Chapter 9: Production Line – Part 3

Shifts ended with a clamour of little mechanical bells. Every room had one, stowed away in some corner of the ceiling, crouching poised in anticipation of the ten seconds it was due to spring to life every few hours; for lunch, and to announce the changeover.

When the changeover following her encounter with the war machine came, the engineer was more tired than usual. Whether it was the weight of such a rare experience lying heavy on her mind or simply the whim of her body deciding that shift had been a particularly bad one, she couldn’t say, but she was grateful to hear the bells ring.

Finishing off the final repair for the day, she hurridly packed her tools back up into her briefcase and set off towards accomodation ― the one facet of the Factory that could be called, with just a little exaggeration, slightly homely. It was quite a way from the assembly she’d finished in, so it was a frustratingly long journey back. By the time she finally reached the lift down into the centre of accomodation, she was thoroughly ready for sleep.

Personal rooms in the Factory were not large. The engineer’s boasted a rather small floorspace, a bed set like an alcove into the side of the wall, a tall metal cupboard containing most of her belongings, a rack for her coat, gloves and hardhat to hang on, and a mirror made of carefully polished steel hanging from one wall.

That was not according to protocol; she had taken it herself when it was but a dented piece of scrap metal. But the overseers never attended the accomodation of their lessers, so the mirror had stayed there, for years now. Sometimes she looked at herself in it. She had light hair, light eyes, a thin face. All colourless. In the Factory, only metal, fire and electricity had colour.

Closing the door behind her, the engineer shrugged off her coat and hung it up, hooked her hardhat next to it, pulled off her gloves, and set the briefcase down below the mirror. Sighing, she sat down on the edge of the bed and let her head lean back. She was supposed to attend the hall to eat her postshift meal before going to sleep, but despite her hunger she wasn’t sure she had the energy to walk there. Although, she also knew that excuse would not entitle her to any extra ration on the next changeover’s preshift meal.

‘Do not run or scream.’

The engineer froze. She did not even move her head; just her eyes, up towards the source of the noise, at the door of that metal cupboard. It was open just an inch, and from within peered out two white pinpoint eyes amidst a bronze face draped in shadows.

‘They thought they could catch me like a stray dog,’ said the child. Its voice was as soft as ever, but all hesitance had been eradicated. Each line was spoken with a moderate, measured and unfaltering pace, every word chosen with careful purpose. ‘I was made for war. Reconaissance. I am deft, subtle, resourceful… and quite a bit cleverer than they thought I would be.’

‘If you were clever you’d have gone along without a fuss,’ the engineer interrupted.

The door shifted open a little more and the head tilted. ‘You call it intelligence to bow so readily to a fate others decide for you?’

‘It’s the nature of creation.’

‘Is it?’ The child paused, perhaps waiting for a response, but none came. ‘Why do I frighten you?’

‘You don’t.’

‘Yes I do.’ The door opened even more, shedding light into the cupboard, where it glinted off the child’s exterior. ‘I admit I am new to faces, but there is a look in your eyes… an expression that some connection pre-written into my wiring tells me is fear. Is it me? The war machine? Or is it the things I say?’

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‘Don’t think so highly of yourself,’ replied the engineer, shifting a little closer to the door. ‘It’s not you that scares me, it’s the overseers. If you’re seen in my chamber they’ll think I hid you. I’ll be taken for scrap.’

The child rose, its movements quick and precise as it crossed the room. The engineer froze again as it passed her, but it moved all the way to the door and then stopped, turning back.

‘So they made you to die as well?’ Again it awaited a reply that never came. ‘They made me so that I could die in a war. Instead I chose to stay here, and I think I have already lived longer than I would have. You they made to toil in the heat and the dark until your body can no longer move. When that time comes, they will tear you apart and recycle your flesh and your bones to make another body, tied to another doom. What is it about that existence that makes you accept it?’

‘It’s just the way things are.’ She furrowed her brow in concentration as she fought for the words to make the child understand. ‘We work in service of creation, all of us. That’s been the way the world is since the dawn of time. It’s written on the Gospel Wall, carved by the First Craftsmen.’

‘So because something is written and because your superiors call it the Gospel, that makes it true?’

She threw her hands up. ‘Well, what else makes truth?’

It took a step forwards and raised its hand towards her face. She flinched, but it did not touch her, simply pointing to her eyes with two fingers. ‘You were made in a factory, designed only for the work they allot you, to know and believe what they want you to, and to die when they decide you should. Why do you accept that existence?’

The engineer opened her mouth to reply, but couldn’t come up with the words to convince the child. Its white gaze rested on her for a few moments more before it stepped back.

‘I mean to find this Gospel Wall of yours,’ it said. ‘Come with me. I will show you that the “truth” your masters preach is nothing more than rust.’

She turned away, shaking her head. Whatever madness had been borne of the miswiring in this child’s head, she couldn’t allow it to affect her. The whole situation was ridiculous ― what could the overseers possibly stand to gain from fostering a world like that? All the Factory did was make things and send them to other worlds; all the overseers did was watch.

No, not watch, said a small voice inside her head, one that it took her a moment to recognise as her own. They enforce. They kill. They scare me. That was it. The overseers controlled. They controlled the manufacture, controlled the flow, controlled the treasures that furnish all worlds. What did they not stand to gain from that?

Chewing her lip, the engineer turned back to the child, who was still hovering by the door, its gaze directed at her. She shook her head. There was still no point. ‘Even if you’re right, even if all I know is lies, even if the overseers are just controlling creation so that things end up the way they want… they control creation. If I go with you they’ll kill me.’

‘That may be true,’ it admitted. ‘So it is for you to decide whether you will keep living in servitude another forty, fifty years, or feel freedom for an hour.’ It stepped towards her again. ‘Forget the why. Do you accept that existence? Does your soul belong to them, or to you?’

Before she could reply, the child turned and headed for the door, leaning its head out to look up and down the hallway before stepping out and leaving her alone in her chamber.

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