Condemnation

by Kell Inkston

  People don't even wonder what's out there anymore; we just say 'it's the ocean' and leave it at that, as if that little port hole was enough for us to look out and sate our curiosity. To even question otherwise is considered the ravings of a lunatic. I just... it doesn't make sense. How could they have made this entire city in time for the waves? Who would have told them ahead of time? Victor? Maybe, but I doubt it. I'm not firmly under the suspicion that Victor has been lying to keep us here; I’m not a terrorist. I don't doubt that he's well-intentioned— he has to keep the peace— but it's going to get us all killed.

  Clare, the world hasn't flooded. We are only fooling ourselves. I am sure of it. There is no ocean around our walls. If anything, I'm sure of that. We have been fed a convenient diet of lies our entire life; so have my parents, and their parents, and so on.

  I'll give you another recording if I can, but for now you just need to know that you have to take Carrie with you; she should be at least close to done by the time you get this. I left a bag for you under the floorboards at the right side of the door. I love you so much, sweetie. You're going to start at the academy next week, and I know you'll do great— even if I won't get to see you graduate."

  There's a click, and the automaton raises its head back to address her.

  "End of message. You have one message. Do you wish to proceed?"

  Clare, gripping her knees and at the verge of tears, pauses a moment before speaking. "Yes," is all she says.

  "Playing Message:" Another soulless click, and her mother's voice is audible again. It sounds like she's crying.

  "Sweetie. I've got to go. That arrogant fuck Petrassus finally put me up for board interview. They... please, sweetie, never forget that I love you. I love you so much, Clare. They’re a bunch of liars… a bunch of goddamn liars!"

  There's a few intermittent sobs over the recording before Mary continues.

  "Take the bag, put on the mask, go to Substation Seven and continue through the wall. I know it's there. Make sure you take Carrie with you. She… eh, it will get you there— wherever it is. Don't tell anyone— don't tell your father, or anyone— again; if anyone finds out, they'll try to stop you. They just don't understand, they'll never fucking understand! Please, Clare, take it and get out of here… but before you do, take the bag— like I said, under the floorboards on the right side of the door— and put on the mask. Don't take it off until you get out of the sewers; the methane could kill you. Honestly, you should just sleep with it on; I don’t know what’s down there— not yet. Get food for the trip, anything else you need, and go. I can't explain because I don't have much time. They're going to come today to take me away, I just know it. I love you, Clare. I love your father, but he wouldn't understand. You have to leave him. I love you. Goodbye, Clare. I'm going to find out for myself if I'm right... this is it. I love you, never forget it. I love you."

  There's another click, and that's that.

  "This concludes the messages," Carrie says. Clare doesn’t think Carrie sounds like a “she” at all; the voice is too deep.

  Clare is left with a silent room, and a realization that has been waiting for her ever since she was a little girl. With this comes a decision.

  The thesis couldn't be further from her mind at this time.

  With a slow, bated breath, Clare draws in the courage to speak— but instead gets up, turns for the door, and kneels down to its right. The automaton, apparently named Carrie, rises with her— taking to its feet at a speed that, if she didn't know better, would fool her into thinking it were a human. She peels the rug's corner aside to reveal some unset boards, an unnailed patch board square, and a secret underneath.

  Clare lifts that as well to find a medium-sized gray rucksack, untouched as it has been for years. She pulls it up and, under Carrie's watchful gaze, opens it.

  Hooks... roping... gloves... a pre-charged clip-light... a knife... a parchment containing a blueprint of the substation circle, with a simple line map leading to number seven… and a weird mask. It's rubber, with two glass lenses and a pair of steel attachments to the lower face, seeming to feed into the breather in the center. She's pretty sure this is a gas mask— but she's only rarely gotten to see her father's up close before, reserved for those rare moments when he hits a gas pocket below. Rubber is ridiculously expensive, after all, and is only used for the most vital industrial applications.

