Aeroparts Factory (2 page)

One of the policemen went to fetch a sheet in
which they could wrap the body. "The honest and law-abiding people
stole the lamps from the carriage," he announced. "Again." His
words were taken in by his colleagues in silence; a silence that
allowed Bromsky's snicker to be heard. Two policemen picked up the
packaged body and carried it out of Bromsky's, surrounded by the
others. Goggles, ungoggled now, followed them, his big bag in hand.
Bromsky was left to clean the table and the chair.

-=-=-

The next morning life came to the street in its
normal way. Men carrying satchels left their houses and formed
groups. Among these men were Martin Phelps and his friend Bass,
whose official name was Sebastian Crowler. When all were more or
less accounted for, through some unseen social mechanism, they made
their way to the yard where they worked; the same yard that they
had been chased away from the day before. The men went through the
mostly silent streets like a small and deformed battalion.
Discussions went back and forth among them, until they reached the
factory.

The wall around the factory was built with red
bricks, but the lack of morning light overcame the cheerful
intentions of the architect. The iron portcullis-like gate was
already open. It looked like a gaping mouth, its metal teeth
threatening everyone who dared enter. Over it, a huge sign informed
anyone interested that they had reached the Aeroparts Factory. The
legion of men that came in through the gate fell apart once inside;
they formed smaller groups that would scatter over the various
areas of the yard to do their work. At Aeroparts, parts were made
for the large airships that were assembled in huge halls and
factories not far away.

Martin Phelps walked along with three others. He
hadn't witnessed how the accident had actually happened, but rumour
had it that one of the automatons that handled the cranes had
malfunctioned. Apparently it had released the metal rib of an
airship too early, a rib that had to be painted. It had been
painted red now, Martin grimly thought. He wondered if the
automaton really had been at fault. After all, these metal men had
been going for years without fail.

"Hello, you men." The four stopped their slow
walk as their foreman, Mr. Masterson, addressed them. "You'll be
working painting again today. Production there was delayed
yesterday, so you'll have to put in a few more hours. Now get a
move on."

Martin looked at his fellows. Fat Burke did not
seem to mind, as usual. He could be an automaton, for all Martin
knew, except for when it came to eating and drinking. Ratty Matty
Jones scowled at the foreman but said nothing. Bass shrugged. "Are
you sure it's safe out there, sir?" Martin asked Mr. Masterson. "I
mean, with what happened there yesterday."

Mr. Masterson dropped his hands into his pockets
without losing the roll of paper that was under his arm. "Of
course. Today's not yesterday." The tone of his voice made it clear
that this was the last word he had for them, so the four men
shuffled off to the paint pit.

The four high cranes seemed more threatening
than usual. A big rafter hung from one of them, lightly swinging in
the breeze that blew through the enormous open doors. The
automatons that handled the cranes sat on top of the high
constructions, not moving and not caring...

-=-=-

"I swear it, the automaton looked at us as if it
wanted to kill us," Martin said, later that day at Bromsky's. Every
chair around the table was occupied, even when there were still
many tables vacant at this hour.

Nothing bad had happened at the factory that
day, but Martin and his fellows had not had a relaxed day. A few
times they had been ordered to leave their workplace, while
policemen and folks in suits had swarmed over the area all over
again, examining the crane. Martin was reasonably convinced that
also the automatons had been checked, although he could not be
certain. And one of the pieces they had been coating had been
pushed around and thereby ruined, so they'd had to polish it and
start all over on top of the extra hours.

"Anyone here by the name of Martin Phelps?" a
sudden voice asked over all the talking people who promptly fell
silent. Martin looked up. "Who wants to know?" A man in a long
black coat, wearing white gloves and a hat, looked over at him. "I
want to know. I need to speak with Mr. Phelps." There was a cane in
the man's fingers, it's tip pointing at Martin. The strange visitor
looked painfully out of place.

Martin frowned and looked at his mates. They
looked back as much in wonder as he did. "I'm Phelps," Martin then
said.

"I suspected so much. Would you please step
outside with me?" The voice of the gentleman sounded as if it was
wrapped in silk.

