Mechanical Soul

by
Adam L Brinklow

"4388, your filter seal has ruptured."

He ignored it. The bland little voice chimed in his ear again.

"4388, your personal safety has been compromised."

He had been listening to that for four days now. He had accidentally let his hand get in the way of the torch, and the welder had ripped open a seam in his stasis suit. He had tried to get it repaired, but his shift wasn’t over for another 36 hours, and every time he tried to leave the warden forced him back to his post. So for four days he stood there at his assembly post, welding crossbar C onto framepost A, just like any other day, while the whirring little voice in his helmet sounded over and over again, a constant reminder that his life was slipping away second by second. Without an intact stasis suit, his body was aging, his muscles where tiring, his metabolism continued on at it’s fantastic rate, while he just stood there on the assembly line and did as he was told. Because, of course, he always did as he was told.

The assembly line shifted, pulling away his finished work and delivering a new assignment to him. He dutifully set to it, welding crossbar C onto framepost A. This had been his job for 42 years, and would most likely continue to be so for the remainder of his 231 scheduled years before termination. There was always some hope of advancement of course, but not enough to make much of an actual difference. Assembler Drones are rarely met with much recognition. No, 4388 would remain here at assembly post 947-C, welding crossbar C onto framepost A. 4388 didn’t mind. In fact, he was proud. Oh, it wasn’t glamorous work, but it satisfied him. He did his job, he did it well, and he served The Order in doing so.

He owed a lot to The Order. They had given him so very much. 42 years ago they had processed him from recycled tissue samples, and assigned him 231 years with which to serve. They gave him his post here at 947-C, and demanded only 132 hours of work from him each week. This was quite generous, compared to the monstrous workload of a Warden or Monitor. And of course, they gave him his stasis suit, without which he could live but a pittance of 78 years. Yes, they gave him so much; he wanted for almost nothing. Almost...

4388 doubted that if he had been given a thousand years he could work enough to repay his debt to The Order. But he would try.

He stood back, welder in hand, a satisfied grin spreading beneath the metal grating of his filter-mask. He was finished, and with 4.7 seconds to spare. With a little free time on his hands, he snuck a look around.

The factory was always so enormous to him. He has spent his whole life here, but somehow it still managed to amaze him. Stretching as far as the eye could see in every possible direction, row after row after row of assembly lines and processing tubes, with millions upon millions of Assembler Drones just like him stationed at every one, all working dutifully for The Order. "4388, your personal safety has been compromised" the alarm voice chimed again, but he ignored it.

Ah, efficiency was truly a marvel. A single Drone could complete it’s assigned task in 11.1 seconds, sometimes less! And since every last Drone was outfitted at birth with a customized stasis suit, which keeps their metabolism and body chemistry at a natural equilibrium, they could work for days straight, wanting for neither rest nor sustenance. With a 132 hour work week, and only 11.1 seconds per task, that amounted to an astonishing 5,274,720 tasks completed in a week, and that was from just a single Drone!

The line shifted again and 4388 bent forward with his torch. Crossbar C, framepost A, 11.1 seconds, 132 hours, 947-C, this was the way life should be. It was the only way life had ever been. The alarm sounded again and again, but he paid it no mind. The truth was, he was really getting quite concerned by the leak in his suit. Lately he had begun to feel hungry, and his muscles ached. But he had only worked four days of his shift so far, and the Warden wouldn’t allow him to leave until his time was up. He would have to wait.

"Assembler 4388", the Warden’s voice was unmistakable. It sounded shrilly behind him. The Warden, calling for him? "Assembler Number 4388, please respond. You will not be penalized for ceasing work in order to answer to a summons."

Shakily, 4388 laid his torch aside and turned to face the Warden. It hovered just above his head, it’s large, faceted eyes reflecting him a million times. The creature’s segmented legs allowed it’s massive girth to tower above the heads of the Drones under its watch.

"4388? You are Assembler Drone Designate 4388?" it asked expectantly.

"Y-, yes, yes sir!"

"Your presence has been requested in the Monitor’s office. Please follow me."

4388 froze in place. "The Monitor? But that can’t-"

"Another Drone will be assigned to temporarily manage your duties. Please follow me. The Monitor does not enjoy being kept waiting."

4388 nodded. "Yes sir." He fell into step behind the Warden.

Why would the Monitor want to speak to him? Had he done something wrong? Had he performed his work below expectations? Had he been too fast, too slow, too noisy, too quiet? He was suddenly very frightened. What would they do to him for failing? He had tried to do his best, he really had!

The Warden led him to the lift. "Step on. Do not move until you are instructed to. Do not speak or open your eyes." 4388 obeyed.

A low humming noise surrounded and penetrated him. He could feel the low, musical vibrations shivering through his body. Everything began to tingle and itch. He was tempted to scratch, but remembered that he had been told not to move. Must do as he was told.

"You may open your eyes now."

4388 was somewhere new. The lift had apparently vanished, and he was now someplace he had never been before. Soft blue shadows played across the interior of the spherical chamber. He stared, captivated. This was the first time he had ever seen blue, and wasn’t really sure what to call it. All of his life he had been exposed only to the harsh red lights and deep black shadows of the factory. This was foreign, alien in a way he couldn’t entirely grasp, and exciting in a way that didn’t feel entirely safe. He knew that if he stared too long, he would begin to imagine impossible things, dreams longs since faded to nothing, so he closed his eyes and lowered his head. This was not his place.

