Condemnation

by Kell Inkston

  Oswald stares at the key. "I can't get too comfortable, Chief."

  "Please, it's Mister Helding now."

  "M-" Oswald chokes on his words for a moment. Never in all his years did he think he could address his old boss like this. "Mister Helding... thank you, but I still have my-" Oswald pulls up the envelope holding the special order.

  Chief Helding draws back with a keenly arched brow. "Well now. I guess that is something worth finishing up, then. Just let me know how I can help! Can I ask what it is?"

  Oswald looks back down the hall; there's a few people around the sides of the opening, doing their very best to look as if they aren't watching them. He knows they can't hear him, but it still makes him nervous. He turns a bit to the edge, as if to face the door to the chief's office. "It's... I haven't read it yet."

  Becker Helding's brow furrows with motivation. "Well what are ya' talkin' for? Let's take a look!"

  "Are you sure it's okay if you can see it?"

  Becker shrugs, and Oswald smirks. The two step into the chief's office, marked with an ever-present basil scent from all the lunches he's taken at his desk.

  The two open the letter with a sacred, excited anticipation. Just what great words could King Victor have for them? Oswald had a small clue— but this is not what he expected.

  The old and young man each scan over the letter at the same rate— their almost schoolboy-like fascination and excitement steadily-padded out into confusion... and then shock... and then horror. The two look up from the letter for the simple purpose of looking at one another; their expressions frozen with disbelief.

  "O-" Becker clears his throat. "Oh my god...."

  There's an awkward silence as Becker snaps up the order from King Victor and reads it over one last time. "This... Ever since I was a boy I-" Becker inhales sharply, the old, kindly dreams melting off his face like a brutal lesson that waited until the very autumn years of his life to reveal itself. Becker thought he had seen it all by this point. "Are you... are you sure King Vi-"

  "Yeah," Oswald cuts.

  There's a long wait before either of them speak. They just keep a moment at awe. Chief Helding was almost expecting something cheerful— a community-wide project that everyone would be thrilled to take part in— something that would help him, if only for a moment, forget his miserable responsibility of keeping the kingdom safe.

  But no— that's not what's written here. Instead are secrets. Grave secrets— the form and fancy of which neither man would believe unless by sight or told by King Victor himself: the incorruptible, the always right. Perhaps Chief Becker is the only person suitable to read this note other than Oswald himself; he’d never tell a soul, he’s sure.

  "I suppose..." Becker Helding clears his throat and wriggles his mustache. "I suppose you best find your ‘good man’ to go get this... young lady, then.... Your—your secret's safe with me. But I implore you— don’t tell anyone else, but whomever this man is, please."

  "I understand. The scandal would be..."

  The old chief places his hands on the boy's shoulders. His eyes are wide, terrified— and mournfully tired. "We are not equipped for the kind of reaction society at large would have. The secret police are not..." He takes a long breath before drawing back. "Anyway, you best be getting on. Pick him and go."

  "Yes, sir."

  "I don't know what you're going to find, but I pray to Victor that you'll return safe." He reaches to open the door for Oswald to let him out.

  Oswald is far less frightened than The Chief. "Victor's already decided it,” he offers. “This is history set in stone."

  The Chief stops short at the door and turns back to the boy. "Don't get complacent,” he warns in good faith. “We have no idea what you're going to find between this lass and yourself. It's not just wilderness, boy, it's… it’s forgotten society. You were a recruit once— didn't someone take you by The Separatist Houses?"

  Oswald's features sharpen with a bitter recollection. "Yeah." Who could forget all those empty homes, all those condemning letters— all those families the separatists abandoned simply for their selfish desire of a false freedom… the bloodstains. He's never understood why some people would rather take the freedom of death than accept service in their paradise of labor; an honest day's work is its own satisfaction, its own reward, and its own purpose.

  "Then remember. Strange things happen to unused space, Oswald. Demons creep in— little by little. The air changes, and you can smell it when they’re close."

