Margins of Reality

This is a bit of a new departure for me. Itiserotic romance, but it takes a while for either aspect of that to develop. It's a story of adventure, of living in a changed world, of discovery and self-discovery. It's a bit faster-moving, with chapter a bit more bite-sized than I usually produce, and it definitely gets darker than anything you'll have seen from me before, and later on has some horror elements. It's also different in style and structure than my other work.

But if you can cope with that, and trust my ability to tell a story, read on!

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Thanks are due to the QT Writers' Room, especially RonanJWilkerson, for help with characters and polish, and AgathonWrites for bouncing ideas on structure and narrative. Most especially, I want to think my silent partner for feedback from the very beginning, as I developed the world, characters and story.

Chapter 1: A Narrow Gift

Westgate Sanctuary, Thursday 16th March 2056------

The room was plain, the walls lined with simple wooden workbenches. Once, it had been the back office of an estate agent; now the whole unit was used for specialised training, including what had been flats above the shop. Two men sat at the table, one earnest, the other sullen.

"Cal, you've been using your Gift reliably for three days, now." The man speaking had an unusual appearance: barrel chest, corded neck muscles, broad shoulders, wiry but not bulky muscles showing on his bare arms. His blond hair fell in curtains around his glasses—twisted wire frames around small, circular lenses—and piercing blue eyes. "The only times it's failing are when younoticethat what you're trying to do should be impossible. Don't you feelanythingdifferent?"

Cal Rigden looked at his hands, toughened by his work, strong, callused in seemingly random places. He wanted to get back to that work, but someone had dropped a GPMG in the 'for repair' bin. Cal had taken it apart, as usual. He'd spotted a dirty-looking firing pin, brushed off the carbon, made sure there was no pitting underneath, and put it back in place. He'd inspected everything else that he could actually fix and hadn't spotted anything. He'd run it through a function check, dry cycling it a few dozen times, and all the moving parts moved as they should. He knew that the carbon build-up could stop the gun firing, so assumed that was the problem. After all, if there'd been a problem with the barrel, they'd have just replaced it and either chucked the barrel or sent it in with a note about the problem. Same thing with the stock. And if it were a problem with the receiver, it wouldn't have been put in the repair bin at all.

Except then the militia armourer, Sally, had come storming in asking why a gun with an oil-canned receiver had been sent back rather than torn down for parts. She'd only stopped giving Cal a bollocking when Tony, his section supervisor, announced that the receiver was perfectly square. Sally had grabbed the receiver and straight edge, and Tony had started tearing into him about rebuilding condemned equipment without anyone telling him to.

When he'd sworn blind that it had been in the repair bin, Tony had eventually gotten the log book out and checked the receiver's serial number and classification. Sally had gone to getherlog book as well, and all the numbers matched. Then they'd torn the gun down again and checked the receiver with every tool they had, coming to the inescapable conclusion that it could have just come out of the factory. Which was a puzzle; even if they'd thought someone might copy the serial number,no-onehad made any for about thirty years.

So he'd ended up spending a couple of days sitting with Tony, learning about the Gift. Tony had it, though he couldn't have fixed that gun. He could make a few rivets like new, but persuading the side panels of the receiver back into their original shape was beyond him. In fact, he rarely used his Gift at work; like all the Gifted, he put time and energy into using it to reinforce the Sanctuary's defences. He claimed that if he used it at work as well, he wouldn't be fit for anything.

They'd talked about how Tony felt when he used the Gift, what he thought he was doing, to see if Cal saw it the same way. They'd tried to get him to fix other things, without taking them apart and putting them back together. Normally this process would go on for at least a week, but the complete lack of progress had Tony give up on him, and Matt had taken over. This was their fifth day, and progress was dubious.

"I just fix things," Cal said, looking up at Matt with quiet desperation in his dark eyes, hating the whine that crept into his voice. "I didn't do anything with any of that stuff that I wouldn't normally do. Every one of them I foundsomethingI could fix, with my hands. I didn't even know there was anything else wrong with them. Just like that gun." He looked back down at his hands, and repeated, more quietly, "I just fix things."

