by Kell Inkston
Oswald clears his throat, staring out at nothing in particular. He has the shocked, wide look of a slaughter animal that has figured it out. This is a lot to dump on a person. "Are we... how... how high is it, exactly?"
Victor's hand around his shoulder firms its grip in a reassuring way. "In my rest, I am not what you would understand to be asleep— but rather an observant motionlessness. I do know of the current level..."
"My Lord?"
"Fifty meters— and gaining about five more per year."
Oswald's expression doesn't change. "So about ten years before we start taking water."
"Yes— and just like last year, I intend on unveiling the new building project soon; this one towering high above this section of the city. That will be the last Chosen of this iteration of Everhold. Then that Chosen, and you— and all the rest in this 'iteration' per se— will fall into the annals of history, forgotten by all but myself over time."
His expression still doesn't change. "So the cycle will begin anew. We'll build another Everhold on top of this one— and it will all happen again."
"Such is the price of human survival. We must battle tooth and nail for every inch. It's not hopeless, however. So long as we have hope— and maintain a decent, orderly society— we can overcome our problems. The water level, The Separatists, the crop rotations, construction materials for the new Everhold— everything can be solved so long as we keep everything here. I can provide much for humans— but humans need to prove they want it. Humanity's extermination would sadden me— but if one is not willing to fight for his life, then one cannot live." He turns to Oswald. "Do you understand?"
A spark arises in the young man's eyes, wide and blue like an ocean of clarity. "We must do whatever necessary to ensure the survival of humanity," he speaks.
"Yes."
"All social expectations, all morality— it's relative to the one goal."
"Yes."
Oswald turns now to Victor. He can barely see inside the helmet visor, but a warm, golden light flows from within. Perhaps Victor is a being of pure light, who dresses himself in demonic attire of his adversaries so that humanity can look upon him.
"What must I do?" Oswald asks.
Victor nods, his grip tightening once more. "I'm proud of you, my son. You will make a great addition to the annals of history and heroes. I have prepared your special orders in this matter." Victor waves his hand, and one of The Chosen gets up and brings forward another sealed envelope— this one addressed by the hand of the God-King himself. Oswald can just barely make out, under the draping hood, the features of none other than Lewis Elwood— known as the very first of the automaton engineers, and Victor’s accomplice in ensuring their initial designs were successful. "Take one strong companion to help you see it through; open the letter, and follow its directions into history. Your path will be difficult— but with faith in me, you can do all things."
Oswald stares at the new letter, and takes it with a sacred trepidation. "Thank you, my Lord. I will make it right by your eyes."
Victor brings Oswald in for an embrace, and he has never felt warmer in all his life, despite the cold surroundings of The Center Echelon.
"Now make haste, my child. Your time is short; if The Great Separatist is successful, we will be destroyed from the inside."
Victor releases Oswald, and the boy fires off an enthusiastic salute. "Yes, my Lord! By your guiding hand, I'll save Everhold!"
Oswald turns from the scene— from his righteous ruler— and faces back down the way to civilization. He spares one last glance at The Center Echelon gates, and sees Victor, returning to his great chair before again leaning forward in a tired rest. The other Chosen look away from him, and back at their master. He has been left with his task.
As he passes down the steps, the gatekeeper perks up.
"How was it, Chosen?” he greets eagerly. “What did Victor have to say?"
Oswald strokes the closed letter between his fingers, appreciating the soft parchment and waxy seal. "He was everything I dreamed he would be."
"So you have your great work assigned?" The guardian questions, waving his hand and causing the gate to close again.
The young man nods, briefly lifting his letter in answers before lowering it into a pocket, as if it were something too glorious, too important to directly reference to.
"It's who I am now," he observes. "I wonder what it says."
- Chapter 19 -
Clare rouses groggily, once again in an entirely new place. All this being moved about is starting to get incredibly worrisome to her. It is as if she’s a prisoner in a reoccurring nightmare— one that simply changes its setting to allow for new, horrible surprises each iteration.
By this time, she's quite dry; the temperature has improved notably, but it is much more tenebrous than she thought it would be. She glances around the shadowy room now— things so dark they are but silhouettes, twisting into a fearsome jungle of loose shapes and eldritch abstractions. Some of the shapes look much bigger than her— but she has just enough light to see that it’s only groupings of objects, conjoined within her vision to create such large and striking appearances.
She clears her throat. "Carrie?"
There's no answer. By this point, she's confident it's around somewhere close— just beyond sight, pulling guard outside most likely. Her mind trails lazily in its waking stupor for a moment, and then she jolts. She suddenly remembers: Carrie was shot. Her breath hits a quick, sharp stint, realizing that her unlikely protector may have already met its end. Her last view before closing her eyes back in the library were of its gaping chest, smashed open by whatever depraved firearm the other auto was wielding. Of course, automatons aren't supposed to be able to use weapons; they're not supposed to be smart enough to do it. Be that as it may— if Carrie can fix her leg, ferry her to safety, and keep watch— then surely it's possible for one to set a clip into a weapon and open fire.
