Margins of Reality

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 2: On The Road

Westgate Sanctuary, Sunday 26th March 2056------

After Cal's success at the celebration, resuming training with Matt quickly became frustrating again.

"The trick to expanding what you can do is expanding how youthinkof the Gift," Matt explained. "And while you can't put that into words, I just don't know how to help you do that."

That ended up with Cal in front of the Gift Council. Like almost every committee and council at Westgate, everyone could turn up and debate, but in this case only those recognised as Gifted could vote.

Cal was still slightly troubled by the fact that he was included in that number now. Not many people took advantage of the universal right to attend, either: everyone he recognised, sitting there in the back of the meeting room at the old church on Bay Avenue, had a 'knack': they all had the Gift but, like him, had never managed to do more than one thing with it.

"I don't know why you're all making this fuss," he told them when it became clear that they were going to dosomethingunusual. "Okay, I can't do anything except fix things, but isn't that useful enough already?"

"Tony, did you bring the records I asked for?" Matt asked, looking down the table past Cal. When Tony waved the books, Matt went on. "And the efficiency ratings for Cal, since he started on your team?"

"After his first quarter, he topped the table consistently, Matt."

"But I only got the pin twice a year," Cal said, confused.

"Anyone here from the Awards Committee?" Matt asked. The older woman who'd made the light at the anniversary celebration—introduced to Cal earlier as Phyllis—stood.

"I know what you're getting at, Matthew," she said, as if Matt hadn't choreographed the whole thing. "Yes, Cal was up for the award every quarter. Those of us who reviewed the records before making recommendations thought it would defeat the object of the awards to give it to the same person all the time. So we never put his name forward more than twice a year."

"And, just for Cal's benefit, as he's understandably unaware of some of our practices, is there anything you usually do when something like that happens?"

"Yes. That sort of consistent excellence obviously makes us think someone might be Gifted. The information gets passed to—well, us, here—and we look into it."

"Tanya, do you remember what we found?"

The young girl who'd made the lemon tree blossom and fruit in the space of a few minutes stood up. "People using the Gift get tired," she explained, her cadence suggesting she'd learned this by rote, probably at a much younger age. "So Tony kept an eye on Cal, and he wasn't getting tired, no more than anyone else. He just seemed to work really fast."

"We also checked with the canteen to see if Cal was taking an unusual amount of seconds?" Matt asked; two of the others nodded, so he continued, turning to Cal. "So, that was that. We put you out of our mind. When Tony told me about the incident with the gun, it seemed like a weird coincidence. Then when I was training you, especially when you added that trick of findingwherea problem is, it became clear. You'd been using the Gift all along, butyou didn't get tired. Do you understand how important that is, Cal?"

He shrugged. "You and Tony both told me that some people get tired from the Gift quicker than others. So I don't get tired quickly. It's not like I'm doing anything big."

"Young man," Phyllis put in, "if that stunt with the mirror wasn't 'big', I don't know what is."

Cal tried not to bristle at the word 'stunt'. It hadn't been a stunt; he'd just fixed it. To his mind, the mirrorwantedto be whole.

Discussion turned towhatto do about it, and they quickly settled on asking the General Council to support them sending him somewhere else, where they might be able to find a way to 'unlock' what they were all apparently sure was incredible potential.

"Anyway," Matt told him after the vote passed, "there might be other advantages to broadening your horizons." Cal could swear there was a twinkle in his eye.

* * * * *

* * * * *

Tuesday 28th March 2056------

Cal decided to skip the General Council meeting that would decide whether to approve the plan. Matt was presenting it; it was, essentially, a foregone conclusion. Instead, Cal spent Monday requisitioning travel gear and figuring out what to pack. As he headed to the canteen for breakfast the morning after the meeting, he wondered how long it would take for someone to tell him what happened.

Stepping into the dining hall—once upon a time a cinema, and before that a town hall—one sniff told Cal that one of the breweries had started a batch the previous day, and that the Sanctuary didn't need any extra animal fodder. The distinct aroma of 'brew day sausage' filled the room: a crisp, toasty smell, a bit like the bread that was served sometimes at festivals but with an earthy, malty note, along with a rich smell of cured pork and wild garlic. There was a smell of actual beer, as well, but that—and a faint, sweet appley smell—seemed to be coming with the steam rising from the kettle at the serving hatch rather than the tray of sausage. The whole combination was appetising, earthy and meaty.

