Anthology of Ichor III: Gears of Damnation

by Breaux, Kevin

  "Feels good, doesn't it?" he said.

  The machine watched William with dim red eyes as the human went on. Across the hills there could be seen a misty white veil of pollution leaving an old stack, and below a grand old iron shed. Its rusted yellow door was less than beckoning. A mellow green eye looked at the young man through a hatch.

  Identify yourself scum.

  "Screw you, I'm with Martin. I'm his nephew."

  The doorway shook. It rose up and over; a metallic echo bounced along and escaped the ominous stretch of entry. Stairs led down into an old tunnel, and William followed.

  He walked a ways into the darkness towards a light fixed atop the only doorway at the end of the tunnel. He knocked, and waited to be called upon. A mutter from within sounded his name. William heaved open the old door and saw his grandfather resting on an old cot.

  The sound within the room was powerful. Behind the old man was an immense bronze wheel turning on a track; all around the room little gears shifted and creaked in unison. He could scarcely assume what his grandfather must have been through to get here. He wondered how all these old inventions kept such an old man alive.

  "Come closer," said the old man. William did as he was told.

  The old man's eyes focused sharp on his grandson. He pulled the covers off, exposing his bare chest and four copper coils running into his heart.

  "What are they?" said William.

  "Part of the machine," said the old man. "I figured you'd enjoy it. Keeps my heart pumping. When Brutus stops feeding coal to the fire down below, I'll die. Simple as that. My life is in his hands."

  "You know how I feel about that," said William.

  "I don't know where you got that attitude from."

  "You and your stories, probably. Where is he, anyway?"

  The old man sighed. "Oh, probably hiding somewhere. He detests visitors. You're the first and the last. Because I know your mother won't come. Here, take a seat." He directed William to the folding chair in the corner.

  William pulled it closer to his grandfather. The noise was endless and maddening. But then the wheel began to slow. It slowed just enough to hear his grandfather's pale tone, but he wondered how long its shortened speed would keep the old man alive. "Is that alright?" said William.

  "I've got plenty to say to you," said the old man. "I don't suppose you brought me a plant, did you?"

  "I wasn't thinking," said William.

  The old man pointed towards the corner of the room. In it was a large, nasty Dionaea with a mouth flailing in all directions after stray insects. "That one keeps the flies out," said the old man. "They're scared of it. Martin gave it to me yesterday. He said flies are bad down here. I'm thankful though."

  "He said you didn't want to see him now. What did he mean?"

  The old man shook his head. "Dying man's nature, you know? To keep his wits up and his mind focused on the last person he'll ever see or talk to. I wanted it to be you, not him. It's nothing personal. He'll die one day too, and I suppose the last person he'll want to see is your mother."

  "I hate it when you say that."

  "Saying what?"

  "Dying I guess. I don't like talking about death. It seems to happen a lot nowadays."

  "But you're at an age where you understand it."

  "I don't think anyone is ever old enough. Not even you. You're off your rocker. I have a feeling you're going to tell me some story that'll change my life."

  "No," the old man laughed. "But I'm proud of you."

  "Proud of me? What have I done that's made your proud?"

  The old man smiled. There was a chuckle too. The coils on his cold, bare chest shook and swayed. William's cheeks turned green. "You take good care of the things you love," he said. "Your mother, I know about for sure, and your friends. You took good care of me when I got back from the war. You were the only boy in the house that had the guts to ask me if I ever killed an android. I never answered you, did I?"

  "It's because you liked them," said William.

  "That so?"

  "It's not important now. I was too young to know the difference between right and wrong. I know there are some things people shouldn't talk about. I never really was much for your war stories anyway. You sympathize when you shouldn't."

  "You're wrong," said the old man. "I was too young to know how much it really mattered to you and your friends. You wanted to know if I killed an android. Wasn't that your question?"

  "I guess," said William. "But I'd ask it a different way now. What I said before was inconsiderate."