"4388, please have a seat." Try as he might, 4388 couldn’t identify the source of the smooth, melodic voice. A single chair seemed to be the only adornment of the room, save for the delightfully captivating blue shadows. He sat, though in truth he wanted nothing more than to leap up and examine every inch of the room to try to discover the secret of this new visual sensation. But, sit he had been commanded to do, and sit he shall until otherwise instructed.

"Hello 4388. Welcome. I am the Monitor."

"Hello sir. Where are you, why can‘t I see you? And, what is this place, why haven‘t I ever been here?"

There was a brief pause. Then the Monitor laughed. 4388 was surprised. He had only heard laughter once before.

"Curious, aren’t you? Such an inquisitive mind for a mere Drone."

4388 bowed his head in shame. "I’m sorry sir."

"No, no, it’s quite all right. I enjoy seeing one such as yourself take the initiative. It helps to remind me of the strength of The Order."

"I’m glad to hear you say that sir."

"To answer your question, this is my office. You’ve never been here before because you are an exceptional worker, and this is the first time I have ever had reason to have to speak to you. I’m standing right here in front of you, but I’m afraid you can’t see me because your eyes don’t function at the right level. Drones are simple creatures, so we manufacture you with rather rudimentary sensory organs. You can only see basic primary colors, and only a few basic shapes. Anything else, such as most of the interior of this room, is quite beyond your capacity."

4388 nodded. He wasn’t entirely certain he understood, but he was happy enough to have the Monitor answer him at all.

"Now, let’s get down to business, shall we? Our readings report that your stasis suit has been damaged for the last four days. Why haven’t you reported this?"

His stasis suit? Was that all? He hadn’t expected someone as important as the Monitor to be concerned with a trivial matter like that. "Well, um, I tried sir, but the Wardens kept telling me to go back to my post. They didn’t listen to me."

Silence a moment. "I see."

4388 broke into a panicked sweat. He had said something wrong! "I’m sorry sir! I tried to fix it, I did, but it just didn’t, I mean I didn’t, I couldn’t-"

"It’s all right. You didn’t do anything wrong. In fact, your work is commendable. You functioned incredibly well without your stasis suit. The Wardens will be reprimanded.

"In the future, you need not fear punishment over such matters. If this occurs again, please ask to speak to me directly."

"You sir? But, but, it’s so trivial, I didn’t think-"

"Matters of personal safety are not trivial. The Order needs you all healthy and working hard up to the moment of your liquidation. Now, you are dismissed. You may return to your quarters to repair your suit."

4388 stood up in a daze. "Yes sir. Uh, thank you sir." He turned to head back to the lift, but a thought struck him. Should he? Could he dare? He might not ever get this chance again...

"Something on your mind?"

"What? On, no, I just-"

"Come, come, speak up."

"Well sir, I was just wondering..." he fidgeted in nervous apprehension. "You’re an important man. I was hoping..."

"Yes?"

"I was hoping that you could tell me what happened to my friends?"

There was another long silence. "I’m sorry? I don’t understand what you’re asking."

"My friends. The other Drones, the ones I spent my off time with?"

"Ah, I assume you’re referring to #1195?"

"Yes sir! And 1866, and-"

"And 4682, and 2603, and 3631. Yes, you’ve inquired of the Wardens of this very subject a number of times, as I recall."

"Yes sir."

The Monitor let loose a long, weary sigh. "You’ve been told before, 4388, you ‘friends’, as you call them, have all been reassigned to different sectors."

"Well, yes sir, I understand that. I was just wondering...why?"

"It was for your own benefit. You had been spending entirely too much time with those particular Drones. And you’re...interest...in #1195 was particularly unhealthy and unproductive."

4388 nodded his head, rebuked. "Of course sir. Pardon me for troubling you."

"You are dismissed."

"Yes sir."

4388 was troubled. He lay on his bunk, staring at the ceiling of his sleeping quarters, thinking.

The Monitor had told him that sending his friends away had been a good thing. That it was for his own benefit. The Monitor was The Order, and The Order was always right. But this didn’t feel like a good thing. It hurt very much, in a way he didn’t understand. He missed 1866, and 4682, and the others. It was very much like the way he missed his work post when he wasn’t there. Only worse. Much, much worse.

He missed 1195 most of all. He remembered the strange way she had made him feel when he talked to her. It gave him the same sense of satisfaction that he got from welding crossbar C onto framepost A, only it was better, if that was possible. He remembered hearing her laugh. It was the first time he had ever heard laughter. It was very strange, and very wonderful. Yes, it was a bad thing that 1195 was gone.

But the Monitor had said that it was good, and the Monitor couldn’t possibly be wrong. Could he?

4388 did not understand.

But it was not his place to understand. He was an Assembler Drone, he was a tool of The Order, and he had a duty. He would work, and he would serve, without question, and without hesitation.

He was number 4388. He had 231 years, and 132 hours a week. He had work post 947-C, and he wanted for nothing.

Well...almost nothing.

© Adam Brinklow 2001