Plasma Frequency Magazine: Issue 13 (2 page)

The Woman Who Was More Than a Wrench

By D.A. D’Amico

I was born into a world that had put fear and delight behind it, sacrificing hope for a release from anguish. Men no longer fought each other over money or pride. Both had been eradicated. Because of the
scorching
, London ticked like a finely made pocket watch.

Through some subtle inner defect,
a flaw in the
scorching
process no doubt, I could feel a vestigial dollop of compassion. It allowed me the luxury of melancholy. I endeavored to deny it, but it had never been more apparent than when the new steam Omni struck the girl.

She'd stumbled into one of the many ruts between the cobbles and the wide metal rails that guided the trams, catching her ankle in the soft red clay. The morning commuters never slowed. Carriages rumbled by, hooves clopping on the rough brick. The reek of manure and the subtler tang of ozone filled the air as the electric bus rounded the corner and barreled down on her. Still, none would acknowledge the girl as she tugged at her tiny black boot.

Diffuse sunlight poked through high drifting clouds. Stray beams illuminated her burgundy dress. She appeared like an actress taking the stage, a tragic heroine about to perform her closing number.

"Sensibility says there's nothing to be done." A tall gentleman in a long woolen frock coat mumbled as the trolley closed the last few yards to its target. "Risking help would be madness."

The
scorching
had cleansed us of the need to waste life and limb in futile heroics. The template burned into our minds as toddlers removed doubt, negating the nagging cowardice of inaction. Had I been a man, I might have felt a stronger urge to act. Instead, I merely stared.

My gaze met hers, but briefly. Her small brown eyes widened in a momentary rush of passion, then dulled as the
scorching
forced her to accept the certainty of her fate. She lowered her head. The iron beast rolled over her, obliterating the girl in a tempest of steam and squealing metal.

I turned away, adjusting my
long skirts as if concerned by nothing more than the wind. Around me, the ordered bustle of morning commuters continued unabated.

An ancient man, shriveled in a threadbare navy bluecoat two sizes too large for him, limped by with a peck of apples under a piston-driven metal arm. A troop of four boys pushed into the street, carefully tending a metal hoop. They chased it with controlled precision, and with none of the ruckus of days gone by. The
scorching
had checked unruly behavior.

The man who'd spoken earlier turned to me, tilting his tall hat as if it were just another morning. "Would you care to share a Handsome?"

I smiled, but declined. "I'm afraid it would be a very short ride."

I pointed down the street to the old Milliners building. The red-brick structure had been rescued from collapse, pressed into service as a
scorching
center. The gentleman nodded. His smile faded as he turned away without another word.

~

Enormous windows did little to let sunlight into the white-washed brick nursery. Cascading banks of giant vacuum tubes, each glowing with a jaundiced internal radiance, filled the near wall like glass pipe organs and fought the morning sun for shadows. I stood with the other
scorch
mothers beside a row of steel spanners, awaiting the siren that would begin our day.

I'd often thought of those wrenches, and what they might do to the delicate machinery. I could picture myself clutching an iron haft, hurling it into those glowing bulbs and shining gears. Might it destroy the
scorching
machines, I couldn't say. But it would be action, protest in a world that had voided dissent.

But those were just dreams, wraiths conjured from my improper
scorching
. I was no more capable of anger than the iron spanners themselves. Like the girl who'd been killed by the Onmi, passivity had been burned into my brain and seared onto my personality by the great machines. I was as much a tool as the toddler-sized carriages rolling slowly across the polished linoleum floor.

~

"Today's shipment is from the Old Nichol, as fine a lot as any, despite their sorry history."

I had my suspicions the warden had also been improperly
scorched
. She paced the floor as if digging a trench with her conservative black shoes, her boney arms jutting like the struts of an umbrella from beneath her pressed white smock, slender lips bent in a perpetual frown. Her even temper seemed a thinly controlled veil, a facade that might burst at any moment.

"As always, mind the bonnets." She marched past, her long arms escaping her smock like damaged pistons.

She often spoke of the "bonnets", the
scorching
mechanisms, as the important thing, relegating children to second position. It was this indifference that proved the process had succeeded in her. How I longed to find such proof in myself.

"Is there a problem, young lady?" The warden had stopped in front of me, regarding me without a hint of feeling.

"Mam, should there be?" I curtsied, but my gaze never left her pale blue eyes.

I felt no anxiety. I didn't
tremble with nervousness, fearful she'd divine my secret. The
scorching
had excised those emotions. If she would ask, I'd tell her readily I thought myself flawed. There were no prisons. Asylums no longer tortured the insane and unbalanced. There'd be no penalty, because punishment was as alien a concept as fear. Both had been dispatched at the hands of
scorch
mothers just like me.

"Bonnet number three's been acting a bit wonky," she said. "I'm giving it to your charge until an engineer can be sent from the academy. Take care nothing happens."

"I will, warden."

I glanced back at the spanners. I can't say I yearned to clutch one. I no longer had the force of passion necessary to feel such desire,
but I wondered how the world might have been, how it might
be
if human liberty were once again set free.

The incident with the Omni proved to me heroes no longer existed. The
scorching
had excised the basest of human emotions, but it had also leveled our noblest desires. If I could hate, my wrath would turn on those men of science who'd felt the need to meddle with the human spirit.

