Four people away from me on the conveyor belt, Wilkins screams. One of the robots behind us marches toward him, taking its time. Wilkins is clutching his wrist—not his hand, because there’s no longer a hand there. Blood is spurting in rhythmic squirts, like a broken water main, coating all the mechanical equipment.
Wilkins works on the combine press. He has to be quick with it. Otherwise, the press’ll come down on his hands before he’s finished aligning the chassis. Wilkins is sixty years old. His reaction time has slowed to where he could no longer do his job.
The robot clamps its metal claw onto Wilkins’s arm. It keeps its yellow headlight eyes straight ahead and starts marching down the conveyor belt, like a demonic Tin Man.
“Jesus, no,” Wilkins says. “No, it’s okay. It’s fine.” Meanwhile, he’s getting pale.
The robot ignores him, and continues dragging him away. Wilkins struggles, but it’s like trying to get away from a moving car with your hand caught in the door. All he does is lose his footing while the robot marches to the end of the factory. They turn left and enter a door that no one ever comes out of. Presumably, that’s where they take us to get gassed, or recycled into food, or whatever it is they do with the useless.
That’s how they all end up once you get too old, or too slow to do your job anymore. You can’t get out of the way when the cutter comes across or you let three assemblies go by with loose or missing screws. You lose an arm, or a face, and the robots drag you away while you’re still bleeding.
I keep doing my job while this is going on, even though the conveyor belt has stopped. I almost weld a hole into the machine.
In five minutes, someone emerges from the common room. Someone who was sleeping five minutes ago. He walks up to Wilkins’s station. The conveyor belt grinds and starts moving again. He handles the combine press with ease, like he does this in his sleep. But I can tell he’s trying to ignore the blood on the press sticking to his fingers.
***
The pulp science-fiction stories have come true. We built intelligent robots. There was a war. And we lost.
The robots wasted no time in seizing control. They decimated the world. They eliminated everything unnecessary to their existence, keeping only what humans needed to survive. Air, some clean water, non-radioactive dirt for food, and the factories provided shelter.
The factories. All the towns, all the cities, were bombed out. All the homes were wasted, consumed for resources. Now, there are only isolated factories on the barren landscape.
Every surface, every piece of equipment, is the same color as the metal it is made from. The only colors I see that aren’t gray, silver, or black are our human skin and hair, covered in the fine dust of metal shavings.
Every day we stand beside one of three long conveyor belts that stretch from one end of the factory to the other. Black and silver parts come down the belt and stop in front of us. We drill, chisel, solder, hammer, wrench, or assemble something on the chassis while our robot overlords watch. They’ve never told us what it is we’re making.
But I have to find out.
Taking over the world was the logical direction towards preserving their existence. Why they keep humans around, I don’t know. It defies all logic, and it drives me crazy. It must have something to do with what they’re building. If I find out what it is, I’ll know why the robots keep us.
I’m a welder. I weld for twelve hours a day, every day. Three joints across a box-like assembly that’s half completed—exposed sockets for wires and holes for transistors that get inserted down the line. Three pre-marked lines. Left to right, left to right, left to right.
The boxes become something about eighteen inches high—a rat’s nest of wires and circuitry encased in an obsidian cover. I’ve never seen it turned on or tested. Maybe they’re computers. Maybe they’re parts for other robots. My brain itches every night with possibilities.
At the end of twelve hours, two things happen. The second shift emerges from the common room, and the truck driver, David, arrives. We all converge on the garage door in the middle of the factory, waiting for it to open.
The truck trailer has two sides. One side is empty—the second shift puts the assembled machines inside. The other is filled to the ceiling with the parts second shift needs to do their job. They don’t know what the machines are for either. It’s funny that, to them, we’re the second shift.
We don’t stop working until every bin of screws, nails, wires, fuses, microchips, motherboards, and circuits are out of the truck. Then the robots’ windowed eyes go from yellow to blue, indicating that second shift has started.
The second shift truck driver takes David’s spot, and the garage door shuts. We’re done. The second shift fills the bins with the spare parts and tops off the fuel tanks. David walks with us into one of the two common rooms, corresponding to our assigned shift.
I have to find out what they’re building. Twelve hours a day, I stare at these things. And I have no idea what they do. That’s not right. Maybe they’re for bigger robots. Maybe they’re part of a collective robot brain. Why don’t they tell us what they’re for?
After twelve hours of work, we spend the other twelve in the common room. You can do whatever you want during this time. There are beds in the back. Otherwise, there are amusements for when we’re not sleeping, bathing, or taking care of bodily functions.
A line immediately forms in front of the drug dispensary. The first guy presses his thumb to a sensor. You can see his tension melt away as it delivers a twelve-hour dose of narcotic—a synthetic drug made by the robots. It has no side effects, no dependency, no letdown. The robots don’t want someone working with a hangover, or any illness for that matter. If you’re not at your station, the robots drag you there. And every thirty seconds you’re not working, they shock you.