  She sighs, flips it around to see the straps, and dawns the mask. It doesn't feel good; it is as if some little monstrosity is squeezing her skull— and it's more than a little difficult to breathe with it. She'll do it to humor her mother though; it's not so unbearable so long as she forgets she's wearing it. She wonders briefly if her mother took one along with her as well. She takes a long, calming breath, the mask's filters producing a slight hissing sound from the pressure.

  "Okay, let's… one second," she notes.

  In a quick moment, she gets up, leaves the room, and passes by the housekeeper automaton.

  Weirdly, it feels as though it’s tracking her with its managraph.

  Clare pays little mind to it and goes to the storage closet, where old mementos, toys, and photos sit undisturbed in all but the most reminiscent of days in which either herself or her father pile them out to appreciate the various objects.

  The one she’s hunting for is a set of clothes; her mother’s Class Five engineer uniform.

  In only a second’s search she finds it: tough, practical leather with a snug fit; as though it were as meant for herself as it were for her mom. A glint of ambition crosses her eyes; after all, she doesn’t know how long she’ll be down there, and an academy skirt won’t really do the trick.

  Clare changes into it, gives a single, dramatic glance in the mirror, and nods before heading back into the forlorn workshop.

  “Now I’m ready, let’s go,” she speaks with a solemn tone, repacking the sack and swinging it around her shoulder before reaching for the knob.

  Carrie doesn't say anything but steps up behind her shoulder at the ready. It's eerie to have an auto follow her so closely—follow her at all, for that matter. Made by her mother or not, she can already imagine its cold hands grasping at her like a mindless non-social.

  Doing her best to cast the thought from her mind, she turns out the light and makes her way to the kitchen. Mary said she'd need food for the trip, after all.

  She leans around the corner and spots her father, slumped over the table— his almost finished beer lazy in his hand while he releases steady, gentle snores. This is, unfortunately, where she finds him asleep the most. She never really got to know him; Mary's loss changed him forever.

  Clare sneaks into the kitchen, grabs some of the hard tack on the counter, and about faces the other way back to the hallway. She returns to see Carrie watching the house automaton, which is staring back at it intently. What makes Clare particularly concerned about this is that the house auto isn't supposed to interact with anything inside; it's only supposed to open the door for those who wait outside, provide a respectful greeting, and return to its dormancy.

  Despite her previous misgivings, she moves closer to Carrie— using it as a divider between her and the house automaton, which immediately looks improperly to her as she enters its sight range. With a structured breath, Clare moves in sync alongside Carrie, the both of them passing through the thin entryway and heading for the exit.

  The moment she touches the doorknob, the house auto flinches— as if it were about to lunge to the door; but Carrie stands firm between the auto and Clare. She presses through quietly, though at an increased speed seeing the house auto's movement, and slips out.

  She enters into the misty night of the Everhold streets, with Carrie emerging right behind her, exiting backwards so as to keep a close eye on the house auto.

  "...We must hurry to the waypoint," it notes.

  Clare doesn't want to ask, but she knows she has to. "What?"

  "...There was an observer posted. We have been spotted far too
early for safe travel."

  "Who is-" Clare stops herself; she doesn't even need to clarify. Clare immediately comes to terms with the disheartening realization that at all hours of the day, no matter what, the home automaton was always in sight of the workshop door.

  A sickening chill runs down her spine. "Let's just go."

  "...I do not understand your te-"

  "Follow me," she interrupts shortly, taking a quick glance at the parchment map before moving towards the nearest sewer entry in her memory.

  "...I will follow you," it confirms.

  Though the mask may conceal her vision, her ears are as sharp as ever. Not even a block away yet, she very clearly hears the sound of her house door opening. Clare picks up her pace, and Carrie in step with her.

