One of the results of England's international redefinition following the controversy over the Churchill-Princip letters that "revealed" British leaders to have been responsible for the outbreak of the First World War had been a decision by the Scottish Parliament to formally declare its nation's independence. What was unknown to the world was that Malcolm's team, having forged those letters, was indirectly responsible for that momentous vote. In addition, when Malcolm sold his controlling interest in the Tressalian Corporation so that he could devote himself full time to his campaign against the information society, he'd used some of the fantastic proceeds to secretly purchase a group of small Hebridean islands from the Scots. The price had been substantial enough to allow Edinburgh to launch an effective armed resistance to English efforts to resubjugate their northern neighbors; and in the years since, Malcolm had continued to contribute generously to what London insisted on referring to as "the Scottish rebellion," but which the rest of the world had dubbed the Scottish war of independence. Some of the practical results of his generosity were, apparently, now on display in the air around us. "But will they really attack the English planes?" I asked. "They don't look like they'd stand a chance."

"They wouldn't," Slayton said. "They're flying old Harriers, armed with Sparrows—too slow, and not enough punch. But that's not the point. All they have to do is keep the English planes occupied long enough for to give us a chance to dive."

So they, and we, did: within moments our ship was once again under the waves. We cruised quickly through the Pentland Firth and westward into the Atlantic, at a shallow enough depth to be able to tell that the ocean surface above us was extremely agitated. I was nevertheless unprepared for just how rough the waves were when we shot back up into the air: it was fortunate that we didn't have to ride them, but could cruise along at an altitude of some 50 feet. In a matter of minutes our destination became visible: seven small bits of land dotted the water ahead. As we approached I could see that they were marked by high, dramatic rock formations, hidden coves and windswept green fields. "Well, Gideon," Malcolm said, his discomfort alleviated at least somewhat by the prospect of an end to our journey, "welcome. Welcome to the Islands at the Edge of the World ..."

Such, apparently, was the sobriquet long ago given to the little archipelago that was collectively known as St. Kilda. Protected most of the year by waters so rough that ships did not even attempt to approach it, St. Kilda seemed the perfect haven for Malcolm and his team. It had been uninhabited by humans since 1930, and was home now primarily to a fantastic assortment of sea birds—gannets, kittiwakes, puffins and the like—which flocked so densely at various points that they changed the very color of the landscape. But what was most striking about the islands was their air of almost palpable mystery: the sea-sculpted rocks, remnants of an ancient volcano, bespoke a shielded past full of dark secrets and perilous adventures. A romantic assessment, perhaps; but then, by the time we landed I had become possessed by every kind of romance.

On the main island of Hirta, Malcolm had constructed the base of his operations near the decaying remains of a small village that was centuries old. The buildings that made up his facility were cleverly designed to match those older stone ruins, though the technology that the newer structures housed could not have belonged any less to the past. As aboard the electromagnetic ship, there was a marked contrast of styles inside Tressalian's compound: functional minimalism in the laboratories and control rooms, inviting antiques in the living and lounging areas. Housed in one mock church was the projection unit for the ozone weapon, which apparently could also be used to temporarily adjust conditions on the island when the climate of the North Atlantic became too severe.

As Larissa and Colonel Slayton got Malcolm settled into his regimen of rest, self-treatment and self-medication (he had an understandable hatred of doctors), the others showed me to a room that had a truly striking view of one very eerie cove and the sea beyond. During the next two weeks or so, as Malcolm privately regained his strength and then went to work in one lab that he reserved as his sanctum, I passed the time with the rest of the team, investigating the islands, learning more about the technologies the group had developed and pondering the effects of our recent escapades. It was an energizing, exhilarating time; and as it passed I became aware that I was speaking and acting less and less like Dr. Gideon Wolfe of Manhattan, professor at John Jay University and respected member of American society, but rather as someone who, like the others, had renounced his native citizenship and become a man without a country. When I'd boarded Malcolm's ship in the Belle Isle prison I'd become an outlaw: in the finest sense of the word, I told myself, but such distinctions would matter very little if I crossed paths with the authorities. And so I dove headlong into my new role, discussing potential new hoaxes and learning about new weapons and technologies during the day, and becoming ever more passionately fascinated by Larissa at night.

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