Condemnation

by Kell Inkston

  For an instant, the constant pressure of the unknown lifts from her in her dry room— and she again remembers the cheery vibration of her chat stone. She glances at it a moment, tosses it about her hand a couple times, and wonder just what else she could do with the vibrating stone rather than answering its call. She sighs; she really is tired. Rather, she finally raises it to her lips to speak— no longer in a shrill, horrified tone, but a relaxed confidence. Poor Waine needs an update, after all, she muses in her fleeting period of cloud-headed relief.

  With a jolt of mana zipping from her finger into the chat stone, it alights fully— the connection finally complete. "Hey," she starts.

  Clare immediately hears a shocked, muffled gasp— as if the other person on the line couldn't believe what she said. "C-...Clare?" Waine asks in a hushed tone.

  "Mmm," She responds laxly, almost coyly.

  "You... Are you okay? You sound... different."

  "No, no, I'm fine. Everything is..." She takes a breath. "Going as planned."

  There's a short pause. "...is it really? You're... okay?"

  "Yeah, of course I'm okay. What would I even be doing at this time of day? Actually come to think of it… what time is it?"

  "...What, are you indoors?"

  Clare squints an eye. "...I think so."

  "Victor forgive, where are you?!"

  "It's... a secret." She smiles to herself. It’s obvious to her how pathetic an answer that is.

  "No, Clare, no. Everyone's looking for you! Please tell me you didn't go underground!"

  She winces. Her overconfidence put her here— and only now does she remember that she's going to have to watch her words. "No— my dad had a talk with me about it last night. I decided not to."

  "...Really?"

  "Yeah."

  "...I heard him get interrogated."

  Clare's calm expression dies out to horror. "W-... is he okay?"

  "He's fine, but he said that you... you probably went into the sewers."

  "...Well, I didn't."

  "But you did— didn't you?"

  She's quiet a moment. "No. I'm just checking out the Agriculture Quarter, looking over some harvest statements."

  "...Since midnight?"

  "...Waine, the thesis?"

  There's a silence on the other end. "So you're saying that if I go to the goddamn records office in Agriculture, you're going to be there?"

  "Mhmm."

  "...Clare."

  "Yes?"

  "I... I really don't want you to get hurt."

  "Again, just go check and see for yourself."

  She can hear a deep sigh from Waine on the other end. "Can't we just meet for coffee? We need to talk— like, in person."

  "The-sis."

  "Right— okay, but you really need to show your face. At least swing by the police station and tell them you're here, that you're not a goddamn Separatist."

  Her eyes widen. "W-... what?"

  "You're under investigation, Clare. You're under suspicion of Separatism."

  "Whoaaa. That's... that's pretty big there." She had already guessed it, but this removes all doubt from her mind. Those Special Police idiots are faster than she thought. "So... I mean, couldn't you just give them the chat stone and let me talk to them?"

  "You think they'd listen to you without you being there in person?"

  She scoffs. "...Yeah, good point."

  "Come on, Clare! Let's just meet up at Jacques'. I'll make sure nothing happens to you."

  "Wh-" She stutters, taken aback by the admission. "Well... thank you, Waine."

  "I... Clare, I'm terrified. Please."

  "You believe me though, don't you?"

  "O-...of course I do, Clare! You've... you've never lied to me before, after all... o-o-okay, alright, fine."

  "Thank you for understanding, Waine."

  "Are you... sure you don't want to at least clear your name?"

  "If they find me, what are they gonna do? 'Ugh, stop studying; I'm jealous because you're gonna get paid more than meee'?"

  "Special Police is Class Five, I think."

  Clare raises a brow. "Wh- really?"

  "I mean, it's not like it's easy finding a fit, willing citizen to run around doing that kind of thing."

  She glances aside. "True enough."

  "And the training they go through is pretty intense."

  "Okay, okay..." She takes a breath. "So you're feeling better?"

  "Yeah... yeah I am. Thanks for picking up."

  "I didn't hear you in my pack, sorry."

  "...These stones are kinda nice, aren't they?"

  "Yeah."

  "Like— having a person in your pocket, anywhere you go."

  "We definitely overlook that kind of thing. It's important to be thankful... for what you have," Clare says this, her tone dropping off scarcely at the end— as if she were talking to herself as well as to Waine.

  "...You must have a lot on your mind," she adds. Waine responds with a grateful inflection. "Just... I was scared. I'm sorry."

  "It's fine, man. Don't worry about it."

  "Thanks. You're... You're really cool, for a girl."

  Clare smirks. Wayne’s so unbelievably lame at times. "Whoa, thanks."

  "I'll let you get back to it. What's it about, if I may ask?"

  "Eh... turning... downtime."

  "Oh, like how the harvester autos change from one row of crops to the other?"

  "Yeah."

  "Huh, sounds like the sort of stuff that would get funded. Good luck, kiddo."

  She grins. "Thanks, bye."

  "See ya."

