Condemnation

by Kell Inkston

  Clare slides into the pitch-black crevice, the cold water tormenting and relieving all at once as it washes against her leg. Midway down the path, she grows certain that she cannot go a step further and, using the wall as a guide, leans back in the dark.

  She's quiet now, and the faint smile she had won on her face moments ago has quickly died back to misery.

  "Such a stupid fool," she mutters under her breath, wrapping her arms around herself in a futile attempt to warm herself up. It doesn't work, of course, and after the novelty of safety passes her by, she's forced to make her next decision. This next phase, however, does not go as planned.

  Right when she comes to the bitter conclusion that she's now in a considerably worse place here than she was just thirty minutes ago— just as she contemplates the grave mistake she made of going upstairs in that building and making a ruckus— she hears a sloshing sound.

  She can't believe it. With a trembling gaze, she spots a powerful, inhuman light shining out from the street she was just on. She struggles not to pull up her mask for a clearer look— but her willpower wins out, and she keeps it sealed around her face. Even so, it’s the same automaton; she's sure of it. The familiar managraphic beam peers out and blinds her.

  "Do not worry, mi-" the robot begins ‘encouragingly’.

  "Shut the fuck up!" she screams in interruption, leaning back into another dash. Almost immediately she falls to the flooded ground. Her muscles have contracted around the swelling, and the cramp is now too extreme to even use the leg. Clare is forced to pick herself up from the stagnant drink and start limping with her one good leg to escape.

  The young lady only hops a few times however, before getting a glaring look at where she's going. Now lit by the automaton's ominous light, the dead end of the alley way is revealed plainly to her. This is truly the end of the line.

  "No..." is all she mutters before turning back to face her hunter. There is nothing left to say.

  It hasn't slowed down a bit, heading straight for her with the full, confident stride of a capable civil servant.

  She takes one glance at her knife through her putrefying mask lens, and then looks up. She has only one shot at this.

  "Okay..." She whispers, again to herself. "Okay... okay..." Clare repeats firmly, as if to calm herself down in preparation for a single, kinetically-genius movement that will save her life. "Okay!"

  The second the porter model automaton reaches out to grab her, she dodges as best she can to its side— jabbing her knife with everything she has in between its faceplate to hit the managraphic circuitry plates. Just a centimeter off, and she'd miss entirely— but with the adrenaline at an all-time high in her life, the split, aimed second she needs goes by like a frozen frame in time. Clare lines up the strike in this very moment of subconscious time, and rams it in. The plunge is successful.

  The automaton stops immediately— but she knows this won't last long, as it’s still reaching for her. It grabs her by the same leg that's injured, and starts squeezing with industrial, mechanical cruelty while it simultaneously lifts her up for better control. Her biology folds under its grip instantly, forced down ever further as if to completely tear off her leg below the knee. Part of its circuits must still be working.

  With a crazed, loose jab, she slams the knife into the latches and successfully disengages the lock. Her mom did it a few times to the household auto, as a joke of course. She always got such a kick out of seeing Clare jump back in shock whenever the auto's face would abruptly fall off.

  This auto's faceplate now off, Clare smashes the blade of her knife across each and every logic plate individually— until she finally gets to the end. Here is its core plate, containing its mystical source of power in those small, locked glass spheres. Ethergrain is what she's been told they are— but she thinks they look more like little specks of black sand. It’s always unnerved her to touch them. Ethergrain is perfectly safe to handle— or rather, that’s how the people of Everhold understand it; that particular faint, quiet vibration within, though… it feels dangerous to her somehow.

  She smashes the container holding the ethergrain. At once, the auto's green light dies out, and her world is again plunged into darkness.

  Clare did it. Even with the auto's hand clenched painfully around her squished leg, she still can't help but let out a sigh of relief.

  "Yeah, fuck you," she says in-between labored breaths. If anyone she knew were to hear her now, cussing like a sailor, they wouldn’t believe it— but she’s being pushed far, far past her comfort zone today, and her dad hasn’t exactly been a good example in the language department.

  There's a silence for another dark moment, coming to terms with how awkward her current position is. She's keeping herself stable on its left shoulder, with her hands holding its head and her thighs squished around it for dear life. It's a rather precarious spot— especially considering that the auto's inactive body still has her left leg.

  "Well..." She takes a deep breath, "well yeah… so, here we are," she adds, talking to herself. She nips the inside of her cheek in thought, and decides to turn on her light. Illuminated is the inactive automaton, solidly in place, unmoving, and holding its pose even with her weight on top of it.

  Then she hears something else in the distance, and Clare knows yet again that she has to get away. It's another sloshing sound from far off— but it's swiftly getting louder. Clare cuts out her light just as quickly as she had clicked it on. She knows it’s time to move fast.

  With a little stretching, Clare reaches its fingers around her leg— and by leaning back just a tad, she's able to get a grip on it. With a single, slippery heave, she starts pulling back the first metallic finger from around her shin. Flexing in with a long pull, her face turning red from the exertion, she finally moves its index finger a couple centimeters— and then the auto starts to tilt.

