Margins of Reality

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

Chapter 3: Discovery Park

Discovery Park, Wednesday 29th March 2056------

There were three vacant place settings at the table, all at the same end as the Triumvirs, which rather defeated Cal's instinct to sit as far away as possible. In fact, servers—a phenomenon not entirely alien to Cal; he had, as a child, done that duty when important visitors were entertained by his own Sanctuary's council—were already pulling seats out for them, opposite one another and directly next to those already at the table. The tiny remaining freedom to choose a position for himself was taken from him by the polite urging of another server, directing him to the seat between the Triumvirs and the only other place setting that remained untaken.

"As we have much to discuss, we thought we would make this a working lunch," Caroline said. She was an older woman, her white hair just touched with the remnants of a more youthful red. "We wouldn't want to be seen as giving you less than our best hospitality."

The idea of deserving special treatment was certainly alien to Cal; so too was the dish of crisp green leaves that was put in front of him. The varicoloured, crinkly bits of plant were speckled with some sort of oily liquid that smelled great. The dish it was served in certainly looked pre-collapse as well, and not the heavy, almost unbreakable stuff that people mostly used at Westgate.

"It's salad," said the man next to Cal. He looked to be of a similar age to Cal's Gift teacher, Matt, in his mid-thirties at least, though he had a much more typical shape. Well built, weathered and square-jawed, with neat dark hair and light brown eyes. He also had the faintest trace of an accent that Cal didn't recognise. "Normally these are summer crops, but we have some tricks of our own here, when it comes to growing things. We find that it wakes up the palate at the start of a meal."

"May I introduce Fred Schmidt of Rankine? Fred is our head of agriculture," Caroline explained. "And very proud of what we've achieved. Keeping a controlled environment facility working with limited spare parts and making our own nutrient mixes has been no small task."

"Much of the hard work was done by my predecessors, while I was still a child," Fred said, "but I have had to solve some problems. More of my time is spent maximising the yields of our more traditional crops."

"I'm Théo," said the man sitting next to Sarah. "Théo Dubois, of Grignard. I'm the assistant trade coordinator here. And while I enjoy salad as much as the next man, I could wish that such a unique and resource-intensive crop were more suitable for export." He was much closer to Cal's age, though still older, with dark eyes and strangely messy light brown hair that looked as though it should lie flat on his head, but instead seemed to stick out in all directions.

"We have no more plastic to package such things in, Théo," Fred said with the air of a man having repeated something so many times he had lost count. "We can certainly manage protective atmospheres again, but that requires an airtight container. And neither our transport nor our customers have refrigeration."

Cal tried a forkful of the leaves. Some were crisp and refreshing, some slightly bitter, and the darkest green leaves caused an odd prickling, warm sensation on his tongue. The oily liquid added a sharp tang, and subtler flavours, that helped create an overall sense of refreshment.

As the dishes were cleared, glass tumblers were brought out—another thing seen rarely at Westgate—and filled with water, of all things. It was cold enough for condensation to form on the glass.

"Is— is that safe?" he asked, any idea of courtesy forgotten in his concern. At home, all water was boiled, and either used for brewing or served hot.

"It's safe, Cal," Sarah said calmly, then took a sip with a smile. Cal supposed she was amused by his inexperience. "They do things with water here—I don't fully understand it—and they have casks of safe drinking water all over the place. Though I don't think I had it this cold."

"We are fortunate to have more electricity than most Sanctuaries," Caroline explained. "We can afford to be a little more profligate with refrigeration, though we have had to get creative with the equipment."

"Refrigerant gases used, well,beforewere largely petroleum-derived," Fred commented. "And the alternatives are largely toxic, and rather smelly; maintaining all the seals required is difficult now. But we have large communal units located away from habitation, and we can transport ice produced there to our kitchens. It allows us to chill drinks, among other things."

Cal sipped the water cautiously. Washing water at Westgate sometimes got in the mouth, though it was supposed to be safe if you didn't swallow it. Which was easy to avoid, given the odd taste of salt and metal. This tasted of… well, not very much. He slowly drank enough to settle his thirst, if barely, and put the glass down.

