3. Pallid Whiteness

Whiteness.

The blinding light filled Harry's head, although his eyes were closed. But most importantly, even though it was rather aggressive, it did not cause any pain, – and it was nowhere near as overwhelming as what he had just experienced; – it was almost agreeable, in comparison.

His eyes felt very sensitive; whenever he opened them he was blinded, and a burning sensation ran throughout his optic nerve, all the way up to his brain. He let them closed. He could move, but just a bit: his fatigue was extensive. He did not seem restrained in any way whatsoever, so he did not worry too much.

Although he could remember quite well what had happened, he evaded the thoughts, for they brought him fear and distress. He preferred to reflect upon his current situation; where was he and how had he ended there? Was he even alive?

His mind raced, consuming what little energy he had left, but found no answer. He felt asleep under an hour.

Whoosh!

Like lightning... it seemed as though he had reeled back into consciousness; as though every inch of his body had been brought back from the dead all at once. He did not move at first. His mind flashed and flickered, blurred by the sudden activity. Slowly, he came to feel better.

"Hello?"

He almost jumped, taken completely by surprise. He opened his eyes, and although it was not so intense as before, they still burned a bit; he could not see. He crawled backward, soon finding himself in a corner. He tried to feel his surroundings with both hands. He was dressed in a long, loose shirt, and he was on a bed of some sort. Tiny tubes were plugged into his arms and legs; it itched. There were also things on his head. He grasped the tubes, intending to tear them away.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

He faced the direction from which the voice came. At first he had not really listened to it, nor had he understood what had been said. Now he realized that it was nothing like the one he had heard earlier: he heard it through his ears, not in his mind. It was soft; youthful; almost luminous... It was a woman's voice. Blinking his eyes multiple times, he noticed that his vision was coming back. He reached to his face with both hands to rub them.

White. It was so white: the bed, the walls, the floor, the whole room, – even the lights were desperately white: so white it quickly felt pallid. There was not much in the room, – which was at least twenty square feet, to accommodate equipment of substantial size, presumably; – there was the bed in the corner and a few machines lying beside; and her, sitting in a white, metallic chair, quite close. She was white as well, dressed in what looked like a scientist's blouse or something, with pens and pencils in a chest pocket. Her skin had a pale complexion, evoking lack of sleep. Her dark-brown hair were drawn back in a ponytail, but a few disheveled tresses hung loosely on her cheeks. Her blue eyes were just like her voice. Should wouldn't even be thirty, thought Harry. She was sitting, cross-legged, holding a notepad and pencil, observing him curiously.

And she was smiling.

"Wohh—" Harry mumbled unintelligibly. He paused, and tried again, but nothing understandable came out. He could not speak. Furthermore, although he could still crawl and make basic movements, he had lost all agility and dexterity. He found himself almost shivering as he realized it.

"Take it easy," the woman said calmly, "you'll need a day or two to pull yourself together and recover your mobility." She glanced at the numbers on the machines, took a few notes and, seeing Harry's puzzled look, commented, "These will accelerate your recovery. By the way I'm afraid you won't be allowed to eat for a day, at least, until your stomach gets well enough."

She remained there, observing him, but seeing as how he remained motionless, even though she had stayed a good minute, she stood, and started toward the door. Now that she was standing, he noticed that she was slightly built: indeed clearly a scientist, not a field medic or something. Halfway through the door, she turned around and added amiably, "I'm Doctor Waters, I've just been assigned to take care of you for a few days, until the head doctor comes back. Don't worry, you'll be fine in no time. Oh and... nice to meet you, Harry Blake." She smiled, and closed the door.

She looked nice when smiling.

It had been three p.m. when she had left; there was a clock, pinned on the wall behind the bed. In the next hours, he had time to think.

Firstly, he was alive; which ought to be good. But secondly, where was he? and what the hell had happened? There was no answer, and no one to ask. He had to get to the door...

He didn't leave the bed, at first. He knew that there was no way he could walk. She had said he would recover fast though, so he started to work his muscles. With each movement, however small, he felt as though his blood was boiling. And he felt dizzy as hell; he couldn't even kneel straight.

