Following their forbidden swim to the edge of The Deep, a fragile quiet had settled over Calistya and Khrystal’s world. The pair talked often about their amazing day off, dreaming of another escape, but the normal run of lessons and report-ins didn’t allow for it. At any rate they needn’t have worried, for the stillness didn’t last long—and this time, it wasn’t the grid.
The alert system was color-coordinated, designed to be visible even to swimmers moving through the city. Audible alerts were impractical underwater, so the system relied heavily on shifting hues—minor alerts, such as power grid watches, changed the calming, oceanic blues to a more yellowish hue, subtle enough to blend with the natural light.
The cascading alert system then followed a predictable pattern—the more they intensified, the more serious, though still incremental, keeping the population on an even keel. The riots of Pelagic Year 104, the participants of which had inadvertently caused a breach, led to major shifts in crisis management. As the last of the floodwaters were pumped back out to sea, city leadership voted to overhaul the system ‘from stem to stern’, intent on preserving societal equilibrium at all costs. The calming escalation of alert hues was just one tangible result of their efforts.
The shock of the classroom flaring a fiery red didn't set off immediate panic. Instead, there was an excited buzz—it felt like something out of the history books. But Mr. Albi’s frozen expression, radiating concern of the utmost gravity, shifted the mood more effectively than emergency lights ever could.
Then, shaking his head to clear it, he sprang for the door, far faster than his usual, deliberate pace, and yelled for them to get moving. Chairs scraped against the floor as the entire class complied without hesitation.
The Shallows was on red alert.
* * *
Red alerts were so rare that the electrodes buzzed with neglect, dust filtering down off the suddenly hot bulbs. No gentle transition here, the soft hues of various conditions were integrated and fine-tuned, but these were a riot of antiquity. They were rumored to signal breaches, catastrophic air system failures, or worse—threats from the outside. Though the wartimes were long past, other settlements and societies were still a concern, theoretically.
The students, drilled but never tested, streamed out of the building, teachers barked orders as they went: “Single file! Single file! Stay calm!”
They were ushered out the doors and towards the air shelter.
“Down the corridor out the doors! Out the doors! Out the doors!”
The unified voices of well-trained teachers rang out, all of them looking stern as steel, but there were hints that they were just trying to keep it together themselves. Ms. Terri, usually such a calming presence, voiced her commands in a raspy, shaky voice, while Mr. Albi moved with the intensity of someone who’d dealt with this kind of chaos before.
The oxy-shelters were placed strategically throughout the city, and the one nearest the school was just a few minutes' walk—or swim. The students walked calmly, though it quickly became noticeable that other citizens were heading in the same direction, the younger ones looking rather more excited about it, the elders moving faster with each step.
This prompted everyone around them to step up the pace as well, and the crowds grew. People were filtering out of work buildings and homes, the crowds growing larger, the single-file order quickly dissolving.
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
When they reached the oxy-shelter, audible sirens had welled up, adding to the confused, heightened sense of tension all the redness was producing. Someone from high up must’ve ordered that, the screeching sirens of old. It was as if the whole place had been slammed into survival mode.
Aquasentinels were already positioned in front, clipboards in hand, looking stern and questioning the people who were reaching for proof of local residency. Only locals were allowed in, normally, though they were supposed to allow everyone through in an emergency. This was not happening.
People were coughing, body to body now. The stench of fright and sweat mixed with an acrid, sickly sweet smell like burning rubber, filling the air and adding to the sense of imminent danger. A baby screeched somewhere in the crowd, and people started jostling one another, their movements becoming less organized by the second.
With the students mixed in now, the trickle of people being allowed through included a few of them as well, though the teachers yelled for them to wait. Corralling the students before it was too late, they pushed them to the side. Twenty per class, six classes. A good number of them were already inside, but the rest were being told to wait. The students, of course, carried no IDs, but the teachers had their validation, and all of them were entitled to enter.
At that point, the smell was beginning to nauseate people, and the panic grew. As the throngs intensified and the shelter filled up, Mr. Albi stepped forward and demanded that the students be allowed to in. “…it being their local sector, of course.” He leaned in and listened, nodding. “Yes, we're from the Shallows Orphanage.”—his indignation grew, rising up against the curt replies he was receiving—“These are the students. We need to get them inside!”
“Just hold on,” the sentinel barked. “There's too many of you at once. I can't ID every student. Let me get the others inside first.”
Albi’s eyes widened and he balled his fists, raising his voice in protest.
“These children are residents of this district. They have the right to be sheltered immediately!”
He matched the intensity of his words with a defiant posture, which the sentinel took for aggression. They both moved at once, and in the confusion Albi never saw the other sentinel, moving fast, until he cried out in pain as a stun-baton was thrust into his side, dropping the older man in a heartbeat.
The sight of Mr. Albi crumpling to the ground froze the students in place, the momentary shock then giving way to frightened murmurs. Some cried, while others clutched their classmates, unsure whether to move or stay rooted where they were.
The sight of more sentinels moving in made their decision for them. They scattered in all directions, running on instinct and adrenaline, any ideas of getting into the shelter abandoned. Khrystal grabbed Calistya’s arm, her heart pounding. “Out the gates,” she whispered. “Now!”
* * *
Weaving through the streets, one leading the other, grasping each other's hands tightly, they made their way through the crowds, working against the flow until they got away from the air shelter. The air grew clearer as they ran, the sharp, acrid fumes giving way to the familiar, salty-briny normalcy they were used to. It wasn't the whole city that was affected, at least.
They ran full-on, all the way to the checkpoint, stopping only to gear up. Calistya was shaking, unable to work the seams in her confusion. But Khrystal got her suit on in record time, then helped her friend.
Martha’s familiar greeted them at the gate, though her expression wasn’t jovial this time. “What are you two up to?” Martha’s voice was calm, but her brow furrowed as she peered at the red lights. “You shouldn’t be out here. The shelters—”
“They’re full,” Khrystal cut her off. “We’ll be fine. Just please let us through.”
Martha hesitated, her eyes examining their faces. “You girls stay out of trouble, understand? Stay in range, and come right back at the all-clear.”
Still hesitating as she lifted the barrier, the girls mumbled thanks and reassurances, then plunged through and out of her sight.
They swam hard, faster than they’d been running thanks to their gear enhancements. In an effort to put some distance between themselves and the chaos, they dispensed with any of the usual semi-vertical stream-flowing and instead relied on their mechanicals to push them at top velocity. This was a strain on the environmentals, but they weren’t thinking ahead.