"I think we may be trying Cal's tolerance for novelty a little bit too far," Commandant Alison said, not unkindly. "Can we perhaps get some cordial for him?" she instructed one of the servers before turning back to Cal. "And we haven't been properly introduced. I'm Alison Franklin of Sharpless; I'm commandant here, as Tasha said. I don't know if Sergeant Ruck has told you anything about me?" She wasn't as old as Caroline, but was clearly otherwise the oldest at the table. Dark skin, dark hair cropped close at the back and sides, with maybe two centimetres of tight curls on top, she seemed weathered and rugged, solidly built; it was easy to imagine her as a young woman serving in the militia.

"No, uh, no, ma'am," Cal said. The formality of the meal, and the introductions with full names, seemed at odds with the casual chat. "Sarah's not told me much about her time here." He forbore to mention that the number of words they'd exchanged since they set out was coming close to equalling the total in their lives up to that point.

As the servers returned with platters, a woman entered with them. She was wearing a lab coat, though it hung differently than the pictures Cal had seen involving such garments. This one was really quite stiff, textured, a regular pattern visible even though it was bright white, and it had a slight glossiness.

"Dr Jonson," Caroline said pointedly, "your coat."

The woman mumbled something and turned toward a coat stand by the door. Meanwhile, one of the servers was pouring a thick, inky purple liquid into Cal's water glass, forming rolling spirals of colour as it dispersed, leaving the water a surprisingly clear red. He'd had cordials at home, of course, but they were always cloudy—bits of fruit got through anything Westgate used to filter them. He wondered what Discovery Park was using, and how they could spare anything so clearly effective and valuable for simply making a drink.

The taste, when he sipped it, was remarkable. It was refreshing, surprisingly tart, with an undertone he recognised from cooked orchard fruits—he'd been told it was due to something called 'caramelisation'—that hit at the back of the mouth. The front, though, was sweet and fruity, like someone had extracted the most clean, pure flavours from blackberries.

As the woman sat down next to him, he took a glance. Cal judged her to be in her late twenties; deep blue eyes sat in a tanned face, topped with short brown hair that curled wildly. Taking off the lab coat had revealed loose, straight trousers and a businesslike tunic in a deep, earthy red, the neckline gathered by a drawstring; the sleeves went down to mid-forearm, where more drawstrings cinched the cuffs closed, the excess cord wound around the wrist and tied again. Something had been done to make it conform to her figure more than that sort of garment ought to, though Cal couldn't see how. Something to do with extra laces on the body, maybe.

"Caleb Rigden, this is Dr Carla Jonson of Zelenay," Caroline said. "Carla, Cal here is going to be your job for the next little while."

"I saw the report from Matt Keating," Carla replied. "It's going to be interesting."

Platters were set on the table, a startling, savoury aroma rising from them. There was meat in that smell, plus a strange, almost citrusy edge, alongside sharp and sweet notes, slightly fruity. Each of the three platters held the same contents; Cal recognised the splayed shape of the whole cuy, though seeing it roasted, the skin crisp, gold and succulent was novel. It lay atop a mound of steamed yellow-gold wheatberries and was topped with strange strands like fine pieces of toasted straw—though why anyone would toast straw, Cal had no idea. Around the edge of each platter were small, blistered tomatoes and glistening pieces of some sort of glazed vegetable, some the colour of dark, polished wood, others like roasted chestnuts.

While this was undeniably appetising, Cal was mostly stunned by the profligacy of the meal.

Three cuy for seven people? You could stew that lot and make a good meal for thirty! That would still be way more meat than we have in most meals.

As one of the servers appeared over his shoulder, Caroline looked at him.

"Well, Cal," she began, "do you prefer the light meat, or dark?"

* * *

* * *

At his explanation that he'd never had the option—that he was used to cuy in stews—they insisted on giving him both a loin and a hind leg, along with a generous serving of grain, much of it well-soaked in juices. This was accompanied by the vegetables, which turned out to be parsnip and carrot in a heavy, sweet glaze with a touch of sharpness. The tomatoes were juicy, warm bursts of deep flavour that contrasted with the subtlety of the rest of the meal.

