RACHEL’S ‘bump’ was swelling nicely. She had got over the early stages and the unpleasant bouts of morning-sickness, and had also now fully recovered from her injury. She could feel the baby kicking lustily. Often, in bed, she would draw Michael’s hand over her belly. He wasn’t quite sure if he was feeling in the right spot, but at times he could feel some movement. “It’s a boy. I know it’ll be a boy,” Rachel used to declare. Michael’s reply was invariably “Wait and see. I’d be quite happy if it’s a girl.”

In the meantime, they had given up the lodging at Mrs Norman’s, and parted with many tearful farewells. Michael had secured the down payment on a larger house on the outskirts of Rigo, with a small garden and a workshop which he was setting up to do some carpentry. He was continuing his work at the shipyard: the repairs to the Dauntless had been completed, the owners had returned and were satisfied with the work, Michael had received a handsome bonus, and the ship had been re-rigged and had sailed for the Indies. But another ship, the Voyager, also a square-rigger, had been brought in and he was now working on that one. It had suffered damage in a fire and many of the timbers needed replacing.

The foreman of the shipyard had announced that he would be retiring in a few months, and Michael was wondering whether he might possibly be up to the job. He wasn’t holding out too much hope, though: there were others working in the yard who had more experience than he had.

Michael and Rachel were just settling down to their evening meal, sitting at the garden table, one fine summer evening, when they noticed a young man coming through the gate, with a letter which he handed to them after he’d been satisfied of their identities. He explained that it was an important letter which he’d been instructed to deliver by hand, rather than through the usual mail.

Once the messenger had left, they read the letter. It was from Hilary Bligh the Governor, whom they had not met since the inter­view which Peter had attended. She requested an urgent meeting with them, on a matter of some importance, and proposed a time a few days hence.

So Michael obtained a morning’s leave of absence from the shipyard, and on the appointed day, mindful of Rachel’s condition, they took a cab to the Governor’s mansion, as they had done some months earlier, and were shown into her office. This time she was alone.

Hilary Bligh seemed to have aged more than the few months since the last meeting; her face seemed more heavily lined and betrayed signs of anxiety. Michael wondered if there was bad news coming.

But firstly, noticing Rachel’s condition, Hilary complimented them warmly. “I’m so pleased to see you’re starting a family. Children are very welcome in Labrador. I hope you’ll enjoy every happiness with your children to come.

“But now to more serious matters. I perhaps should remind you that the trial of young Simon Skinner will be coming up shortly, and both of you will be summoned as witnesses. It’s not my place to brief you, of course—but you’re from the country and, if I may say so, not well versed in legal matters. Please understand that what I’m about to say is in strict confidence and off the record.

“Skinner will be facing charges of murder and attempted murder. If he’s convicted of murder, he’ll face the death penalty. In that case, it will be down to me to have the final say as to whether he goes to the gallows…”

“Oh, please—not a hanging!” broke in Rachel, impulsively. “I know he did a terrible thing, and we were so fond of old Bill too and miss him dreadfully—but…” She could not continue. She was remembering the horrible moment when she came upon her elder sister Anne, hanging from a beam.

“I see,” resumed the Governor. “Well, your views will be among many I have to take into consideration. It will be a difficult decision to make, not one I’ll make lightly, and I can’t promise as for now. But this wasn’t the reason I summoned you to my office.”

“What, then?” asked Michael, anxiously.

“Well, as you’ve probably learnt by now, the Chamber which comprises the Government and Opposition, comes up for re-election every four years, and the next election is due this coming October. In theory, every citizen of Labrador above the age of twenty-one is entitled to vote, and the members of the incoming chamber are then allocated seats by party in proportion to the votes cast. It’s known as Democracy. You, Michael, will have the opportunity to vote. But not you, Rachel: you are still too young.

