"I know, but it won't last forever. Not even for a day. It is...the final challenge. If the reward is a child, isn't the pain worth it?"

Nara frowned. "A simple to thing for you to say." She gave him a dirty look. "But you're right. When I can hold her, it will be worth the pain. I know this."

"Good." He kissed her forehead. "Focus on that, when you remember to. And if you need to yell at me, I understand."

She smiled. "We'll have to see how much it hurts."

Just then, there was a knock on the door, followed by the sound of it opening. Two red-cheeked Watchmen entered, huffing and puffing. They hurriedly stomped their boots and brushed the snow off their parkas in the foyer before coming into the living room.

"Afternoon, gentlemen," Packer said, standing. He then recognized one of the Watchmen. "Hey, John! Long time no see."

John doffed his cap. "Mister Packer, Missus Packer. Sorry it took so long to get here. It's pretty treacherous out there."

"Not at all. We appreciate you coming." Packer looked at John's partner. "Where's, uh, the Constable?" he asked, cursing himself for having forgotten the man's name again.

John blinked momentarily, then his face lit up. "Oh! To be honest, I'm not sure. Haven't seen him in a while. At any rate, this is my partner, Wes."

The other Watchman stepped up dutifully. "Mister Packer." He doffed his cap to Nara. "Ma'am."

"Is everything alright?" John asked. "Besides the obvious, of course."

Nara looked up at him. "Yes, I am okay. There is no bleeding or...waters yet."

John nodded. "Excuse me." Unclipping his radio, he went back into the foyer, speaking in low tones. Nara slipped her hand into Packer's, and Wes stood stock still, eyes roving around the house, looking somewhat unsure of himself. John returned a few minutes later. "OK, so it looks like the ambulance is having problems leaving the parking lot of the hospital. Now," he held up his hand, "I called our dispatch, and we have a chain-equipped police SUV on the way. That'll drive through Hell itself and make it look easy. It'll be here in five minutes, give or take."

Packer nodded. "Thanks. After last week, I figured we were done with snow for the year."

John chuckled politely. "Tell me about it. Well, hopefully, this will be the last snowstorm we get."

Soon after that, they heard a horn honking outside. John went to the window. "Ah, that's them. Good, they brought shovels and some ash. You guys get ready, and we'll clear the stoop off for you. Wes, let's go."

Packer was thoroughly impressed. A few seconds after the Watchmen went out the door, he heard the unmistakable scrape of shovels. By the time he and Nara were all bundled up and had their shoes on, the stoop, sidewalk, and a path leading to the black-and-white Dodge Durango were scraped down to the pavement and a dusting of crushed ash was sprinkled for extra traction. John and Wes came up to help Nara down the steps and into the vehicle while Packer locked up. He thanked the Watchmen profusely, and they were on their way.

The Durango, which was running off ethanol, proved to be more than adequate. The Watchman driving was from Thunder Bay, he mentioned to Packer, so he knew a thing or two about driving in the snow. Strictly speaking, Packer thought the chains weren't necessary for wet snow, but if it froze tonight, they'd be damn useful. As it was, the four-wheel drive and the Watchman's skill were more than enough.

A nurse was waiting for them at the entrance to the ER when they pulled up, wheelchair ready. As Packer and the driver helped Nara down from the back seat, the nurse said, "Everything's been taken care of. Your room's been arranged, and once you get settled, Doctor Reynolds will come to see you." He gave Nara a reassuring smile as she sat in the wheelchair. "It'll be fine."

Packer wanted to believe that, but as they entered the hospital, he couldn't quite silence the small, gnawing doubt in the back of his head.

Year 2, Day 139, Afternoon, Nantucket

Doctor Reynolds strolled into their room, a calm look on her face. "Well," she began, "looks like today is the big day, huh?"

Nara was not in the hospital bed; she and Packer were sitting in the room's chairs, the tray table split between them, a few bowls of soup on it. Nara was sipping hers gingerly, while Packer had no appetite. "Hello, Yasmine," Nara said with a smile of plain relief.

Doctor Reynolds gave her a smile, then took a look at her chart. "Hmm," she said in the maddeningly non-committal way doctors tend to absorb things. Packer had the sudden, panicky urge to leap up and scream WHAT'S WRONG?! at the top of his lungs. "Looks like your contractions are becoming more frequent."

Nara offered a nod. "Yes, I think that soon, I will have to stay in the bed."

"Well, I'd like to take a look at you, to see how far you've dilated." She looked at Packer. "It won't take more than a few minutes, so you can come right back in."

"I want him to stay," Nara said, as she struggled to stand up. Packer was already moving stuff around to help her.

"Oh?" She glanced at the two of them. "Any reason for the change?"

Nara eased back into the bed. "There should be someone from my family with me. A woman. But my only family here is my husband." She grasped his hand and smiled at him. "And he is the father. He should be here."

"And I will be," Packer said. Then, to Doctor Reynolds. "So, pretend like I'm in the can. Do what you have to do."

Doctor Reynolds nodded. "Sure." Lifting Nara's gown, she took a look. "Well, it's getting closer. You're progressing quite well." She made a note on Nara's chart. "I can't say for sure when it will begin, but I'll be close by, and someone will be in to check on you fairly often. But if you need us, just yell."

Doctor Reynolds' exit proved the event that snapped the until-then-unnoticed tension in Packer's head. On one level, he was totally on board, but at another, he was completely baffled. A faint undercurrent of disquiet was babbling like a brook. I'm really going to be a father? Am I ready for this? Should I be trusted with an infant? How do I be a good dad? How do I help Nara through this? These thoughts and worries were nothing new, of course, but they were certainly more strident than before, because they needed to be answered in a few short hours.

