Chapter XIV—Is Anyone There?
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A heavy-breathing, sweaty, disgruntled human stepped through what must have felt like the thousandth emancipation grill of the day. Her back ached, her mouth was dry and her eyes watered in the bright lights of the chamber, all flashing on at once with little warning. Their respective, echoing crashes slammed through the room into her ears and she cringed.
Everything hurt.
The device, strapped heavily to her sore back did not help the hot pain seeping through her, nor the physical exhaustion. It did help, however, with test solving; shrugging off the discomfort, Chell shuffled forwards with the usual metallic ring of the long-fall-boots. Sweat dripped into her eyes, but she was well past the point of even noticing.
A fluorescently lit panel on the wall next to her displayed two large, yellow numbers: a zero, and then a nine. Testing sphere number nine, she mused silently, as the ancient lights hummed above her head. Only one more test to go and then I'm out of here.
But it was not a relief, not really. Her eyes were already strained, her feet hurt. Worry was growing strong in her heart, a gathering darkness of barely-concealed panic, fear that her escape-partner had gotten himself into trouble. It wouldn't be unprecedented, not since his programming had led him into much worse situations before…
Precious time had been wasted since she had last seen him, back in the stairwell. Even now, he could be in danger, or worse, lost. When she had set out, all concern had been for her own safety, it was true. She hadn't worried much for his sake, and the feeble plan he had suggested was only for her benefit—a core could not raise the fire alarm, false or no.
She swallowed hard and wiped her forehead—it was hot down here, much warmer than the rest of the Enrichment Center had been. She was standing at the entrance to a labyrinth-style test chamber, a complicated mass of interconnected rooms and chambers, all home to buttons and dials, switches, levels, and not to mention deadly acid pits.
A pedestal button stood innocently a few paces in front of her. It was grimy, coated with ages of dirt and grease from filthy fingertips, no doubt. She made to reach out for it, but at that moment an unseen motion sensor somewhere was tripped, and a loud, male voice sounded from the speakers high up on the walls:
"Cave Johnson, here," he introduced himself and Chell's free hand flew up to cover her ear against the volume. "Welcome to the final test. That's right, test subject, well done. Thank you for helping us forward Science with your, er… Well, here at Aperture Science, we always appreciate our test subjects, whether they're famous war heroes or… hoboes. Hah. No, couldn't keep a straight face. When you're finished, just drop the device in the Equipment Recovery Annex, and just follow the silver line on the floor. We're going to need to go ahead and perform one last medial experiment on you to see if you've gotten any new tumors from testing with the Gel. Because if you have, we're going to have to go and get those out of you pretty quick. …Of course, we'll need to check if you followed all of the safety precautions as well. Damn OSHA inspectors. They'll just need to see that you've still got your vitreous humor before you leave."
Chell grimaced, trying to steady her breath to ease the pain blossoming within her head from his loudness. Tumors? Oh, probably, she thought in annoyance. She probably had dozens of them, what with all of the unethical experiments she had endured during her time at Aperture. Why did she keep getting headaches again? She found herself not really wanting to know.
The sooner she got out of here, the better.
Ignoring the button for now, she hoisted the heavy machinery further onto her back with a bump. The antennae on top swung a little with the motion, vibrating as they whipped back and apparatus was large and towered over her, nearly as tall as she was on its own. The ancient harness she had managed to clasp around her torso was stained and broken; she had to pause to readjust it on numerous occasions, wasting even more precious time.
It was nearly twice as difficult as carrying Wheatley had been (admittedly, the worst of that had been a result of her having been inactive in cryosleep for so long beforehand), and if she had to make a decision of which she would have preferred to take along, she would have chosen the core.
Well… Maybe not in here, because right now, she needed portals to complete this final test.
Chell's right trigger finger twitched, shooting a pale, grey-colored portal on an adjacent platform. She shot another behind her and walked through, only giving a moment's acknowledgement to the oval holes—for she missed her real portal device, the lightweight, compact edition, which had color-coded portals and handy lights. This one shot bland portals, very similar in color to the surrounding walls, making it difficult to see them, not to mention difficult to remember which one was where.
Standing on the platform, she could now see the entire chamber. Behind a wide emancipation grill, a central, hollowed-out area was home to a very large expanse of bubbling, foul acid, which was sending reeking, curling smoke into the air. On the other side of this was the exit, seemingly a long way off and shrouded in that same sparkling blue.
Wrinkling her nose against the corrosive, metallic stink of the acid, she searched for any ledge or portable surface that would allow her access to the exit. There were none, she noted with disappointment, returning back to the beginning of the test.
Another one of Cave Johnson's messages sounded as she approached the button for the second time. She was in a hurry, and no nearer to solving the test than she had been upon entering it, but she stopped to listen in spite of herself.
"Anyways," Cave said with a cough, "you're probably wondering if we've cooked up any new surprises for this next test, and normally my answer for you would be: 'OF COURSE WE HAVE, TEST SUBJECT! What is Science without a few dangerous surprises? Well, I'll tell you what it is, it's boring! Safe! Unchallenging! I've said it once, and I'll say it a million times, and record it so that it's heard every day: WHY DON'T YOU MARRY SAFE SCIENCE IF YOU LOVE IT SO MUCH! I've got my engineers conducting a-million-and-one unsafe, untested experiments here, just like you, test subject, and they're not complaining! If they do, they are FIRED, and they know it!'
"Ahem. But not you, test subject, not today. There's no surprises. We're saving those for the newer testing tracks being built over in Enrichment Shaft 09—you might've already heard, but we're going to phase out Conduction Gel."
Well—no surprises was always a good thing. She doubted that his surprises could be any worse than hers, but she didn't want to test that theory, not here, not now. Her breath quickened as she looked about, searching for the answer—there had to be one, there was always one, somewhere—
"Yeah," came Cave's gruff voice again, much calmer than before. "Recent discoveries have showed that lunar sediment could be a great portal conductor. So I have the engineers figuring that out now—going to grind up some moon rocks, mix 'em into a Gel…"
"But Sir," said a gentle, female voice, "We haven't got enough money to buy them."