"Okay, Cal," Matt said calmly, not noticeably more frustrated than he was after the first day they spent working together, during which Cal hadn't managed to fixanything. "So your Gift kicks in when you fix things, and problems you didn't know about are sorted as well. But normally people feel something, even if it's just being more tired than they expect."

"No." Cal shook his head, his dark hair swinging in curtains much like Matt's. "If you hadn't told me, I'd think there was nothing different to any other time I fixed anything."

"Okay. I have an idea, but it'll take time to set up. Why don't you go for lunch, take the afternoon off, and we'll start again tomorrow?"

Cal agreed, though he didn't want an afternoon off. He went to the section canteen, ate without noticing what was on his plate, and checked the noticeboard for the afternoon's communal work rotations; he'd been told to stay out of the repair centre until his 'training was done', but that didn't mean he couldn't do something useful. No-one cared if someone turned up when they weren't rostered, especially for the more unsavoury tasks. After all, who'd skive off their regular work in order to move human waste, and the Dent-de-Lion sewer was being emptied. That would at least be a constructive way to spend the afternoon.

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Friday 17th March 2056------

The next day, Cal arrived in the training room to find one of the shift bins from the workshop, full of things that, he assumed, were awaiting repair. Up to now he'd just had half a dozen items at a time, laid out on the benches. Someone had brought one of the parts chests, as well. His teacher stood up when he saw him, and smiled.

"Come in, Cal," Matt said. "We're doing something a bit different today. Rather than giving you things you definitely need to use the Gift to fix, you've got a mixture. Some things you can repair without it, some you can't. All the parts and tools you may need should be there, too."

"So, I just act like it's a day at work?" he asked, slightly cheered at the idea.

"More or less. I want you to concentrate on how everythingfeelswhile you're doing it. Like we talked about before, any difference in your mind, your body, your emotions, anything. Just this time, some of the stuff only needs a normal repair. That might give you the chance to notice a difference."

Well, it could be worse. And at least I can get more real work done this way.

He picked up a magazine—a STANAG from an SA80, he'd fixed a few of them before—and sat down at the bench. He found the tool he needed in the bottom drawer of the chest, slid the metal bob part way down the magazine, let go of it and read off the depth on the rod. He thought the angle looked off, but more importantly it had sunk to the twenty-round mark when it should only have gone to fifteen: the spring had obviously gone slack. It was happening all the time, since they'd started using new springs rather than old stock; they just couldn't make them properly, though managing it at all had been an achievement, he'd been told.

He popped the end off, slipped in a new spring, checked the depth and angle carefully, and put it to one side. He smiled softly at the pleasure of his work, and picked up an agitation assembly from a laundry transmission. Those were always fun.

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Matt had sent a runner to the canteen to pick up their lunch, so they could discuss how Cal had found the morning.

"I don't know," he explained. "I think I might have felt something, sometimes, but… I mean, sometimes I was more frustrated than I should have been, but that's not unusual. And there was a sort of… I always feel some satisfaction, with any repair. But a couple of times I felt it more, maybe?"

"Did you ever have both on one item?" Matt asked, calm and composed.

"Yeah," Cal said thoughtfully, reflecting on the experience. "A differential from the piss-pits. And it wasn't that it was gross; if the damage came from a leak, they'd cleaned it pretty well. I tested it, I could feel the stick, but couldn't see why when I stripped it. Eventually I got a bit of grit out, and that felt like a sort of release. Very satisfying."

"Interesting. I want you to keep your mind open to that sort of thing. But did you maybe feel tired—good tired, like after a good work-out or something—once you got that grit out?"

Cal thought about it carefully. "I don't think so. I mean, there was this one heavy breath, but people do that all the time when they feel relieved, don't they?"

"Keep your mind on it," Matt instructed. "Now, this afternoon—"

He was cut off by a knock at the door. They both turned to see three women, all in the drab shirts favoured by off-duty militia members, all wearing unit badges.