He pulled the chair right next to the bed and they sat silently for a while, she enduring the contractions, he doing his best to project an aura of calm confidence and doing whatever he could to keep her relaxed. He massaged the knots in her shoulders. He brushed her hair. After some time, though, he couldn't help himself. "How bad does it hurt?" he asked.

"It hurts, but I know that it will get worse, so I simply think that this is not so bad." She pulled the blanket up. "But I don't want to think about it. Tell me about our house. The one you will build."

Packer smiled. The plans for the log cabins they were going to build came straight from Martha's Vineyard, where the exiles had to gain hard experience in constructing sturdy homes. Through trial and error, they discovered how to use the materials at hand (plus some salvaged parts from Nantucket, like windows and doors) to make buildings that could endure and keep them comfortable. These efforts, condensed down into a standardized set of blueprints, would allow the emigrants to build houses on Cape Cod when they arrived. The most basic of these was a twenty-by-twenty cabin with an attached porch and a loft for storage. It would suffice their family just fine.

"Alright, our house. It will not be as big as our house here, but it will be bigger than our hut. We will use the trees that we cut down to build the walls, and the roof will be...pine, I think. There will be a big stove to keep the house warm in the winter, and at night, I'll tell our daughter stories. I'll read books to her, and one day, she'll read them herself. We will grow plants all around us, so that we have plenty of food."

"And we will not be alone?"

"Of course not!" Packer said. "If you like, we can make the house big enough for your father to live with us." Though Packer wondered just how easy it was to slap on an addition to a log cabin. "And Chokora, too. And in the next house will be..."

"Miles and Yerna?" Nara finished.

Packer laughed. Miles was probably the one person more anxious to leave than Packer. "Maybe! If Yerna wants him, I think Miles would be happy. They could have many children."

"They will probably want to live close to the bay," Nara mused. "So that he can be near his boat."

"Well, then Duniik can live next to us with his family," Packer said.

"If he ever starts one!" Nara laughed. She then frowned, as though she were listening to something very faint. "Another one," she grimaced, and held Packer's hand tightly.

Packer glanced at the wall clock as they waited it out, his heartbeat picking up the pace. Only a few minutes apart now; there'd be no relaxing for them anytime soon. When the contraction subsided, he stood.

"I'm going to get the nurse," he said. He wheeled the tray table over to the side of the bed, handing her a mug of water.

"Good," Nara said. "I feel like it's going to be soon. But maybe I just want it to be...but I don't think so."

Packer nodded. Her body was probably sending her pretty clear signals, so it would be wise from him to pay attention. "Then I'll tell them to get ready."

Outside, he'd only gone a handful of steps towards the nurse's station before he bumped into Doctor Reynolds, who was emerging from the ladies' room. "Ah, Mr. Packer!" she said. "Something up? Besides the obvious?"

Packer could only manage a strained smile. "Well, her contractions are speeding up, and she seems to think it's going to be soon, so..."

"OK, I'll have a nurse go in and we'll begin the final preparations," Doctor Reynolds said. "Of course, there's no degree of certainty with anything in childbirth, but I do suspect it will be sooner, rather than later, based on her progression."

"Is there..." he gestured helplessly, "...anything I should, you know...be worried about?"

She put a hand on his arm. "Listen," she said, "if there was anything going on, I wouldn't withhold it from you. Nara has had, so far, a pregnancy free from complications. The odds are very much in your favor that it will conclude itself in the same fashion. But, of course, things can go wrong. If we need to, we are fully prepared to take whatever measures are necessary."

"I know," Packer said in an apologetic tone. "You guys are great, and I feel a total heel, but..."

"You're a conscientious husband," Doctor Reynolds said. "I've been doing this for long enough that I know the difference between normal concern and petty second-guessing."

"Thanks, Yasmine," Packer said, and this time, his smile was genuine.

"Now, I'll go get a nurse. Take the opportunity to use the restroom," she added. "We're going to need you to gown up when you're done, like we talked about. Before you do that, though, you might want to check the waiting room outside the ward. I heard that there are some people gathering there; they'll probably want an update, but I'll leave that to your judgment."

Year 2, Day 139, Evening, Nantucket

"OK, Nara," Doctor Reynolds said, her tone calm, but commanding, "She's crowning. Get up on your knees and get ready."

Packer and a nurse helped Nara up. She and Doctor Reynolds had discussed, over the months, the various possible delivery positions. Packer had been clueless; he just thought that everyone gave birth lying on their backs. Eventually, they decided on which position would probably be the most comfortable.

Nara's expression was strained, her head and body soaked with sweat. And yet, Packer thought crazily as Nara's vise-like grip clamped down, Doctor Reynolds insists that everything is well!

For the last hour, he'd felt completely useless. No, it was worse than that--he felt in the way. Nara endured, Doctor Reynolds administered care, the nurses attended to every conceivable necessary detail, and Packer stood there, occupying space. He tried to stay calm, but, dressed idiotically in hospital garb, he was finely tuned to his wife's state. As her pain and discomfort worsened, so did his own.

And not just because the bones in his hand cracked every time she held it.

He did his best, though. He tried to say soothing things, encouragements, platitudes. He even offered to sing a prayer with her in native speech--anything to calm her down, even in the slightest. But as time wore on, and the tension mounted, he couldn't help himself. His encouragements sounded hopelessly hollow in his ears. His touch felt mechanical, insincere, but he did it anyway. But even the guilt he might have otherwise felt faded into the background, overwhelmed by the continuing narrowing of his focus, a tightening in his chest as though he were holding his breath, when, in fact, he was breathing as heavily as Nara.

"Now, when the next urge to push comes," Doctor Reynolds instructed, "I want you to help it along, like we talked about. Okay?" Nara only nodded, and soon enough, the urge to push must have arrived.