"Money? That's never stopped us before, Caroline!" he answered her loudly. "Great Science can't be thrown aside because 'money'! Our Science follows no rules! None! It's our job to break them! Where would we be if we followed 'em? Nowhere, I tell you! Nowhere! We make up our own rules. No, if the Quantum Tunneling Device can shoot interspacial portals through solid matter, I'm ordering seventy-million dollars' worth of moon rocks tomorrow morning! The bank can eat my pale, lunar—"
"Sir, but what about the Conduction Gel?"
"The Conduction Gel? The engineers said it'll be useful. We're going to build a giant supercomputer with it, capable of running this place from top to bottom. The testing spheres, the offices, everything. We'll build most of it right above here, new test chambers, new complexes—all connected on the same mainframe, hooked up to the Enrichment Shaft, down here."
"But, Mister Johnson, the employees—"
"We'll use 'em for testing, like we've been doing. Won't need any more of those lazy office-workers, not with the computer around. No need for engineers with the nanoparticles online. Capable of replicating themselves a thousand times over in a second! Hah. They can build this place, and the Enrichment Center can run itself from top to bottom… It'll be like, this whole place is a giant brain, it'll be my brain. My brain, my rules! And you guys'll have to follow em. HAH, eat that, Black Mesa! That'll show the bank how much this company's worth! I'll run this place until I die. Caroline, are the lunar sediment application forms ready yet?"
He stopped speaking, and Chell stared with a half-open mouth up at the speaker. Was he talking about—wait, what was he talking about? It had to be her, her early days that he was discussing. Very, very early days, maybe. There were so many omnipotent AIs this place could hold, right?
Unless… unless he was talking about the—how had Wheatley put it?—'the backup systems'. But then, they would not have been backup systems at all, but part of her, her prototype—
Which meant that activating it could be every ounce as dangerous as entering her chamber was.
Chell jumped about a foot as Cave Johnson cleared his throat. "Well, let's wrap up this last test, then," he was saying. "And test subject, try not to use too much of the Conduction Gel down there, all right? We're gonna need all the nanoparticles we can get. Cave Johnson, we're done here."
And the speaker filled with static, marking the end of the pre-recorded messages.
She breathed deeply, her eyes scanning the wide test chamber, but not really seeing it. At least Cave's messages proved one thing: Wheatley had been partially right, and their mission had not been in vain—yet.
But it would be, if she lost the core now. Her grip tightening on the end of the portal device, Chell marched forwards with a determined, hard step, her clear, wild eyes filled with focus—the faster she got out of here, the more chance of success their plan would have.
Providing that Wheatley hadn't already found himself in more trouble than she had.
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Perhaps if the lady had been with him, and if he had never met his rail-carrier, he might've voiced just how astounded he was that the management rail down here was in such admirable condition. It was true, most of the side-rails, the unimportant branches that criss-crossed and weaved between walls had fallen, creating a mass of crumbling, hanging poles and rods. These rails, the lesser ones that fed pump stations and power switches had rusted away completely, but his main one, the one which his rail-carrier led him down, was in perfect working order.
Lower and lower she guided him on these rails, on a path he very much could have found himself, he felt like saying; he could do it alone, but alone was a lot more lonely. Though, sometimes, here and there, he thought he caught very vague glimpses of movement along the walls, shadows; flashes of light and dark, always bland colors, never bright orange. He never heard anything, though, which made him think he was seeing things. The only sounds that could be heard down here were the very-eerie creaking groans of metal joints bending with the earth, supporting the miles of facility above. Carrie whirred along through this in silence, and in an attempt to ignore the unwanted, haunted sounds of the Shaft, Wheatley spoke ceaselessly. In fact, he spoke so much, and she remained quiet for so long, listening, that after a while, he began to doubt that she wanted to talk to him anymore.
"And so, once we had gotten all the way to her chamber, after sabotaging her turrets and taking the neurotoxin offline—proper excited we were, too, couldn't believe it! We were about to take her down, finally!—some announcer-bloke informed us that she was becoming corrupt and needed a 'core transfer'. So, of course, I had no bloody idea of what that was supposed to mean, although, it sounded good. It sounds good, doesn't it? Very impressive, if I'm honest, … 'core transfer'.
"Well, it's not, actually, it's not fun at all, very painful, and I'm not sure I want to go on with the story, even. Not something I really want to remember. Painful, looking back, for a lot of reasons, even though it was bloody tremendous at first."
But Carrie did not respond, and he darted his optic up to try to catch a glimpse of her in vain. Not even bloody listening, I'll bet, he thought in annoyance and synthesized the sound of a deep breath. Then, determined to rouse a reaction out of her, he fretfully continued his story.
"Right. 'Core transfer'," he started again as Carrie slid distractedly along the rail, "as I was saying, pretty painful procedure, sure. Do not want to go through that again, if I'm honest. So-so what happened next, was there was a stalemate, you see, because she didn't want to go through with it, but I did. Lucky for me I had my human on my side, and, being a human and all, she was equipped with a finger, with which she pressed the button. Brilliant, fingers, aren't they? So she pressed it, and by doing so, you're not going to believe this, mate, not going to believe it, it's crazy—she put me in charge of the whole facility! See, I told you, I told you, you wouldn't believe it! It's mad, honestly!"
He felt the vibration of gears as Carrie slowed on the management rail, causing his sphere to sway as the apparatus halted. Jubilant, he tried again to turn toward her, beaming despite the unwanted memories (they didn't seem so shady anymore, not when he wasn't alone), and said, "I knew you wouldn't! Although, well, it happened, I assure you. Not making this up. Tiny little ol' me! In charge of everything! Mind you, I wasn't so tiny, not when—"
"Sssssssssshhhh!" she hummed unexpectedly, and Wheatley fell silent in surprise.
"What's going on?" he asked her quietly.
