by Kell Inkston
Her eyes flash. “You'd... do that?"
He clears his throat, a slight blush marking his pronounced cheekbones. "I... yes, of course."
"That's... thank you, Waine— but I need you up here."
His expression bitters. "What do you mean?"
"I need you to be my communication hub, just in case anything happens... I don't want dad to wonder." She says this, of course, but she's not even sure if she means it.
Waine draws back, takes a long, stressed breath, and comes to terms with what's about to happen. "I-... Alright, Clare. I'll do it."
A faint, sad smile crosses her face. "You're a real friend, Waine."
"...Yeah, don't mention it."
She leans back over the diagram. So, I'm going to go in and try to-"
"Couldn't you just make a duplicate non-social or somethi-"
"Waine."
"Right, sorry. Go on."
She shakes her head as she leans down once more. "Okay. So I'm going to go in, open an auto, and deactivate it. Then I'll change up its—" Her explanation draws into the evening.
- Chapter 8 -
The plan officially in place, the two finally part ways; all she needs now is the equipment. With a slow trot home, she thinks it over. She knows exactly how she'll do it. There’s something she’s never dared to use— despite all her deepest curiosity— but in this moment, she knows it's her only choice.
Returning the same way she came in, she enters the house. With a silent, straining crawl, she edges over the window and lowers herself to the floor. If someone had told her earlier this morning that she'd soon be crawling out of windows and making plans to get into the sewer level, she'd have laughed at them; but fate has a way of guiding people out of their character— or, perhaps, leading them into their true self.
Clare opens the door to her room with a gentle creak— but her foot bumps into something mid-way. Instantly, she pulls her foot back with a peep. She clearly envisions the boot of her father, stopping her exit. He must have found out— Waine, that bastard.
"D-dad?" she asks, only a centimeter beyond the frame to see around.
There's no response.
Steadily, her thoughts turn to darker things. It's funny, how one can be surrounded by society and comforts, and still only see what they want to see. The mind is life's most powerful wizard, capable of turning the most unassuming places into horrorscapes of wild fantasy.
Perhaps, she wonders, if it's not her dad, after all? Sure enough, it did sound more like something... artificial, she feels.
She simply stands there for a moment, the door cracked open just a sliver; it is just enough for her to reach out— or for something else to reach in. Clare shakes her head. She's being ridiculous.
She peeks back out into the dark hallway— and sees nothing. This confuses her all the more, until she looks down.
Far from a horror, and far more unassuming, the bowl of stew left for her by her father sits cold on the floor. A faint smirk crosses her lips; if she'd opened the door any faster, she probably would've turned the lonesome vessel over.
Clare takes up the offering, eats a few bites, and takes it down with her to the first floor.
Waiting around the corner and standing at attention by the door is the house automaton. She stops in the middle of the hall and admires it a moment, the moonlight reflecting dully off its chassis in a way that's simultaneously beautiful and terrifying for her— so familiar, and yet, so entirely unlike a person.
She remembers back when she was a little girl. She had nightmares about them— the automatons. Almost all of them were made and finished by the time she was born. They were always a part of her life, especially considering how her mother was always bringing them into the house.
With a sort of sacred reverence, as if to a spirit, she bows her head gently before keeping on to the side room; this one was added on after her mom got her Class Three job. Though it was always only a few second’s walk from anywhere within the house, Clare comes to the nostalgic realization that she hasn't opened this door since she was a little girl. Taking a deep breath, she reaches for the knob— and opens the door to her mother's workspace.
It was a sense of shared solemnity that moved both Clare and her father to make the decision to leave the door shut permanently in the first few weeks after her death, and now the bond will be broken out of necessity.
She swings the well-oiled door wide, revealing her mother's work table, her enormous piles of notes at all sides and walls of the room— and at the end, sitting in its quaint wooden chair just as it has been ever since her mother’s disappearance: her pet project, the custom automaton. Clare hasn't laid eyes on it since she was last in here, years and years ago.
She turns on the lights and closes the door behind her with the profile of a gentle breeze, taking great care not to make noise.
Safe inside, Clare puts aside her bowl of stew and approaches the automaton— unique in every part, from its resplendent alloy chassis to its internal managraphic circuitry. It reminds her so much of her mother; she almost never saw her without it nearby— considering her mother spent most of her time at home in this small, almost claustrophobic room.
Her gaze sharpens with determination, and she steps up to the auto. Like a knight in waiting, it remains bent over in its chair— Mary's chair resting beside it where she once worked so diligently and noisily on its framework. It's on this chair that Clare sits now to open up the auto's faceplate. She's looked through dozens of autos before for class, but never one like this. The joint system which latches onto the faceplate is set with what seems to be an interior lock. She can't get it off.
After a couple minutes of labor, Clare draws back with a puff. She needs to find the key. The young lady takes a moment to think over the most likely hiding places, and then turns about to see the small picture of Mary holding her as an infant— set up in the corner of the room.