From a place deep inside her, Nara let loose a primal yell that shocked everyone in the room, Packer included. He'd seen her in several extreme situations, but he'd never heard anything like this before. It was almost a roar, it was so powerful. To her credit, Doctor Reynolds never faltered in her ministrations, even if her eyes were wide.

"Good!" she responded. "Keep going with it, Nara! Deep breaths!"

Packer watched his wife grit her teeth, squeeze his hand for all she was worth, and let go with another howl. The seconds lasted an eternity, then her heard doctor Reynold's voice. "That's it! The shoulders are free, just one more..."

And just like that, there was someone else in the room.

The absolute absurdity of that thought brought Packer back to the here and now. Aiding the nurse, he helped Nara lie back down. She was breathing hard, but she managed to ask, "Is she OK? Is it OK?" Packer was split between trying to see what the doctor was doing and tending to Nara, but then they heard it. The first cry of their daughter. It filled the room, ringing in Packer's ears. The nurse arranged the swaddling hide that Packer and Nara had prepared over the winter.

"You knew it already," Doctor Reynolds said warmly, "but it's a girl. Congratulations." She stood and handed Nara the tiny, squalling baby. Packer gazed down at her in wonder, his heart fluttering like a field strewn with butterflies.

"She's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," he whispered, ignoring how cliche such a sentiment sounded. Nara wrapped her up, then pulled aside her gown. With remarkable ease, she got the baby latched on and suckling contentedly. Her head flopped back, and she exhaled.

"You're amazing," Packer said, leaning down and kissing her. She offered him a smile, and he suddenly soared inside. He felt high, but without any muddying effects of the mind that drugs might bring.

"You have made me happy," she said. "You are a good husband, and now you will be a good father."

"And you a good mother," he replied, holding her. As the medical staff cleaned up, Packer let himself soak in his daughter. She was smaller than he thought she would be, but she had a full head of dark hair, and her skin, while lighter than Nara's, was much darker than Packer's, even containing a touch of olive that marked his Italian heritage. "She's so little," he found himself saying.

"She is perfect," Nara replied, stroking the baby's cheek. After a few minutes, Nara's face contorted again--the final contraction, pushing out the afterbirth, which was quickly cleaned up.

"You'll be pleased to know that everything went well," Doctor Reynolds said, coming around the side of the bed. She had removed her hospital gown and mask, and was now in her typical attire. "There was no tearing, no unusual amount of blood. You daughter appears healthy...have you thought of a name, by the way?"

Nara looked up at Packer. "It is his task. He names the girls, and I will name the boys."

"Oh, I see!" Doctor Reynolds looked at Packer. "Is that The Way?"

Packer smiled. "No, we just decided to do it like this. Uh, but to tell you the truth, I don't have anything for you...yet. Is it alright if I give it some time?"

"No problem," Doctor Reynolds replied. "We'll let you rest for a little while, but a nurse will be back in soon." She nodded to the other staff, who were finishing up their various tasks, and quickly, if only for a brief while, they were alone.

Increasingly, Packer found himself unable to take his eyes off of his daughter. When she was finished breastfeeding, Packer immediately said, "Can I hold her?"

Nara laughed. "Of course!" She arranged the swaddling hide. "She is yours as much as she is mine."

And when he had her in his arms, he actually felt love surging through him, as though it were a physical entity gliding along some unseen pathway in his body. He wanted to do nothing else but protect her, make her happy, keep her safe, provide for her every need. After thinking about it for the entire winter, nothing came close to the real thing.

Then, for just a moment, as he held his child, he could see, with utter clarity, his family waiting for him, outside the room. They were just outside, hanging out by the nurse's station, waiting for him to bring his daughter out. There was his dad, grinning like a maniac, ready to snap hundreds of pictures with the DSLR Packer got him for his sixtieth birthday. Packer's sister was there, with two huge shopping bags loaded with swag she took from her job at the Disney Channel. She was even wearing an ironically awful t-shirt that said, "World's Awesomest Aunt." Packer's crazy, hippie aunt and uncle from California had come out. She was paying attention, waiting for him to emerge, while his uncle had been distracted by the pamphlets laid out on the counter of the nurse's station.

And there was...Jenny?! It should've shattered the illusion, but Packer's mind quickly went through convoluted rationalizations to account her for her presence. And it worked; she was there to congratulate him, along with his two best friends from high school, and their neighbors from their house in New Jersey.

But most importantly, Packer's grandfather was there. Though the man Packer once thought of as unstoppable was now wheelchair-bound, his body ravaged by eighty-three years of life, his mind was as sharp as ever, so he waited with sublime anticipation to meet and hold his great-granddaughter.

The scene hovered, in perfect focus, in his mind's eye for a few resplendent seconds. Then, just as Packer thought about heading out the door, it was gone as quickly as it arrived. It had just been a simple wish, manufactured by his longing to see the people who'd been closest to him before the Arrival. He wasn't saddened when it went, though. He looked down at his daughter and smiled. Now, a piece of his family lived on in her.

"Hello," he whispered, trying to keep the tears out of his eyes. "In case you didn't know, I'm your dad. And as long as you have me, you won't have to worry about a thing. I promise."

[Alferd Packer]

Year 2, Day 139, Night, Nantucket

"Gentlemen," Packer bellowed in a jovial way, "it's a girl!"

The assembled group in the lobby outside the maternity wing were all grins and applause, hearty slaps on the back and manly hugs of congratulations. Jason Terrance tousled his hair, a gleam in his eye. "Congrats, boss!" he roared. "What's her name?"

Packer rolled his eyes. "My wife's name is Nara, you retard." The guys around him laughed.

"Wiseass," Terrance replied. "But seriously, boss."

