A Fine Black Sky
CHAPTER THIRTY SIX
The passage through the many and varied spaces upon this floor took the frequense spider on a merry adventure throughout the most industrious part of the South Tower, that being the home of the many Machines that carried out precise function upon their determined paths toward the symbiotic relationship of a fully functioning City as a gestalt, holistic whole, each Tower taking its place and part in the grand scheme determined long before the Towers became the operating regions they were, keeping each other in peace, to maintain the operation of the City.
Through each room, and under the cogs, wheels and gears, ran the small children, called Emendars, or more colloquially know as, the Grease Monkeys. It was incredibly dangerous work, which often was given to the thinnest and smallest of people, therefore occasionally to small children, simply because of their ability to fit. It was usually the only way a desperate Aberrant family could survive, upon the wages of their youngest, and abhorrent though a concept it was, it was often the children themselves who, upon seeing the distress their family was under, volunteered to take on this task. Plus, the benefits outweighed most of the problems, in that there was Medical Assurance, regular food and, obviously, working within a Tower, where the child would be exposed to so much more than the Aberrant family could ever wish to see. And perhaps there would be an opportunity therein.
The boy wore a tight fitting outfit of light material, designed to rip if caught. It was a dangerous job, surely, being an Emendar, as the more diminutive the better, therefore they were prone to silly accidental action. But this particular boy was a deft, dextrous little fire rocket, dancing about the moving parts, as though practicing an age old jig or predetermined sequence. He had caught the eye of more than one Conservator, but this particular one had the right proposition.
“Samry! When you have a minute?” called the Conservator to the boy, as he rose once again from the machinery, like a wave crashing a particularly metallic sea.
“Sir?” asked Samry, wriggling through the cog before it juddered around to its next position.
The Conservator looked intensely into the boy’s dirty face, “How long have you worked here? In the Tower I mean, not just the Roveller Machine?”
“I don’t know, Sir?” said the boy returning the gaze. He had deep hazel eyes, much like the Conservator, “I was too young to remember.”
“You were three.” remarked the Conservator.
“Right.”
“That means you are due for retirement soon. How does this fit with you?”
The boy shrugged, “I know nothing other than the great Machines, Sir.”
“Call me Birger.” Birger paused for a long second, appearing to be thinking of the right way to word his sentence, “It seems an opportunity has arisen -“
“Harriam, Sir?” asked the boy.
Birger nodded, looking away to some point in the thick cloying air in thought, “Such a promising young boy. Cut off in his prime. It is a shame. Yet - through the grief we all feel - this opportunity has presented itself. Now I know what you might be thinking -“
The boy looked nonplussed, “I have yet to know of what you speak.”
Birger sighed, looking directly at the boy, “I’ll say it straight, then. I am sure you have suspected this for some time, as you have been watched quite carefully over the past few weeks. As it seems, you have a particular aptitude to this work, and fairly soon you will be too big to fit into these contraptions. Because of this, I am given to invite you to be trained as a Conservator.”
The boy’s hazel eyes flashed suddenly, “Really? Permission to tell my Mother!”
Birger shook his head, “Denied. There’s still work to do and I cannot replace you just yet. But if you’re amenable?”
The boy nodded vigorously, “Very much so, Sir!”
“Birger, remember?” chided Birger.
“Sorry, Birger! A Conservator? Really?” the boy was quite beside himself.
Birger seemed relieved that his words had elicited the desired result, “It means more pay, better benefits, a new home -“
The boy stood large, which was a little over three foot, and came to some form of attention, “Conservator Birger, it will be my honour to accept.”
Birger blinked at the boy’s reaction, “Yes, well - get back to work, alright? Still plenty to do. Tsh tsh!” Birger gestured with a wave of his hand, yet neither could he contain the exhilaration of achievement and fulfilling a desire on the boy’s behalf. That Samry was the product of a dalliance between Birger and Samry’s Mother had practically nothing to do with it, surely? Nepotism - the rule of advancement to both Aberrant and Lord.
Yet the frequense spider was still upon its jaunt, never distracted by the constant roar and grind of metal upon metal, or the pushing of air, pressured by the motion, past the Conservators - the maintainers of the Machines.
One such Conservator was aiding an Engineer, who had come to fit an addition to the Machine, first thought up by the Inventor, then manufactured by the Maker. The Engineer was the final part of the puzzle, though one would argue the most important, for it was the Engineer who had to make the idea and the creation fit, work and be understood by those who would have to maintain it. At this stage, modifications were almost inevitable, and the calculations needed were immeasurable, yet Engineers such as this one thrived upon that kind of task.