  - Chapter 9 -

  Marching with a mask on is far more stressful than Clare ever could have imagined. It's choking out her every breath, and she struggles to pull in enough air to keep the pace. Occasionally checking behind her shoulder in the alley, she finds the manhole right where she expected it— three blocks down and one to the right; she recalls tripping on it once as a kid. With a sigh, Clare double checks her map to make sure it’s the right one, then flips her pack around to retrieves her gloves. She's seen her dad after work enough times to realize that this is going to get messy.

  The oversized gloves slide on easily— but she knows that will be the simplest part of this venture. She lowers herself into the cover's metal bars and makes to lift it. It's of the sort of unbearable weight that is both physically and psychologically intimidating. Additionally, the slime-slick refuse caked into the handles makes the lid so slippery and difficult to grip, that Clare is left helpless to do anything but nervously clam at them while they avoid her grasp with disgusting ease. She tries for the better part of a minute, and falters back with a sigh.

  "This is so stupid," she groans under her breath. Just as she prepares to try again, she realizes that she's not making full use of the tools she has at her disposal. She gets up with a dignified rise, removing the already vomitous gloves from her hands. "Carrie."

  "...Address recognized."

  "Lift that," she directs confidently.

  "...Define term: 'that'."

  She points at the manhole. "That, Carrie, the cover."

  "...Define term: 'cover'."

  "Really?"

  "...I do not u-"

  "This! Right here!" She pats down on the grate with pointed exasperation.

  "...I do not understand your terminology. Please rephrase inquiry."

  She takes a deep breath and reassesses the moment. She needs to use full sentence commands, of course. "Okay... okay: what is this, Carrie?"

  Carrie looks down now. "That is a forged disk of metal, covering an entry way of some sort."

  Clare fixes her fingers together, the gloves pointing forward with a squish. "Can you lift this object?"

  "I can attempt lift that object."

  There's a short pause with Clare looking between Carrie and the manhole cover.

  "Okay. Will you lift the object?"

  "…Carrie System has no directive to lift object."

  She takes a deep, deep breath, and sighs. No sooner does she finish the breath, than she notices a figure in the mist emerging two blocks down; its pace is slow, but measured right in their direction. From its gait and the weight to its steps, it's clear that it's an automaton.

  She can already make out the glowing managraph of its face: it’s her house auto.

  Her mind clicks into overdrive. "Define object as 'cover'," she instructs, her tone now flat and quickened.

  "...Definition accepted."

  "Lift cover."

  "...Lifting." Carrie steps up to the cover, smashes its fingers into the gap between the cover and the entrance, and flips the cover up as if it is nothing. "Lift complete."

  Clare glances away from the approaching figure, fumbles out her light, and clicks it on to check below. The smell is unbelievably bad, even through the mask— but right now, she doesn't care. With a rush of adrenaline, she starts down the ladder and into the system. The moment before she descends, her freshly-sharpened gaze is able to make out even more figures appearing from the mist— each of them heading their way.

  "Replace cover," she requests.

  "... Replacing," Carrie says, at least smart enough to step down inside before putting it back over their heads.

  "O-" she pulls in a nerve-wracked breath. "Okay it should be... th-this way," Clare directs, working over the map with her putrefaction-covered gloves. With a firm step forward, she starts down the grotesque blackness of the sewer— accompanied by a level of visibility worthy only of a closed coffin. If it weren’t for her collar light and Carrie's managraphed faceplate, shining dully in the corpse-scented darkness, she would be blind.

  The two travel through the sewage-slicked paths of Everhold's disposal way, only half an idea in Clare's head about their bearings. The walled kingdom is eight kilometers in diameter, so it takes her nearly thirty minutes to figure out the general orientation and finally reach the lit— however dimly— halls of the substation system.

  "Here we are," she states with relief. "Now I guess it's just..." she looks at the map again, and glances over at the side of the wall; she's already near substation six— lucky her. "I guess this is next to... agricultural?" She reorients herself to make sure they'll go the right way, and starts northward along the sloped hall. Sure enough, in only a minute, they pass by the side tunnel for substation six. She looks down and sees a lit, whirring room filled with complex magi-tech machinery. "Not far now," she notes— and then she feels a little rumble on her thigh: her chat stone.