  "Nothing is inconsiderate. You were only being curious, that's normal for a boy your age. Go ahead and ask me again! Anyway you like. Now seems like the best time to tell you."

  "But you said there was plenty you wanted to talk about. This can't be one of the things."

  "Is now," said the old man. "Time's ticking. That big son of a bitch twirlin' behind me ain't going to twirl forever."

  William thought for a moment. Little machines in the darkest corners clanked and whispered, considering the intimacy of the young man and his grandfather. William reached out and touched the old man's hand. It was cold and dead.

  "How did you feel about killing an android? Was it the same as killing a man?"

  His grandfather smiled. "That's the way you do it," he said. "To ask a survivor if he's killed a man is an ignorant question. Everyone kills in the Great War. The real story is a person's feelings. Our emotions drive us in a way our mothers and nurses can never begin to imagine. They only care for the safety of their children. They never long to know how they feel about being smothered."

  William laughed. "I'm not smothered."

  The old man leaned in. The coils stretched with him. "You have a terrible mother. Tell her I said so." He fell back on his cot, crossed his fingers, and shut his eyes. "What was it like to kill an android? I guess the best way to describe murder is that it's a lot like dying yourself. A part of you leaves your body. A bit of your soul. A bit of my soul is in this machine here. Brutus will know what it's like one day. It makes you nervous. When you kill a man, you don't ever want to go home again."

  "But Brutus isn't human. And a man's not the same as an android. How could you feel so terrible about breaking something that isn't real?"

  "They had feelings just like the rest of us," he said.

  "How is that possible?"

  "You know when you get close enough."

  William tried hard not to smile. "So you didn't want to come home after that?"

  "War is nothing without a home to return to. I felt like I'd lost everything, I told you. My soul had left me. I felt especially bad about the letter he gave me."

  "A letter? Tell me about it if it'll make you feel better. I hate knowing you haven't already told mom all this."

  The old man breathed heavily. The room shook with his lungs. "I only killed one," he said. "Up in Washington. He was on the front line just like me. They had these great big machine bastards for riding, kind of like ten legged horses made of metal. They had cannons as round as my stomach. One crept up over the lines and before he could get a shot on any of us I took aim right as his chest. Blew that ungodly son of a bitch right off that metal horse, and waited for it to happen."

  "You watched him die," said William.

  "I didn't just watch him die," said the old man. "I was the only one that took pity on him. Life can be so ironic, on occasion."

  William didn't answer. He didn't know how.

  "The android looked up at me and winked. Blood was pouring out of his mouth just like a real dying man. Smelled like salt and vinegar. I wondered why I was even there. He looked so real. But I knew he wasn't."

  "You want to talk about something else?"

  "I just want to teach you, William. I wish I could have more time."

  "What else is there to say?"

  He coughed and the wheel caught for a moment. "Last thing he ever did, laying there in a pool of his dirty, stinking machine blood, was h
e pulled a letter out of his coat pocket and gave it to me. He didn't say anything. He was broken. Shut down by the time I had the paper in my hand."

  "What did it say?"

  The old man waited for his thoughts to return. An image of a woman appeared in his mind. A blond girl that would never see her lover again. "It was a letter to a woman," he said. "A letter saying goodbye. The machine was in love. And he knew he was going to die."

  "Impossible."

  "Not at all. I kept that letter safe. You don't know what it meant to me. How it could have changed the world if I'd have done the right thing. I had to keep it safe. Eventually I was relieved of my duties. I went off to find the woman the letter was addressed to."

  William smiled. "You're kidding. What did you find?"

  "A wonderful place," he said. "A place called Wismar. That's some little town by the sea in Europe. Where the android was made."

  "That's where she lived?"

  "That's a secret," said the old man. "It's probably just best that I move on anyway. Still so much to tell, so little time to say much of anything." He coughed again. Blood dripped down his chin.