She did not answer, but Wheatley had the strangest feeling that she was listening for something, listening intently. But as to what, he was completely at sea.
"D'you mind—"
"Quiet!"
Her sharp tone sent his plates into tremors of fear. He could sense something was wrong, too, now that he'd stopped—a feeling of foreboding was creeping into him, an unexplainable signal that something bad was about to happen. It was like water droplets running through his circuitry, slithering and crawling until he was trembling with its unpleasantness.
And unwillingly, the worry that had plagued him since the stairwell, since he had left his friend there, sprang suddenly to the forefront of his mind—was the lady okay?
But before he could ask Carrie exactly what she was listening for, she spoke again in low, serious tones. "I am picking up a signal through this management rail, but as to where it is coming from, or what it is, I have no idea."
Signal? Through the management rail? It was the last thing he had expected. "But only a computer could…" he said quietly in wonder.
"I know," replied Carrie seriously. "Come on, personality construct. We will visit the last of the four Interface Stations, and then we will need to find your human. There is something-something wrong here, but I am not sure what. Let's hope we find the problem before the problem finds us."
"What d'you mean, 'the problem finds us'. Surely—?"
But before he could ask anything else, she shushed him again. "It is best you don't talk while we journey through the open spaces, personality construct. Even I don't know what is listening anymore."
He fell silent, but the creeping, fearful feeling within his core did not fade. He wondered, more desperately than ever before—where was the lady? And was she all right?
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A dirt-stained, blackened fist slammed down hard onto a red button. A loud bleep sounded from the apparatus, and then—
Ticktickticktickticktick.
It was a timer.
Crystal-blue eyes followed a set of neat, yellow dots which flashed back to aqua a moment later—up and up, to the emancipation grill emitters.
She hit the button again, and the grill disappeared. Dry, cracked lips split into a hesitant smile of triumph. The solution was near at hand.
Immediately, she portalled up to a high ledge overlooking the chamber. A button was here, too, connected with a Gel pipe wider than her own body, stained with clumps of that sickly, ominously luminous red substance she was getting to know oh-so well.
Conduction Gel.
And she hated it the most, oh, did she ever—it was slippery, sort of like Propulsion Gel, but she could not run faster on it. It smelled bad, like the rest, but what made it so curious were its properties. So far, she had discovered that if placed in a parallel strip, it was capable of moving a metal storage cube from one end of it to the other by itself. It also allowed the cubes to defy gravity, similar to what an excursion funnel might have done (dimly she thought that the idea for the funnel had probably come from this Gel itself). It stuck cubes to buttons even on the ceiling like a magnet, and formed a hard layer, almost like metal anywhere she shot it—including across deadly acid pits.
This was why she smiled as she pressed the last button. As she had guessed, it shot out of the dispenser above her head, and she redirected it through a slanted panel—the stream vaulted high, high across the chamber, and splattered noisily along the surface of the acid pit. It stuck there, like a weird, glowing, Aperture Science version of a dance floor, and she wrinkled her nose in disgust.
Well, at least she wouldn't have to smell any more of that nasty acid, not yet, anyways.
The timer ran out and the emancipation flashed once more across the middle of the chamber. It didn't matter anymore, it was done, but at the same time, the portal through which the Gel was still splashing vanished—leaving Chell a space of about two seconds in which she realized that the stream of Gel was now headed right for her!
Srrrrrreeeeeaaakkkk! Her boots ground against the concrete floor with a painful noise as she dove bodily out of the way. The final bits of Gel flashed past her and hit a wall with a splash, narrowly missing the back of her head. She let out a mute, startled groan as she let herself fall into a sitting position, shaking, wiping her dirty hands on her jumpsuit pants. Long streaks appeared there, dirty, but also striped with blood.
She had cut her hands on the concrete, when she flung them out to break her fall.
Great, she mused unhappily, noting the buzzing, tingling stinging that spiked as she realized she'd been cut. Out of sight, out of mind was the way she liked minor cuts, for the pain always tripled whenever she noticed she'd been hurt…
She sat until she caught her breath, rubbing the spots where the machine was digging into her back. There were spots of blood on the ground where her palms had been torn.
Probably going to get a disease from cross-contamination, she groaned to herself, but stood shakily—at least she felt more awake now, with the adrenaline pumping through her and each still-frantic beat of her heart. Before the incident had happened, she had felt dead on her feet.
With a grimace of pain, Chell began to cross the Gel-bridge. It was no hard light bridge, that was for sure, but it felt stable under her feet all the same. Eyes upon the exit, she tried to regulate her breathing, it was so close, so close…
She shivered as she passed through the last pair of doors and stepped into the elevator. Shaking, she slumped against the side of the lift, aware that this was the first elevator where no pre-recorded message played. Instead, the lift jangled downwards, and for a moment she could see nothing outside of the lift but blackness—then a sliver of light bathed her boots in yellow and rose, until it hit her straight in the face. She blinked, hoisted the machine further onto her back in preparation, and waited for the metal grills to rattle open.
But they did not do so. She waited patiently.
A sign to her left, just outside of the lift, caught her eye. It read:
'Please wait for an attendant to activate the elevator catwalk control'.
She slammed her fist hard against the still-closed lift gates. They rang loudly with the impact, echoing out into the Shaft beyond.
They remained firmly shut. Chell slumped back against the wall with wide eyes. She was trapped.
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The rail was visible as only a solitary black line cutting through a mass of fog. As they had descended ever closer to the bottom, it only grew, pressing in until it felt as though it clouded his very mind. It was so dense, so dark down here that Wheatley toyed with the idea of turning on his flashlight, but almost as though Carrie could read his thoughts, she warned him not to do so.
"We should stay invisible," she had said, and heard nothing of his protests.
The fog was almost chilly, in comparison with how the rest of the Shaft had been. Wheatley shivered involuntarily, though he had no need for warmth. It was different, somehow, than just being cold. The mist chilled him from the inside out.