And all three had been at school with Cal. Rachel, the crew-cut blond with a lance-corporal's stripe and a mechanic's spanner insignia on an arm-band embroidered with the shield of the Second Guards, had even been in some of his advanced classes on mechanical repair. Sarah was wearing a new sergeant's badge, right up near her collar where her brown ringlets almost brushed it, and the eye logo of the Third Scouts further down on her chest; he hadn't heard that she was back from the Command and Leadership course at Discovery Park yet. Leah, the darkest of the three, proudly wore the badge of the Sixth Swords, albeit with no rank insignia. She was a relative newcomer, having arrived in Westgate at the age of fifteen when her parents migrated from Crossroads. She had been welcomed warmly into the class.

Not that Cal was bitter.

"Ladies, what can we do for you?" said Matt, genially. He did most things genially, which Cal supposed was easy when everyone in the Sanctuary looked up to you. Inadvertently saving the lives of hundreds of people when you were eight years old would do that.

"We just thought we'd stop by and see if we could expect you at the Wantsum dance tonight, Matt," Rachel said in a honeyed voice with a saccharine smile just short of a simper. "A lot of us are hoping to see you there." Leah smiled along with her, though it was more predatory.

Sarah, on the other hand, looked like she didn't even want to be there. She'd been part of the 'in crowd' at school—not that there had been enough people in the Wantsum class to have many different crowds—but always a bit on the outside; Cal's overriding memory of her in those days was as she was now—small and stern, blue eyes intent. She hadn't welcomed Cal, when he was old enough to move from his birth house of Gore to be educated with the girls of Wantsum, any more than the others.

"I wouldn't miss it for the world," Matt said with warmth. "Though Iamold enough to be your father."

Which was technically true, though Sanctuary policy didn't encourage people to have children when they were just eighteen. And although Cal had known that Matt was also Gore, it hadn't occurred to him that it meant they would be at the same social events. Cal didn't attend often, but it was nice to get out on occasion, just for a change of scene.

"And I'll make sure that Cal comes along as well," Matt added.

"Oh, yes. Hello, Caleb," Rachel said with a total lack of enthusiasm, though the syrupy tone remained. "That will be… nice." He thought he might have caught a little note of satisfaction, presumably because she knew that Cal wasn't so keen on his full first name.

"Well, we'll see you then." Matt managed to be both pleasantanddismissive, which Cal considered quite the rhetorical feat. "We have a lot to do here." As they left he turned back to Cal. "As I was saying, this afternoon I want you to really pay attention to any feelings like that, and make notes about what you feel when repairing what item. If you feel anything particularly strongly…"

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The dance that evening was in the Pavilion, lovingly 'restored' and renovated as soon as the Sanctuary had dealt with more immediate survival concerns. Standing on the Point, between the two bays of Westgate proper, the structure could hardly be recognised from the old photos; the original walls could only be found in the basement. The first great project the Sanctuary had undertaken that wasn't purely about survival, it had grown up and out, rising above the depression in which the original structure sat. Books had been consulted, advice taken from every friendly Sanctuary, and a glorious dome had been erected in the local interpretation of a neoclassical style. In their investigations, they had also discovered thepracticalvalue of that aesthetic. The arches and dome made the structure stronger; the pillars weren't simply decorative.

Lacking marble, it had been constructed largely from salvaged breeze blocks, two or three thick in places and reinforced, grouted solid with a clever mortar some chemists at Discovery Park had come up with. The curves were smoothed with a hydraulic lime render, another tip from the scientists, though it was more recreation than innovation. The fluted columns had been carved out while the render was half set, and topped with scroll capitals, cast from the same material around heavy wooden cores. The fluting might have been a bit rounded and the structure a bit stout for proper Ionic columns, but everyone agreed that it worked. The whole structure was made bright white with locally-made whitewash; it had to be refreshed every year or two, but no-one complained about the work.

It was a far cry from the bandstand that had first occupied the site, over a hundred years before everything changed. And it hadn't even taken much use of the Gift, just a little to make things easier; theycouldhave done it with just hard work and know-how. The whole endeavour had become a point of pride for the Sanctuary.