The 'toasted straw', which tasted well enough when bitten but was a bit of work to chew, turned out to be lemongrass, imported as dried strands from the Sanctuary at Wissington, about 150 kilometres away, as the crow flies. Other aromatics were scattered among the grains, and their unusual colour apparently came from turmeric.

"You can't tell me you eat like this all the time," he said bluntly, pleasantly surprised that he hadn't forgotten how to use a knife and fork; it must have been at least two years since he last had the opportunity. A spoon was usually all anyone needed in the canteen at Westgate, maybe with a fork to steer things onto it. Even on the occasions he'd had the opportunity to eat roast meat, it had been rolled up in flatbread with vegetables.

"No, indeed," Caroline said, glancing quickly at her fellow Triumvirs. "This is by way of celebration, I suppose, of welcome to you, Cal. We're very interested in seeing what you can do."

Cal felt himself flush, and put a piece of cuy loin in his mouth. It was much more delicate than the leg meat, subtler in flavour, and the melting layer of crispy-gelatinous skin thinner. The lemongrass flavour was in the meat as well, and was certainly more pleasant than chewing those strands.

For all that this had been described as a working lunch, most of the discussion seemed fairly inconsequential. Lots of self-congratulatory mention of this or that project that Discovery Park had recently finished, or were working on. He more than half tuned it out after a few minutes, focusing on the food.

The sheer excess the meal represented seemed almost obscene—whatever made the roots so sweet could probably have been put to more functional use—but he couldn't deny that it wasgood.

"Anyway, once you're finished, Dr Jonson will take you to your quarters," Caroline was saying; Cal was glad that he picked that up, as it seemed to be directed at him. "There are some guest quarters near the labs that you should find comfortable. Sergeant Ruck, would you prefer to be accommodated near Cal, or with our guard?"

"I should stay near Cal, at least when he's not involved in things at the lab," Sarah said. "But I'd be glad to renew my acquaintance with some of your people, while he's busy."

"I'm sure that can be arranged. I hope no-one's disappointed, but it's not our custom to serve dessert at lunch, even when we're having a… special meal. Once you're done, please go with Dr Jonson. I'm afraid I have other business to attend to."

The other Triumvirs also excused themselves, as did the commandant. Carla had already finished her food, though Cal noticed that Sarah, like him, was still working through it.

He wasn't sure if the hovering servers made the situation more awkward, or less.

* * * * *

* * * * *

Cal was shocked again when he was shown to a single room with a real bed. The bathroom was shared with three other rooms, but two of those were empty; Sarah took the other one.

"Oh, this isn't like the meal," Carla said. "We have little blocks like this scattered around for visitors, near whatever they need to be near. It just doesn't seem right to put visitors up in sept housing."

"What's a 'sept'?" Cal asked.

"Same as our houses," Sarah said from her room, where she was unpacking.

"Oh. Right."

"I'll let you sit, let your food go down," Carla told him. "The lab's just through there. When you feel like you're up to some exercise, come and find me."

The room had not only a bed, but also a comfortable chair, a desk, and another chair to go with it. A selection of books lined a shelf, fiction and non-fiction both, and power and network sockets were on the wall above the desk.

People come here with computers? What sort of place is this?

He grabbed a book, more or less at random, and settled down to read until his digestion calmed down from the unaccustomed quantity of meat.

* * *

* * *

By the time he went through to the lab, Sarah was gone, presumably to reacquaint herself with people she'd met during training. The lab itself was a surprise to Cal. Not that he was sure he had any specific expectation about it, but the strange apparatus with poles and foot platforms at odd angles wasn't anything he even could have expected. He'd never seen anything like it.

Then there was the mask, a maze of straps and plastic, complete with a hose attaching it to some mysterious box on wheels. That unit also had a load of wires hanging off it with various clips and pads on their ends.

"All we're doing is measuring your metabolism," Carla explained. "This equipment measures how much you breathe, and the amount of CO2 you exhale, which tells us how much energy your cells are producing. This afternoon we'll get a baseline: you just sit down with this on for half an hour, then we get you to push as hard as you can on the elliptical."

That turned out to mean the funny thing with poles, which Cal actually found quite fun. Exercising to exhaustion was always satisfying, and with his arms moving the poles the machine seemed to work his whole body. Doing it with a close-fitting mask over his mouth and nose and wires attached to various parts of his body,andtechnicians moving around between machines noting things on clipboards, was a bit weird, though.

