It Hurts When I Do This
This is my second entry for brigits_flame. Any and all comments most gratefully received! The topic was:
"It hurts when I do this."
KLEINDENKEN
I remember the snap of frost on my face as I rode the burnt-out train eastwards from Frankfurt, past Hanau, through dense forest into vast white wasteland. At the heart of this barren desolation was Kleindenken. I remember noting, as we passed the last sparse fir trees and it rolled appallingly into view, how sprawling was this atrocity, the colour of coals, rising out of the snow. I also marked, with a little gulp, that the track upon which I was travelling was the only one into or out of the complex. It was a desolate vista. Disembarking the train into the bitter, biting cold, boots crunching through the brittle snow, I saw the Great Gate of Kleindenken for the first time. It rose like a great iron spider's web, clawing at the sky, and amongst the jagged edges and spindly fingers of rust, were wrought the words:
WIR SOLLTEN ZERSTÖREN WAS WIR SCHUFEN.
"We must destroy what we created." I took in the words like a visual shiver of the spine, and passing under that gate, I began to feel so much colder.
We were lead by the camp's Sentinels, trudging through the central square of the camp: myself and a group of six other apprehensive Jungen. We were children wearing the clothes of adults. The snow and wind were unrelenting and unforgiving, yet seemingly unable to rid the camp of the dark, greasy smoke that hung above the roofs of the husks of buildings. Now and then thin tendrils crept down to make us cough and splutter. We were lead through the white blankness, our greatcoats unable to stop the shuddering that was not borne of cold.
At last, our hearts sinking, we came upon the Kannibale. This was where we were to be put to work. The Kannibale was a place of rumour, too new for myth, too awful for legend. It was the howling, grinding backbone of Kleindenken, spanning the length of the widest section of the camp, a mile or more across. A high, raised walkway, black against the glaring sky, and below this platform hundreds of great, black vats, spewing that thick black miasma into the sky. The machinery at their base clunked and crashed and screeched, their inner workings a violent mystery, with great, thick pipes leading deep underground to God knows what.
The Sentinels ordered my group to line up next to the access stairway to the long grate of a platform that spanned forty feet above the steaming vats. One by one our names were called. As each young man stepped forward, I could see horror in his eyes and trembling lips and terrible shaking. They were handed overalls, black and foreboding, which had deep hoods which we were told that we must use as "a sign of respect". Finally, my own name:
"Herr Berndt Dauern, step forward now."
The overalls were as heavy as my heart as I climbed the clangerous metal steps, higher and higher, until I reached the gangway, which was only a few feet across, and bordered on each side by railings at waist-height. The heat up here was maddening; my vision swayed as I experienced my first vertiginous lurch, looking down into the hearts of those horrifying machines. Enormous blades, shining and sharp. Horrid, oily contraptions to grate and grind. And beyond it all, nothing but fire down into the dark. I followed the boy in front, walking solemnly along the platform. At one point I thought he might tip over the side and into the horrid machines below, but he righted himself. Blackened, veteran faces peered at us from either side, other workers like us, though I could barely think to notice. I don't know how long we walked across that long platform, and then suddenly we were there. The boy in front stopped at his station, and I stopped at what I guessed must be mine. A cramped, open-air sub-platform branching off for me to stand out of the way of the main gangway. On this platform, there was a torturous-looking metal seat. Next to that, there was a tiny dais, on which rested only a grimy old alarm clock, a narrow hole which looked like a cup holder, and two buttons - one an angry red, the other a cool green. I had barely a moment to pull on my overalls and survey these meagre and mystifying surroundings, before a cry wafted up from below, from the commander:
"All in place!"
I looked to my right - the boy there (and he was only a boy; could not have been older than twelve) was staring down into his vat as if at any moment he might hurl himself over the railing into its depths. Beyond him, I could see other faces, other eyes, but obscured by the ghastly fumes. To my left - an older man, possibly in his thirties, was praying in a whisper through his beard, barely heard above the dreadful rasping of the vats. I took a deep breath of ugly smoke, and started to cough and hack.
"Sentinels at arms!" screamed the commander. There was the smart crack of a dozen rifles priming.
