“Yes, Mr. Unthank,” said Elsie.
“And so I’m sorry to say that if you do happen to let one be destroyed and do not retrieve it with these world-class machine-part hands before the assembly continues, I’ll be forced—by no fault of my own—to give you a demerit.”
A spike of fear ran through Elsie’s chest. “Yes, Mr. Unthank,” she said.
“And you know what happens if you get three demerits, don’t you?”
“You’re Una—Unadoptable?”
“Exactly,” said Joffrey, beaming a little. “You learn fast, Elsie. I think you’re a very astute girl. And very astute girls often prove to have a very long and happy career in machine parts.”
“Thank you sir, Mr. Unthank, sir.”
“Well then, I’m going to turn this little baby over to you. Remember: press button, wait around, pull lever, cranking sound. Yeah?” He repeated, stressing the rhythmic pattern of the rhyme, “Press button, wait around, pull lever, cranking sound.” He walked away from Elsie, repeating the mantra in a singsong voice, his fingers bobbing as if he were conducting an orchestra. Arriving in the center of the room, he surveyed the morning’s production. The machines were all going full steam, creating a symphony of metallic clanks, buzzes, and moans; the kids were hard at work, some attending to the controls of machines like Elsie’s, while others, like Rachel, were picking over minuscule bolts, nuts, and cogs on the long conveyer belt.
“Music to my ears, children,” called Mr. Unthank. “Music to my ears. Remember: Machine parts make … what?”
“MACHINES,” the kids called back in unison.
“And machines make …?”
“CONVENIENCE.”
“And what does convenience make?”
“FREEDOM.”
“And freedom makes … help me here, children. On the count of three. One, two, three…”
“FAMILIES,” finished the kids, with Joffrey joining them.
“That’s right: families,” he said. “Now, if any of you need anything, I’ll be right up there”—he pointed to a wide window looking onto the factory floor—“keeping an eye on my little busybodies. Ta-ta!” He then exited the room, sweeping his coffee mug along in a deft gesture.
Elsie turned to the RBO 2.0. The twin gauges, ACK and UZ, seemed to be two eyes, glaring at her. Repeating the rhyme that Unthank had taught her, she began operating the machine. Within a few simple processes, a little clank could be heard, and a tinsel-bright nut dropped into the small inner chamber. Elsie’s heart leapt into her throat, and she shot her hand into the hole, removing the nut just before the machine’s teeth descended onto the space where her fingers had been. She whispered a benediction of thanks before placing the nut onto the conveyor that led away from the RBO. Elsie saw that Martha was manning the neighboring machine, her goggles covering her eyes as she pulled what looked like a fluorescent lamp on an articulated arm over the newly made nut. She saw that Elsie was looking at her and waved. “Keep ’em coming,” she shouted over the factory’s din. She flashed Elsie a thumbs-up and returned to her work. Elsie did likewise, pressing the red button in the middle of her machine, eliciting yet another ringing clank from the belly of the metal thing.
CHAPTER 8
A Dream Remembered; The Great Race
Iphigenia sat on the edge of her bed and rubbed at her ankles. They were very sore; they seemed to be getting sorer by the day. Age was throwing its heavy mantle over the Elder Mystic’s shoulders, and she did not like it one bit. The lit wick of a kerosene lamp cast wavering shadows across her simple bedroom; the dark of the morning blackened the windows. The old woman took a deep breath and finished pulling on a pair of woolen leggings beneath her gown. A chill racked her frail bones. She heard a noise come from downstairs: the door thrown open, the stomping of feet in the entryway.
“Hello?” Iphigenia called. There was no answer. She groaned as she pushed herself up from her bed and hobbled to the landing. “Who’s there?” she called again.
A grunt preceded the response. “Sorry, Elder Mystic,” came a voice. “Just getting the fire going.”
Iphigenia sighed. “Good morning, Balthazar,” she said, recognizing the acolyte’s voice. She walked to the edge of the landing and watched as the acolyte brought an armload of logs to the fireside. He dropped his load in a metal stand with a relieved sigh and looked up at Iphigenia on the landing.
“Shall I get water on for you, Iphigenia?” he asked.
“Yes please, Balthazar,” said Iphigenia, padding back to her bedside. She pushed a pair of worn slippers over her feet and stretched. Her back gave a long, mournful crack; she smiled and shook her head. Things are not as easy as they once were, she thought, especially waking up in the morning. She moved to the stairway.
“How did you sleep?” asked Balthazar as Iphigenia made her way slowly down the stairs. He was holding a long match against some bundled-up kindling in the hearth; soon, a warm glow exuded from the fireplace.
“Not well,” responded Iphigenia. “Not well at all. But that’s to be expected. I don’t find I’m a strong sleeper anymore; it is not my forte.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that, Elder Mystic,” said Balthazar, watching the flames grow. A black iron kettle hung on the hob, and he swiveled it over the burgeoning fire. Iphigenia eased herself into the chair before the hearth. While the water boiled and the acolyte ran to fetch more wood, the Elder Mystic was able to reflect on the dream she’d been having, the one that had woken her from her sleep. The tangled and unreachable narrative of her deep-sleep dreaming had deposited her, somewhat disoriented, in the midst of a forest clearing. She was cupping something in her hand, though she was not inclined to see what it was; she was keeping it enclosed in her hand for some urgent, yet elusive, reason. There were dark shades in her periphery, just on the other side of the clearing. She was being followed. Gifted with the speed and endurance of a child, she began running through the woods, holding the treasured item in her hand close to her chest. She came up short, arriving at a narrow defile in the hillside. The shades were coming closer, but the darkness of the tight ravine seemed ominous, full of danger. Suddenly, her rational self had inserted itself into the dream: She had a desperate longing to look at what she was holding against her chest. Uncupping her hands, she saw that she’d been carrying what looked to be some sort of bright metal ring, impossibly tangled inside itself. It was the size of a small pebble, and little ridges ran along its edge. The figures behind her grew close, and she shut her hands again and threw herself into the darkness of the ravine, following a rocky path that led down, down, until all was blackness.
That was when she’d woken. Sitting in the chair in front of her fireplace, she wondered at the dream. The chasing shadows required no heavy unpacking to understand; she knew full well what spirits pursued her. What was baffling was the significance of the defile, the hole into the e