Page 19 of Challenged

No. No, no, no. I’m not on an alien planet, and I’m not going to be shot in the wilderness like some deserter, either. Dr Novak’s experiments are all recorded so they can be reviewed and re-examined at later dates. There will be cameras everywhere in this compound, hidden in light fixtures and crevices. They have it on record now that I’m not supposed to be here. There’s a lot that can be done to cover up mistakes and errors in these kinds of experiments, but they can’t just erase a whole person. The wrong person asking the right questions back home could trigger an investigation. Killing me off would be an entirely unnecessary risk. Cheaper and easier to just send me home with an apology, a compensation package to keep me quiet, and a promise to introduce better protocols to prevent something like this from ever happening again.

It feels plausible enough, but it does nothing to dislodge the ball of fear that’s now sitting in my throat, making it difficult to swallow.

Because you don’t actually believe it, a little voice in the back of my head whispers.

I stand up. I need to move. Need to do something. Take action. Stop thinking, start doing.

Food, I think. I’m hungry. My stomach feels empty, like it hasn’t been fed for…

Nineteen years.

Another high-pitched giggle escapes.

Don’t think, I repeat to myself over and over.Don’t think. Just do.

I go down the stairs, listening hard for anyone approaching, but hear nothing. There are three levels to this military base. The top level that I’ve just come from, the ground level, and then the basement. I go for the ground level first, thinking to head forthe canteen Liv mentioned. The door off the stairs opens into another identical corridor.

A corridor splashed with rust-coloured stains.

Basement first. I’ll explore the basement first.

As I head down, I hear voices. Female voices. Liv and Lorna. I’m grateful for my lack of shoes, allowing me to sneak along the corridor silently.

“…got to be some supplies for them in these crates…”

“…Vantos will bring clothes, Razhan will have told him…”

“…shoes, though, will they know to bring shoes…”

I pause by the door their voices are drifting through. Press my back against the wall and try to breathe slow, quiet. Listen in.

“Even if they don’t, and we don’t find anything here, we can figure something out.” Lorna, her voice peppy and cheerful. “There are enough pelts lying around that we could make some basic boots. They won’t last, but they don’t have to.”

“Great,” Liv says, sounding far more unhappy. “Welcome to Lina’s forest. We’re going to look after you, but we don’t have any shoes.” She huffs and I can hear her shifting her weight. “God, my back is killing me. Are you doing okay?”

“I’m mated to the village healer. I get as far as thinking an ache might develop and I’m given a remedy for it.”

Liv chuckles. “I wish Gregar was that practical. He just paces and snarls at things and wishes we could be back at the village.”

“Your back would be aching there, too.”

“I know, but he’d be more comfortable with it. Any of those remedies Shemza’s giving you something he can give to me?”

Liv’s tone is suggestive, and Lorna laughs in response.

“Well, there is an ointment - it’s made with boiled up envida bark. Good for muscle aches, apparently. Though maybe you’d prefer Gregar to massage it in.”

I stagger away from the door, throwing myself into another room as their laughter echoes in the corridor behind me. Thedoor slides shut, muffling them enough that I can no longer distinguish words in the rhythm of their speech. Overhead, more dim strip lighting flickers on in response to my presence, revealing a communal shower block, benches at the edge of the room, some lockers off to the right. I head for them, slipping between two rows so I’m no longer visible from the doorway, then lean back against one, sliding down to the floor again as my legs grow wobbly beneath me.

Sweat prickles on my neck, the small of my back, as my breathing quickens, my heart thundering in my chest. I try to relocate some of my certainty from before - prosthetics, contacts, makeup. Hell, even the fear of being shot in the wilderness would be preferable to the voice in the back of my mind currently repeating over and over that too much of this feels real.

It’s not real. It’s not.

I am not on an alien planet.

It’s impossible.

I’m not sure how long I sit there, frantically repeating the same three thoughts in a loop. But what is time anyway, if nineteen years can pass in a blink?

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