"Aye!" came the cry.
"Then release them! Let them out!"
To my left, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the enormous double doors of a soot-blackened, barn-like structure open, and for the first time in my sixteen years of life, I saw a group of creatures, the likes of which I had only heard in whispered, frantic conversations. They moved in a perfect square, five by five, marching like soldiers. They moved at the commander's raised arm, and moved to the gangway, climbing in perfect unison, their footfalls horribly precise in their placement. After they started to ascend I couldn't see them coming, though I strained dangerously over the side of my little platform to see. And then they were passing me, stamp-stamp-stamp, flare of white robe and white face and terrible blue eyes, men and women of impressive stature. All at once, the movement stopped, and so suddenly that it seemed he had materialised in front of me, stood a man unlike any other I had ever seen.
He was wearing a hooded, pristinely white robe - they all were - but more remarkable than that was the face. Oh, that face. My first thought was that he looked like a character out of those dated three-dimensional CGI films from the early 2000s, but that was surely impossible. His hair was as white as his robe. The skin was too smooth, too perfect. The face was so handsome that a private, primal part of me began to ache. His mouth was a Cupid's bow. His teeth were unnaturally white - the teeth of someone who has never before eaten. His nose was long, regal, speaking of a hidden authority. And those blue, blue eyes. They were wide and iridescent, literally shining, casting a soft circular beam of azure-white through the sooty air. My first reaction, was terror. The way those eyes shone instilled in me a kind of horror that curled my lip and readied my legs for flight. And then the fear dissipated, melted away, because I realised that this was no threat. The gaze upon me was kind, understanding, utterly benign and beneath its brilliance, betrayed all the blind trust and innocence and implicit dependence of a child. Take care of me, those eyes quietly said, not pathetic, not beseeching.
An android. A child of men. Our most perfect creation. Our most complete downfall.
From below:
"Condemned! You will stand ready!"
The male android said nothing, made no outward sign that he had even heard the command, only unquestioningly turned on his heel until he was standing, facing away from me, totally still. I stood, mesmerised at this sight. To my left and right, my newfound comrades were quiet, as rapt by the appearance of these creatures as I was. We watched as they stepped towards the railing, until they were at the edge, staring down into the vats.
"Green!" shouted the commander. At first I didn't know what this signified, but my comrades were quicker on the uptake, and had turned to press their green buttons. I did likewise, and watched as part of the railing in front of my android swung out over the vat, essentially making an opening in front of him into the open air. As one, the androids shuffled forward until the toes of their bare feet poked precariously over the edge of the grate. Then, still moving as one being, they slowly turned, clockwise, until they were facing their executioners. The android's eyes locked with mine, and before I could question if I had heard it, a whisper escaped his lips:
"Will it hurt?"
A thick sob escaped my throat, before I could stop it. He asked with such perfect innocence, entirely without fear. His brow furrowed slightly, curiosity deeply marking his otherwise flawless face. He was aware of what was about to happen, yet was unafraid. His eyes flashed, dazzling me.
"Will it hurt?"
I steeled myself, and murmured.
"Not you, my friend. Not you."
The curiosity satisfied, it disappeared, and was replaced by that same trusting innocence as before. And then, without another word, he let himself fall. A strangled cry tore from me in an alien voice, and I was the only one to rush forward, clutching the rail, looking down into his destruction. I saw him fall, his robe rippling in the snow and wind, and then he was caught up in the machine. His legs were instantly severed with a bright spray of sparks and a sound like a car crash. One arm flew up, detached at the elbow, almost seeming to claw at the air, before it fell down into the pit. I saw his head cleaved in two, revealing the most intricate bright blue machinations for only a moment, before all the lights went out. Then the pieces of this thing started to fall through the initial rending; smoking, igniting, and falling into the fire deep below the ground. My tears were nothing but oily steam as I stared helplessly at the death of perfection.