Carrie's previous warning still laid heavily on his mind. "It is best you don't talk while we journey through open spaces, personality construct. Even I don't know what is listening anymore." What did that even mean, he wanted to could be listening to him, aside from the very person he was trying to find in this gloom?
His optic darted up to the last, hanging metal sphere, its surface distant. Even through the fog he could make out an uneven pattern of faded triangles tinged green and rust-colored, oxidized over years and years of pressing pale mist. Was the lady in there? He had thought, once or twice, that he might have caught a glimpse of her. Occasionally it was the motion of a lift, perhaps the sound of a distant voice, echoing through the empty spaces. But it was the wrong kind of voice, surely not hers, if ever did she have one; it was deeper, probably just some strange, warped reverberation from something stirring within the depths of the facility.
And in the depths he almost was. Almost at the very bottom of the Shaft, where he had agreed with the lady to meet. Still, there was no sign of her anywhere down here, not while he peered around, his optic darting nervously from wall to wall. He only saw the outlines of huge structures towering above, more of those control rooms and stations, not even with a flash of bright orange.
Directly below, it was a ten-or-so foot drop to the bottom, the very base of the Shaft. A green, thick, steaming layer of toxic goo glistened eerily there as he watched it, sliding beneath him as Carrie towed him along.
"Proper nasty sludge, this is," he said, thankful that he was still high enough to not graze its acidic surface. Even from this height, he trembled, drawing his handles in as if afraid the curling, circling wisps of smoke could burn him. It didn't matter how far away the acid was, because to him, no ground was almost better than a sick, burning sea.
His circuitry swam, tired of the constant, gruelling motion of the rail motor, and the nerves eating away at him like the toxic goo below, corroding ancient stone and hunks of fallen debris. He groaned, "how much further," a little more impatiently than he would have normally done. Time was running out. Countless hours had been spent on finding and fixing all Interface Stations, and only now were they finally ready for the next stage of the operation…
…If only he could find the lady.
"Not far now," Carrie replied in a whisper. The lower they had gotten in the Shaft, the quieter she had become. Maybe she was feeling a little of what Wheatley was feeling—that the air itself was somehow different than that of above. Perhaps it was just the mist clouding his vision, but it somehow felt denser than that.
It was rough, lonely going for the pair of them. Wheatley kept his optic peeled for the lady, and Carrie kept her 'ears' open for any other strange signal coming through the management rail. There was nothing.
And where was the lady?
Suddenly, Carrie spoke, while Wheatley watched the process of a swaying black wire a distance away, lighting the walls in patches where sparks spewed from its end. "Where are you to meet up with your human?" she asked.
"Oh," he said dazedly, distracted. "S'not too far, I don't think. We said near the bottom, and there it is." He gestured towards the acid pool. "Although, I don't think she'd go in there, that's acid, that is. So, uhh, are there any more of those control stations nearby? Any at all? I'll bet she's proper tired, probably having a little rest, actually, wherever she is."
"Yes, there are," answered Carrie. "In fact, there is one just up ahead."
Sure enough, through the fog, a giant shape loomed, jutting out from the rock. It was a massive station, some seven or more floors high. Its sides were filled with row upon row of shattered window and its walls were a sprawling mass of cracked, worn cement.
And yet there were lightsshining from some of the windows. Pale, ghostly lights, little circles that did nothing to cut through the gloom. Wheatley shivered.
Wait—lights?
"OH!" he gasped suddenly in realization. "Oh, oh! There are lights on, in there! I'll bet my human turned them on! Yes, of course, I'll bet that's where she is!" He wiggled in excitement on the rail. "See, I knew we'd make it!" he cheered.
"Yes," said Carrie quietly, lost deep in thought, "someone has been inside. There is no electricity this far down unless activated manually. The power grid was disconnected many years ago—someone would have had to override the system to turn on the lights."
"Right," said Wheatley, not listening. "Let's go in!" he smiled at the thin air in front of him.
She guided him along the rail, over the acid pit, finally finding a small opening in a side wall, just big enough for the rail carrier and her cargo to pass through. For a moment, everything went dark, but they popped out the other side into a completely unfamiliar room.
"Oooh," Wheatley chirped, interested. "Wow, what is this place?" He blinked, looking around the room, his optic tiny in the sudden lights. A series of chairs were below, all facing a stage and podium that had been erected beside a wall papered with many peeling posters. A single, dusty microphone sat on top of the podium.
"It is part of the test subject debriefing protocol," Carrie said seriously. "This is where the test subjects who had completed the application process waited to be called into testing. Also, this is where they held informative meetings."
"Oh, I see," he muttered, his eye drifting over the fading walls and cracked, grimy windows. It finally rested upon an open doorway, just a little ways into the room.
He could see a desk in there, covered with paperwork, no doubt, and amongst it, many other items of no importance—but there was one other thing. A very solid-looking lever was mounted on the wall, beside the desk.
Wheatley was interested. He spun his optic, staring at the lever, and made to move forwards on the management rail.
But he had forgotten that Carrie retained all control over his motion. He sent the command through the rail, but the motor did not oblige. She held it steady.
"Hey," he called, trying to tilt himself upwards to glare at her. "Lemme move forwards, mate. I want to have a look."
"I would prefer if you first gave me one moment to survey the perimeter," she told him coolly. "I am picking up some… strange interference again."
Perhaps, if Wheatley had stopped to consider what she had said, he would have dropped the subject, but he did not care. He wanted to see what that lever did! And in any case, there was no sign of the lady, not yet. He rolled his optic in annoyance. "Oh, common. Haven't I already told you? It's probably just my human you're picking up, hiding somewhere, about to give us a clever surprise when we're least expecting it. I wouldn't be surprised. Well, I would, but… well, you get it. Say, would you move forward? I don't know if you've seen, but there's a button there I think we should try pressing."
He nodded for emphasis, now fully convinced that it would probably help him find the lady—or alert her to their location, at any rate.
"I would prefer…" Carrie started, but Wheatley cut her off.