Four covered porticoes—one pointing out to sea, one inland, one across each bay—each led into the grand, domed space, and the working areas were relegated to the original structure beneath. With the extensions that had been added since, separate structures joined to the original by roofed colonnades from the side porticoes running close by the sea wall below, it was easily big enough for every adult woman in Wantsum and man in Gore—or any other matched pair of houses. With main entertainment in the great hall, the wings with their movable partitions could be used for quiet spaces, buffets, or other entertainments—or trysting places. This was, after all, a major reason for such events, to encourage people to find partners from the appropriate house.

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The hall resounded to fiddle, guitar and drums as Cal entered through the south portico. The waxy, stony texture of the whitewash on the outside changed to a soft, matte tone inside, and his boots landed softly on the polished block parquet floor, its glossy herringbone pattern softly reflecting warm patches of light. The murals were looking worn; soon it would be time for a new coat of whitewash, and a new set of murals. The official policy was that, once a design everyone liked had been found, permanent frescoes would be painted on a more resilient surface, but the fact was that the practice of painting new murals on a biennial basis had become a tradition in itself.

Still, the current set were well suited to nights of entertainment. Dancers seemed to whirl around the dome as the golden light of tallow-oil lamps flickered in the stirring of the air by all the people below, and the breeze from the open doors; a band painted below the gallery holding the real musicians almost looked like they were playing their instruments. It was just a bit of a shame that the flecks of white where the wall's surface had begun to chip and peel ruined the effect a little.

During work rotations at school, Cal had done his turns at the tallow vats. The triple-rendered stuff didn't mar the walls with soot, though the upper reaches of the dome developed a greasy skin that had to be scraped off before a new coat of whitewash. There was talk of tiling the dome, maybe even a mosaic, but it wasn't a high priority. The murals were almost recreational, however much skill went into them; a mosaic, or even simple tiling, would take much more time and resources.

Not that the dome was very visible; for a night of music and dancing, wide, heavy fabric strips had been hung from the crown of the dome to the gallery railings, with wider gaps between them. Around the musicians, the drapes were diverted onto a frame above their heads, creating a slatted canopy effect. Thinner strips hung loosely from the gallery edge, forming fluttering curtains for much of the circumference of the space. There were growing calls to decorate the drapes, but for now they were plain cloth.

The roof lantern from which the drapes were hanging seemed to glow softly in the moonlight, even the cast iron frame having a slight gleam. By happy accident, the moon illuminated the band, lines of light and shadow formed by the drapes. Laminated glass blocks, their construction giving them a frosted effect, scattered moonlight in diffuse patches across the north of the hall.

This early, the music was mostly atmospheric as people mingled. Many had dressed up; flowing linen dresses that would normally be too cold for a March evening were comfortable in the heat generated by the crowds and the lamps, while men and women both showed off their new-style jeans with well-cut shirts and blouses. The lack of cotton had made new jeans impossible for a long time, but someone had come up with a blend of fibres that produced a similar effect, albeit with a slight shimmer to the weave. Most of the people there were within a few years of Cal's age, so hadn't had the chance to acquire many 'fancy' clothes yet, but they enjoyed showing them off.

Cal hadn't bothered. He'd put on a clean top, but was wearing the same heavy-duty, decades-old military surplus trousers that he wore for work. They were breathable, tears didn't spread, and they hadn't gained many grease spots since they were last washed. He didn't even own anythingfancy, just casual. Oh, he could have requested some finery, just as his contemporaries had; he just didn't see the point.

He took a drink from the table to one side of the hall, filling an earthenware cup with small beer. There were stronger brews available, but he wasn't a fan of getting drunk. The cup was cool and hefty in his hand, two lugs resting on his fingers as they grasped the pitted, glossy exterior, burnished orange on one side and deep red on the other. The thick rim was smooth on his lips as he took a long pull of the thin, refreshing drink, crisp and nutty with a taste that was almost sweet, not quite fruity. The combination of that welcome crisp, grainy earthiness and slightly mouth-drying feeling made it easy to drink deep. He refilled his cup and set off to 'circulate'.