"But seriously, she doesn't have one yet," Packer said. "I still haven't figured it out."

"Then we'll just call her 'Little Boss'," Andrew quirked with a grin.

"Yeah, that sounds good," Terrance replied. "Boss and Little Boss. Oh, or you could be Papa Boss now. Or Boss Papa. Whichever's good for you."

Packer laughed, then did a double take. Miles Jameson had just arrived, all grins, but a tall man was walking alongside him--Kevin Dumfries!

"Miles, you picked up a stray!" Packer called out. "Holy hell, Kevin! I never thought I'd see you on Nantucket again!" After Miles gave him a congratulatory hug, and Kevin was in front of him, Packer noticed that he'd grown a shaggy mustache.

"Well," Kevin said, "the winds of change, and all that. All nonviolent offenders got a pardon a couple weeks ago, with an invitation to come back. Most of us elected to remain on the Vineyard. Not me, though." He grinned suddenly. "But hell, man, you don't want to hear about me! You're a proud papa! This is your day, right?!"

"Not mine," Packer replied, a smile spreading. "My daughter's. But...I have to know. What the fuck is up with that mustache, man?"

"Jealous?" Kevin stroked it. "It's pretty awesome. After all, any idiot can grow a beard..."

"This idiot can't," Packer interjected.

"...but it takes a real man to sculpt his facial hair. To express himself with something other an a utilitarian removal or a shaggy indifference." Packer grinned at Kevin's poetic language; he guessed Kevin had had a lot of time to think about things over on the Vineyard during the winter.

"Yeah, well, you still look like a Swedish porn star!" Miles crooned from nearby, where he'd been chatting with Jason Terrance. Those who overheard this, Packer included, howled with laughter. Kevin flipped Miles off, but he was all smiles.

"Well, it's great to see you, Mister Burgundy," Packer said to Kevin, who looked momentarily confused. "I hope one day you'll join us out on the mainland."

"We'll see. I'm aiming for a seat in the next election," Kevin said. He braced Packer's shoulder, "But seriously. Congratulations, man. I'm so happy for you and Nara."

"Thanks, Kevin." They hugged briefly, then Packer motioned Miles over. "Come on, hoss. Let's go back."

"Wh-wha? Why for?" Miles stammered.

"I told Nara you might be out here. She wants to introduce you to someone."

Miles' eyes bulged; his jaw hung open. Packer wondered how long it would take for him to start drooling. "Guh...uh..."

"I'll take that as a yes." He bid a final goodbye to the well-wishers, and he and Miles went back to the room.

There was a very short list of visitors that Nara deemed acceptable to receive, and of these, Miles Jameson was the only man. Packer glanced at him as they walked down the hall: he went from stunned silence to gnawing anxiousness in the course of their trip. When they got to the door, they paused.

"You're not going to faint on me, are you?" Packer asked.

"Oh...oh, no, man, I'm fine." Miles proffered a nervous smile as absurd evidence of this. "Say, did you faint?"

"I did not," Packer said. "Which, if you remember our wager from last month, means you owe me a pint of whiskey."

Miles grinned. "Do you even drink anymore?"

"Not in almost a year," Packer said, "but dammit, it's the principle of the thing."

He opened the door and they stepped in. Nara was still in bed, cooing at the baby in her arms. She looked up and smiled warmly. Packer's chest surged in elation, and he paused momentarily to take in the scene.

"Miles!" Nara said. "Come here, meet my child."

Miles had the gait of a ninety year-old nun in church. He peered cautiously, smoothing his hair back, swallowing several times. "She is...wow, she's so little!" He looked up at Packer. "I guess it's because we don't see any kids around here, we forget how tiny babies are." He turned back to Nara. "But she's...adorable. Look at that face!"

"Kid's got her mom's good looks, I think," Packer said.

"Here," Nara gestured, "hold her."

Miles was too tongue-tied to protest, and he accepted the baby without thinking about it. To Packer's amazement, he appeared to be a natural at it, and, to his further amazement, Miles held her for all of two seconds before he started crying.

"I just..." he began apologetically. He handed the baby to Packer so he could wipe his nose and eyes. "Wow, I didn't think...I'm sorry, guys. It's just that I'm so happy for you. And it just now hit me all at once. I really get it now. Why we've done what we've done. It's all for this." He gestured to Packer's daughter. "For her, and all the babies. And look at me, bawlin' like a girl...for an instant, I wanted what you guys have. I guess I wasn't quite ready for all those feelings."

Nara reached out and held Miles' hand. "Don't worry," she said, "you'll have a family one day, too."

"Everyone will," Packer added, looking down at his daughter. "Everyone that wants to."

Miles nodded, his eyes clear now. "What a day!" he said in his cheerful way. "And here I am. I should be supporting you guys, not the other way around!" He looked to Nara. "Do you need anything? Do you want me to get out of here, so you can rest?"

Nara shook her head. "No, you can stay for a while. It is nice to see you again."

Miles beamed as he sat. "Yes, it's been a few weeks, hasn't it? We've started regular shipping between the Vineyard and Madaket again, so I've been real busy. Or maybe after a winter on land, I've just forgotten how busy I was!"

Packer held the baby while Miles and Nara chatted, giving her up only when she started crying, so Nara could breastfeed. Miles stayed on for a while longer, but left just after a meal had been brought to them. After they ate, Nara dozed with the baby nearby in the bassinet, also sound asleep. Packer decided to step out, ostensibly to pee, but mainly to get a breath of proverbial fresh air.

The maternity wing was quiet, with only a single nurse at the station, and he looked bored. Packer passed him and exited the maternity wing, sitting down in one of the chairs in the deserted lobby. Strange; it was after eleven PM and he wasn't the least bit tired. It'd catch up to him eventually, he thought, but right now, the last thing his mind was sleep. He wanted to decompress a bit, then he'd focus on the task of giving his daughter a name.