  Oswald nods. He's a realist, a practical lad— but he's not above the idea. "I won't forget. I'll use every effort for caution."

  "Good boy... I... is your father still with us?"

  There's a short silence, with Oswald and Becker standing at the door.

  "Yeah, barely. He can't talk anymore, but he can see me. When I look in his eyes— I know his mind's still there. He smiles whenever he sees me."

  "Do his ears work?"

  "They do."

  Becker pats him on the back with a sudden chipperness. "Well, when he hears you're the new chosen— I imagine he'll jump for joy to see you one last time."

  Oswald scoffs. "I'll miss him."

  "Everyone will miss you, kid. You're about to go on and do... however it may look— something far beyond anything anyone's ever done in nearly a hundred years. You're vital— and you deserve to be rewarded. I understand this labor seems like a short one, so I doubt you'll get to spend much time before you're called up to The Circle with the rest— but just know that you're doing something he'd do for you a hundred fold." The Chief is referring to the fact that, once a Chosen One's "Great Quest" is done, they are customarily called up to The Inner Echelon to live with King Victor for eternity. Most Chosen's works last five years at least— but not his; he will probably have a week at most before he says goodbye to everyone— to his father… and to Pattie.

  Oswald nods solemnly. "Yeah, definitely." He looks aside. "Thank you, chief."

  "No problem, Chosen Chief."

  There's another pat on the back, a shared, man-to-man glance— and they step out.

  The moment they open the door, everyone peering down the hall and cupping their ears to listen folds aside humorously.

  "You idiots!" Chief Helding yells out at the men. "Hell you think you're doing, eavesdropping!"

  A young officer snaps to attention as the two walk by— causing the others, even relaxed, powerful Creighton, to lock up with respect.

  "It is the mark of a good intelligence operative, Chie-"

  "Hell no it's not! You scumbags sneaking around as if we had anything good to say-"

  "But you did have something good to say!" the fairly clueless officer rebuts. "Why else would you step out to talk about it?"

  Chief Helding pats Oswald along through the door before turning back to the officers. "You managraph-for-brains! Dumb as an industrial, I tell you! We were discussing the weather. That's just about all you nincompoops can understand if you're crude enough to-"

  The door closes behind him, and Oswald's out of the station— The Chief's muffled chastisement simultaneously fun for the older officers, and cross to the younger ones. Oswald smiles to himself, and nods. Chief Helding is good at his job; perhaps it’s for the best that his labor will only last a few days before he goes up to Victor.

  He has a decision to make now.

  With his secret orders tucked into his pocket, he starts off to the coffee shop to consider his partner in this challenge— as well as enjoy what could be his final cup.

  - Chapter 23 -

  Clare is nearly done. She remembers how easy Professor Elwood made it seem, repairing an automaton— and the damage of his was far worse than the number the gun-auto did on Carrie. She's never really spent much time with repairs, however. She never considered herself much of a mechanic, but more of an engineer— where the big money, and the big dreams, are at.

  "How is it looking?" Carrie asks, its head the only thing on top of the chassis to hel
p monitor the repairs.

  "Almost done," she notes, not quite as snippy after nearly an hour of sobering, easy but time-consuming work.

  She's fixed all the structural damage; in fact, the last thing to do is to re-pressurize the systems. She heaves the auto's chassis over to the pressure valve harness: little more than a compressed air pipe behind a torso-sized frame. Carrie's chassis is of the same size as general porter models, so it's no problem at all to strap it in and plug in the hose.

  "Ahh, this is good. I can see my internal pressure level is rising."

  Clare nods. "Well, that's what it's supposed t-"

  A dense, explosive *pow* punctures her hearing. This wasn't just a pop, but a noise on par with an explosion. It starts her back to the floor, tumbling over just a second before catching herself.

  "W- what the hell?!"

  "Disconnect me," Carrie instructs, a loud hissing noise overwhelming its voice. "One of the sutures wasn't enough."