At length – after an hour or two – he managed to stand, uneasily, on his legs, the machines supporting part of his weight. They were heavy and cumbersome, but they were not fixed to anything. After much effort, he managed to bring them closer to the door: the tubes' length didn't allow him to reach it, and he didn't want to remove them, for somehow he trusted that Doctor Waters' advice (although he didn't know whether it was because she sounded trustworthy, or because she smiled nicely).

He sighed in relief, for it was not locked. It opened inward. He peeked through. There was a corridor, – standard modular gray metal plates everywhere, – which ended on the left, with a computer console imbedded in the wall at chest level. On the right, the corridor extended a good eighty feet, with two other doors such as the one he was peeking through; then it turned left. His peripheral vision was still quite blurry: it was several seconds before he noticed the guard sitting beside the door just before him.

"Sorry fella," the bald man said, with a strong accent, "can't let you out. Orders're orders." Harry just stared at him, he could still not talk. After a good ten seconds, he decided it was no use trying, and he lay back on the bed. He was probably in one of those special hospitals the Confederates had had; those Sons of Korhal wouldn't let him out before he answered a bunch of stupid questions. He wondered where he was; Korhal, maybe; or Chau Sara, Mar Sara, where everything had begun...

Time went past faster than usual, while he wondered more and more.

Eight p.m. He had wanted to take a nap, but had failed.

The door opened; before he even had time to sit, Doctor Waters was in and had sat on the chair. She had slept, and looked fresher.

"So... how are you holding up?"

"Good," he managed to articulate. She smiled, and started asking another question, but he cut her short, asking, "Where?" (He could not voice anything much more elaborate in his state.)

"Where we are?" she said, frowning, "I- I can't tell you."

"When?"

"I've got instructions, I can't tell you... Sorry, I wish I could."

There was some warmness in her voice though, some comfort. Damn orders, he thought. He had followed them himself, in his time. He was not sure if he could any more.

The rest of the conversation wasn't very animated. She asked him questions, he answered them, she took notes, and she pushed a couple of buttons on the machines; that was it. She left, and he felt uneasy.

She had given him a glass of water and a couple of pills, "to help sleeping." He swallowed them both right away, and stopped thinking. That's some stuff, he though, as he almost right away fell into unconsciousness. The ambient white overwhelmed him.

It felt like only a second had passed. Someone was gently trying to shake him awake. He opened his eyes. It was dark, the lights were still off, but the white everywhere helped reflect what little light was coming from the half-opened door. Waters was here hunkered down just beside him, a hand on his arm. Glancing at the clock, he noticed it was four a.m. Even back in the colony, he wouldn't have gotten up that earlier.

"What—"

"Shh! Keep your voice down," she whispered, glancing at the door to ascertain no one was there. Harry stared at her. Her eyes seemed to sparkle in the darkness; but she looked worried, judging from what little he could see of her features. It seemed to him she was hesitating upon doing whatever she had come here to do.

"The guard?" he asked, worriedly.

"It's okay, he's off to get some coffee," she said.

An uneasy silence lingered.

"Tomorrow," she hesitated, "I'll be assigned elsewhere in this base. Doctor Tarran will take care of you. I've seen part of your file; it seems they'll keep you confined until they've performed batteries of tests. It might take some time. And..."

She paused. There was definitely something in her expression; like she cared for him.

"I just think you ought to know what happened out there, in the meanwhile," she concluded. She laid some sort of datapad on the edge of the bed, stood, and went to the door.

"Wait!" Harry whispered; she stopped and turned around, facing him; "why? What the hell happened to me?"

Hesitating, she lingered, and finally answered, "I... don't know."

She knew all right, but she couldn't tell him. "Hey!" he uttered as she was halfway through the door frame.

"What?"

"What's your first name?"

She stared at him for a good half-dozen seconds, motionless, before answering shyly, "Kathy- Katherine," and she left for good, closing the door noiselessly.

"Farewell, Doctor Katherine Waters," he whispered to himself.