The Wrencan Contrivance slipped again, frustrating the old Engineer, his eyesight obviously leaving him and a pride too intense to admit it. The action simply drew the Engineer into further criticism of others, “Damned Makers. They always allow for some give, but then it’s people like me who have to fix the problem. Just measure it properly! That’s not so hard to do? I mean I have to fit the damned thing! And I have no option for ‘give’. Right first time, or - whoosh! Up in flames! Probably.”
“So, what’s this supposed to be?” asked the Conservator who tended to the Engineer’s needs, while learning about the addition to the Machine’s function.
The Engineer forced the Wrencan Contrivance once more onto the bolt, using a trusted twist to turn it loose. He shrugged at the question, “Some kind of regulator? It’s supposed to make the Machine operate at an extra twenty five percent efficiency, but, if my calculations are correct, and they better be or -“
“Whoosh!” added the Conservator.
“Exactly! Then I would be surprised if they managed thirteen percent? Still, I suppose, that’s progress.”
“So, you don’t think its needed, then?” asked the Conservator.
The Engineer moved on to the next bolt, mindful of the Machine still operating, always operating, while he fitted the object, “I don’t know what for. I mean, this particular Machine, as you know, deals with disintegration and destruction of waste products. Why does that need to be more efficient? I’m a traditionalist. Keep it for the purpose for which it was made, that’s what I say.”
“But - it was made thousands of years ago -“ queried the Conservator.
The old Engineer looked to the Conservator then, while still loosening the bolt, “Yes? And little has changed. No need, you see? Now take the Gerevillianator. That - that is a work of sublime perfection. Yet I hear some Inventor downstairs is working on making it quicker, with less power usage? Fine, the resources will run out eventually, but not in our lifetime. Let that be a problem for the next generation.”
“I’m not sure I -“ tried the Conservator.
The Engineer snorted derision, “Oh, right. I get it. You’re one of those Progressionists, aren't you? The old ways are never good enough for your lot, are they?”
The Conservator remained effusive to his superior, “There’s certainly a place for tradition, I understand, but -“
“Don’t spout your ‘build today for a better future’ claptrap! I get enough of that from my Son.” spat the Engineer, now working on the final bolt.
In that moment, The once even tempered manner of the Conservator changed, “Then he has a point, doesn't he? I mean, think about it. There is an ever expanding population with limited space, only a limited amount of food, drink, materials - if it can be done much more efficiently, then -“
The old Engineer waved the Wrencan Contrivance dangerously in the Conservators face, “The Blood of the Gods is plentiful! The Old Gods prepared us for the future, damn it!”
“That’s a very blinkered view. Take Veran for example -“
The Engineer’s blood was boiling, “Veran? Veran!? That man is a ridiculous, self serving, egotistical, despotic -“
The Conservator looked incensed, yet remained calm in his demeanour, “He is the future. Progression Is The Future.”
“You know what? After this job is finished, I’m going to put you in for a transfer! I’m not working with a seditionist!” ranted the old Engineer, snatching the object from the Conservator and banging it onto the spindles, tutting as he did when, inevitably, the object did not quite fit correctly.
“We are -“ attempted the Conservator, but the steely look in the old Engineer’s eyes said it all.
“One more word - just one - and I swear I’ll make it look like an accident!”
Even with the clear threat, they carried on wordlessly, until the object was fitted. All that remained was for it to be tested, for which the Engineer no longer needed aid, “Now, get out of my sight! Pathetic, insolent -“
The Conservator knew he had made his point, so as he left, he delivered his parting shot, “We are the future, old man! We are the future!”
Chuckling, the old Engineer tested the object, “Progress, my - whatever.” he muttered then, returning to his work.
And for the frequense spider, things became quieter, if it cared at all about such a notion. From its vantage point, currently prodding a sack of something stored and determining its taste, it could see a Chesnik arriving back into the kitchens, exclusively detained and sequestered for the use of the Apprentices.
The content of the dishes was simpler here, bereft of all but the barest of nutrition. Although most were children of Nobles, there was a certain hardship expected of the Apprentices, in that they were not to be afforded luxury - for within their future enterprises, most would be without luxuries for some time. It was certainly not the galavanting exploit of the bored Noble that some within the Tower, but most assuredly outside the Tower and in the City at large, assumed it to be. It was not the exclusively guarded institution it may well have been no less than one hundred years gone, when only the richest of parents could afford to send their children to the Bareface, as it became known. This was largely because many assumed that the lower one’s station, the lesser the mind to contain the vast imagery of the Apprenticeship Program. This was certainly proved false in the Industrial Subversion within the Bearing Age, which saw an almost complete collapse of the internal structure of the Machines and how they were maintained. It was practically over before it started, and only required three months of fixing, but the incident reverberated for decades, even now felt in the Halls of Energy. Yet the frequense spider crept into the corner, even while the Cook chided the Chesnik below.