"Yeah, heard you the first time, mate," he growled. "…Button? How 'bout it, then?"
She paused, humming in annoyance. "That is not a button."
"What d'you—of course it's a bloody button!"
"That is a lever," she replied angrily. "And I would much prefer if you would lower your voice —"
"OH," cried Wheatley in frustration. "Really. Well, lever-shmever, it's the same thing, really. What's the difference? Nothing, I tell you, if you'd just lemme press it—pull it, pull it, sorry—and then we can find out what it does, and everyone'll be happy!"
There was silence for a moment, and then—
"Okay," Carrie whispered. "Just as long as you lower your voice. I don't like these signals I am receiving. I have never heard them before, and I do not think they are coming from your human."
She guided him forwards on the rail, oblivious to his smug, self-satisfied expression. That's right, he thought, finally let me do a bit of the work. Haha. He'd had enough with her, really, and was quite tired of waiting and watching while she went on and on about how she knew practically everything down here.
Perhaps, it was her area of expertise, but it annoyed him all the same!
She planted him in front of the button—lever—and he raised his lowest handle, prepared to activate it—
"Could you just—I dunno, lower me a little? I'm too high."
She obliged, and the bottom of Wheatley's handle caught the lever, successfully activating it. He blinked as a pair of doors back at the entranceway shot open, blocking off most of the opening they had slipped out of just mere minutes ago.
Then, suddenly, before Wheatley could move or say anything, a wailing, screeching siren rang loud, almost ear-splittingly so. Lights flashed brilliantly, blinding orange, blinking just outside of the control room. Another pair of metal doors banged noisily open, adding to the din, just as a set of gears beside them whirred into action, sliding an extra bit of catwalk forward out over the pit.
Sparks shot everywhere as metal ground on metal, and Wheatley blinked in astonishment. Finally, the catwalk outside screeched to a halt, and the alarm ceased. The final sound was a pair of distant grills shuddering open at the end of a distant elevator shaft.
The silence that fell was ringing, so very loud, as far as quiet went.
"Oh," Carrie groaned as the noise faded. "You have reconnected the testing track with the test subject waiting room. Congratulations." She didn't sound happy, but Wheatley nodded at the word in satisfaction, "and by doing so, have probably alerted any unauthorized constructs that may be down here to our location," she finished.
"Oh, what? Unauthorized…?"
"Yes," she growled. "Which was what I was trying to tell you, if only you had listened to me—"
"I—"
But then, something cut through the blaring silence besides his own panicked voice. It was a curious clatter, so quiet that at first he was not sure if he had actually heard it, but its familiarity made him freeze on his rail—he knew that sound, from before—and it repeated once more before fading out.
"What was that?" asked Carrie. "Did you hear that sound?"
He synthesized a swallow, his optic darting back to the exit before ducking inside of his casing in fear. That sound, he was willing to bet his own survival that he knew exactly what it had come from, and they were trapped. The way out had been blocked by the door, and if his suspicions were correct…
"Bugger," he whispered, trying to ignore how even more of those noises were coming from down the hall, growing louder and louder each second. Springs, or pistons, definitely something metallic and alive. "Oh, nooo…" he groaned. "No, no, no, not here, not here…"
"It is as I thought," said Carrie, and Wheatley felt her connection to the rail change, as though she was strengthening her grip on it. "It is not your human. Very well—hold on tight, personality construct!"
And then, before Wheatley could reply, she zoomed back out of the office space and down the rail, fleeing from the quickly-approaching sounds of metal, scrabbling feet. He tried not to shout out, terrified of alerting the robots, or letting them know that he had heard them, and were on the move. They needed to hide, get out of here, but surely the only exit was that which they had just come from—!
Ahead, there was a sharp bend in the rail, a joint where one path led to the upper levels, hanging low over a stair, and one led to the lower basement. Carrie whizzed along, choosing the higher rail without a second glance. She murmured a few words to Wheatley, telling him to remain silent, and did not stop until she found a small nook for them to hide in with the two robots out of earshot.
"That," Wheatley panted, his 'breathing' erratic, though it had no need to be. "Was close. Well-well done, mate."
"We have not lost them," Carrie told him, sounding little better. "Only confused them, if we are lucky. What are these constructs doing here? What is their purpose, do you know?"
"Yes," Wheatley breathed, fighting to keep his voice steady through his panic. They'd found him, down here, where he'd thought he was safe out of her reach! And they had probably gotten to the lady, too, which was why she was not here… he wanted to scream, his voice was going to break, but he focused through it, settling for trying to inform Carrie about what exactly was going on. "They're—t-things," was, pathetically, all he could manage. "S-somethings, built t-to find us, to kill us, I think. I-I just hope that they h-haven't found her, the l-lady, otherwise—I'm done for."
He was shaking, positively trembling, his optic flickering in fright. "Can you find us another way out?" he choked desperately.
"I…" she started, her voice sounding different than her usual monotone, maybe a little afraid. "It might be possible, but it will be dangerous. For-for me."
Wheatley huffed, not really caring in the slightest about how 'dangerous'it might be for her—if she didn't do something, they'd both be done for! Not to mention that they weren't even after her! They were after him!
But before he had a chance to respond, the sound of slamming, metallic heels could be heard again, and Wheatley let out a sharp whimper of panic. "Do something!" he groaned, twitching as the robots trotted noisily down the passage.
Carrie sped forwards, following the rail as far up into the wing as it could go. A number 'seven' had been painted on the door here, signifying the last floor, and even though the ceiling of this one was very high, possibly providing some protection against the grounded constructs, Wheatley groaned. "I-it's a dead end!" he shouted. "A dead end. , just perfect!"
"Shhhh! They will hear you!"
"Oh, really, lady, like they haven't already heard you!"
"They can't hear me—shhhh—I will tell you later!"