Her musing ceases when she suddenly notices the sharp pang in her stomach. It's not like it was before; it’s become a draining, void feeling— akin to a hole forming within her core, so deliriously tight. Now she really needs food— and she has only one conceivable way of finding some. She thinks back to the engineer's journal entry once more— about the granary, specifically. She's certain she'll find something there, if anywhere.
Driven by her hunger, Clare struggles up to her feet— more fit than she anticipated— and moves to retrieve her clip light. It is again resting on the sidelines, waiting to guide her when she rises. She steps over to it with a limp, then hesitates, just taking a moment to examine it. It's starting to look dim— really dim.
It has been on almost constantly for the past fourteen hours. Although she is certain her mother would have ensured it was fully charged, Clare realizes that said charge would have taken place over a decade ago by now. Her light is approaching the end of its life, and needs to recharge. She clips it onto her coat collar, equips the only boot her injury will allow, and limps up to the door with her pack.
She halts as her fingers brush the knob, wondering briefly whether leaving is even a truly plausible idea. After all, it was Carrie who had to come to her rescue last time. It actually ran to save her— and what might happen next time if it’s gone?
Clare releases an indignant sigh. The thought paralyzes her: an automaton legitimately running— and not just over a flat surface, either. Carrie was dashing up flights of stairs in what must have been perfect darkness— and she didn't hear a single stumble or mistaken movement of any kind. The more she dwells on it, the less certain she is that she should open this door— considering how wrong she's already been about nearly everything else up to now. Clare has discovered that there is a wide, demented world of secrets waiting for her on the other side— and her only friend there is Carrie, her mother’s legacy.
Weighing her choices, she glances behind herself once more. The clip-light casts strange, shorn silhouettes, as if amidst the lowest point within a twil
ight— just moments before the crawling darkness takes hold and drags one into the innermost parts of the earth. Ultimately, it makes sense to her to continue. She's not interested in wondering indefinitely about the murk of the room, just waiting for the slow death of starvation. Despite how fine a defender Carrie has been, she can’t afford to wait on its unlikely return any longer. She must keep moving.
Pushing into the door, Clare finds it... stuck.
"The hell-..." she mutters to herself for an incomprehensible moment. "The hell is going on?"
A peculiar voice pierces the silence. "This system can't answer that, Clare-user," an almost human tone reports from the other side. To her ear, it sounds just a hair off from a man, only a few years over her own.
Clare freezes, her heartbeat returning to its fever pitch as her mind reels anew. She's getting more and more used to this feeling with every passing instant— but it never feels good.
"C- Carrie? Get out of my way— c-come on"
"This system can't do that," it answers.
She huffs— her initial fear beginning to shift into rage. "Excuse me? So you, who were supposed to save me, will end up killing me in the end?! I need food, you absolute imbecile! I'm a human, for crying out loud! And it's dark in here! What if... I dunno, something gets in!? What will you do then, you idiot? I'm literally your purpose!"
"… This system is sorry you are feeling so distressed, Clare-user— but it is simply not possible for this system to let you through."
"What are you talking about, Carrie?! You're holding the door shut!"
"Yes— because this system’s vertical and lateral momentumizers have failed. This system is now unable to stand up or move in any meaningful fashion in context to that goal."
Clare flinches awkwardly. "W- is it because of your wounds?" she questions.
"This system believes 'structural damage' would be the correct term," it offers.
"Whatever." She starts off in a pace through the room with renewed exasperation. She's going to have to find some way out— or she's toast, thanks to her now prodigiously unhelpful robot companion. She makes a quick scan for any compartments or other passages in the room— but comes up blank. The only way out is through that door. "Yeah— okay then," she retorts with an enthused tone.
"What are you planning, Clare-user?" the automaton enquires.
"I'm gonna— I’m gonna ram it," she expresses determinedly.
"Your lack of nutrition is inhibiting your logical faculties, Clare-user," Carrie objects helpfully. "It might be pertinent to remind you that this system weighs over one hundred and fifty-five kilograms, first."
"Well, that's three “fifty kilos” that's about to get the hell out of my way!” she answers dismissively as she begins to back up. “Here I come!"
Clare bolts for the door as best she can with all of the limp, racing momentum of a threatening, walrus-worthy pace.
There's an innocent bonking noise from her end.
"Status report, Clare-user," Carrie requests, just as Clare lets out a long, rowing groan.
"Is that intended to be a connotation of injury?" it questions, with a tone showing nearly human concern.
"Shut up!" she shouts back from the other side, rubbing her poor shoulder.
"Acknowledged."
She draws back from the door to reassess it. It's completely solid. If only the under country— this ancient Everhold— had made things more cheaply. She crosses her arms while leaning against the room's only table. She is certain; she can't continue to make noise, lest she attracts some more very unwelcome guests. That gun-toting auto must have seen her light when she was shining it outside. It's now very obvious to her that if she is going to get through this, her solutions will need to start with the most stealthy possibilities, and only resort to the more pronounced methods if those fail. It is time for her to become a quiet thinker.
Clare mulls over her options a moment— and at once, the solution pops into her mind.
"Hey, Carrie."