For the people who don’t go straight to the drugs, they go behind one of the curtained beds and spend their time screwing, simply because there’s nothing else to do. We think there’s some sterilization thing in the food or water. They take it out when they need more workers.
Besides that, the robots don’t care much about what we do in the off-shift, as long as you don’t interfere with the machine-building process. If I wanted to, I could walk up and down the factory floor. In fact, I have done that on several occasions, trying to figure out what they’re building. It’s too packed to dispense food. It doesn’t look like it plugs into anything.
Otherwise, there’s video games, television, and other diversions. Another dispensary provides food. You can get as much as you want, as long as what you want is a pink plasticky cake containing all your daily nutrients.
And a window. That’s where I’m looking, wondering why they would give us a window. The only thing it looks onto is the gray wasteland. Just desert and dark skies. The darkest blobs are angular boxes pinpricked with light—the other factories—the robotic strongholds. All manufacturing machines night and day. And no one knows what for.
They think I’m looking out the window, but I’m waiting. I don’t know why today is the day instead of any other. Maybe because Wilkins drove it home. Maybe because I’m another day older, another day where my response time has gotten a little slower. Maybe because every day is like the last. There is no better day.
The drug dispensary line wanes. Most people sit on couches and sofas, enjoying the peak of the euphoria that comes with the first hit. Everyone works their twelve hours so they can get to the next twelve hours of bread and circuses. I think the drug has some chemical in it to drive away ambition. There hasn’t been a rebellion that went beyond a guy throwing a tool in frustration. The robots’ eyes turned red, and they converged on him.
They chat about the world that used to be, or Wilkins, or go in back to sleep until the shift begins again. We used to talk about what the robots were making, or why they needed human labor to do it. No one cares now.
After an hour, a blonde woman pulls away the curtain from one of the sex beds. She wanders off to the water dispenser. I casually walk away from the window and head towards the bed she just left. When I pull back the curtain, David is there, stirring under the pink sheet.
“Hey, David,” I say. I would ask how his day was, but there’s no point. Every day is the same.
“Hey,” he responds sleepily. “What’s up?”
“Listen, I’ve been thinking it over. I’m thinking there’s a way to find out what they’re making. Or at least to communicate with the other factories.”
“Mm-hm,” he says. He’s in a sex-induced haze. But he’s always been receptive to ideas of rebellion. We all talk about the glory days, sitting on the couch after a visit to the drug dispenser. I used to be one of them.
“All we need to do is have someone switch places with a truck driver. Then, that person switches with that factory’s truck driver. The robots won’t care as long as there’s a warm body doing the job.”
He arches an eyebrow at me and props himself up on his elbows. “Don’t they keep track of who’s doing what?”
“No, I tried it with Jones. I switched with him one day; they didn’t even care.”
He thinks for a moment. “That actually might work.”
“I’m willing to do it. To take the risk. I just need a truck driver.”
“I’m a truck driver. But the problem is, I couldn’t do your job. I don’t know anything about welding. I’m sure I’d fuck up three times, and then that’d be the end of me.”
This was the inevitable question, and I had prepared for it. “I know. I’ve got a way around that. But it’s only going to work once.”
Like I said—trillions of calculations per second, but not terribly observant. I’ve been practicing slipping it in and out of my sleeve for more than three months during sleep time. I started with a fork, then moved up to heavier things, visualizing the action for months.
The elapsed time from when I brought the screwdriver out of my sleeve to when I shoved it through David’s throat is less than a second. Rich, red blood flows out of his neck like a bubbling brook. It doesn’t spurt like I thought it would. His eyes pop out of his head. He gurgles softly, puts a hand to his throat, then falls back on the pillow.
“Good night, sweet prince,” I say. I take his clothing from the floor and put it on. Then, I lie next to him as the sheets soak up the blood and wait until morning. It’s the least I can do—no one should die alone. David is a necessary casualty to the cause. He’s dying so I can find out what the machines do. It’s a grander fate than any of us have on the assembly line.
Hours later, a buzzy electronic alarm sounds, along with the vents opening, hissing in the wake-up gas. The doors open and we all saunter out, already dressed.
I pull my cap low and hunker down. David and I look enough alike—brown hair, medium height, young faces—to fool casual observers. Staying near the back, so no one notices me, I walk out the exact same door as David. I’ve been watching him so I could copy his stance and gait.
I glance at the crowd to make sure no one’s looking at me. No one is. I wheel a large bin of completed machines from the end of the conveyor belt up to the loading track. The robots don’t care if I look at them, but I can’t pick one up or they would think I was interfering. Maybe they’re decorations, like sculptures for robots.
The second-shift truck driver opens the door and steps out. He gives me a nod as he heads toward the common room. I’ve met the last obstacle before the point of no return and gone past it. I hoist myself into the cab and face the darkness of the tunnel leading out.
Maybe they sell the devices. Maybe they’re delivered across the world and sold to other robots who can use them. Or to aliens.
There’s only a steering wheel. No controls, no gauges, no gas pedal. Just a bench and a windshield. I have no idea how to start this thing. But before I can panic, the trailer door rattles shut. They’re done loading.