“In practice, hitherto only citizens living within a fifty mile radius of Rigo have been able to vote: the reason is because of the logistical impracticability of collecting ballot papers from further afield. Many members of the Chamber, as well as other people outside, have pointed out the unfairness of this system, which we of the Govern­ment can hardly dispute. So, as it turned out, a resolution was passed a few days ago, mandating the Government to ensure that every eligible person in Labrador, provided they can be traced to a fixed address, must be offered the right to vote.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

“You, with your experiences of Waknuk and similar remote districts, don’t need to be told what the political allegiances of many people in those areas will be. I had tried to have Fringes dwellers included in the electorate, but this was turned down, mainly because many members still regard Fringes folk as non-human; and also because of the difficulty of distributing ballot papers in that lawless region.

“I have to tell you that the effect of this change may well be that the reactionary Church Party, popularly referred to as the ‘Right Wing Church Party’, who are currently the minority Opposition in the Chamber, will become the majority and form the next Government. One of their early duties will be to re-elect a Governor, and in that case I am almost certain to be voted out.”

Michael and Rachel sat in silence while they digested this piece of grim news. At length Michael asked: “If you are unseated, do you know who might succeed you?”

Hilary thought for a moment, then replied: “It will probably be a man named Malcolm Ruffer, who is the current leader in the Church Party and a prominent activist.”

“What will that mean for us, and for our friends.”

“Not good, I’m afraid. Ruffer is known for his strong religious views regarding Mutants. He asserts that all Mutants are ‘Abomin­ations’ and must be rooted out and destroyed. He may even attempt to reinstate the old practice of destroying human Mutants—Blas­phemies—a practice which was abolished more than seventy years ago—although he’d have a tough time getting that through the Chamber. As you know, my colleagues and I have been working hard to get telepaths, such as yourselves, recognised as true humans in the Image who have gained extra abilities. Ruffer will want to reverse that. He will want to get people like you classified as Blasphemies. It would put you in danger. I thought you ought to be made aware of the risks as early as possible.”

Michael turned to Rachel and contemplated her swelling abdomen for a while. “Not the best time to be expecting a baby,” he remarked, more to himself than the others.

“Oh Michael! Please don’t be flippant,” said Rachel, annoyed. “Seriously, what are we going to do about it? Shall we have to flee to Europe, as we’d been planning before all this happened? Baby and all?”

“If I may make a suggestion, consider Newf,” put in Hilary. “That island is under an administration separate from mainland Labrador, and Ruffer, even should he gain the Governorship, will have no jurisdiction there. Unless, of course, he sees fit to annex Newf by force—in which case things could escalate into war.”

“Good God! How awful would that be!” said Rachel.

“Doesn’t bear thinking about. But at least Newf is a lot nearer than Europe, about which we know little. And its people are more enlightened than some Labrador folk. The Church Party has very little influence there.”

“What about Skota?” asked Rachel. “Peter mentioned the place to us: ‘Nova Skota’ or something like that it was originally called. Would we fit in better there?”

“Emphatically not,” said Hilary. “It’s mostly frontier country, and religion, in the form of a branch of the Church Party, has a tight control over everything, including Mutants—of which Skota suffers more than most of Labrador. You’d find yourselves worse off than in Waknuk.”

They sat in silence for a while, until Hilary indicated that it was time she resumed her duties as Governor and she would have to dismiss them. She wished them luck and promised to keep them informed of any political developments concerning their welfare.

On the journey back to their house, they sat in silence, gloomily contemplating the grim prospects. Would they have to flee? Would Michael have to give up a good, well-paid job? Would they lose all chance of a reunion with Mark and Stephanie? And what about Peter and his friends, and Samuel, and Benjamin and Laura and their family?

And above all, would their unborn child be in peril?

Back home, as they sat down to lunch, Rachel finally broke the silence.

“There’s the other thing we have to worry about. The trial. Let’s hope that that, at least, doesn’t turn into a nightmare.”

“Should be a foregone conclusion,” said Michael. “All we have to do is tell the judge exactly what happened, as best we can remember. I, at least, am perfectly clear as to that.”

“Michael, you’re being a bit naïve. Remember there will be skilled attorneys defending Skinner. They could trap us out. Remember Adrian—would you have liked to be on the opposite side of the argument from him? And he’s only a junior. We need to be careful.”

“We will,” said Michael, although not too optimistically.