"Yes, Clare-user?"
"Do you have joint release?"
"Affirmative."
"And is that reliant on your momentumizers?"
"It is not."
“Excellent.” Clare grins in the dark.
- Chapter 20 -
Two years prior, in the comfortable warmth of the Royal Academy of Engineering classroom number three, the perpetually handsome Jack Elwood stands up front next to an automaton in a rather precarious situation.
"Welcome to class, everyone," he greets as his watch signals the start of the classtime block.
"We look forward to learning, instructor," every student in each row responds in unison— as per expectation.
He nods with a smile. "Alright… now, let's look over at this auto here,” he requests, swinging dramatically around to face the auto at his side. “… Oooh no," he raises his hand to his cheek in a put-on, incredibly-cute form of awkwardness. "But what's wrong with your arm, Mister Automaton?"
Clearly seated at the front inside the testing area, the auto in question is being suspended from an industrial clasp by its right arm. To say that the hold is secure would be an understatement; the class can see its arm has a pronounced bend in it from the ridiculous amount of tension that the vice has placed upon its framework.
"I wonder what's happening to it?" Professor Elwood asks, leaning casually back onto his desk in a way that makes his muscles strain against his shirt. Few would guess that all that time lifting about auto parts might work such wonders on the physique, but most of the girl students in the class have figured it out by now from the sight of him. He looks over to the class. "Any ideas?"
Clare's arm shoots to the sky with the speed of the resident pretentious asshole Jeremy— but with one thousand percent more enthusiasm. However, Jack's looking to include a few other students in the discussion this time.
"Layman." Elwood shoots a finger gun out at her coolly, and the girl perks up with her answer.
"It's caught!" Isri Layman offers helpfully.
There's a deafening silence in the room.
"Well, yes, Miss Layman— the automaton is caught by the vice," Jack explains with a kind smile.
"At least you're cute enough to be a housewife," Jeremy mutters under his breath, yet again not so unlike a complete dick-ass.
Everyone glances to Isri for a reaction— but she is once more either very good at acting like she doesn't hear things, or is partially deaf. "Okay— I mean, that's what you were looking for, right?" she asks, as if it were such an obvious question that it’s weird that people are acting so strangely about her answer.
"I suppose that's my fault," Jack says with a slight nod. "Let's assume the claw is broken down— with no chance of repair for the whole week. The Maintenance Corps is held up the whole week for a... party, and we have to get our auto back. Any ideas?"
Brucaine Aiwattz, the one competitor against Jack in the fantasies of the girls in class, raises his hand with good speed— but not too quickly, as it wouldn't be cool otherwise.
"Aiwattz."
"Judging by our reading this week, this is to teach us about joint modularity— right?"
Jack nods in affirmation. "Right on the mark, young man. The majority of automatons are modular. Who knows what that means?"
Isri puts up her hand again.
"Layman."
"They're... like, you can take them apart and put them with other parts."
"Well, yes— but I'm looking for a more textbook definition... ahh, Airineth," he relents with a sigh.
Clare clears her throat. "Constituting of the ability to utilize multiple, interchangeable parts with a focal connection point," she recites.
Again the class is silent— but this time, for a different reason. "That was the textbook definition— wasn't it?"
The Ace Student leans back into her chair. "If I recall correctly, that is— professor," she adds. She says it as if it’s nothing— but memorizing definitions is way cool and everyone kn
ows it.
Jack nods once more. "I like it, Airineth. That kind of attention to detail is exactly what the different engineering branches will be looking for on your action resumes." He turns back to the auto. "And just so we're all on the same page— not all autos are indeed modular. Special purpose autos, those that have good reason to stay in one piece and cannot function properly otherwise, don't all have replaceable parts. Replacing a porter's arm is easy; you just click out the plugs and put it on… replacing a gardener's though?"
"Way harder," Jeremy notes.
"Precisely." Jack turns to the active, but unmoving auto. "So, what would be an easy way to solve this problem?" He conveniently ignores both Clare's and Jeremy's hands, waiting for someone else.
Kimley Gaunter raises her hand.
"Gaunter."
"Is the auto equipped with audio-receivers?" she asks.
Jack smiles, knowing right away where she's going. "It is."
"And so, by that it would probably have the managraphics to understand hardware commands."
"Almost all socials do,” he answers. “Non-socials don't have enough room to listen to people for the most part, not unless it’s something ultra-simple like administrator arguments."
"So..." she clears her throat. "May I?"
Jack nods in acceptance. "You positively may. Its name is 'One One Three'."
Kimley turns to the auto with her big girl voice. "One One Three, eject right arm."
In a snap, the auto falls— its shoulder separating from its trapped arm as it cuts the mechanical and magi-hydraulic links.
"Very good!" Jack says. He motions his head over to a nearby table, each with a different kind of arm attachment. "So then, would anyone like to fix him up?"
A few start up from their chairs.
"With audio inputs only?"
At once everyone's back in their seat.
"No idea."
"That's stupid."
"Could you show us, first?" several of the students interject.
With a few glances into her heavily marked textbook, always open during class, Clare raises her hand.