I twist back and forth in the seat, looking for a button or switch. If I don’t start driving, the robots are going to get suspicious. How many seconds do I have left before they catch on? Ten… nine…
The van starts off. I bolt upright. Pitch blackness surrounds me, can’t see a thing, but the van feels like it’s moving. I feel like I’ve been swallowed by a whale. The steering wheel drifts of its own accord. I grab it and focus on keeping the truck in a straight line.
After a minute, I see a dim dot of light. It’s the end of the tunnel. The truck emerges outside. Through the windshield, I can see the churning black clouds, the ash-colored earth. Skeletal building foundations sit like half-built toys in the sand.
Evenly spaced pylons mark the road, each slowly flashing a feeble red light in the polluted fog. I guide the truck between them at an automatically controlled pace.
For six hours, I drive through the landscape, making a gentle curve every now and then. One black dot looms larger than the rest. Another factory. I’m heading straight for it.
Once I’m close enough, the wheel freezes and locks. The truck slows down, stops, and makes a three-point turn. It backs into the loading dock with perfect precision. This is it. I open the door.
It’s locked. I guess I’m not supposed to get out of the van. This must be why the truck drivers never say what’s happening with their deliveries. They never get out, so they never know. The truck drives to the factory, delivers its cargo, then heads straight back. The entire process takes twelve hours.
I’ve got to get out of here. I don’t have much time before they’re done. The only thing I can do is kick at the windshield, which I do. Slam, slam, slam. My shins feel like they’re bending back.
I hear the trailer door open. People are climbing in. They’re probably taking the assembled machines out now. I have to get out of here before the truck takes off again. I must find out where they’re taking those machines. One more kick and the windshield pops out.
I crawl out onto the hood and look back through the thin slit between the garage and truck. There’s a factory beyond, just like mine, with three conveyor belts dotted with machine parts. Silver and black everywhere. People gather around the trailer, taking boxes off the truck.
There’s a vent shaft over the cab. No cover, because they never expected humans beyond this point. I climb onto the top of the truck and hoist myself in.
I can barely breathe from all the dust. The seams between vents scrape up my hands. I feel like a mouse running in a maze, making blind left and right turns towards where I think the factory floor is. As far as I know, no one’s following me. I can’t hear a thing. Do the robots know I’m in here? They could gas me or shoot me or firebomb me any second.
I can’t let David’s death be in vain.
There’s a light and a grate at the end of the next turn. No idea where it goes, or if anything’s in front of it. I push open the grate, and it clangs against the floor. Shit. I slide out.
I’m in the observer’s booth—a glass-walled balcony where the robots can watch us. It’s at the same level as the roof scaffolding, high enough to see the entire factory floor, and all the little heads moving around. There are gauges and computer screens here—monitoring tools—but no one’s in here.
I can see everything. People are working on the conveyor belts, tinkering with the machines, setting out parts. The robots are patrolling the floor, but not with their usual passive cadence.
One looks up at the booth and points. His eyes turn from yellow to bright red. It opens its mouth, and a siren blares. I’ve now caused enough risk to their operation for them to take notice.
The robots march for the stairs leading up to the observation booth. This is not good. I exit the booth on the other side, but the robots are coming up there too, pinching me in. I can’t let them catch me. If I do, I’d never learn the secret.
The scaffolding. I might be able to jump to it. Not much choice as the robots march closer. I climb onto the railing and leap off—a leap of faith. My hands grab onto the cutting metal bar of their own accord. The robots convene at my previous position on the stairs as I climb up. One of them extends its arms and grabs onto the railing.
I crawl out farther along the rafters. The humans don’t look up. They’re going about their work, but I can’t tell what it is. They must be under the same rules as us—they can’t stop unless the belt does. What do they do with those machines? A large pallet of black boxes is being moved to the beginning of the belt. Whatever they do, they start there.
Some of the robots are gathering under my position. The others are climbing after me. They don’t need to move fast. They know I’m not going anywhere.
The tools hanging from the ceiling are blocking my view. I crawl closer to the beginning of the conveyor belt, balancing on the thin rebar. I don’t grab right—my hand is sweaty from nerves. My fingers slip off the bar. The world spins around.
My legs clamp up and hook together on the girder. I hang from the rafters upside down. I can’t hold this position for long. More robots are collecting below me. They’ve got me now. But from here, I can see everything.
Someone puts a machine on the beginning of the conveyor belt. The next person pries off the cover. After that, someone uses a drill and removes a part from the chassis. She puts it in a yellow bin. Further down the line, people are using screwdrivers and acetylene torches on the device. They are picking off parts and throwing them in the bins at their feet. Further down, the machine has disintegrated into a few motherboards and circuits. The people at the end of the belt put the green plates into white bins and shut them.
They’re taking them apart.
The realization hits me. I don’t know what to feel. So, I feel it all at once. I no longer know anything.
I smile and release my grip on the rafters. The ground rises to meet me, and I close my eyes.