And it certainly makes a change from fish.

The concrete harbour out in the bay had been busy. Carts full, he presumed, of fish had been rolling in on a regular basis. But he was more than happy for a day's worth to become stockfish, rather than going to the canteen.

At the serving hatch along the side of the room, Cal picked up a blue plastic tray and the bowls laid out for the meal and got in line. The bowl was heavy—though lighter than the pottery that the Sanctuary produced—wide and shallow, a pale, slightly green grey, speckled with darker spots, a thick, darker green band around its broad rim. The first server piled it with frumenty—lumpy crackwheat mixed with smoother, green-tipped sprouted grains in a glossy, stiff broth, streaked pink from dried blackberries. The second topped it with a serving of the sausage, crispy pieces of spent grain embedded in meat, a little fat still running off it.

At the drinks station, he took a matching mug and filled it with zatz from an urn. There was a tub of malt extract to sweeten it, but Cal knew that wasn't for him—that was for people doing heavy outdoor work. He liked it sweeter, but even unsweetened it was a better option than whatever was in the herbal drink that day; in a month or so it would be clean and refreshing, but right now it usually tasted like a vaguely fruity but insipid version of zatz.

He sat at an empty table towards the back, near the folded banks of seats that were used on the occasions that they pulled down the screen and showed some old films or TV shows, and took a sip of his drink. Older folk—including his mother—still spoke wistfully of coffee, but Cal had grown up with this substitute that people had come up with years ago. He wasn't entirely sure of everything that went into zatz; he knew there were roots, some grains and seeds, and that it was roasted. He'd been involved in foraging as much as any other kid, but no-one told him what they did with which, or if they had he'd forgotten.

But it was satisfying, and even if it didn't have any chemicals that kept you awake, it still woke you up. Every Sanctuary that made it had its own blend, he knew, but he'd never tasted anything but the Westgate version. It tasted wholesome, rounded, slightly bitter—especially on the aftertaste—but with a mouthfeel that reminded him a little of a good broth that they'd managed to keep from feeling greasy, or maybe like a thinner version of milk. When the cows were producing more than they needed, some people added a little to their zatz, which took off the bitter edge a little. Cal preferred it black; it helped wake up the senses.

He dug a spoon into the frumenty, breaking the slight shiny skin that had formed in the time it took him to get a drink and take a seat. The crackwheat was soft, while the barley popped against the teeth, releasing a slightly sweet burst and a fresh green flavour that set well against the salty, greasy, slightly meaty thickened broth. The softened pebbles of blackberry and leather of dried apple provided more variety in texture, as well as islands of fruity sweetness, while the pieces of sausage provided both crunch and a real feeling of eating meat, a rare treat—especially at breakfast. They also brought allium sharpness and bursts of mustard when he crunched through the seeds. The whole thing sat against a sour-malt background that told him they'd also used up a batch of small beer that was starting to turn.

As the tables filled, he worked through his meal steadily. Clusters formed, small groups talking about work, children, relationships—both their own and gossip about other people's—while Cal observed alone, overhearing snatches. He was almost finished when a kid, maybe fourteen years old and looking pretty self-important, came up to his table.

Must be a runner for someone important; he's not from Wantsum—I'd recognise him if he were.

"Mr Rigden, sir?" the boy said, uncertainty giving the lie to the proud bearing. "Mr Charlesworth, Mr Keating, Ms Rai and Commander Keating would like to see you at your convenience, sir. They'll be ready for you in about half an hour."

The council chair, the foreign relations officer, Matt, and his brother the militia commander. Cal glanced at the clock on the wall; the flap dropped as he watched, reading 08:32.

"I'll be there," he said, matter-of-fact. "And call me Cal, uh…"

"Martin, sir. Martin Spillett."