Martin grabbed his beer and gulped that down.
After all, he thought, he did not know when he'd be back. "Right
back, I hope," he told his friends as he stood up.

Once outside, the man introduced himself as Sir
Hillary Baldwin. "Here is my transport," Sir Baldwin said, pointing
at a carriage propelled by a spluttering steam engine. The carriage
was black, void of any ornament or marking that could give away its
origin, or the identity of its owner. On top of the contraption sat
a man who was so plain he defied any description. "Would you please
get in, I have urgent matters to discuss with you, Mr. Phelps."

"Urgent matters, eh? At this time of day? And
why can't we talk in there?" Martin asked, nodding his head at the
pub.

"Mr. Phelps, the matter at hand is rather
serious and delicate. I would prefer to discuss this somewhere more
private. If you'd please..."

With a shrug Martin got into the carriage. The
blue upholstery was a surprise to him. He had expected the usual
red that was so loved by the uppity classes. It looked expensive
though. Perhaps there was some good coin in it for him.

Soon they were away from the streets he knew.
Far away. "So when are you going to bring up them urgent matters?"
Martin could not hold back his curiosity.

"Soon, Mr. Phelps. Soon." Martin half understood
why the talking had to wait: the engine of the carriage was so loud
that a decent conversation wouldd not be possible.

Finally the ride was over. The workman had
noticed they were in a part of town where mostly businesses were
housed. They were standing in front of a building two storeys high
and built of grey stone. Sir Baldwin and Martin left the shaking
car with its noisy engine. They were silently greeted by a man in a
doorman's uniform. He let Martin and the strange gentleman into a
building without a word. Two skinny pillars guarded the door they
went through, and soon Martin found himself in a small room lit by
two large oil lamps. Sir Baldwin sat down on a chair and pointed
his cane at the other one that was in the room.

"You were at the factory today." It almost
sounded as an accusation.

"So? It's my job, I have to be there," Martin
responded.

"I know," said the man in the black coat. "Which
is why I have to talk with you. First though, I want you to
understand that this meeting should remain among us."

Martin frowned. "And if it doesn't?"

Sir Baldwin leaned back in his chair. "In that
case, you will find that accidents can happen in the strangest
places, Mr. Phelps."

Martin jumped up, making the chair fall over.
The sound of the wood scraping over the floor reverberated loudly
in the otherwise empty room. "You're not threatening me, are
you?"

The smile of the gentleman was calm and cold.
"No, of course not, Mr. Phelps. I make promises, no threats. Now if
you would please sit down."

Martin picked up the chair and sat down. He did
not feel at ease.

"Mr. Phelps," Sir Baldwin said, "yesterday there
was an... unfortunate accident on the workfloor of the factory. It
was not part of the original plan."

"Not part of..." Martin stared at the gentleman.
The hairs in his neck started tickling. "What plan?"

This time it was Sir Baldwin who got up. "We
planned to drop the rib from the crane. Alas, something went wrong
in the timing, but it did add to the drama." The tip of the cane
suddenly rested on Martin's chest. "We are in need of someone who
is able to invoke a few more of those accidents."

Martin stared at the cane, then in the calm face
of the man holding it. "What? Who are you? I'm not having anything
of that." He slapped the cane aside and got up for a moment. Before
Martin knew what the man opposite him was up to, the cane hit him
hard against the temple. The inside of his skull lit up in a most
painful way.

"Mr. Phelps. Please. Do sit down again, it will
make things less hurtful." Sir Baldwin then explained, with his
silken voice, that he was a member of a group that wanted to
eradicate the automatons that were working in the factory. "They
are dangers on metal legs, Mr. Phelps. Many things can go wrong
with these metal men around. As you have seen. And we need your
assistance to prove that these things will indeed go wrong..."

The next morning Martin went to work as if
nothing had happened. His friends had been in a rush to find him,
and Ratty Matty was the first one who tried to pry from him what
had happened.