“We do this, then we’re out, gone, into the city and living like - well, like Lords.” said the Cook, wiping her hands on the dirty cloth.
The Chesnik crossed his arms, “Yes, well, all you’ve done is lookout. It’s me who’s done all the hard work.”
“Such as?” said the Cook, with raised eyebrow.
“What do you mean, such as?” the Chesnik asked, incensed, “I did the reconnoitre, damn it! I did the leg work!”
“Yeah, well, whatever, Birt. All I know is this lot have had it soft for too long.” explained the Cook, throwing the dirty cloth to the table, covered in food preparation, with a flour-like substance scattered about it and the tins and pans used to make the food sitting, waiting, for someone else to clear them up.
“Very true, Gildha.” said Birt, picking up a scrap of food and biting into it, further gesturing with its pointed end, “These Nobles - makes me sick. Privilege, advantages, everything. What do we get?”
“Stiffed, Birt. That’s what.”
Birt nodded, taking another bite of the food scrap, “You said it, Sis. They sit around all day -“
“That they do Birt. That they do.” agreed Gildha, with a vigorous nod as she shuffled the utensils around, distractedly.
Birt continued, beginning to pace the small area of the kitchen he occupied, “They sit around all day, and expect everything to come to them. And of course it does.”
“I know. I’ve seen it. With my own two eyes.” agreed Gildha.
Birt wrinkled his nose, “Well, one eye, Sis. The cat got the other.”
“It’s a whatsit, isn’t it? A term of speech?” said Gildha, rolling her one good eye skyward.
“Right, I’m with you.” said Birt.
“Well, those snivelling children will be all sat about now.” said Gildha, rubbing her itchy nose with the back of her hand, “Time to go to work, Birt.”
Birt paused, an actual thought filling his mind, “Right. And you’ll be waiting?”
“Waiting here, Birt. Bags packed.” nodded Gildha, putting away the utensils she had been messing with noisily into a drawer.
Birt’s next pause was even greater, as he stood motionless on the spot, looking to a spot on the floor, not attempting to raise his head, “You’re not coming are you?”
“Nope.” said Gildha, quite confidently. There was the merest of smiles upon her lips.
Birt huffed like a petulant child, dropping his shoulders as he did so, “Why not? We worked it out? We planned it? We knew exactly what to take, when, how - why aren't you coming, Sis?”
Gildha shrugged, but did not look up, “Because this is a good job, Birt. This I need.”
“But -“ started Birt, looking to his Sister pleadingly.
Gildha then turned her full attention on her Brother, “Oh, think about it, Birt? That stuff won’t last for more than a few months! Then what? I’m not going back to that Firm, Birt! I won’t do it!” she said, waving a spoon about pointedly.
There was, however, a thread that Birt could not stop pulling, “Sis. We’ve had this plan in action for more than ten years! Why?! Why now?!”
“Oh, you know. It was fun?” she said, looking wistfully into the middle distance with a reminiscent smile.
“Fun?” Birt was lost for all words apart from that one.
“The planning, the pretending, the working together?” Gildha said, coming to her Brother then, and taking him gently by the shoulders.
“But Sis -“
She smiled and kissed him once on the forehead, “I’m sorry, Birt. I just can’t.”
Birt pulled away from his Sister then, a renewed vigour in his stance, “Well - the more for me then! I’m just going to pick this up, take this, and -“
Gildha grabbed him again by the shoulders, this time pulling him into her ample chest, “It’s alright, Birt. Keep the dream alive.”
“I would’ve, you know?” said Birt, looking up into his far more sensible sibling’s eye.
“I know.” smiled Gildha. She then released her Brother from the embrace and pointed him to the small table by the kitchen door. The sound of motion outside told them both the Apprentices were stirring, “Take them jugs out for the Apprentices, eh?” she asked kindly.
Birt needed a second or two to readjust his thinking. He straightened his clothes unnecessarily and smoothed down his hair, “Right. Okay. But I would have, and it would’ve been good.” he said as he did it, still needing some kind of approval, it seemed.
His Sister looked into her Brother’s eyes, “It certainly would have, Birt. It would’ve been amazing.”
Birt then picked up the jugs, though before he left the kitchen, he turned to speak to his Sister once more, “Sis, I -“
She smiled and nodded at him, “I know, Birt. Me too.” she said with efficacious eye.
Outside the kitchen, real life reasserted itself, passively, and Birt had to skirt around the Housekeeper, who eyed him suspiciously. Something of a regular occurrence, and fuel for Birt’s overactive mind.
The Housekeeper, who ordered the Apprentice Quarters, was nothing close to a matronly presence. She abhorred children, quite frankly, and this post was deemed something close to a punishment.