  William took a napkin and wiped it away; his hands were shaking but the old man laid still. The napkin fell to the floor beneath the bed where an odd claw reached out of the darkness and took it.

  "Brutus?" said William.

  "He didn't mean to scare you," said the old man.

  Red eyes peered out from beneath the spindly cot. The machine smelled like sulfur and death. William covered his nose as his eyes began to water. "I don't remember him being so horrible."

  "Leave him alone, Brutus," said the old man. His voice was gentle and understanding.

  Brutus went back under the bed; there was a sudden clapping of metal. William looked under and saw that the machine was gone. A trap door small enough for an animal to squeeze through appeared locked. "Where'd he go?"

  "Probably away," said the old man. "I told him when you knocked on my door to just head off. Said thanks and everything. He probably thought he'd just stick around for a bit longer. You two used to be friends, you know? When you were a baby? You loved him. That was back when the schools were closed and you didn't have any other kids your age to play with."

  "I don't remember ever being friends with a machine," said William.

  "And I don't remember you ever being so judgmental. Brutus used to be a real looker. A trustworthy servant. Still is today. He has feelings too, you know?"

  "Stop it. I'm not being judgmental, just reasonable. Besides, if I was ever friends with a machine I blame it on mom. When I did have friends she wouldn't let me see any of them. Not everything I do is actually my fault. But I like who I am."

  "Glad you do," said the old man. "You're still a painter, aren't you? What do people say about your painting?"

  "There's no one out there to say anything."

  The old man smiled again. William had never seen him so happy. Why should such a wonderful thing come only in misery? How could a dying man be so happy to be alive?

  "I'm sure you'll come around one day," he said. "Your mother can't hold onto you forever. She knows that. You should remind her, too. Tell her the oldest man on earth said so."

  "How should your age make any difference?"

  The old man sighed. "Don't you know about the wisdom of the elderly? I don't suppose it's any of your business to know. But you will someday. Maybe you'll be in the same situation I am. Letting a machine take care of you. Waking you up every morning to tell you it's alright to go outside and breathe the air. One day you'll talk to your grandson for the last time, too. You'll tell him all about the world and the mistakes you made and you'll tell him he better listen to the elderly. They've done everything. They know."

  "I've always listened," said William.

  "But how long have you understood?"

  "You know I hate it when you speak in riddles like this. I'm not any good at this sort of thing."

  "Because you're not listening."

  His face turned red. "You always turn everything around on me. You tell me I'm not listening or understanding, but there's never been anything real to understand. I wish you'd just tell me what you've seen and what you want me to know."

  "You're impatient too. But I'll tell you what I know. Maybe it'll help you with your art. Maybe everything else. Do you know about trees?"

  "Just that they grow far far away," said William. "What about them?"

  The old man grunted and sat himself up. The wheel behind him began to slow. "You need to pay better attention to the things around you. If you're ever sitting under a maple, or a pine, look up and see the things that are inside it. The color of the leaves. What sorts of insects or birds live in it. If the leaves are falling; how fast they're falling. Where they land. Keep looking. How does it feel to see the little things?"

  William wanted an answer. But he couldn't find it. "Feels empty," he said.

  "You make the world what you want it to be," said the old man. "Don't look at all the broken stacks and little machines dancing and singing. They might not have souls but they have something we don't. They don't know color, but they know how colors make us feel. They don't know the beauty of it, but they know how to make us smile. All you have to do is look at the little things."

  "They know when a man is afraid," said William. "I could tell when I walked by the machine in a cage earlier. I think it was laughing at me. I hate knowing that. I hate that we live in a world where we're ruled by our own creations. Nothing is natural anymore. There are no little things to look at."

  "The machine was laughing at you because you're like me. One day you're going to turn old and die. It was laughing at you because no matter how long it stays locked up in that cage it'll live forever. Some of them might understand fear. But they don't know what it feels like. They laugh when little boys cry, or when a young girl screams. They laugh when the lights go out, and old men are having nightmares about waking up the next morning blind. They can't have these things. Machines aren't worth worrying yourself over. They are the little things."

