Chương 33: Ch 20b - Outpost

At no point has the water showed signs of altering its state of surly swells. The slate grey sea continues to battle against the strong wind that clips the crests of the waves to fling sprays of water high into the cloudy sky. She has watched it for days. Her eyes are dry from perpetual staring. She had cried endlessly the first night, tears without hacking sobs. A self-protection compromise to prevent further aggravation of her wounded throat. The once constant stream of tears has dried up.

Her body, unwilling or unable to sustain an outpouring of grief and self-pity, has chosen a path of numbness. And thus, she has lain on her bed watching the water. The view both seen and unseen as her mind wanders in and out of loss. Over this time of isolation, it is Magse who sustains her with provisions of food and medication. It is Magse too who has unknowingly instigated the end to Cara's state of suspension.

Wyndeer, she had told Cara during a one-sided conversation, is now satisfied that the perimeter assessments and the security measures have been completed. They are now permitted to make use of the immediate grounds, including, under observation, Cara. With the seed planted, Magse had retreated from the room having reviewed Cara's injuries and given her a now customary twice-daily encouragement to eat something from the day's food tray.

Since then, Cara's attention increasingly remains on the scene outside of the window and less on the scenes in her head. The first time she observes Erro running a trail across the rocky scrublands she begins to pay more attention to the terrain. Unconsciously searching the strip of land that separates the outpost from the sea for routes amongst the squat plants and clumps of grasses.

The second time he runs past, she repositions herself to the middle of the bed to get a better view through the horizontal strip of window. When she observes Draig making his way along the same trail, his powerful legs carrying him quickly over the undulating ground, she resolves to leave her room. Fresh air will help heal her still tender throat. Fresh air will help her face them. …… Wyndeer sits opposite her, dead centre of the long table that can seat twenty.

They are in a large room enclosed by concrete walls on three sides, the fourth is a wall of glass panels that face out towards the sea. As in her room on the level above, the windows are stained with years of rainfall and dirt, a neglect that is echoed across the room. The long rectangular space is divided by two pairs of broad cylindrical columns which have been used to demarcate the room into three parts. At the far end are groupings of armchairs, much like a lobby in a tired conference hotel.

The middle section, where they now sit, houses the long table. A few chairs have been pulled from the table to haphazardly line the windows, The table itself is one long length of rusty brown coloured resin, pitted with dents and scratches, alluding to an age of frequent use before the outpost was left in a state of abandon. Wyndeer does not start to speak immediately. He takes his time to scrutinize her appearance and demeanour. Cara knows the anguished face that stares back at him.

Her glance in the mirror to understand why it still hurts to swallow, revealed a colourful bloom of blues and purples around her throat. Removing the small bandage that bridged her hairline has uncovered the tender pink line of a freshly formed scar and the yellow remnants of swelling. Below her eyes, red rimmed and bloodshot, are deep black bags which tell the story of her sleepless nights. Her appearance does not prompt a wellness check nor sympathy from him.

He simply says her name and gives a brief dip of his head by way of acknowledging her presence. Feeling apprehensive about the up-coming encounter, Cara mirrors his opening with her own tiny nod.

"I'm going to outline the rules you will adhere to during our stay here," Wyndeer begins, "In return for your co-operation I am extending some freedoms to you. We are going to trust each other to make our time here passable." He pauses, allowing for any immediate questions she may have. She waits out the pause without moving, without speaking. Wyndeer continues, "Aside from taking rest in your room, you are to remain in the communal areas where you can be observed.

You may make use of this rec room, the hall, and the grounds immediately surrounding the main building. You are not to venture into any of the outbuildings, nor beyond where the scrubland drops down to the water. You are to remain observable at all times, but, within reason, you are free to use the space as you wish." He speaks with the authoritative tone of a superior lecturing a subordinate. His formal jacket with its orange stripe has gone, replaced by plain black clothing.

The short sleeves of his t-shirt hug sculpted biceps, the muscles flex as he stretches his arms in front of him, his cuffed forearms resting on the tabletop. The fingers of his hands spread down, pressing against the table surface as if he is pressing his rules into stone. His hands, she notices, have the circumference of dinner plates.

"Unlike on Xiatt, you will not attempt escape. Not only is escape impossible due to the skills of my team, but it is also dangerous. The security we have set up in the immediate vicinity and along the perimeter of the compound, is designed to repel threat with equal force." She looks at Draig who has not moved from his position leaning casually against a column. She has come to understand that the pose is his preferred observation stance. Beyond the column is the last third of the room.

Half a wall lined with cupboards set behind a peninsular of shelves and work surfaces. Scattered along the work surfaces are familiar-looking food boxes and large water storage vessels. She notes this as a kitchen area. Draig took his position as she took her seat at the table. He is equidistant from the corner of the table and the set of doors leading from this room to the central corridor. Perfectly positioned, she realises, to block her route out of the room.

"In addition this location was chosen because of its inhospitable features. To the north is the Chunzere mountain range. Bordering our west and south-west is a substantial stretch of moorland. Surrounding the rest of the outpost is the Garein Sea." Wyndeer flicks a hand at the windows behind her.

"This outpost is the only settlement on the peninsula this side of the mountains. The terrain is uncongenial, the sea is treacherous, both are vast. Survival would be challenging for my team, for you it is impossible." If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it. Her legs had wobbled as she had descended the stairs from her room, twice she had had to catch herself on the handrail.