He stood and looked out a nearby window. Nantucket was dark, and silent. Beyond the dim glow the lights of the hospital, the snow burned in the crystal-clear starlight. One of the things he looked forward to were the moonless nights out on Cape Cod, when the Milky Way cast a shadow and zodiacal light and gegenschein could be spotted near the horizon.

This fucked-up world of ours does have its compensations, Packer thought, if you're willing to acknowledge them.

A door leading out the main lobby opened, and a harsh voice barked, "Mister Packer!" He turned to spot the Old Man striding across the waiting area, hand extended, a benevolent smile on his face. "Why aren't you with your family?"

Packer's smile betrayed a mild alarm. He'd never seen the Old Man happy like this. Probably no one had. He shook hands, saying, "Just stretching my legs, contemplating the meaning of life." He cocked his head. "Say, isn't it a bit late for you to be out and about?"

"Nonsense," the Old Man replied. They sat. "I was out in Siasconset earlier this afternoon when I got word of your daughter's impending birth. When I finished up there, I decided to come by and offer my congratulations." He winked knowingly. "I suspected you'd be wide awake."

"Yeah, I was just thinking about that," Packer mused. "I haven't so much as yawned."

"I was the same way when my daughter was born," the Old Man said, a mildly wistful, almost singsong tone to his voice. "I didn't sleep for two days...then for the next three months, I could only wish for a good night's rest."

This time, Packer didn't betray any emotion on his face, but he was surprised. He'd only ever heard the Old Man mention his family in the most oblique of terms and under extreme duress. The casual reference to a specific child threw him off guard for a moment.

Then Packer realized that he and the Old Man were not speaking as they had in the past: as prisoner and adjudicator, or as co-revolutionaries. It was one father chatting with another, casually dispensing information that was only relevant here.

"Well," the Old Man continued. "Tell me about it. I guess by the smile you're wearing that everything went well with the birth."

Packer nodded. "Indeed. I tell you, Nara's nothing short of amazing. That's the best way to put it. I mean, I guess all women are, since they endure childbirth, but..."

"But Nara gave birth to your daughter," he finished.

Packer considered this. "Yeah, I guess that's what it boils down to. Did you want to go back and see her?" A certain cocky swagger had crept in to his voice from nowhere. "I'm sure Nara won't mind; she's quite fond of you."

The Old Man's expression softened. "I'll have to refuse, I'm afraid." He took a deep breath. "While you may be going strong, I'm quite certain that Nara would much rather have a good night's rest. But rest assured, I'll pay you guys a visit soon."

Packer nodded. "Alright, another time then."

They shared a moment's silence, then the Old Man said, "Listen, I've been meaning to talk to you about something..."

"Oh." Packer instantly knew what it was. "Turning down my offer to come out the mainland?"

"I must." He crossed his legs. "The candidates for my replacement aren't ready. I still have a lot of work to do here."

Packer nodded. "I suspected as much," he said. "But I really hoped you'd be able to come with us. I know you'd flourish out there; what's more, you'd probably find yourself a compan--"

"And a reason," the Old Man interjected, "why I must decline for the foreseeable future."

"How's that? I mean, you're a family man. The chance to start a--"

"Packer." The tone was gentle, but Packer heard the reproach. "It's...not that simple. Tell me, how old are you?"

Packer frowned. "I'm twenty-eight."

The Old Man sighed. "I'm...very close to double your age. You know how our life expectancies are going to go down. I simply...don't have the time left to start over. To raise a...another family." He suddenly looked pained; he grimaced. "No, like so many things, that is a task for the young. With a little luck, you'll live to see your daughter...to see all your children...grow up. To have families of their own. I...would need substantially more luck to do the same."

Packer sighed, glancing down for a moment. "Tell you what, then. Maybe, if you decide to retire, then you could come out to the mainland. I know this quiet little pond with a nearby clearing that's just begging to have a log cabin built in it. And, if you like, you could come visit us once in a while. Have dinner. Tell a story or two to my kid."

The Old Man didn't respond for a long time. When he did, though, it appeared that he'd won out an internal struggle for control. "You're a magnanimous man, Alferd Packer. Thank you for that." He stood. "Please pass along my warmest congratulations to Nara. Oh, and do you have a name for the baby?"

"I don't," Packer said sheepishly. "I feel like such a tool, because everyone keeps asking me, but I don't."

The Old Man braced him on the shoulder. "Don't worry about it. It took my wife and I at least a week to name our first. When you think of the right one, you'll know."

"Thanks, Toby," Packer replied. They shook hands again, and then the Old Man was gone.

Year 2, Day 140, Midnight, Nantucket

Nara slept, lying on her side, the blissful sleep that comes in the wake of utter exhaustion. She didn't move, didn't mumble or cry out. She simply slept, her breathing soft and regular. In the dim light of the hospital room, Packer could swear she wore a little smile. But perhaps he was simply projecting.

"She deserves a rest," Packer said softly, talking to the sleeping baby in his arms. "It took a long time and a lot of effort for you to get here, but I'm really happy that you are." His daughter, for her part, made no discernable reply.

"You know," he went on, "they told us not to get too attached right away. That there were too many illnesses and conditions that they could no longer treat, defects that they could no longer correct. We are supposed to be on guard at all times, be prepared for the unthinkable, because it's now much more likely to happen." He paused a moment to brush his daughter's hair with this finger. "But I gotta tell you, kiddo, I'm absolutely smitten. I can't be guarded. I can't maintain any kind of detachment. I totally love you, and it's only been a couple of hours. You're quite the charmer.