"Well, thank you, Martin." Cal gave him a smile and gave up on persuading him to call him by name. A lot of kids on their first community work placement seemed to develop odd ideas, to go with the sense of responsibility; this wasn't an unusual form for it to take.

Martin nodded, and set out across the hall.

So, I'm not the only one getting a message.

Cal watched out of the corner of his eye to see who he spoke to. The boy reached a table filled with a cluster of militia members, all in uniform—presumably about to go on duty—and stopped to speak to one sergeant, very familiar to Cal, sitting quietly at one end of the group while the others were jawing.

She glanced up at him and he quickly looked away; he hadn't seen Sarah since the dance, where she'd just been a face in the crowd, though then she'd been smiling, her blue eyes alight and dancing—especially as she disappeared towards one of the wings of the Pavilion with a taller woman who looked like it was her first adults' dance. In fact, Cal had barely exchanged a word with her since school; thinking about it, he realised that she hadn't spoken when she'd accompanied Rachel and Leah on their fawning visit to Matt, and hadn't been with them when they approached his teacher at the dance, either.

What's she got to do with whatever plan they've cooked up for me? Then again, maybe she was just being told about a meeting later in the day.

Or, as it might be, earlier; as soon as Martin turned away, she drained her cup and took her tray to the rack by the serving hatch, leaving the hall with a purposeful stride.

* * *

* * *

The councillors' offices were in the same building as the Wantsum canteen, just upstairs. This wasn't any sort of favouritism for that house; it was simply that its housing and facilities were the most central. Cal stared at the wall of the outer office while the council administrator—Fred, an older man who'd been in the job as long as Cal had known it existed—was busy at his desk, working away on a computer.

Cal wondered if that was the keyboard that he'd fixed. There were few enough computers in use in the Sanctuary, and it seemed that this one saw a lot of use. Then one of a row of lights on the desk came on and a buzzer sounded.

"You can head on in now, Cal," Fred said kindly, and indicated the conference room door.

Cal knocked at the door before opening it, just in case, then stepped into the room. He tried to carry himself with confidence, but knew that he would look trepidatious; he'd never had anything to do with the Sanctuary's leaders, such as they were. The way things were run in Westgate, they didn't have much power, but they were still people to be respected.

"Thank you for coming, Cal," Teddy Charlesworth said from the head of the table, perfectly welcoming. A young man, though nearer Matt's age than Cal's, he looked older; balding, with grey hairs visibly stranded through the black. When he wasn't on council business, he worked in infrastructure administration. While no-one in the Sanctuary could completely avoid manual work, Teddy had a softness to him that suggested he kept it to the minimum. "Please, take a seat."

The others Cal had expected to meet were clustered at the same end of the table. Cal took a seat one from the near end of the table, almost as far as he could get from the others.

"You're aware of what Matt has asked the council to approve?" Teddy asked. "Travelling to Discovery Park for tests and training? You're okay with the plan?"

Cal nodded at each question.

"Now, we know you've had standard survival training," Teddy acknowledged; Cal wasn't sure that the training was particularly useful, personally, though suspected he was better equipped for travelling through the Fiefs than the older man. "But we came to the view that it wouldn't be appropriate for you to travel alone. We've made some enquiries, and there's a caravan you can join setting out from Sandpits tomorrow; you'll be safe with them. That leaves the journeytoSandpits, so obviously we'll provide an escort. Jim?" Teddy nodded and waved his hand to indicate that the militia commander should continue.

"I've given due consideration to the nature of the mission," Commander Jim Keating began. "Matt has impressed on us thepotentialvalue you represent to the Sanctuary, even to the broader community of Sanctuaries." Jim was Matt's brother, the family resemblance clear despite his greater height. It was hard to say which was more muscular, but Jim carried his bulk in a more typical distribution; biceps bulged under his military-cut shirt, but his chest was no bigger than typical for a well-built man, and he lacked the cording of the neck. The look he gave the Gifted founder of the Sanctuary was hard to decipher, and raised questions in Cal's mind about their relationship. "I'm satisfied that it wouldn't be appropriate to leave your protection when you leave Discovery Park entirely intheirhands. I am not, however, satisfied that it isourresponsibility to provide you with sufficient protection for any potential onward journey."