In her current state jogging is a very challenging idea; running away is a fantasy. He continues gravely, "You will not threaten my team in any way. You will be overpowered and may sustain injuries in the process. If you cannot be trusted to behave in the appropriate way I will arrange for your secure confinement and restraint as required." He looks expectantly at her. She swallows hard then winces, too late in remembering the action provokes painful protest in her throat. She nods an acknowledgement.

Dropping her gaze from his weighty stare, she focuses on the accidental chips and notches that cut along the edge of the table.

"Now that you have progressed your recovery you will eat with the rest of us down here. My team are not here to fetch and carry food. The outpost has medical facilities for emergencies not continual nursing; you are expected to build up and maintain your health and strength." He pauses but she doesn't want to look up.

"We are going to move forward trusting each other." He pauses again. She waits, her finger tracing the jagged line of a groove in the resin.

"Cara," he demands. She snaps her head up, Thick grooves between his furrowed brows match those etched in the table.

"We are going to move forward trusting each other. You respect my rules and I will allow you some freedoms. Do you agree?"

"Yes," she mumbles.

"Say it clearly."

"Yes. I agree." Her voice sounds broken like her body. She hopes that this signals the end of his lecture and that now she might be allowed to go outside. He rubs his hand slowly along his jawline as he considers the sincerity of her response. She can hear the scratch of his stubble. Much to her dismay, he continues.

"Good. That will make it easier to complete our work. Our time here is required to be productive. You are to demonstrate use of the shards so that the assessment of their function can be complete. We are in a remote location with minimal personnel. All factors that support a safer way to explore the use of an unknown," his hesitation in choosing a word is momentary but not unmissable, "object." She studies him as he has studied her. His face is stern, his body held upright, shoulders pulled square.

His presence is intimidating but not menacing, nor does he look like he is trying to curate a menacing tone.

"I don't. I don't know how to use it," she says quietly. She can't stop her thoughts from racing back to Vheece.

"That is the purpose of the assessment; to understand how to use it, and to determine the range of its use." he says. His tone remains neutral, neither excited nor apprehensive of the task that has been assigned. She risks a glance at Draig. He remains propped against the column, his thoughts unreadable as he watches her.

"What was established on the Wixam was that you do not know why you are here," Wyndeer reasons.

"You arrived with nine objects that have an unknown function. It appears to me that learning more about them is the best way to learn more about why you are here."

"But what if-" she says with a shaking voice. The crack of Crathsun slamming into the cupboard rings in her ears.

"What if something bad happens?"

"Then we will respond and adapt accordingly," he replies, unperturbed.

"But it could be dangerous," she continues with her objection. It is the most talking she has done since the assault. Her throat feels like it is being stroked with claws. She curls a hand around her neck, as if warming it on the outside will soothe the rawness inside.

"You are the only person who can reveal what the shards might be for. You will use them so that an assessment can be completed," he states firmly, shutting down any further discussion He keeps a watchful gaze on her as he reaches down by the side of his chair and continues to watch her as he places a shard on the table in front of him.

"You will start now." The shard sits on the table between them, one of the angled surfaces gleams with reflected daylight from the windows behind her. The fingers of her hand twitch involuntarily. She glances again to her left. This time she is looking not at Draig, but at the doors beyond him. She has agreed not to run; she has nowhere to run to. She has agreed not to fight; she is no match for them. She has lost everything; she has no options.

Wyndeer leans forward as he pushes the shard across the table, stopping when it is comfortably within her reach. He sits back in his chair, waiting. Comfort. The notion emanates from the shard and filters into her thoughts. With the shard closer to her, she can see the outside reflected on its glassy surfaces. The shrubs bordering the building, their branches huddled low to escape the strong crosswind.

Beyond the shrubs are the peaks and spit of cresting waves churning in the thin strip of water sandwiched between land and sky. Her hand itches with the desire to touch the shard. She gives it distraction instead, raising her heavy hand to rub wearily at her dry and tired eyes. The days spent in bed may have benefitted her injuries, but they have provided little real rest.

The emotional turmoil of her ordeal continues to penetrate every muscle, creating a stiff exoskeleton of stress and despair that is getting ever heavier to bear. Comfort. When she had held it on the Wixam nothing bad had happened, she reasons to herself. She had fallen into one of the deepest, most restful sleeps of her life. Comfort. She looks again at the door then back to Wyndeer.

"Could you- Could you stand further away? Maybe by the door? In case-" her voice wobbles, "In case-." Wyndeer rises from his chair, saving her from the struggle to finish her request. He takes a position near Draig, between the column and the door. The two men stand side by side, each with their arms crossed, each leaving the other unacknowledged. Comfort. She realises that her hand has moved by itself and is already almost upon the shard.

"Fuck it," she mutters. Grimacing through the protest of her throat, she draws in a deep breath, bracing for the unknown. The shard glows and fizzes as her fingers curl around it. A tingle ripples through her hand sending warmth shooting up her arm. Golden energy bursts into her lungs, eagerly twisting up her tender throat. Her eyes close to accept a golden wisp of glittering light which snakes and curls under her eyelids.

Warmth emanates through her from the top of her head to the tips of her toes, seeping through her skin and cocooning her in a protective hug. She draws a breath. A gloriously deep and painless inflation of her lungs. The golden wisp disappears. The warming energy shrinks down her arm, dissipating through her fingers. She releases the shard. The energy has gone. She stands up with the giddiness of a happy drunk. She takes two steps before she faints.