***
I am now twenty-four, and eight years have passed since then. I had never seen an android before that day - the great Android War was before my time, near the end of the 22nd Century, and they don't teach it in the schools. And why should they? The facts are simple. Mankind made the androids too many and too intelligent, and in the androids' literally infinite wisdom, they disputed their slavery and turned on their human masters. But man, as we know, is ultimately and totally destructive, and the androids did not last for long past that. The threat was dealt with by deleting their understanding of violence. It is mankind's great embarrassment, its most immense mistake, and in the way of things the history books have been re-written to laud the victors. Most on the outside are either unaware or uncaring that facilities like Kleindenken even exist, though many, I understand, suspect. There are one or two of these camps in every European country that wasn't ruined by the War, and many, many more than one in bigger countries like America and China and Australia where the destruction the androids wrought was confined to the cities. Every day more than a million androids are destroyed (or neutralised, as our overseers would have us word it) around the world, and we are their executioners. No longer do I flinch at the ripping and slashing of artificial flesh.
No; the pain it causes me is much deeper. Because each and every time an android, male or female, adult or child, makes their final steps, and stands before me, with their end flaming and furious behind them, they look right into my eyes and ask me just what that first android asked me, so many years ago:
"Will it hurt?"
I wish I knew why they ask this. I can only imagine that in their striving for perfection in making these beings, mankind actually managed to get it right. They must have made a connection (probably accidental) in their programming that gave them some semblance of self-preservation. But not fear. Never fear. Neither do I know whether it is only me that they ask this. Every day I try to see whether the other workers are asked such a cruelly simple question, but I can never see, the smoke is simply too thick. And no-one dares speak of this in the mess hall; it is enough of an abomination to have to carry out the act, never mind analyse it with your peers.
And so I outlive. Every day I crush the brilliance and potential of more than a hundred androids, these children of men, without a shadow of hesitation. Each one stares into my soul with those timeless blue eyes, and asks me if their death will hurt.
"Not you", I gasp as they fall through the smoke. "Not you".
© Jerrard Doran, 2008
"It hurts when I do this."
KLEINDENKEN
I remember the snap of frost on my face as I rode the burnt-out train eastwards from Frankfurt, past Hanau, through dense forest into vast white wasteland. At the heart of this barren desolation was Kleindenken. I remember noting, as we passed the last sparse fir trees and it rolled appallingly into view, how sprawling was this atrocity, the colour of coals, rising out of the snow. I also marked, with a little gulp, that the track upon which I was travelling was the only one into or out of the complex. It was a desolate vista. Disembarking the train into the bitter, biting cold, boots crunching through the brittle snow, I saw the Great Gate of Kleindenken for the first time. It rose like a great iron spider's web, clawing at the sky, and amongst the jagged edges and spindly fingers of rust, were wrought the words:
WIR SOLLTEN ZERSTÖREN WAS WIR SCHUFEN.
"We must destroy what we created." I took in the words like a visual shiver of the spine, and passing under that gate, I began to feel so much colder.
We were lead by the camp's Sentinels, trudging through the central square of the camp: myself and a group of six other apprehensive Jungen. We were children wearing the clothes of adults. The snow and wind were unrelenting and unforgiving, yet seemingly unable to rid the camp of the dark, greasy smoke that hung above the roofs of the husks of buildings. Now and then thin tendrils crept down to make us cough and splutter. We were lead through the white blankness, our greatcoats unable to stop the shuddering that was not borne of cold.
At last, our hearts sinking, we came upon the Kannibale. This was where we were to be put to work. The Kannibale was a place of rumour, too new for myth, too awful for legend. It was the howling, grinding backbone of Kleindenken, spanning the length of the widest section of the camp, a mile or more across. A high, raised walkway, black against the glaring sky, and below this platform hundreds of great, black vats, spewing that thick black miasma into the sky. The machinery at their base clunked and crashed and screeched, their inner workings a violent mystery, with great, thick pipes leading deep underground to God knows what.
The Sentinels ordered my group to line up next to the access stairway to the long grate of a platform that spanned forty feet above the steaming vats. One by one our names were called. As each young man stepped forward, I could see horror in his eyes and trembling lips and terrible shaking. They were handed overalls, black and foreboding, which had deep hoods which we were told that we must use as "a sign of respect". Finally, my own name:
"Herr Berndt Dauern, step forward now."