Attracted no doubt by Wheatley's shout, the two robots climbed the staircase, and the seven-marked door was blasted open, knocked clean off of its hinges. Wheatley screamed as the robots crossed the threshold—one short and stocky, a spherical orb at his center, containing one luminous, blue pupil. A plate above his eye slid forward as he frowned and growled, poking his companion in the side with a metal elbow. This one was tall and lean, its oval-shaped body bouncing on two spindly legs, optic narrowed in concentration as she screamed a battle-cry back at her companion. They lunged towards the personality construct, suspended well over their heads by the yellow-eyed rail guide, but missed—Wheatley flailed, terrified, his optic a barely-visible point of light, and Carrie sped towards the other side of the room as fast as her motor could go.
"RUN!" he positively screamed "FOR GOODNESS' SAKE, RUUUUUN!"
"Sssssssssssswwwwwwwwwrrrrrrr rrkkkkkkkkk!" Orange cried in reply, sounding another assault—she jumped high, missing Wheatley's lower handle by inches. The two robots, evidently a lot smarter than they looked, began to circle below him, conversing in some kind of foreign robot-language Wheatley might have understood if he didn't feel like shorting out with panic.
"Get me out of here! AAAAAARGGGHHH!"
"I'm trying!"
Carrie did not need telling twice: she sped along her rail, making back towards the exit, still dodging well-aimed attacks from the two bots. They were fast and could jump very high; but Carrie was faster, her speed was no match for them. They were left behind, still calling out in those horrible voices, and the way back to the lower floors was clear, she could make a break for it—
"THEY'VE GOT PORTAL GUNS!" Wheatley yelled in fright. Blue had just fired two portals, one beneath himself, and the other was materializing dead-center of the wall Carrie was speeding towards. His counterpart mirrored him with lightning-speed reflexes, and shot out a second later beside his partner, blocking the exit.
"NO! STOP!" cried Wheatley. "Stop running! Reverse, reverse! Do something!"
But what, exactly, he had no idea—Carrie screeched to a halt, motor switching into reverse, backing up as fast as was possible, but they'd never get away, not when their enemies had portal guns. Even as she paused, trying to think, Orange gestured something sinister to Blue, and a portal appeared directly above them.
Blue's spiny fingertips grazed Wheatley's metal hull as Carrie lurched backwards. He shuddered, an edge of static popping from his voice processor, his optic so narrow with fright it almost hurt—
Don't let them get me, he wanted to cry, wishing the lady was here, that he had her protection, her strength—
He needed her, he needed her help, now, but she wasn't here, he didn't know where she was—
"They're too fast!" came Carrie's voice. "What do we do?"
"HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW?" Wheatley roared back, numbly aware that these constructs had been sent by her, and if he allowed himself to be caught, he would very certainly suffer a fate worse than death, "HOW ABOUT, I DUNNO, HACKING! Yes, HACK THE RAIL!"
"We can't do that! We can't just go around changing the rail system like we own the place —"
"I hate to break it to you, but if we do NOT do it, we are BOTH going to bloody DIE!"
Panic surged like sheer electricity through him, sparking every circuit and resistor until he felt like he was coming apart. The robots launched another well-aimed attack at him, he felt a bridge of static pop between his hull and its own as it made a gesture as though to hug him in mid-air, to pull him off of the rail and take him as her hostage.
Oh, he wanted the lady, where was she, oh god, she wasn't here to save him this time, oh god oh god he was all on his own—
"FINE!" Carrie buzzed angrily. "Fine! Keep quiet, I need to concentrate!"
He groaned but nodded, trembling and wincing, trying to keep out of the robot's reach. Carrie kept zooming back and forth, monitoring the robots while she worked, trying her best to keep them off of him, but she would not be able to much longer. It was close, so close, and the Orange one was smart, she was no Intelligence Dampening Sphere—mechanical beeps sounded, but Wheatley was too dizzy to know where they were coming from, until finally a space of wall panel slid forward—
"CAN WE MOVE NOW?" He called out.
He saw the rail sliding out, but it hadn't connected yet, and at the same second, while he was turned away, the Blue construct cleverly used the distraction to launch himself at the writhing core.
Carrie was not quick enough this time. Distracted by her success, she didn't notice until it was too late, until the robot was hanging bodily from the core's bottom handle—
"AAAAAAAAAAAARRRRGHHHHH!"
"Noo!" With a BANG the rails connected and Carrie lurched forward, dragging Blue with her. He strengthened his grip, and Carrie shot toward the hole in the wall—
"OH GOD, NO, OHGOD I'M GOING TO BLOODY DIE—"
The port that connected Wheatley to Carrie was strong. Blue's weight was threatening to pull the core right off of the carriage but she clung to him, and SLAAAM—Blue hit the wall, hard, and, dazed, his grip slipped a bit, but not enough—Wheatley was screaming, and Carrie was yelling at him, trying to tug the core out of the robot's grip, but it was just. too. strong…
She reversed, the motor's wheels audible even over the yelling, and tried again—
SLAAAM.
SLAAM.
The robot's grip weakened, finally, but Carrie could feel that Wheatley was only just managing to hang on, he was screaming, his voice edged with static, and with a final SLAAAM Blue fell to land at Orange's feet, and she shot like a cork through the hole in the wall.
"AAAAAARRGJSGKxnc8DUFJchs—"
Wheatley's scream of pain turned into full-blown static and faded out. From behind, the sounds of the arguing, frantic constructs could be heard, scrabbling to try to peer through the small tunnel, to reach with their cold metal hands—
Carrie shuddered, and Wheatley remained still.
Was he all right?
It was dark and silent, the only light coming from the chamber they had just left. It was not enough to illuminate what lay at the end of the tunnel, and having hacked this bit of rail open, it was very possibly a dead end. She proceeded slowly, carefully, noting with relief that the unresponsive core's optic was lit. That was a good sign.
He did not flick on his flashlight, however, as he would usually have done.
She continued in the silence, for the sounds of the two constructs had faded, and began to try to piece together what had just happened.
The truth was: she had no idea.
Who they were, what they were, what they were doing here; she was not stupid, no. She understood they were here for him, and had been allowed inside by him, albeit unknowingly. But what business did they have with this-this—personality construct?