"So," he said, "I'll make you a deal. You stay healthy, and I promise I'll spoil you rotten every chance I get. You'll be the happiest kid on the planet, I guarantee it." He chuckled to himself. "Yeah, like you can decide whether or not you get sick. Your dad's a bit of goofball, by the way. He even talks about himself in the third person. And he still can't figure out a name for you."

He studied her tiny face. It was true that Nara showed through strongly, but he could also pick out the odd detail that was a reflection of himself, too. He wondered...

"What should I name you?" Packer asked. "Should I give you a name from your mom's language? Or one from mine? Should I just make something up? String a bunch of sounds together? Nothing I've thought of so far feels right." This time, the baby responded by stirring, and letting out a fussy little murmur.

"Hmmm." Packer glanced over at Nara, and then the clock. It was possible that she was hungry again, but Nara needed at least a little more rest. OK, Dad, he thought. You can handle this. You can settle her down. Why not sing a song? A lullaby?

"I don't know any," he muttered to himself.

Good job, moron. A whole winter cooped up in the house and--

Inside his brain, a synapse fired. He realized that he did have something to sing. He smiled, and began softly.

"Once there was a way to get back homeward,
Once there was a way to get back home,
Sleep, pretty darling, do not cry,
And I will sing a lullaby."

And she quieted down.

Of course, the cynic in him immediately pointed out her settling was more random chance than anything else, but Packer was quite comfortable with telling that voice to fuck off, then ignoring it completely.

"So, you like the Beatles, huh?" he said. "Just like your old man. You know, I wasn't really into them until after the Arrival...say!"

Another synapse fired. He suddenly knew how he'd name his daughter. And why not? There were certainly worse ways to get a name.

"Let's see." Like a Rolodex, the catalog of Beatles songs began flipping through his head. "...Maggie Mae? Nah. Sadie? You don't look like a Sadie. Michelle? Hmmm...Anna? Julia? Hmmph, I thought this'd be easy."

He peered at her critically. "Alright, dad, go with the first one that pops into your brain. Your name is...Lucy."

He cocked his head. Would that work? Did that mean something in native speech that would cause problems? As far as Packer could ascertain, no, but he'd double check with Nara. He suddenly hoped that it'd pass muster.

"Okay," Packer said, grinning to himself. "Okay, that's a good name, then. Good job, Dad." He glanced at the clock. "Lucy, we'll let your mom sleep for another half hour, then we'll wake her and tell her that you have a name."

Epilogue

"Are you well, Nara?" Miles asked in native speech. "Do you need to rest?"

She gave him a knowing smile as they crossed the clearing. Lucy was snugged up in a baby carrier underneath the light poncho Nara wore, sound asleep. "I am quite well, Miles," she replied. "I think the better question is: are you well? You look nervous!"

"I am...excited," he said. "I know that I should not...expect to see Yerna, but I want to see her." He grinned sheepishly.

Nara laughed. "You are a good man, Miles." She sidled close to Packer. "Just like my man." It was grins all around, even as the three of them(no, four!) had to revert single-file when they entered the woods on the far side of the clearing.

To be back on Cape Cod once again! Packer found himself in excellent spirits, though he did remain nervous as they headed home. The months of preparation, of anticipation, had come to their final end. The first government-sanctioned emigration had begun.

It would not, of course, happen in a day. No, Packer had left first, taking his family and Miles along(though he increasingly thought of Miles as family) to the village to prepare there. The first group of ten would arrive the next day, then a shipment of equipment the next, and so on. In two weeks, it would all be here: shovels, plows, saws, pots and pans, hand tools, nails, soap, bandages...anything that was in abundance on Nantucket would come out here. The first task would be to construct a dock so that they could bring out heavy equipment, like tractors. And, as time progressed, Packer would be sure to see about obtaining some rarer stuff to help the settlement prosper.

But for Packer, that was the easy part. It was all tangible, concrete. Each emigrant(or immigrant, from Packer's view) required X amount of water, Y amount of food, which meant Z hours would need to be spent by Q hunters to haul in extra meat or fish. Of course, weekly food shipments had been arranged, at least for the first year. It was nothing grandiose, simply milled grain and salted cod, but it was food that Nantucket had in abundance and would shake loose for them. No, no one would go hungry. Packer, and the men who'd helped him plan, had made sure that the margins were large enough.

The worst of it was, of course, the unknown. Much as he didn't want to think about it, Miles' anxious behavior pinged close to his own heart. How had Duniik fared? Did he find a woman? Did Chottekan's age and aching joints hamper him during the winter? What of Natteko, or Koross, or Choren...

He stopped himself, glad he was leading the way--his face certainly betrayed his thoughts. He had waited six months to discover the answers to those questions, and he could stand the few miles of walking that remained between him and the answers. The woods were looking familiar; they'd soon hit a hunting trail that would take them to the village. Around them, he could swear that he could hear the plants awakening from their winter slumber. A few days of heavy rain had given way to sunny and warm conditions, and Packer felt, somewhere deep inside him, that the last vagaries of winter had been cast aside, and it was truly spring.

The hunting trail was wide enough for Nara to walk at his side. Aside from the baby, she was carrying very little, and what she had was all for Lucy. Packer carried nearly all of their luggage, though it was about a quarter of the whole--the rest would arrive in a few days via boat.

"How is Lucy?" Packer asked as they walked. His boots felt sturdy, well-worn, and, for some reason, light on his feet. He just felt better here, at home.

Nara unbuttoned the top of her poncho, revealing the baby snuggled up against her in the carrier. "Sleeping, like usual," she said. "She will probably want to eat soon."