  Clare watches the stone's glow die out into its common, colored stone appearance. With a deep breath and a clearer head, she finally realizes how hungry she is. She's certain it's probably already done for— but she wants to be sure. She opens her rucksack and finds— as expected— the hard-tack, obliterated from moisture; edible only hours prior, it is now a putrid mush, largely thanks to her repeated little dips into the water. The full day's-worth of provisions now sits ruined in an incoherent pile along the bottom of her sack.

  She groans in frustration, scooping out the ruined victual and tossing it aside. She's going to have to look around for food— but she also doesn't want to get up. The limping runaway decides to test her limits a bit before making any brash move. She wriggles her feet, and feels the pain that the injury provides— slow and dull when not moving, but fast and sharp when stretched. Gradually, with fair difficulty and a lot of strain on her better joints, Clare is able to stand up with a wavering, tilted balance.

  Clare readies her personnel light, clips it onto the collar of her coat, and swings the coat over her shoulders like a cape. It’s still a little moist, and it has no buttons to fix, but at least it’s not in tatters like most of her garments. It provides some warmth despite its slight wetness, and it’s welcome; being completely naked isn't exactly the most comfortable state of affairs out here.

  In a careful, measured step, she steadily moves with her light to the window— letting the beam slowly fold out from her little room into the black outside.

  As far as the beam will deliver its light, she can see rooftops below— far below, as in at least four stories down. She's much higher up than she realized.

  Gazing across the gray city, flux with spores and dust, the sight of it strikes reality back into her core. The slight relief of rescue and speaking to Waine is already diminishing back into the deep, eldritch horror of this place. Perhaps most disturbing, at the moment, is how it's not completely alien— but rather somehow nostalgic; it is. It’s like she has seen this sight before, but in an entirely different way. Clare scoffs as soon as the thought crosses her mind. What an utterly ridiculous idea; there's no way she has ever been here before.

  After a second more of gathering her bearings, she decides to dawn her significantly-lighter pack and leave the shelter. Carrie's got the perimeter handled— she's certain— so she should be okay to look around a little m
ore extensively. She makes the prudent decision of cleaning out her mask a bit with her torn rags before she sets off; it’s the only thing along with the the ropes and hooks that she thinks to take with her, since she can't put on both shoes while she’s wearing the splint. As she prepares to set out, her thoughts strike an uneasy balance between terror, curiosity, and hunger. Shortly, her mind goes to the idea of the storeroom off Granary street, as noted in Marnoff's journal. Maybe it's there that she could find some food. Surely whoever is, or was in charge of this demented underground deathtrap would have thought to put some preservatives away.

  The rumbling of her stomach motivates her to continue ahead; the want of her body detracts from the pain of her limp, in spite of its greatness.

  Clare makes her way down one of the crooked halls in a stupor of physical agony— turning to the left, as Carrie went to the right. She wants to stay far away from the danger below— especially if that danger would happen to be as persistent as that hunting automaton which almost drowned her with its weight. She limps past and over the splintered floorboards, taking great care not to shift her weight too carelessly and poke herself with any of the fraying woodwork. Immediately, she wishes that she had gotten her boots— at least took them along with her so she could maybe put the one boot on her good foot.

  With a seething wince to every step, she finally reaches the next room. Peeking in, she almost falls back— not from dis-balance, but from disbelief.

  A sharp, insane chill runs down her spine, and her body feels as if it’s about to release anew— even without food. Overpowering her pain or her hunger, terror again takes center stage.

  It’s here that she suddenly places the familiarity of her surroundings.

  "The...library," she gasps softly, failing to hold down her tremors.

  Sure enough, beyond all expectation, she sees an exact layout of her favorite reading room— lines of books atop dozens of shelves, punctuated by cozy booths, and a lovely carpeted flooring around the long tables laid within the center. Her breathing quickens— the adrenaline instantly curing her from any perception of pain. The fear is so great, that her injuries no longer matter to her. It's her library, in this god-damned place— and it shouldn't be here.

  "What's going on?... W-What's going on?!" She scarcely manages to continue pulling the breaths into her body, contracting swiftly in delirious shock. "Why the fuck is my library here?!"

  Suddenly, she hears a crash from behind her— like the sound of breaking glass. Wrenched from her episode of shock, Clare skirts about to investigate, back down the hall. Everything's eerily silent— like a coiling serpent preparing to strike at her soft neck. Then, she catches it.

  Emerging from the dark is the steady sound of an automaton's steps— as well as that tell-tale managraph symbol glowing dimly in the blackness. Clare's eyes widen with abject, pale horror. The managraph symbol now emerging isn't green or bluish, like every other automaton she's seen thus far— but red; a hellish, cindering, hateful red illuminates the path.

  "C-...Carrie?" the girl pleads.

  A slow, angry droning noise emits from the shadows, the figure stepping forward to reveal itself to her personnel light. It is a hulking monstrosity of an auto: as big as her bear of a dad— but leaner, more compacted, and glinting dully from in the cover of her beam.

  It stalks forward with a centered, certain volition: Clare. From the last split second she is able to keep her eyes on it, her gaze trails down to its hands— and she doesn't want to believe it, but there it is.

  The automaton has a firearm.

  Clare swings into the reading room, forgoing the immense pain it causes her, and slams the propped open door. Whatever it is, she knows it won't hold it back for long. She can hear it pacing up to the door now. She has to find somewhere to hide, fast.