The talk with Sir Baldwin had left quite an
impression on Martin. Several, actually, as the spot where the cane
had landed against his face was clearly visible. As Matty commented
on the new dent in his friend's face, Martin told him that the talk
had been about nothing special. "And I just ran into something."
Fat Burke, as he joined the two, just muttered his usual 'hullo'
and stomped along. Bass was more persistent than Matty, but also he
was not able to get anything out of Martin.

Martin was not entirely happy with himself, but
Baldwin had mentioned a reward for his services. A royal reward,
even. The amount at stake was more than Martin had seen in his
whole life. He was willing to obstruct the workings of an automaton
for that kind of money. After all, once that was done he'd be rich
and could quit the job. He'd be very careful also, when he was
going to execute his instructions. None of the folks working at the
factory would get hurt.

"C'mon, Marty, you can talk to us. We're
friends, remember the word?" Matty tried again as they walked onto
the yard. Martin looked at the man with the pointy nose and the
face ravaged by smallpox.

"I know, Matty. I'll tell to you when I can,
okay?"

Bass and Matty nodded. "Sure. Just don't forget
who you can trust." Fat Burke did not spend words on it, he was
probably thinking about lunch break already.

The four walked to the paint pit. Martin felt
nervous and fought to ignore the feeling. In several places he saw
automatons walk, carrying heavy material from one spot to the next,
to be processed, packaged or shipped. Nothing seemed wrong with the
machine men, Martin thought, but who could tell what was going on
inside their metal heads. Their eyes just seemed to stare, they did
not tell you anything. When one of the automatons, carrying a long
spike, which was used to connect a gondola to the actual airship,
stepped up to him at an insanely fast pace, Martin's heartbeat went
up. "Watch out!" he yelled, pushing Ratty Matty and Bass to the
side. Shoving Fat Burke would not have made a difference, so Martin
prayed for the best and leapt out of the machine man's way.

The automaton came to a full halt a few feet
away from them. The spike was at safe distance, no one would have
gotten hurt.

"What the hell is wrong with you, Martin?" asked
Bass as he got to his feet and looked for his hat. "You know these
things don't run you over. They never do."

Martin, still sitting on the ground, looked at
the automaton and then at Bass. "Could be the first time. Danny got
knocked dead by one two days ago, remember?"

Bass grabbed Martin by the arm and pulled him to
his feet. "Come on, wake up. It was an accident. Work waits, and
tea." As they walked off, the automaton proceeded to where it was
going. Fast.

They reached the paint pit. All four cranes were
loaded with enormous parts that had to get done that day. The light
that came down through the large glass roof cast big shadows on the
floor, giving their workplace a gloomy touch. The slowly swaying
parts looked as if an invisible giant was toying with them.

Martin peered upwards. The automatons sat on the
cranes, silent and awaiting their orders. He knew one specific
order that he would issue that day. Looking over his shoulder, he
saw the eight metal men standing against the wall. They were
silent, dead, and would remain so until they were ordered to lift
heavy parts. Suddenly the whole situation scared him.

"Phelps!" a voice shouted. Martin recognised it.
It came from their least liked shift leader. "Get your arse up the
ladders and light the lamps. It's like bloody night in here and I
don't want you blokes to mess up today's production!"

Martin shrugged, and letting out a sigh he went
to fetch a burning candle. It took him quite a while to light all
the big oil lamps that were put up on the huge steel pillars that
supported part of the roof. Each time he was on the ladder, mounted
to a pillar, he stared at the automatons on the cranes. Five
thousand pounds, he thought. After today, I will be rich. And
they're just machines. Who cares. Dangerous machines too. Men can
do that work as well. Sir Baldwin was right. Still, as he lit the
last lamp, his hand trembled.

After adjusting the big mirror that would
reflect the light to the right spot, Martin climbed down. He put on
the big leather apron and the goggles. Then the men got to work,
coating the first of the large ribs that were waiting for their
brushes.

-=-=-

Martin was the first one to return to the pit
after the lunch break. He had come up with some lame excuse to
leave early. Matty, Burke and Bass had looked at him quaintly, but
they had not asked questions. Martin was glad about that, he hated
lying to his friends. But he also had his job to do, and he did not
want people around. Nobody was going to get hurt, he promised
himself.