She had been someone once, this much she knew, even if there were those who did not see it so. Her ambition outstripped her attention, which caused the young girl to reconstruct into a drudge. Though she had never the ambition in that direction, given her propensity toward those of the same gender, if she were to part with any emotion at all, she had never bothered with the marital strife, finding no man who could come close to her perfect insight. Now, in her latter years, she was left with little option but to perform tasks clearly beneath her. And currently her arduous task was cleaning the Apprentice Dormitories, attacking the plethora of cobwebs up amongst the darkest corners.
The frequense spider suddenly became distracted by something juicy upon a web, making for it, only to be disappointed as the mada moth jerked free and flapped its gossamer wings, dragging its grey mass with it away from the frequense spider’s grasp, even as the Housekeeper swiped for the frequense spider with a broom. If the frequense spider had the mind to reprimand itself vocally, it would have rung out a line of expletives. But as it was curiously functioning, it simply moved onto its next feeding post.
And within the mind of the Housekeeper, the mist parted of memories long gone. Like a mirage it appeared, and it had structure. It had presence. And there it was.
She was quite clearly beautiful, by any man - or woman’s - standards. The clothes back then were darker, absorbing more of the available light, which was infrequent at best. The young girl, from a particularly influential Family, took to her post immediately, disregarding the employment she felt was beneath her for this one. She was to be a Munder to the Old Lord, upon his last few breaths before the MonoGod sent down His carriage to transport the old man to the MonoGod’s Palace. It was true to say that the Old Lord was a recent convert, having been a decidedly mediocre observer of the Old Gods and their old traditions. It was principally for this reason, being a Faithful, that led Dimia to her decision.
Quickly she began to observe the mode by which all was attended to, and saw where improvement could be mastered, saying as much, first to those who turned a deaf ear to her suggestions, then to those who mattered. Within a short seven years, Dimia had become irreplaceable, and she was so admired by the Old Lord, that upon his Call to the MonoGod’s Side, Dimia was given pride of place for the Attendants, the Chesniks and the Munders, and delivered the age old utterance of appeasement and prayer to the MonoGod Himself.
She fought long and hard for many years to maintain her position within the Lordly Household, with many a suitor of Noble birth, and much more of Aberrant tenure, taking a number of lovers - of both genders. People attempted to tell her that simply living for working would leave her bereft in later years, yet she heard it not, did not listen to the warnings.
Then, upon the shifting spaces of eddying molecules, a vision presented itself before her, “Dimia, listen to me. You may not love me now, but I can provide for you. Can you not see this?” The man was quite handsome, a little grey upon the temples, but this only provided a distinction to his features.
Dimia looked not unkindly upon him, “Patwin. It is kind of you to say, but I care not for the comforts of a home, nor the offspring that comes with it.”
Patwin sighed, “Now, Dimia, it is you putting words where they do not belong. I said nothing of children.”
Dimia shook her head vehemently, “Even still, Patwin, I am betrothed to my work.”
This elicited a further sigh from the handsome man, and a warning with it, “I give you but one more chance. I will ask again, when you least suspect it. But when I do, I will never ask again.”
Dimia payed his words little attention, not even looking upon him as she replied, “As you say.” And Patwin left it there, for Dimia to realise what his words meant.
Some time later, and it was upon a chilly time, that Patwin pulled Dimia aside, “I told you I would ask one more time. This is the time. I, Sir Patwin of the Beraniviss Family, hereby ask you to consent to be my -“
Dimia shook her head. The lines upon her face had begun to mark out her years of service, “No, Patwin. I still do not love you. I am of a mind for another. This - it cannot be.”
Patwin then did something unconscionable. He grabbed Dimia by the shoulders and forced her to look into his eyes. There was a longing there, a desperation for Dimia to just, for once, pay attention to him. All she returned was a look of surprise, “Then I take my leave of you, Dimia. I shall never darken your light again.”
Perhaps in that moment an epiphany rose in Dimia, “But I -“ Yet Patwin was gone. Within the year he had married, and after a further year, they produced a daughter. It was that there was something peculiar about that child, and it became dispatched to a distant corner of the Tower, locked in a solitary room, for her own protection. This did not matter. For Dimia, her world had stopped. She was too late to change the passage of her life now and she was beyond recourse. The Housekeeper - the Old Maid.
She never forgot him - Patwin. He came to represent all she could have achieved, even beyond her work, yet her stubborn nature had driven all away from her, even her other.
The job. That was her other, in love with the control, the order. If only she had listened to them, but the past was a field of broken promises and never-haves. It was a dangerous place to dwell, for the monsters within would devour the present, and give no future. A solitary tear fell into the dust upon the floor of the Dormitory, that she rapidly stamped upon and strode with menace to the kitchen once more.
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