  William nodded. His grandfather was fading away. "I understand," he said. "I still think you're crazy but I understand." He touched the old man's hand again.

  He squeezed as tight as a dead man's grip could hold on.

  "You know I love you," said William.

  "I know you do. I wish I had a letter to hand you right now that you can pass on to a young woman in need. But this one's on me. Go get some water. There's something I need you to do downstairs."

  ~*~

  He walked down a long and narrow hallway, the feel of sweat dripping down his forehead and cheeks, the image of an old man stained in sight like a ghostly silhouette. He imagined the old man jumping up out of bed, ripping the coils from his heart and praising the wheel of life for giving him just one more day to dance.

  If only the wheel had went in reverse, made the old man young again, just enough to laugh and play with William and not talk of such matters as life and death and the colors of a maple tree somewhere far far away.

  He imagined his grandfather laughing and playing. Then the woman came to mind. He wondered if she ever got her letter. If everything was alright thereafter—if she ever really loved the machine.

  On the path towards the great gates he looked back and saw that the misty cloud of white had been subdued. Along the way he saw the caged machine. It looked at him with dim, red, solemn eyes. Surely, the thing must have known some fear. He stopped and looked back. "You're not laughing at all, are you?" he said.

  The machine burst to life, cackling, howling, moaning, crying. It was the healthiest laugh the young man had ever heard in his life and it came from a machine. William longed to know such happiness. If only he knew nothing of fear, or the coming of age and death. Then he would be truly happy. But then he would be a machine. And in a world like we live in, no one enjoys the company of a lifeless, soulless piece of metal.

  Beep.

  I am a
good listener.

  PSY

  by

  S.M. Sawyer

  Psy Chapter 6

  Year 35 A.M.

  Prelude to Tears:

  Lights flickered on and off. They decorated the landscape as far as George could see. The highways were filled with lights from commuters on their way home from work. They created bright traffic jams here and there. Glare from a packed stadium flashed across the sky. Businesses closing for the day would turn off their lights and have the bar or club across from them turn theirs on. Stoplights would light up intersections on the busy streets. Streetlights came alive one by one to outline neighborhoods. From a mile up above the bright glow, George smiled as he enjoyed the scenery. Philadelphia, his home, was just as beautiful to him at night as it was during the day. He looked over at his brother and saw him smiling and looking down at the lights. Sometimes George thought they shared the same brain.

  At first look Joshua could only be no more than twenty-five with that youthful face. His bold chin did nothing to take away from his dashing looks. George was proud that his brother was handsome. He knew women liked to look at men like Joshua and to a brother that meant something. His grey trench coat sat open to reveal the expensive black suit he was wearing. George had bought that suit for him and he knew his brother wore it all the time. He looked at his brother's military hair cut and frowned. There was still no grey. Joshua maybe aged a year in the last twenty. Their friend Jenny had proven that psychics aged much slower than non-psychics. Seeing the reality in Joshua was astounding. George grew jealous at that thought. Not jealous of his brother lack of aging, but jealous that someone else would get to see him old. George wanted to see his brother as an old man. It could not be so. At the rate of Joshua's aging he still had at least two hundred or more years left. Joshua was very close to immortal.

  George shifted his luggage next to him so he could lay back on it. He lay there thinking how impossible it was that he was flying home on a giant hand. The Flying Hand was what George had named it. He never approved of Joshua always naming each variation of the Helpful Handz. The Flying Hand was different though. George had named it so it was special in a way. It had been George's idea in the first place. Hands that floated and picked up things could also carry people. It had seemed so obvious. George knew that his brother was a little dense at times. Nanna had told George he would have to take care of Joshua and help him through life. She had said, "That’s what big brothers do. They take care of little brothers." George smiled thinking about the foster mother who had adopted him and Joshy.