  With a gasp, Clare attempts to correct her position on top of it— but too much so, pushing it over the other end. The auto falls like a statue into the murky shallows of the alley, taking Clare with it and emitting a loud crash. With a splash, she's again submerged into the cold, greasy floodwaters— and this time, she's pinned. During the fall, she pivoted down to secure the weight with her knees— but all this served to do was trap her pelvis under the weight of the auto. Her body seethes with crushing pain as the automaton weighs down mercilessly into her, even with the water reducing it. She struggles, and is able to slide most of her lower torso aside— but its hand is still wrapped around her shin, now acutely angled from the damage.

  Clare strains her arms to push herself over the surface of the water, and is able to reach her mask's filters just to the very brim of it. If she had just one more centimeter, she could turn her head so that one of the filters would break the surface and allow her air— but she has no such fortune.

  She can feel the water slowly seeping in; her mind is crying out for air, and her body is locking up with the grim anticipation of its finale. She flails wildly under the water in another futile attempt to somehow bring air below to her— all in vain. Seconds pass into a full minute, and her convulsions reach that trembling, horrified fever pitch that suggests to an onlooker that a consciousness is in its last moments. She has nothing left to lose. In an act of sheer, oxygen-deprived desperation, she reaches for her knife— so trusty for all this time— and jabs it into her knee. Here is where some very distant part of Clare’s mind realizes that she has made a terrible mistake.

  She flinches back in agony. That was a horrible thing to do.

  No matter how frantically she wants it, she knows she won’t be able to stab herself a second time. She feels terrible, realizing that her tolerance of pain is so little that she cannot deny it if her life depended on it.

  The overarching grayness of a doomed mind fills her vision, just as a faint light appears and sets the surrounding waters aglow. Her last thoughts aren't of anything but Everhold: her loved ones, her home, her nice warm bed— dry, clean, inviting, and saf
e. In her greatest moment of helplessness, she could have no simpler a desire than to be sitting in her favorite coffee shop, her nose buried in her latest textbook.

  The light overwhelms her; the darkness follows.

  - Chapter 15 -

  He's been waiting too long. Waine's finally made the decision to go and check up on her personally.

  Waine finds himself in front of Clare’s house, cozily located in a quiet street— but with one difference from the usual. To the side of the door stands a uniformed man from the Royal Constabulary. Waine stares at the slickly-dressed young man for a moment— feeling his heart drop in fear before stepping up.

  "Officer," Waine starts.

  The steely-eyed, rather handsome fellow glances over. "Academian," he addresses in a cold drawl.

  "What's going on?"

  The officer boy adjusts his hard-brimmed cap with his white-gloved fingers, the mild sunlight of the day illuminating his blond hair with a glorious shine. "That's Constabulary business."

  "It's not..." Waine skews a breath, "it's not the girl that lives here, is it?"

  The officer boy's icy gaze crosses up and down Waine as if he had suddenly become more of a suspect than a civilian. "How very observant of you. Name?"

  Waine would take a guess that the officer's just a little younger than him— and if he weren't in uniform, he'd happily tell him to sod off— but there's an authority to that black and white uniform that clears streets and strikes full respect into the hearts of everyone in the city. He's no different.

  "Waine Brightmoor— senior year student at the Academy of E-" He stops himself, seeing the officer twist the knob leading into Clare's home, and opening up the way for him.

  "Come inside," the uniformed boy says with a cool, expectant tone.

  Waine glances to his side and spots a few concerned onlookers; all but the children are doing their best to look as though they're not seeing what's happening. The Constabulary Special Police has an infamous reputation for doing most of their work out of station— and this includes interrogations.

  Not knowing what to expect, Waine consents, and steps into the warmth of the home.

  Immediately he spots Clare's dad, Zach Airineth, sitting at the kitchen table with another constable: a man as big as Zach, but with none of the hair. If Waine wasn't already intimidated, this other guy seems twice as mean as Officer Young-And-Good-Looking.

  The two from the table glance over to the newcomers, and then turn back to their conversation.

  "So that's really all you know?" the bald man asks, his eyes so cold and direct that they possess a decidedly knife-like quality for Waine.

  Zach, his face cupped into his hands and leaning onto the table with several empty bottles of beer, just nods.

  "Did she say anything recently about running away?"

  Clare's father shakes his head, and the officer raises a well-trimmed brow.

  "Did you have any arguments recently?"

  "No," he replies with a croak. "...Yes," he corrects.

  The officer leans in. "About what?"

  "Her mother."

  "...I believe I recall that being mentioned when I was in the academy. I'm very sorry, s-"

  "Do your damn job," Zach cuts out without emotion.

  There's an awkward silence, and the bald man clears his throat. "That's what we're trying to do, Mister Airineth. We protect and serve. If your girl is out there, we'll find her— but you must cooperate. Won't you tell me about the specifics of the argument?"

  Zach sighs with a tired, weary breath. "I... She was askin' questions."

  "What sorts of questions?"

  "The kind her mother was askin' before she... disappeared."

  The officer's slant gaze trails to the side, a second image popping into his head. He was just a boy then, but he remembers well how the adults had described the incident when they found that body sprawled out from the sewer.

  "Right— Mister Airineth. I need specifics," he restates, his pencil and notepad ready in his hands.