Packer nodded. Nara could detect Lucy's intentions with uncanny accuracy. She knew when Lucy was hungry, if she was upset, if she was about to pee or poop...Packer quickly learned to defer to her expertise. And, happily, Lucy was a healthy baby, else they wouldn't have departed.

Similarly, Nara had recovered from the birth without difficulty. Just before they'd left, Doctor Reynolds had pronounced her in good health--she'd even said they could start having sex again whenever they wanted, and they decided to wait until they they were back on Cape Cod. Maybe that's why you're in such a good mood, Packer thought. You're gonna get laid tonight.

Before Packer quite realized it, they were there. The woods parted and the fields surrounding the village opened up before them, offering them a sprawling view of Cape Cod Bay. Smoke rose from chimney holes in several of the structures, and there were a few people out and about.

Nara gripped his arm, exuberance plastered across her face. "We're back!" she said. "I can barely believe that we're back!"

Packer nodded, his heart was pounding pleasantly with excitement. They shared an exuberant kiss, then Nara took off her poncho, intending to show Lucy off. Packer turned to Miles, clapping him on the shoulder. "Come on, buddy. Let's go home."

They made it perhaps halfway down the hillside before they were noticed. Whoever wasn't otherwise engaged poured out of the village, shouting and hollering greetings. Nara had explained that because no one could tell exactly when everyone would show back up after the winter(or if they would show up at all), such greetings and excitement were all informal, and that the Elders would decide when to have the official ceremony welcoming everyone back.

But none of that mattered. The faces were familiar, happy, and genuine. There was no masking of joy, no couching of emotions behind veils. There was no reason to hold anything back.

The small crowd that surround them assaulted them with questions; what was the Far Island like, how many people were coming, and so on. The women were most interested in Lucy, and they gushed over her when Nara showed her off. She even held her up next to Packer, so that the resemblance could be noted. Thankfully, for Packer, he'd passed on enough external traits that it was patently obvious that he was the dad, even upon cursory examination. There'd be no questioning.

Miles stood off to the side a bit, not doing anything. Packer thought he looked a little overwhelmed. After all, people were speaking and gesturing at full speed. Packer could usually follow such conversation, but he could not yet overcome that labored cadence to his words, even if the ideas he formed were mature and correct.

It was only when a young lady shoved her way through the small throng that his demeanor shifted. His green eyes twinkled suddenly as he spotted Yerna, and he dropped his packs, a bright grin on his face. Packer and Nara watched as Yerna stopped just in front of him. Her own posture and face made it quite clear how happy she was, too.

"Hello, Miles," she said in English. It was essentially all the English most people in the tribe knew--how to say hello and goodbye, please and thank you, and, of course, the odd word that had no native equivalent.

Hands trembling slightly, Miles nonetheless brought his hands up and began to speak. "I greet you, Yerna," he began haltingly. All the chatter died, and Yerna's eyes came just shy of popping clear out of her head. "For the entire winter, I have thought about you. It makes me happy to see you again, and to see that you are well."

Yerna laughed with unrestrained glee, hopping up and down. The others around them began chatting excitedly. Packer, in his discussions with the Elders, had said that he would teach the immigrants how to speak, but, of course, seeing was believing.

Yerna spoke and gestured hurriedly, nearly too quickly for Packer to follow. Miles held up his hands. "Slowly, please," he gestured, adding, "I can speak, but I am slow. I must practice."

Yerna seemed to think on this for moment. Then, a grin crept across her face. "Yes, you should practice," she said at a normal pace. "Come with me. I will help you."

Everyone, Packer included, was sharing knowing looks with each other as the two departed. Good for you, Miles, Packer thought. He then heard a shout, had the faintest impression of motion, and was promptly bowled over.

It didn't take him long to realize who was assailing him. Duniik howled mirthfully, "Packer! You are back!" His bearhug was brutal, and Packer could only endure it. "And you cared fo--" Mercifully, Duniik let go and stepped back. Packer gasped, getting his wind back.

But Duniik wasn't paying attention to him. He'd arrived late, so he hadn't initially seen Lucy, swaddled in Nara's arms. But he saw her now. Nara, beaming with a mother's pride, said, "Duniik, this is your niece."

"A girl," he breathed. "A girl!" He turned to Packer. "She looks like you! And you, Nara!" He let out a whoop of joy and leaped into the air.

Packer smiled and glanced past his brother-in-law. Chottekan was approaching at a more stately pace, but his hands were trembling with anticipation and there were tears in his eyes. Nara pushed past Duniik and the few remaining onlookers, moving swiftly to her father. He held his arms out and embraced her gently, with infinite tenderness, so as not to disturb the baby.

Duniik clapped Packer on the shoulder. "A good winter for you?" he asked.

Packer nodded, then winked. "And you, my brother?"

"It was good. I brought a woman back with me. She will be my wife, I think."

It was Packer's turn to clap Duniik on the shoulder. "Good! Where is she?"

"In the house with Chokora," Duniik replied. "Chokora's legs pain her, so she is making something something to soothe them. She knows much about medicines. She is a good woman."

So Duniik had found a woman after all. Good he thought. Packer walked over to Chottekan, having judged enough time elapsed for him to pull himself together, so that he could meet his son-in-law with the appropriate dignity.

"Father-in-law," Packer said with a bow. "I return with Nara and our daughter, both healthy."

Chottekan grinned from ear to ear. "You have done well, Packer. To see this baby with my own eyes...you have made this old man happy. A happy grandfather to...Loo see?"

"Lucy," Nara corrected.

"That's a strange name," Duniik said, and Nara shot him a dirty look. "But I like it!" he added nervously. He turned to Packer. "It comes from your tribe, right?" Packer nodded.

"It is a good name," Chottekan declared. "And she is a beautiful baby." He leaned over Lucy, whose eyes were now open, and made cooing noises. Lucy furrowed her brow and stared, her dark eyes studying the new face.