She hummed into the darkness, silent, waiting, hoping that he would be all right.
~\\~\\~\\~\\~\\~\\~\\~\\~\\~
A while later, minutes, perhaps hours, Wheatley came back online.
At first, he didn't move. I'm dead, he thought in some last, dysfunctional bit of his processor. I'm dead, or dying, can't tell which. Oh, lovely, I can't even tell, that's how dead I am.
He twitched his handles, but stopped, grunting in sudden pain. It felt as though they were about to fall off.
Oh, that is—that is not good.
He suddenly felt that he didn't want to know what he looked like. As far as he could tell, his bottom handle had been almost completely severed by that-by that robot, crushed to a pulp and just about torn off—he shivered.
He was numb, aching, drifting along on a thin string of consciousness, barely there at all. The sensory overload had triggered some sort of a failsafe system, like a circuit breaker, causing him to short out and shut down into power-save mode. He figured. He wasn't sure at all, really.
Oh, he moaned silently, trying to roll his optic—everything felt dislocated and wobbly, just terrible. All of him ached, especially his port, she, the rail-guide,had probably done something to him, he presumed.
What, he could not remember. Everything was a little fuzzy. Let's just—just back up, for a minute, then. Try to remember what in the name of bloody Science happened.
There was a room, the management rail, which, incidentally he was still on. Yes. He couldn't see anything, but he could feel that he was moving along it. And those robots—those robots! He tried to spin round to check if they were following, but he couldn't move a muscle.
And what else? What else. And… Carrie—Carrie! He wondered where she was, and why he could no longer hear her.
It was as if his brain was on fast-forward to make up for the time he had spent offline. The memories flooded back and his clock rate cycled back down to a steady rhythm, but the pain was still there. A sharp stab of it pierced mercilessly through his bottom handle. Aaargh, okay, now I remember everything, he tried to gasp, optic suddenly wide as he willed himself not to move. Every bit of movement only served to worsen the pain, which receded to a dull ache when he didn't.
Okay, he thought, no moving. I'll be all right if I don't move, but everything's still black. I wonder why that is?
He tried to talk.
"H-hello?" but his voice sounded scrambled to him, irregular.
However it sounded, he did not expect a reply of any kind, much less the high, worried tone of his management rail guide. "OH!" Carrie gasped. "You're online! Are you okay?"
"N-not quite sure about that," he stuttered, "but I'll manage. I think…"
"…I thought you were done for."
He considered this, a little annoyed at the suggestion. Sure, he had thought he was about to die, but the damage hadn't been that serious, had it? "'Course not. Gonna take a little more than that to throw ol' Wheatley offline for good. Just—ugh, my bottom handle, feels like it's buggered right up."
"It sustained critical damage. You don't need it for anything important, do you?"
He felt a little offended. Really, he considered all parts of him important, but at the moment he hardly had the energy to argue. "I suppose it's not, but it is bloody aching. I'll tell ya, the sooner we get out of here, the better. Looks like I'm going to need a few replacement ! And by the way," he said, a little more lively at the thought, "have we met the lady yet? Have we found the human?" he looked around expectantly, grimacing as a few sparks shot out of his side at the motion. "It'd make me feel much better to know she's alive."
Boy, was that ever true. What with those robots around, he felt absolutely terrible for dragging her down here like he had, unarmed…
"No," Carrie answered. "Not yet. I would like to know, though, what were those… Constructs?"
Wheatley sagged in disappointment. "No? No sign of her, none at all?"
"No. I am sorry…" she sounded it.
"The robots…" groaned Wheatley, unwilling to recount the story of what they were and why they were after him. "It's a long, long story, but they're after us, and they're going to kill us. Not you, of course, but me, and-and my human."
He could almost hear the whirr of her brain, but decided that he didn't want to know what she thought of that information. "Uh, where exactly are we headed?" he asked, seeking a distraction.
"Oh," said Carrie in surprise. "Well, back in that chamber, I summoned a rail connector to merge us with this old maintenance line," Carrie told him, sounding faintly annoyed that he had changed the subject. "We are, essentially, within the wall of the Test Shaft. No matter, for I think I know a way back outside from here."
"Huh," said Wheatley finally. "Well, uh. That's good."
He meant to let her find the way out in silence, but he couldn't keep silent and still. So he sacrificed his reluctance to tell Carrie the story of the two robots. He would prefer that over the pain—oh, it bloody hurt, even still—no, he'd prefer to not move, if he could help it.
She was silent while he spoke. "They've been following us a while, but I didn't think they'd be able to follow us down here, too. It means that she knows we're down here, and sent them after us. Also, also, my human happens to be very-very mortal and if I don't find her, and soon, they will probably find her, if they have not already. And-and if they have, I deserve to be stuck down here forever, or endure whatever she might have in store for me, if that is the case."
He rambled into silence, thinking. What if, what if she wasn't okay? It was his fault. All his fault. Why was everything, no matter how much he tried to convince himself otherwise, always his fault?
"I can't do anything right," he mused quietly.
"Sure you can," said Carrie absently. "We have been able to activate almost all of the required interfaces for the system takeover. There is only one component left—and we are almost there. Look!"
He lifted his optic in spite of himself—there was light ahead! They had reached the end of the tunnel!
They came out into an unfamiliar room, and Wheatley's optic contracted against the brightness. It was much similar to the hall they had left with the robots in it, but a little different—this one had no chairs, instead a wall completely dedicated to a series of display cases, all containing an array of tarnished, silver awards.
Immediately, he searched for signs of the two robots, but there were none as far as he could see. "They can't—the robots—follow us in here, can they?" he asked nervously.
"They most certainly cannot."
"Oh."
He let her lead him along, the blue of his eye darting here and there, reflecting against the glass of the display cases. They were very near a wide, sliding door, which made up one of the ends of the hall, and privately Wheatley prayed that nothing could come through that door. Carrie was leading him to the other end, however, where a smaller door stood, looking just as solid and locked as ever.