  Lifting his head just an inch, Zach fires off a glare toward Waine: either an expression of grievous, bitter trust— or disgust- he can never tell with her dad. Suddenly, Waine feels as though he's responsible for this somehow.

  He thinks back briefly to the chat stone, still in his coat pocket. He's been waiting for it to vibrate for the better part of the morning— but still she's said nothing. Where could she have gone? It doesn't take Waine long to realize what’s happened, but he could never guess as to the extent of it.

  "I think she's gone into the sewers," Zach adds. "I'm sure she's down there."

  The officer's dark eyes glint with satisfaction as he jots down a note. "Any idea where?"

  There's a long pause. "I suppose you're looking to arrest her?"

  The officer draws back, instantly catching on. "Rescue, Mister Airineth."

  Everyone in the room knows it’s bullshit, of course. Entering an industrial “no go” zone— like the sewer or substation systems— if one doesn't have the proper clearance, is considered a felony. Of course, technically they would be rescuing her— but if she's caught down in the systems, she would be headed straight to a cell, probably for life.

  Zach has to digest the phrase from the officer a moment before responding. His gaze sharpens unexpectedly. "She thinks the sewers lead to the way out," he finally says.

  "Madness."

  "I know, but her mom put all those thoughts in her head."

  "If I may ask bluntly Mister Airineth... Was your wife... Seperationist?"

  Waine and the young officer exchange a glance, both knowing how damning that term is. The two boys were a little too young to be a part of it, but they remember the stories— the bloodstains on the cobblestone, the screams at night when suspected separationists were being pulled from their homes.

  "No, of course not," Zach responds with a trained quickness. "She wanted to understand as much as she could about Everhold, including if there were any routes to the ocean."

  The younger officer speaks up. "That's ridiculous. Everyone knows that the wall guard keeps an all-day vigil to watch the water level. Did she never go up to the viewing port to see it herself? There's no way o-"

  He's stopped by the blunt gazes of the two older men. The young officer clears his throat, rubs his badge, and stands back against the wall; Waine is suddenly flooded with confidence. This kid's a prude after all— a prude that could kick his ass, sure— and looks better than him, and is probably smarter too… but all that doesn't matter as much as being cool and well-educated like Wayne is.

  "Yeah, she wasn't one o' them bastards. She was just curious, Officer Creighton— and I don't much think it shines well on ya' that you'd talk about my late wife that way."

  The bald officer draws back with a stern brow. The heavy scar on his right brow curls in concern— or at least the practiced appearance of it. "That's a dangerous curiosity, none the less."

  "That's all I have t' say."

  Officer Creighton smiles. "That's fair. So you're thinking the sewer system?"

  Zach nods.

  "Anything else you have for us to go off of?"

  Zach shakes his head to that one.

  There's a pause, and Creighton slaps Zach straight across the face. Zach leans up as if nothing happened— but Waine's legs clench together briefly. The sound was so sharp, and so loud, he'd think it were a gunshot if he didn’t see it with his own eyes.

  "Mister Airineth," Officer Creighton addresses.

  Zach addresses the man with his eyes, filled with furious, protective intent. His lips purse together bitterly as Officer Creighton draws in closer. The overhead cuckooing clock ticks with a mad anticipation, sounding a bit like the snapping of bones from far inside the clock’s wooden castle of a case.

  "Mister... Airineth," he reiterates.

  "...Officer?"

  "I'm sure you know a little more, don't you?"

  There's another awkward pause— but he knows how to put him
in his place. "Did my wife come out from the sewers, Officer Creighton?"

  Creighton's scar arches down with his brow in veiled interest. "She did."

  "...Then where else would my girl go?"

  There's another pause, and Creighton draws back. "Thank you for your time, Mister Airineth."

  "Sure."

  "Tell the substations hello for me."

  "Of course. It is my job after all— same with you and chasing memories around in sewers; wasting people’s time when my daughter is in danger."

  The two gentlemen get up with mute smiles and deadly gazes that simultaneously intimidate and inspire the two boys; perhaps Waine will remain that cool under pressure one day— and perhaps Young-Good-Lookin' will be as scary as Officer Creighton in a few years.

  "And who's this one," Creighton asks, exiting the kitchen and moving into the entryway of the house. Waine clenches his teeth in dread upon seeing the officer at his full height. He's among that rare caste of physique that is both large and trained— a comprehensively weaponized body that bristles under the prim officer attire that struggles to contain him.

  "A Waine Brightmoor, sir— Academic and friend of Miss Airineth," Young and Handsome introduces with a nudge, causing Waine to go straight to a pathetic bastardization of military attention.

  "Just W-Waine— if you prefer, of course, sir."

  Creighton looks down at Waine like a bug, but he can still feel Mister Airineth's gaze down his back.

  "Why are you here?"

  "I was... just looking for Clare, sir."

  "She's missing. Do you know where she went?"

  "No, sir," he responds as curtly as possible. He subconsciously thumbs his coat pocket containing the chat stone to Clare.

  Creighton scoffs, but he does in fact notice this slight movement. "Then fuck off; we're in the middle of an investigation."