  Scanning over the room and its connecting short hall to the other side of the huge divide of booths and books, she limps weakly all the way to the corner arrangement— as far away as she can get while still getting behind something. Just as she slips in, the door is opened—; it is not slammed, or torn— but just let open as if by a person. The creak of its crying hinges makes her sick to her stomach. It feels like she's not far at all from doing the job for the machine and throwing up all her internal organs— but she holds it in.

  She keeps to herself as it steps inside— its heavy body causing long, straining creaks across the floor. She holds her cool when it starts looking from booth to booth— taking its time to make sure it doesn't overlook any space that could hold a human. She even stops herself from screaming when it makes a loud, startling sound by slamming its foot into the center table— splitting the familiar piece of furniture in half and reducing it to a shambled wreck of its former shape. All the while though, she's getting ready for her next blink-fast move. Just like with the last auto, it’s come to this— a final, lightning fast movement to save herself. The matter here is that she doesn't have her knife. The doomed girl looks about in terrified silence for something to help her— and that’s when she hears it: the running.

  The running is getting nearer.

  Instantly, Clare's heart soars with relief. Tears start down her face. Finally—it must be a human! Someone that could explain everything to her.

  The red-graphed auto turns for the sound as well, readying itself for whoever could be running to the rescue.

  From her little nook, she hears someone burst into the room— some gunfire— and then a dense, crackling sound… like a boulder being crushed.

  It is followed by silence.

  She bates her breath, keeping herself from making a single peep.

  After nearly a minute, she hears it again— the footsteps. This time, they're steady— the uncanny steadiness of an auto. Clare begins trembling at the thought: a would-be rescuer, having been shot dead by the soulless automaton just feet away from her— and now, it’s making its way back to her.

  She readies her move once again— her final hurrah, yet again. It's only a couple booths away now; the next few steps would be her moment— but Clare’s too nervous to wait it out.

  At the next footfall, she blindly dashes out from her spot, heading straight for the door. Fate is not on her side. She can feel the cold touch of its fingers on her shoulder the very moment she reveals herself. Her weight is lifted off her, and she's been constrained. Clare releases a cry that could compete with an angel plummeting to hell— but she feels the force applied to her. There is no pain— no anything. She's just being held, as if she has been secured to a stretcher.

  "You will exacerbate your injury, Clare-user," Carrie observes, a huge hole in its stomach chassis.

  Clare slowly turns her head and looks upon the one holding her; it's her robot, after all.

  "Wh-..." she says nothing for a moment, and then leans into the grip, holding tightly onto Carrie in kind. "Thank you."

  There's a clicking sound from within it before it responds. "...You are welcome."

  "How did it... get in?" she wonders aloud.

  "It appears as though the enemy system climbed through the window of the room Clare was placed in earlier. It appears as though my countermeasures were ineffective."

  She grasps more firmly at its chassis. She was sure that was finally going to be it.

  Her adrenaline collapses in the relief, and she loses consciousness in its cold, securing arms— holding her as gently as her father.

  - Chapter 18 -

  That was all he needed.

  Satisfied with his ‘haul’ from the conversation overheard between Waine and a supposed Clare, Oswald departs. He leaves the library after Waine, submits his written transcript of the dialog to the station— and no more than an hour later, receives the strangest summons that he'll ever receive.

  Unwinding after a full day’s work, the silence in his small, lonesome barracks is suddenly disturbed by a distinguished pair of footsteps. By the sound of the steps alone, he can immediately tell that it is a civilian. Sure enough, the walk
soon stops, directly outside his door.

  In another moment, a presence enters. "Afternoon, Carrington," a rather unenthusiastic, but friendly Jessica Rou addresses, poking her head through the door. She’s never liked the Constabulary.

  Oswald Carrington, who has been lending himself to a few physical exercises, turns to the middle-aged messenger. "More from Pattie, I trust?" He gets up with barely a puff, though it’s clear from the sweat on his brow and his lack of shirt that he's been going at it for at least a few minutes.

  "Far from it, young man." She delicately unfolds from her bag a letter. "It's an exclusive summon," she explains, flipping the letter to him for the sake of displaying none other than the seal of the God-King's secretary. "I suppose I should congratulate you."

  Oswald stares at the seal on the document; the symbol of The Eternal Crown of Everhold is impressed into the blue wax. It takes him a moment to process what he's looking at.

  "Ahh. Th-... There must be some kind of mistake, though."

  With an understanding look, she flips it over to double check the addressing. "No mistake, young man. It's you." She hands him the letter pointedly. "I'm required by Everhold law to inform you that the letter must be read in complete privacy— and the violation of such could result in persecution by the kingdom."

  "...Thanks."

  "No problem. I've always wanted to say that, to be honest. Hope it's nothing bad."

  "So, you've never delivered one of these before?"

  She scoffs. "You kidding? This is the first royal summons in... I don't know how long! I heard the postmaster mention it once when I started this job."

  "And just how old are you now?"

  "Oh, Officer. You know it's not polite to ask a lady her age."