  She picks it up, takes a deep breath, and activates the voice.

  "Hello?" she asks, halfway expecting the voice of an automaton.

  "You sound nervous," Waine observes through the brightening, chained jewel. "Where are you now? Have you gone i-"

  "Y- I..." She clears her throat while traveling down the hall. "N-no. I don't think I'm going to go through with it after all."

  "Thank god, dude!" he exclaims in relief. "That was such a stupid idea. Okay, well tomorrow let's meet back up. I got a shit-load of notes an-"

  "Hey, look, I'll see you later—" Clare interrupts. She hears something coming from down the hall.

  "Wait, why?"

  "I'm... I'm busy."

  "Busy wh-" he starts.

  "Sleeping," she answers sharply as she prepares to cut him off.

  "You don't sound very sle-" is all he can get out before she shoves her chat stone back into her pocket. She strains her hearing to attune to the footsteps.

  "An auto," she confirms.

  It rounds the corner, immediately revealing itself to be a semi-social. The small band of paint around its arm designates it as an automaton which has been given the appropriate features for an administrator to control it.

  She shrugs with relief. "Okay– administrator argument," she addresses, carrying a confident, expectant tone.

  The automaton, promptly locking on to Clare, marches straight for her without stopping; in fact, she's almost sure it’s uncharacteristically picking up speed.

  "Administrator argument!" she repeats, making certain that her voice is carrying through her mask.

  There is no stop, no ping— nothing but the swift and steady advance forward.

  The moment she takes a step back, the auto breaks into a sprint. She's never in her life seen an auto move so quickly; it defies all logic.

  "Carrie, run!" she cries, starting for the opposite way just in time to be interrupted by a dense, industrial crash which sends her to the ground from the surprise. She looks back in panicked anticipation— only to spot the industrial auto falling to its knees, its faceplate removed and smashed through by Carrie's steel hands.

  The auto crooks over to its side, convulses a moment— and then, with a final jolt, its managraphy relinquishes its glow into a dead, cold gray.

  "Tar
get neutralized." Carrie says this in a dead drone, but with critical emphasis on the word ‘neutralized’ as if it is intelligent enough to appreciate the idea of violence.

  Clare rises back to its feet and peers down at the tarnished auto, a steady cloud of dust still trailing from its face where Carrie slammed into it.

  "Holy shit."

  "...I do not understand your termino-"

  "That's..." she coughs. "Good job, Carrie."

  "Thank you, Clare."

  "Why didn't it stop?"

  "I do not know."

  "This is weird," she murmurs with an unsettled, abrupt tone.

  Without another word, Clare passes by the instantly derelict automaton to continue towards Substation Seven. Just as before, Carrie steps right behind her, closer to her shoulder and matching her exact pace.

  She’s been walking for no more than a minute when she first hears the sound. She stops short again, no inkling that this is the haunting din that will send a chill down her spine until the day she dies.

  It is a faint, crowded, crumbling sort of noise.

  "Do you... do you hear that?" Clare asks.

  "...Hear what?”

  "That noise."

  "...Yes. I do."

  "Well, what do you make of it?"

  "I make that we should continue," Carrie responds simply.

  Clare sighs, shakes her head, and leaves it at that as they move forward once more—brushing it off as if an innocent strand of hair tickling her ear.

  Just around the bend await the signs— capitalized warnings stretching on as far as the eye can see into the shadows. She clicks her light back on reflexively, and gasps. Just past the signed off area now, she can see it. The blue-shaded lights make it easy to spot even in the dark— splattering marks, uncleaned, dried over, and left for what could be ages.

  "Wh-" she marches up to it at a quickened, indignant pace. "Carrie— what's this?" She points, unbelieving.