  Wasting no time, Clare springs into action. Snapping Carrie off the supply and moving it over back to the work table.

  "Do you..." Clare can't even finish her sentence, there's no need to even ask. Of course something heard it. With ringing ears, Clare finds the failed suture and gives it another try at double speed.

  "What is it, Clare?"

  "Shut up."

  She knows she doesn't have time anymore. There's simply no way. She crosses a small beam of copper over the system, super heating it and then smearing it evenly across the opening. She realizes that it wasn't the tact of her work— but the speed that caused the failure. The metal hadn't set yet, so of course it would malform from pressure. With what she is certain is no more than a minute to spare, she spits and blows frantically on the molten spot— doing everything she can to cool it down faster.

  And just as she expected, she can hear something outside.

  It’s faint at first— but it’s not long before she can again hear that dreaded, steady sloshing from the courtyard. Something is moving through the shin-deep water— heading straight for the academy building.

  She blows frantically at the super-heated spot, but to no avail; it’s still that sleepy, molten red. She would spit more— but she's so dehydrated that nothing else is coming out. Imagine, being surrounded by life-saving water that she can't risk going out to collect and use.

  The noise outside is gaining volume as it nears the building, just as another sound comes in from the opposite direction.

  "N-no.. ohh, nonononooo-"

  "What is it, Clare?" the machine asks.

  "Shut up!" she snaps, taking a deep breath before pulling the knife out from the pack.

  "Objection: What are you going to do with... Clare, I would not reccomen- Oh. Oh my."

  Clare's cut herself along her hand, causing a sharp wince and a single tear of pure stress to slip from her eye as the blood runs out. This should be thick enough to do the trick. She gathers her blood up on the knife blade and spreads it along the suture— which erupts in a steadily rising hissing noise, and then culminates in a scarcely audible, moody sizzle. That did it.

  With only meters of distance between them and the increasing number of sounds outside, she moves Carrie over to the pressurizer. She hooks it up, and turns it to the lowest setting, just as the first and final heart-stopping bang resounds through the hall. The door flies open, revealing a green-managraphed auto blaring out with a violent, all-business gaze— its attentions directed right for Clare.

  "Your object beverage is ready, target user," it drones out with soulless inflection.

  "Ohgodohgodohgodohgod-" Clare mutters incomprehensibly as it begins to approach her, no more than ten meters away.

  "Put in my arm and run," Carrie directs plainly.

  "I don't have time!"

  Carrie does not waver, however.

  "Put in my arms, Clare!" it reiterates, demanding with a voice almost indecipherable from a human's.

  This time, she does as it says— leaping over and slamming the right arm into the shoulder socket. It has no finger joints. She didn't think to put those in— so it's now a wristless, elbowless knob of an appendage. No sooner does she complete this task, then the other auto sets upon her. She bolts aside as best she's able with her injury— scarcely missing the rock-crushing grip from the pursuing service auto.

  "Run!" Carrie shouts. It doesn't have to deliver this advice twice. She's off before it could even speak. She dashes weakly for the door— just as another one comes in through the opening, and then another. She's forced to turn around, make a sharp edge around the first auto, and go straight for the window. She snaps her clip light out from the charger, turns it on, and fumbles over the window lock with frantic, clumsy attempts. The trio of approaching autos are upon her again, and she can't quite get it. She makes the last-ditch decision to unlock the window the old-fashioned way. With a stab from the knife and a ram of the shoulder, she slams through the old, slimy glass— sending her falling out, past the other automatons presently climbing up to break in, and into the shallow water. She's riddled with cuts— but she knows there's no time to lick her wounds. She gets up from the water and runs.

  With the autos leaping out to follow her, she makes her way clumsily into the dark. This time, she doesn't use her light right away. To attract more would absolutely seal her fate. She'll risk running right into one if it means not drawing a whole new slew right away. As she disappears into the pitch black, she hears the faint sound of a hose seal disconnecting from inside the academy workshop.