Being told to keep going until he justcouldn'tkeep up the pace was a new experience as well.

"Well, you're fit and healthy," Carla said, giving him an odd, speculative look. "Excellent metabolic efficiency, and you lasted well at peak exertion. Judging by these readings, you'd be able to keep going averylong time if you stayed below that peak." She smiled at him, her eyes shifting in a knowing way that he found confusing. "That's not enough to explain the observations Matt sent me in terms of your lack of apparent exertion when using the Gift, though. Get some rest tonight, and we'll see what it looks like when you're fixing things tomorrow."

His evening meal was eaten in a canteen attached to the labs; he was told that they had sept canteens, but a lot of people ate where they worked so they could keep working into the evening. There being a choice of meals was apparently not unusual, but the food wasn't too different to what he was used to. Well, okay, it wasdifferent, but it wasn't fancy and excessive like that lunch.

Good thing, too. I'm not sure my digestion could manage that much meat twice in one day.

There was even a vegetarian option as well as meat: a thick cuy stew was on offer—far more meat in it than back home—but there were also mashed pea fritters served with a pungent sauce. Either option was served with steamed wheatberries and a vegetable mash. The flavour of the sauce was unfamiliar, but definitely tasty.

He slept well on the very comfortable bed, and enjoyed a breakfast of bread—not as rich as that served on special occasions back home, but far better than the offering at Sandpits—and an unfamiliar but tasty savoury spread. After a mug of excellent local zatz, different but not worse than that at home, and some polite conversation with Sarah—she was enjoying catching up with people she met in training, and gave every impression of being interested in what was happening in his testing, which felt kind of weird—he was ready to resume the work in the lab.

"Today," said Carla, "we're going to use the same equipment, and have you do stuff with your Gift." Once he was all hooked up, she held up a piece of paper. "We'll start small," she said, tearing it in half and handing it to him.

Before they broke for lunch, he'd worked through diagnosing and repairing a wide range of equipment. He ran up against a wall with the solar panel, and he wasn't sure what he felt when he examined an old lithium battery pack.

"It's like there's these crystals," he said. "And they shouldn't be there. And something that feels like rust. But I don't know what itshouldfeel like; there's probably something I'm missing."

"Maybe we can change that," Carla said, "but for now we need to try to max out your effort with the Gift. What's the most exhausting thing you've done with it?"

"The mirror, at the Anniversary celebration. Did Matt tell you about that?"

"Of course. Well, let's see what we can do. You knew what it was like before it was broken, right?"

"Yeah."

"We'll try with something that's not important first."

A succession of objects were brought in front of him, smashed, and he used his Gift to put them back together—chairs, boxes, mirrors, even a cast iron stove was brought in and smashed in front of his eyes. He was starting to feel it a bit when Carla had a lab assistant bring in a computer monitor—still in its box.

"I'd rathernotlose this," Carla said, "but we've a few unopened ones kicking around, and if you can repair this, you might be able to fix ones that have died from use. Plus I'm pretty confident in you."

After that, it seemed like every other screen in Discovery Park was lined up for him to fix, even ones that were working; apparently they degraded with use, or something.

By lunchtime, he actually felt like he'd done a reasonable morning's work; he'd fixed plenty of things, and he felt a little tired, like he'd been hand-fixing some pretty heavy stuff. He sat there for ten minutes, still hooked up to the machine, until he was told he was back at his baseline. Then he went for lunch.

* * * * *

* * * * *

"My colleagues will do the analysis while we have a chat," Carla told him after lunch. "I'm not sure how well we'll be able to gel, in terms of figuring out how you see the Gift, but maybe I'll be able to find a hook that Matt couldn't, and then we can start broadening things for you. Though I have to say this: as you are, you're already incredibly useful. If it were just the question of custom, that we're all expected to contribute to stabilising reality, I'd say it would be fine to leave you as you are; you'd certainly be welcome to join our Sanctuary. But if the results of this morning's testing are anything like what I expect, it would be criminal not to do everything we can to expand your abilities."