She pauses, having completely forgotten about the picture until now, and then rises to approach the frame. Reaching behind the wooden exterior, Clare feels along the lower, inner rim of the backside— and feels a slight, cool bump along her fingers. With a victorious coo, she retrieves the auto's interior faceplate key— the first of its kind that she's seen. She always knew her mother was considered the very best automaton engineer of her time, but she never imagined that the creations could be this complicated. It does make sense, however, from their conception on the drawing board to the insertion of their ethergrain power source, Mary is among the very select few that had a comprehensive, professional grasp on every single step an automaton would go through in the process of its creation.
Clare’s not as good as her mom, not yet, but very soon she’ll learn the kinds of things she had learned.
Plunging the little turn-key into the side of the auto's head, the girl clicks it around a few times until a permissive, satisfying *snap* rings through the room. She removes the key, stuffs it in her pocket, and with almost sacred trepidation, lifts the faceplate.
Clare, usually cool-headed, can't stifle the gasp.
Waiting within the head are the automaton's managraphic logic plates; the brain of the machine is not unlike a circuit board— but they’re so much thinner than the others’ in every way. The plates are a fifth of the width of the usual automaton’s, and don't have the clunky weight to them, either. The managraphics upon the plates are so thin, so unbelievably fine, that it looks as if it was written by a pen— rather than the industrial paste tubes used in the academy workshop. What she has the most trouble believing, however, is that the plate she pulled is double-sided; this provides double the bang for a single circuit. Whatever this logic command is, she wonders, it must be unbelievably sophisticated. Considering this single plate already contains more managraphics than even a highly-social four-plater automaton, Clare concludes that it is likely the only plate contained within the machine’s head— but she is soon corrected.
She sets aside the first plate— only to be
followed by the second plate, then a third, and a fourth, and a fifth, and a sixth… In all, she removes twelve plates of double-sided managraphics before reaching the end— revealing to her that her mother had to make the plates so thin, just so that she could fit them all inside without having to extend the actual chassis of the auto. She nods with a slow, impressed tilt of the head, simultaneously inspired and intimidated by how wonderfully complex and elegant her mother's managraphics are. It's like looking at little paintings, rather than an unsightly industrial necessity.
Her awe takes a steady turn to fear when she realizes the absence of that which every engineer has been taught to be not only the most basic standard, but an absolute requirement.
"Wait," she mutters. "Then where's your core plate?" Clare asks this partially to herself, and partially to the auto as if it could respond.
She flips through both sides of the twelve logic plates— but sure enough, not one of them has the small black speck of the ethergrain designating its core plate; none of the plates have the clear directive for activation— the very first plate students are taught to design. It’s almost as if it must operate without power— for every child in Everhold knows that automatons draw their magical energy from the little black ethergrains as a means to power their subsystems, necessary for operation.
Clare sits in reverence of the auto for a near minute, pondering just how in the world this is all possible. She was planning on adding or changing one of the plates to include a material deconstruction protocol which she would use to protect her against the non-socials at the substation system— but this is so unheard of, it completely defies recognition. She’s sure that if she even touched one of the managraphic patterns it’d just ruin it.
It's the first time she gets the feeling— and what a horrible, rotten thought it is: an overwhelming unease of paranoia. For the very first time, Clare ponders if just maybe, possibly, something she was taught is mistaken— or, in fact, an outright, intentional lie. It's the sort of subtle aching feeling one gets when all of society suddenly starts to feel a lot less like a safe community of kindred minds, and a lot more like a pen, for animals and other things that need to be contained for their own presumable good.
The engineering student shakes her head. She can't get distracted.
With a fascinated, if nervous, anticipation she replaces the logic plates in their proper order and closes the faceplate— concealing the soulless machine within and restoring its appealing, almost elegant visage.
She waits a moment, and suddenly realizes how stupid she's being. This auto won't start by itself as the others do, because then it would have been active for the entire time. She wonders briefly if perhaps it's not finished— but just as the thought crosses her mind, she hears a voice.
"...Good evening," it addresses— a distorted, breathy, eerily-faint sound, as if its voice is just barely reaching past its mask.
Clare jolts back, flipping over the chair and catching herself just in time before the backside slaps into the ground. She looks around warily to see if she's being watched, but her focus can only return to the automaton. She's sure of it; it just spoke to her.
"H-...hello?"
"...Hello," it responds flatly, its voice a cross between a bellows and a flute valve. Clare's never heard anything quite as unnerving in all her life; it is as if industrial noises forming words in a bare mockery of human language. What is worse for her, however, is the fact that this thing just understood and responded to her.
"You... huh," a wide-eyed Clare sputters, slowly straightening her chair so as to not make any more noise.
The sounds of an internal logic register work through its head with gentle, nigh-silent clicks— like the stepping of a spider. "...Yes. I can talk," it says, putting some extra inflection on what it believes is the most important word in the sentence.
She’s met plenty of automatons that can make verbal statements based on their programming but not any that can talk back based on something someone said to it.
Clare cannot believe her ears—neither the short clicking in its head, nor the voice emitting from its ‘mouth’.
