Industrial Microfiction.
Round about midday Horatio doesn't feel so good anymore. He sets down the train he's carrying in its cradle, planning to return later to repair it. He's always been a good worker. He walks a few steps, suddenly stumbles, and makes for the restroom. He doesn't want anyone to see him like this.
It's his heart.
Horatio is a cyborg, designed, built and bred for heavy lifting and industrial work on a vast scale. He's ten feet tall, his bones are made from an exotic alloy, his muscles are a network of nano-fibres that contract when his brain sends them pulses of electricity from other nano-fibres of a different sort that run throughout his body, carrying electricity. Carrying it from his heart.
His heart is a nuclear reactor, an atomic dynamo, with fuel that will last five hundred years. It burns brightly, deep within his chest. Not as bright as the sun, but brightly enough. Too brightly, lately.
He staggers past the backs of the exhibits in the archaeotech wing of the museum, nerves on fire, blood pounding, trying not to sweat. His blood carries nutrients and oxygen to those parts of him that are still biological, and also serves as the carrier for a horde of repair nano-bots that do their best to keep his system functioning, but it's been a long time since his last scheduled maintenance. Too long. Things are getting out of control.
He collapses into a stall in the restroom, barely fitting. He wouldn't fit, except that it's the employee restroom and they were contractually obligated to reprogram it. He wishes they hadn't had to reprogram it, said that he didn't need a restroom, but today he's glad they did. Breathing heavily, he pats through his pockets.
His reactor is running hot, hotter every day. Some complex piece of regulatory machinery must've broken, he doesn't know. All he knows is that all the control rods are in, and they aren't enough anymore. If he lets it get out of hand, the graphite of the control rods will catch fire, or melt, or something, and the reactor will follow suit. On what he makes, as an exhibit and as a curator, he can't afford to get himself fixed, not really. Not without needing to ask for help, at least.
His hand finds what he's seeking, a mechanical pencil, number 2 lead hardness, cherry red. He borrowed it from one of the 20th century exhibits last week. He clicks a good section of graphite out from the pencil, stares at it for a moment, and then jabs it deep into a vein in his other arm, breaking it off in the same motion.
The lead, not pure graphite by any means, but better than nothing, floats down his vein towards the heart. The nanomachines will know how to use it, how to keep Horatio fit to work, at least for awhile. They're good workers, those nanobots. They do what needs to be done, and they don't ask for special consideration from their employers.
(C) Zach Weber, September 6th, 2005.
It's his heart.
Horatio is a cyborg, designed, built and bred for heavy lifting and industrial work on a vast scale. He's ten feet tall, his bones are made from an exotic alloy, his muscles are a network of nano-fibres that contract when his brain sends them pulses of electricity from other nano-fibres of a different sort that run throughout his body, carrying electricity. Carrying it from his heart.
His heart is a nuclear reactor, an atomic dynamo, with fuel that will last five hundred years. It burns brightly, deep within his chest. Not as bright as the sun, but brightly enough. Too brightly, lately.
He staggers past the backs of the exhibits in the archaeotech wing of the museum, nerves on fire, blood pounding, trying not to sweat. His blood carries nutrients and oxygen to those parts of him that are still biological, and also serves as the carrier for a horde of repair nano-bots that do their best to keep his system functioning, but it's been a long time since his last scheduled maintenance. Too long. Things are getting out of control.
He collapses into a stall in the restroom, barely fitting. He wouldn't fit, except that it's the employee restroom and they were contractually obligated to reprogram it. He wishes they hadn't had to reprogram it, said that he didn't need a restroom, but today he's glad they did. Breathing heavily, he pats through his pockets.
His reactor is running hot, hotter every day. Some complex piece of regulatory machinery must've broken, he doesn't know. All he knows is that all the control rods are in, and they aren't enough anymore. If he lets it get out of hand, the graphite of the control rods will catch fire, or melt, or something, and the reactor will follow suit. On what he makes, as an exhibit and as a curator, he can't afford to get himself fixed, not really. Not without needing to ask for help, at least.
His hand finds what he's seeking, a mechanical pencil, number 2 lead hardness, cherry red. He borrowed it from one of the 20th century exhibits last week. He clicks a good section of graphite out from the pencil, stares at it for a moment, and then jabs it deep into a vein in his other arm, breaking it off in the same motion.
The lead, not pure graphite by any means, but better than nothing, floats down his vein towards the heart. The nanomachines will know how to use it, how to keep Horatio fit to work, at least for awhile. They're good workers, those nanobots. They do what needs to be done, and they don't ask for special consideration from their employers.
(C) Zach Weber, September 6th, 2005.