~

The siren sounded. Eleven women adjusted their powder grey smocks, and shuffled past tiny carriages to their posts. I lingered a moment longer, hoping the will to act would spontaneously burst upon me, a caged animal set free. But I remained unmoved.

I turned as a shrill cry echoed through the high-walled chamber, a sound both familiar and alien. The children, all toddlers between the age of one and two years, had been given a mild dose of laudanum to calm them, but the process had not yet contained their emotions. Occasional outbursts were tolerated.

The bonnets had been laid out in a line on deal tables. I selected number three, carefully lifting the contraption onto a form beside a high wooden stool. It looked more like a bee hive than a child's bonnet, but the cheery nickname had been applied long before the
scorching
had taken creativity from the world.

The tall rounded cone, wound with brass and copper staples like the underside of a railroad track, glowed at the edges from the tiny ray generator spinning like a high-speed locomotive around the inner lining. I didn't know the scientific magic involved. I simply placed the device and set the connections. My job wasn't to ensure the
scorching
ray seared its sinister template into the subject's brain. I was merely a kind face, a pleasant babysitter for children who hadn't yet been altered, and who would never after feel the need for comfort.

~

The first of my carriages pushed forward, drawn by electric wires embedded beneath the checkered linoleum floor. The fair-haired little boy inside shuddered as I lifted him onto the stool. His tiny hands clenched briefly when I placed the bonnet over his head, dropping to his sides as the
scorching
device flashed from brim to point.

"There we go." I removed the device. The boy's trembling lip had set into a firm line, his fear burned away. "That wasn't anything at all, was it?"

He stared at me, unblinking. The template had rewired his brain, burning away some bits, and fusing connections together where none had existed.

I lowered him back into his carriage without another word.

~

Work progressed with methodical, machine-like efficiency for nearly an hour before bonnet number three began to display signs of instability.

The movable cartridge faltered, jamming in its mad dash around the inner rings of the device. I tapped the housing. It skipped, making a squeal like a phonograph record, and then continued its circuit and completed the process. The dark-skinned boy beneath never complained. He gazed at me with the same unblinking stare when I pulled the bonnet away.

A spark of bright ruby light erupted from the cowl as I laid it back on the form. I glanced along the row of
scorch
mothers, but none had noticed. The warden marched relentlessly along the periphery of the room, her attention distracted by the immense vacuum tubes. I thought for a moment to call for her, but hesitated. She would take the bonnet, and I'd be sent home.

Because of my flawed
scorching
, I preferred to work. The monotony of daily chores at the hands of my father stirred unwanted twinges of boredom. The feelings were unsettling. The less I experienced them, the better.

~

My next charge mewed, stirring in her carriage. I tucked her onto the stool without thinking, as mindless as a walking Babbage engine, and picked up the bonnet.

Her brown eyes widened.
She cried, trying to climb from the seat as I brought the device closer. She wore the same forlorn expression as the girl who'd been struck by the Omni, although it seemed jarringly out of place on such a young face. I frowned, wondering why I'd thought of the accident.

"Now... Penelope." I had to check the paper tag pinned to her frilly blue dress. "Be still. This won't hurt, not even a tiny bit."

I arranged her three times before she'd settle down long enough for me to get the bonnet on her head. Even then, she flailed her arms so much I thought I might have to call the warden after all.

"Hold still, and this will be over in a jiffy."

I readied the device and set the connections, but the bonnet didn't flash. The cartridge containing the tiny ray tube spun through its inner tracks. It spiraled from bottom to top as dutifully as ever, but never gave off its signature glow. I couldn't tell if it had worked or not.

"There we go." I lifted the bonnet.
Penelope blinked back tears, her lips quivering as if she'd cry. I shushed her, and placed her back in her carriage so I'd have time to think.

Clearly, the
scorching
hadn't worked on this girl. She tossed about in her pram, her gaze flittering everywhere, her features full up with emotion. I blamed the bonnet, but even if it had burned a tiny fraction of its program onto her brain, she couldn't be re-
scorched
. The process was too dangerous to try a second time.

"What shall I do with you?" I stared at little
Penelope. She looked timidly back, arms outstretched and pleading.

Scorching
had been compulsory across the entire population since the Prince Consort's death nearly a decade ago, when the Queen herself had submitted to the process. There hadn't been an unaltered soul in years.

"I'm sure I'll have to tell," I said. But should I?

The
scorching
, so strangely lacking in some aspects of my personality, didn't remove free will. It merely suppressed the wasted notions of loyalty and sacrifice, replacing them with frugality of action and the hard limits of conformity.

The proper thing would be to do as I'd been told. Hadn't the warden specifically instructed me to "t
ake care nothing happens" when she'd spoken to me earlier? I could let this girl go, continue my duties as if nothing
had
happened, and still be obeying the letter of my orders. She'd grow up without he
scorching
, free of the fetters binding humanity to a dull and robotic existence. What might someone like that accomplish?

~

"Do we have a problem?" The warden bent to stare into the carriage. Little Penelope hid her head.

"Mam, the bonnet's malfunctioned. I don't believe it's done its job." The words tumbled dutifully from my lips.

I felt no sense of betrayal, no sadness. The
scorching
wouldn't allow it. I did feel a twinge of loss, as if I'd misplaced something uniquely important, but I could not hold the sensation for long.

"Well, put it aside then."

"The girl?"