"In your head... is that an actual register?" she asks with an awe-struck tone.
"...Define term: 'register'."
"Like, huge logic circuits. The agricultural machines have them, but they're much— like, way bigger; you know, the size of buildings."
"...I do not understand your terminology. Please rephrase inquiry."
Clare looks at it with a slow, stupid glare. "Uh, nevermind. Look, I need your help."
The automaton remains seated blankly. "...I do not understand your terminology. Please rephrase inquiry."
She bites the side of her lip in thought. Of course, social automatons have pre-set phrases they can receive that translate into interior commands— which is why most non-industrial autos will indeed stop if someone speaks the word "stop". It's apparent that this one is a little more complex, however. She considers her next words with more care and intention.
"State directive," she says— and at once she can hear the interior register clicking away in communication with its logic-plates.
"Directive: Deliver Clare to ‘the bottom’."
She gets another chill down her spine.
"How did you know my name?"
"...I do not understand your terminol-"
"Who is Clare?" she rephrases.
"...Clare Airineth, daughter of designer Mary Airineth."
"W-why do you need to deliver her?"
"...Due to directive."
“So… protect?” she asks, attempting to parse out the meaning step by step.
“Correct,” it says.
Clare sighs. "Uh... What do you need to protect Clare from?" she tries again.
"Danger."
"Yes— but what is it? Did your designer think I would be in trouble?"
"...Input user undefined."
Clare raises a brow. She's confused only for a second, though.
"Define user: Clare."
"Definition input."
"Current user is Clare."
The automaton clicks in thought. "...Doing so will overwrite current user profile for 'Clare'. Do you wish to proceed?"
"Yes."
"...Present user key," it requests, reaching out its hand as if to accept something.
She smirks awkwardly; she hasn't the slightest clue. A few seconds of silence passes, and the automaton continues.
"...Error, user key not presented. Action terminated," it says, putting a damning emphasis on the word ‘terminated’.
Clare crosses her arms and turns away for a moment. She doesn't have access to change anything through voice, and she has no clue what she'd be dealing with in the logic plates— but if her mother expected this to happen one day, then she must have left something behind.
She thinks hard, all the way back to her childhood. What was the one thing that the two of them would share? What is something that the machine would recognize?
Slowly, Clare draws back with an impressed realization. She raises a solemn hand to her ear and removes her green earring. After all, automatons can recognize mineral structures quite easily. She clears her throat to try again:
"Define user: Clare," she says.
"Definition input."
"Current user is Clare."
Again, the automaton clicks in thought. "...Doing so will overwrite current user profile for 'Clare'. Do you wish to proceed?"
"Yes."
"...Present user key."
She pops the earring, her mother's only memento to her, into the palm of its hand.
In an instant, the clicking noise inside its head increases violently in decibel and speed.
"User key accepted. Key designation: Clare Airineth. Privilege: administrator. You have two messages. Do you wish to proceed?" It delivers this information while reaching its hand out further to return the earring. It dumps it onto Clare's lap.
Her gaze is now wide, like a he
rd animal spotting a wolf in the tree line. "...Yes," she affirms, barely catching the earring from slipping off her lap.
The auto leans its head down, as if in remembrance. "Playing message:" At once, there's another clicking sound, and from the automaton flows a voice— Mary's voice.
"Clare, this is your mother. Do not repeat anything I am about to tell you to anyone. If there is anyone listening to this with you, you need to stop this recording. I gave you the earring to remember me by, just in case my suspicions are correct, and something should happen— whatever that may be. You have this machine to take care of you. I don't know all of the details, because to clarify I would have to risk my life— but as soon as you come of age, you need to get out of the city. Don't listen to your father, or your friends, or anyone else. I know there's a way out somewhere, and I'm looking for it. I've gone down section by section— blueprints and work orders— for months, and I think I've finally found it."
Clare takes a deep breath in sync with her mother in the recording.
"Something's horribly wrong, Clare. Everhold was never meant to maintain human life this long. It seems hopeful for now because we are inventing things to solve our problems, especially with agriculture. I expect by the time you become a young lady, that's what most engineering students will be majoring in, as the problem is only going to get worse. Clare— our ancestors, whether they knew it or not, have placed us in an extremely precarious terrarium; eventually, the balance will be offset permanently against us. If we were all machines, it could work— but we aren’t. We’re people— and people make mistakes. We only have so much soil, so much nutrition, so much rainfall every year. The fact of the matter is that we are approaching an increasingly delicate logistic problem, and I see absolutely no way to solve it.
I've written the chosen of King Victor about it. They’re good people; I think I believe them when they say that Victor is a god, but I don't think he's a wise god. The Chosen claim they can speak to him through telekinesis, you know— but what they told me strikes me as something only a fool would claim. Don't repeat what I'm saying to anyone; the culture that has developed here has become pointed more and more to the inside of itself— not sparing even a thought as to the outside world. Don’t believe those lies about the wall guard. There’s something wrong with them, I know it. There’s more to this than we’re being told.