  - Chapter 24 -

  Oswald pulls up his usual chair in Jacques' cafe. A social auto steps over with a cup immediately— its lithe, gentle step inhuman it its careful balance.

  "On the house," Jacques calls from behind the counter, his usual, charismatic grin shining bright through the dreary atmosphere of the shop.

  The officer waves back with a smile and takes a sip. Being a policeman has been a good job for him— and he's definitely not against all the benefits.

  "Now then," he says to himself, placing the cup back on its saucer. "Business." He leans into the table, wrings his cold hands, and strikes up his notebook. He starts producing a list of names— of the different officers, good friends from outside the force, and a few random names of people he knows are both physically fit and cool-headed.

  He's going to need someone that's good with new situations, because this will likely be the newest situation they'll have to deal with in their whole life. It will have to be someone with a strong desire for service, and a general want to see justice done in a bleak situation.

  Oswald starts crossing off names. Some of them could hardly handle a Separatist, let alone an unknown demon from below. Others are fit and fearless— but have a poor personality for working under stress. They'd get as violent towards him as the demons, if they were pushed hard enough.

  He rounds his pencil about in his finger as the customer bell on the door rings. Oswald glances over, and quickly excites with a raised brow.

  Who should step through the doors, but the academy boy: Waine Brightmoor. He looks nervous, or concerned— probably both, to be honest. He hasn't noticed Oswald sitting back in his little corner— rather he goes up to order some coffee, takes it with thanks from a confused-looking Jacques, and proceeds to go to the very end corner of the cafe where he sits and trembles pathetically.

  Oswald sighs, glancing between his notebook and the terrified student boy. He can empathize with him for losing someone he loves— but when it comes to understanding that pain, the two of them are ages apart. He's probably no more than a little older than the student boy— but he hasn't felt the bite of the real world yet; he doesn't know what's waiting for him. That comely, wavy-haired lad has lived in a dream his entire life— one so comfortable that he can retreat to little coffee shops and grieve senselessly about small issues.

  The officer crosses his arms, his gaze intensifying on the other boy. Anything resembling sympathy in his features steadily shuts
out to a stoic, analytical ice.

  ‘Just who does this pussy consider himself to be? As if he even has the right to have problems…’ are among the less flattering thoughts to go through his mind.

  Oswald bites his tongue in a bitter contemplation, watching Waine finally work up the courage to pull up his chat stone.

  He starts muttering something into the stone, and Oswald's curious enough to cup his ear to it. "Clare... please...." Waine repeats over and over.

  The officer raises a brow, almost pretentious in its contempt. The academy boy is so clueless, so emotional, so delightfully naive as to the greater situation— but regardless of its irritant to him, it does make him wonder. Perhaps, if this Waine cares so much about little Clare Airineth— could it be that Miss Airineth feels the same about him? Immediately, he gets the impulse to start up from his chair and haul Waine off to the back room of the café. He could get all the information out of him that he needs— take the chat stone, and get in direct contact with her.

  ...But for all his dedication, Oswald isn't brash.

  He's learned over the years as a Secret Policeman that it's poise and preparation that solves the hard case. Sure, Oswald could dominate him, bruise him, crush him for even feeling the right to love someone— but on the other hand, he represents something for Clare that he couldn't get with anyone else: Trust.

  Oswald starts up from his chair with his cup of coffee, not with an intense, critical gaze— but the relaxed, every-day look of a pleasant, lazy constable. He steps up to Waine's table, and the boy jolts the second he sees him.

  "W-hello, offic-"

  Officer Carrington nods to the other chair. "May I? It's a little warmer back here."

  "Oh... of course, officer."

  Oswald sits down, takes another sip, and looks over the man. "I guess you know why I'm here," he says.

  "Please, I don't know anything el-"

  "I know what happened to Clare," Oswald says simply.