Onward journey? What's he talking about?

"So I'm assigning one of our scouts to you, for as long as it takes," Jim continued. "Sergeant Ruck?"

Cal jumped as Sarah emerged from behind him and stood behind the seat across from him in barracks uniform. Her expression was unreadable, but that wasn't unusual.

"I'm assigning you as Cal's escort. You're not under his command, but you are to accompany him on all journeys between Sanctuaries until such time as he returns, or you receive other instructions."

"Yes, sir," she acknowledged, tone completely even.

"Full written orders will be provided before you leave. Now please, take a seat."

She sat down, not even glancing in Cal's direction.

"We've already made contact with several of our allied Sanctuaries," the only woman at the other end of the table put in. Pauline Rai couldn't have been more than a few years older than Cal; she had the straight dark hair and slightly eastern cast to her features that was common among people from Shorncliffe, from which she had emigrated several years prior, and her contacts at other Sanctuaries had made her a natural choice for the position of foreign relations officer on the council. "And I've already taken the liberty of preparing your passports. We just need to get a council quorum together before Teddy and I sign them."

A passport. Cal hadn't imagined he'd ever have one; he'd not honestly expected to travel any further than the brief trips that had been part of survival training. Proof that you'd left your home Sanctuary on good terms, they were essential to be welcomed by any responsible Sanctuary to settle, and whatever request for assistance was included determined how generously you would be treated as a visitor.

"We're also releasing a small amount of currency as a travelling purse," Teddy said, picking up the thread of the meeting. "We don't expect you to need it, but we want to allow for unexpected complications. Sarah—sorry, Sergeant—you'll have custody of that. You have more experience outside the Sanctuary, and should have some idea how much things will cost."

The smile that accompanied that comment made Cal a little uncomfortable; Teddy was Wantsum-born, and his look didn't feel quite avuncular. The rumours that he took advantage of the accommodation attached to the offices—available to anyone on the council—more often than necessary made it even more uncomfortable.

He should be living in Chalk. He should look atChalkwomen like that.

Maybe Cal was overreacting, or reading too much into it. It hadn't been a leer or anything, but it still didn't feel right.

Sarah didn't seem to react at all. "Yes, sir," she replied in the same level tone.

"Well, then, you two take the rest of the morning to get yourselves ready. Requisition anything you think you'll need; I've told Stores to equip you for a journey. Sandpits has agreed to put you up tonight, and after that you'll be at Discovery Park; they'll take care of you, and supply you more if you have to go further. Pack clothes, personal kit, and any personal items you'd rather not do without." The council members stood to dismiss them. "We'll send a runner to the canteen for you some time during lunch."

* * * * *

* * * * *

The runner bade them meet the councillors at the southern gate of the Sanctuary. Sarah had clearly called into the armoury; she carried a smaller gun than the guards' SA80s, unfamiliar to Cal, though it used the same STANAG magazine. It looked stubby, with the magazine forward of the trigger, and Cal noticed that the magazine didn't really match the body of the gun; he thought he could make out some sort of blocky adapter, like a collar around the well. There was a chunky vertical foregrip attached to the shroud and iron sights on the rail. The rifle hanging from a sling across her shoulder wasn't her only weapon, though. One hip carried a standard sidearm in a drop-leg holster hanging from some sort of utility belt and strapped to her thigh; the other had a scabbard and bayonet on a similar mount, complete with a retrofitted, Sanctuary-made knuckle-bow guarding the leather-wrapped grip. Here, in safety, she stood relaxed, hand resting gently on the side of the gun, expression neutral. It was suddenly easy to imagine how dangerous she would look once they were out there.

No-one had suggested arming Cal. Part of him wanted a gun; he was going out into the Fiefs, and who knew what might happen? But the larger part of him realised he would have no idea what to do with a gun if he had to use it. Everyone in the Sanctuary was trained to pick up a gun and shoot it at need, clear a jam in the most common weapons, but that didn't mean someone like Cal would be any use in the field. Not to mention the issue of supply; as far as he knew, no-one had made anything more advanced than a shotgun in thirty years.