For a moment he considered what might be beyond that door. Was there more hallways like this? Or service areas? Or maybe even—hadn't Carrie said that they were close to their destination?—there was the mainframe in there, the backup systems which they sought. He found he really did not want to face whatever was in there without the lady's company.
With a jolt he remembered the 'plan' they had formed together, the one where, if need be, she'd raise the fire alarm. No such alarm had gone off… surely she was all right, then? But he was still worried. So worried, worried that the same constructs who had found him had found her, and even now were keeping her from pulling the alarm, from finding him—
He was stupid to let her go while she was unarmed, stupid to let her out of his sight like that—
And he moaned the word aloud. "Stupid," he cried. "Stupid. How could I have been so stupid?"
"Sorry?"
"Nothing," he responded defensively. "Oh, nothing. I was just thinking, y'know, about how my human is supposed to meet us here, when she hasn't a portal device. Ahem, I mean those, er, hole-shooty-thingies, same as those two robots back there had. Yeah, and they'll be looking for her, too. She's brilliant, sure, but… well, she's not here, and we can't wait forever, can we?"
She stopped moving, seeming to look down at a portrait that had been placed between two display cabinets. "Well, no," she said finally, "We can't wait forever."
She sounded preoccupied. Wheatley followed where he thought her eye must be looking, staring at the portrait.
Like much of the rest of the Shaft, it was faded and worn. It might have once been a great portrait, taking up almost all of the space between the ceiling and floor, illustrating a middle-aged man, his dark hair combed elegantly and large, masculine hands folded eagerly across his desk.
"'Cave Johnson,'" Wheatley read from a brass plaque below the picture. "'CEO of Aperture Science'. Well. That explains a lot, doesn't it? Right looney, by the look of him. Mad."
Carrie made a sound of distaste at his words. "That man is the reason you are alive."
"Doesn't mean he's not bonkers."
"And you are a strange machine with some very terrible ideas. Also, the scientists were the ones who activated you, were they not? You should be more thankful, I am surprised they did not deactivate you after you served your purpose."
"Hey!" Wheatley spluttered, upset. "I'm not a mor—look, I'm sorry, okay, mate, I'm just a little-a little on edge, all right? Dunno why you're laughing at me, not when those two little robots back there could easily find us again. It's not funny, it's not like we're in the clear yet, is it, so just—just leave me alone."
"I am not laughing." It was true. "I would not have chosen to deactivate you. I quite like you; and I do not blame you for what has happened, though I wish you would tell me more about what led such constructs to be after you."
"I—wait," said Wheatley, his eye partially closing in thought. "You like…me?"
"Yes. You are the first intelligent construct I have seen in nearly over fifty years."
"Blimey, I…"
He turned, trying to avoid a gaze from a machine who could not see him. He suddenly felt warm, flustered; the compliment had been a little embarrassing, yes, and he hadn't ever been told he was likeable, but this was not the true cause of his shyness.
It was because, even though she had mentioned her isolation before, Wheatley now felt strangely connected to her. He was not much different from her, not at all. They were both robots, lost and wandering, searching for a friend, for escape, who both happened to have been locked into some very unfortunate circumstances.
Fifty years… that was double what he'd gone through while in charge of the relaxation vault. He couldn't deny he knew how awful it felt to be abandoned, helpless, and watch everyone around you die and decay…
"…I'm sorry," he finally whispered. "That's-that's a long time… I didn't realize, mate. Is there… anything I can do? Anything at all?"
She sighed. "I don't think so," she said sadly. "Unless…"
"Yes?"
"Well—you are planning to escape, are you not?"
"Yes."
"Do you think—do you think I could I come with you? If-if it is still an option, when we have completed the mainframe's activation?"
Wheatley blinked rapidly, turning to the side in thought. Bring her with him? He had not considered it before, but management rail travel was nearly twice as fast as the lady could go. She could run along beneath him without his weight, and he could speed with Carrie, encouraging her, just like their first escape attempt!
"All right," he agreed with a firm nod. "But I'm warning you now, things could get a little weird when we hit the upper facility, because I don't rightly know how she's going to react to all of this."
"Who is this 'she'—?"
But before she could finish, she was cut off by a sudden strong, male voice, broadcasted from speakers overhead. They boomed with the sound of the falsely-jaunty tone, and Wheatley's eye went wide.
"Welcome, gentlemen, to Aperture Science. Astronauts, war heroes, Olympians-you're here because we want the best, and you are it. So: Who is ready to make some science?"
Carrie gasped. "That's the greeting simulation—the motion sensors outside must have been tripped—someone's coming!"
Through a set of narrow windows, Wheatley caught site of a monstrous shape looming through glass. Impossibly tall, whether because of the silhouette or other, more sinister reasons, it raised one long, slender arm, like a tendril or a tentacle, making to slide the ancient doors open.
"What is that?" he gasped. "What is that what is that—"
Cords swung behind the thing as it walked, huge cords, thick as his entire sphere body, and on top of its head a pair of antennae sprung, swaying creepily as it walked—
Meanwhile, Cave Johnson's voice greeting continued, "Those of you who volunteered to be injected with praying mantis DNA, I've got some good news and some bad news…"
"AAAAAAAAH…" he yelled, thinking reverse! reverse! but Carrie did it for him.
"…Bad news is, we're postponing those tests indefinitely," continued Cave Johnson. "Good news is, we've got a much better test for you: Fighting an army of mantis men. Pick up a rifle and follow the yellow line. You'll know when the test starts."
"Giant praying mantis!" she called out in fear and he shouted even louder: "LET'S GET OUT OF HERE!"
But even over both of their yells, and over Cave Johnson's pre-recorded voice, yet another unusual sound was heard:
Knock. Knock. Knock.
It was—knocking? Carrie paused automatically on the rail.
Wheatley simulated one last, final gulp, eye wide as the door slid slowly open, and the revealed construct outside froze in mid-step.