"I see you in her, Packer," Chottekan went on, straightening up. "The eyes and the nose." He then took Packer aside for a moment. "We will talk more later, but I must know. Did you...?"

"Yes," Packer said simply. "The first among them will come tomorrow, if the weather is good. They will bring their tools and their skills." His father-in-law nodded, then went back over to Lucy, who was now being held by Duniik.

For a moment, the sheer weight of the task ahead of him seemed to be crushing, insurmountable. There was so much to do! But his resolve would never waver. He wouldn't do everything perfectly, but he would do his best. That was all he could do.

For the tribe, everything was going to change--even the way they boiled water would now be different, thanks to the incoming metal pots and pans. No longer would they have to heat rocks to drop into wooden bowls, or precisely suspend a waterbag above a flame. Even simply having plastic containers to store dried goods and protect them from animals was a game-changer.

He looked at the fields surrounding the village; this was the last time he'd see them in this state. The newcomers would show his tribe the benefits of agriculture through example. The fields were more than adequate; there were thousands of acres of land available and cleared, and they were only planning to actively work a hundred or so the first year.

Irrigation would be started, too. At first, they would simply construct channels to divert flow from nearby streams, but a wooden aqueduct was going to be designed to bring a central source of clean water to the entire village. In time, that would probably be replaced with cast concrete pipes, dug out of abandoned Nantucket neighborhoods where no water had flown for a year and a half.

And while that happened, they would also build. Like Packer had with Natteko, the true carpenters would take on apprentices. They would construct homes, granaries, workshops...there were even plans for a big bandshell, so they could have Sing Story even when it was raining.

But most importantly, everyone would learn. The newcomers would learn practical skills needed to survive: what plants to eat, how to mend torn clothing, local customs, and so on. The members of the tribe would gain an empirical understanding of the world around them. They would learn why their dart throwers amplified the force of their throw. They would learn why wounds that had been cleaned out and covered tended to heal easier. How to use simple machines to accomplish tasks otherwise impossible, and the reasons they worked.

And, for as many people as possible, including all the children, literacy awaited. This was crucial, because it would bring the two societies closer together, but more than that, it would allow for the fastest possible dissemination of knowledge. It would encourage the curious to seek out explanations, to experiment and innovate, and to teach others, so that one day, the source of information would not only be the newcomers. In his mind's eye, he saw members of his tribe visiting Nantucket for the sole purpose of accessing the books in the library.

Perhaps that was Nantucket's ultimate destiny: it would be the repository of knowledge, its chief export academics, administrators, and educated professionals. When the last vestiges of the modern world broke down forever, what reason where there be for Nantucket to exist? Because of its isolation and relatively poor climate, it was not ideal for agriculture. It had limited wood resources, and, of course, nothing like coal or oil. Maybe becoming a central hub of learning for the mainland population would be the only way to prevent Nantucket from being abandoned altogether. Packer stopped himself there, though. All those problems would be solved by younger people; he had no doubt he would be an old man before the question of abandoning Nantucket was seriously examined.

To Packer, standing in the field that would be shortly changed forever, surrounded by his family, it all seemed so overwhelming. But he knew it was not impossible. Nara was proof of that, and, indeed, the very fact that he'd been able to convince the Elders to accept the newcomers was a testament to the general open-mindedness of the tribe. It would be a great effort, but would be done. They would integrate, they would expand beyond this village, and they would thrive.

Chottekan had his granddaughter in his arms and was cooing at her delightedly. Lucy reached a tiny hand up and pawed at his nose, causing him to laugh. "Oh, what a willful one she is! Just like Nara when she was a baby." He came over to Packer again. "She really does look like you. I must say that...I had my doubts. Some of the Elders believed that it was impossible for...but, no matter. Lucy is the proof that your old tribe and we are the same. In the important ways, we are the same."

They started back towards the village, Chottekan still carrying Lucy. Packer said, "All of my efforts are so that Lucy can have a better life. So she will be safe. The newcomers have the same goal. They want to have families, and give them all that they can."

"So you have said," Chottekan replied, "but the Elders have many questions for you. For Nara, too."

"And we will answer them all," Packer said. "But today, I want to see my family. Share stories. Then," he said, looking up at the blue sky above them, "tomorrow, the work can begin."


THE END

---

And so, almost fourteen months and 185,000 words later, the tale of Alferd Packer has come to an end. Since this was brought about through a group effort, I just wanted to take a few paragraphs and thank a bunch of people.

Firstly, I must thank my main co-authors: GrandmasterTerwynn, Simon_Jester, and Academia Nut. Without them, this story would've looked vastly different and I probably would've lost interest in it a long time ago. Gentlemen, it has been both an honor and a pleasure working together with you on this.

Of course, there were many other people who contributed, both here in the main thread, and over in the Writer's Guild: Knife, Mayabird, Darth Wong, and others who, of course, slip my mind right now. Regardless, I appreciate all of your commentary, insight, and and support.

And lastly, a heartfelt thanks to you, the readers. I sincerely hope that you enjoyed this story, as it was really fun for me to write and collaborate with my fellow co-authors. And it was indeed a collaborative effort. For those of you who have access to the Writer's Guild forum, you can see just how we went about this, especially during the climax of the story. Also, for those of you willing to wade through a six hundred post thread, you can find some deleted/alternate scenes which we cut or never posted, for one reason or another.

Finally, I'll say that even though this is the end of Alferd Packer's tale, it is by no means the end of the SDN-Nantucket story. There, are, after all, many questions still left unanswered from the fallout of the coup, and, of course, what became of the Eagle? Will Packer's emigration program actually work? What will the soft landing look like? We shall see...