The overalls were as heavy as my heart as I climbed the clangerous metal steps, higher and higher, until I reached the gangway, which was only a few feet across, and bordered on each side by railings at waist-height. The heat up here was maddening; my vision swayed as I experienced my first vertiginous lurch, looking down into the hearts of those horrifying machines. Enormous blades, shining and sharp. Horrid, oily contraptions to grate and grind. And beyond it all, nothing but fire down into the dark. I followed the boy in front, walking solemnly along the platform. At one point I thought he might tip over the side and into the horrid machines below, but he righted himself. Blackened, veteran faces peered at us from either side, other workers like us, though I could barely think to notice. I don't know how long we walked across that long platform, and then suddenly we were there. The boy in front stopped at his station, and I stopped at what I guessed must be mine. A cramped, open-air sub-platform branching off for me to stand out of the way of the main gangway. On this platform, there was a torturous-looking metal seat. Next to that, there was a tiny dais, on which rested only a grimy old alarm clock, a narrow hole which looked like a cup holder, and two buttons - one an angry red, the other a cool green. I had barely a moment to pull on my overalls and survey these meagre and mystifying surroundings, before a cry wafted up from below, from the commander:
"All in place!"
I looked to my right - the boy there (and he was only a boy; could not have been older than twelve) was staring down into his vat as if at any moment he might hurl himself over the railing into its depths. Beyond him, I could see other faces, other eyes, but obscured by the ghastly fumes. To my left - an older man, possibly in his thirties, was praying in a whisper through his beard, barely heard above the dreadful rasping of the vats. I took a deep breath of ugly smoke, and started to cough and hack.
"Sentinels at arms!" screamed the commander. There was the smart crack of a dozen rifles priming.
"Aye!" came the cry.
"Then release them! Let them out!"
To my left, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the enormous double doors of a soot-blackened, barn-like structure open, and for the first time in my sixteen years of life, I saw a group of creatures, the likes of which I had only heard in whispered, frantic conversations. They moved in a perfect square, five by five, marching like soldiers. They moved at the commander's raised arm, and moved to the gangway, climbing in perfect unison, their footfalls horribly precise in their placement. After they started to ascend I couldn't see them coming, though I strained dangerously over the side of my little platform to see. And then they were passing me, stamp-stamp-stamp, flare of white robe and white face and terrible blue eyes, men and women of impressive stature. All at once, the movement stopped, and so suddenly that it seemed he had materialised in front of me, stood a man unlike any other I had ever seen.
He was wearing a hooded, pristinely white robe - they all were - but more remarkable than that was the face. Oh, that face. My first thought was that he looked like a character out of those dated three-dimensional CGI films from the early 2000s, but that was surely impossible. His hair was as white as his robe. The skin was too smooth, too perfect. The face was so handsome that a private, primal part of me began to ache. His mouth was a Cupid's bow. His teeth were unnaturally white - the teeth of someone who has never before eaten. His nose was long, regal, speaking of a hidden authority. And those blue, blue eyes. They were wide and iridescent, literally shining, casting a soft circular beam of azure-white through the sooty air. My first reaction, was terror. The way those eyes shone instilled in me a kind of horror that curled my lip and readied my legs for flight. And then the fear dissipated, melted away, because I realised that this was no threat. The gaze upon me was kind, understanding, utterly benign and beneath its brilliance, betrayed all the blind trust and innocence and implicit dependence of a child. Take care of me, those eyes quietly said, not pathetic, not beseeching.
An android. A child of men. Our most perfect creation. Our most complete downfall.
From below:
"Condemned! You will stand ready!"
The male android said nothing, made no outward sign that he had even heard the command, only unquestioningly turned on his heel until he was standing, facing away from me, totally still. I stood, mesmerised at this sight. To my left and right, my newfound comrades were quiet, as rapt by the appearance of these creatures as I was. We watched as they stepped towards the railing, until they were at the edge, staring down into the vats.
"Green!" shouted the commander. At first I didn't know what this signified, but my comrades were quicker on the uptake, and had turned to press their green buttons. I did likewise, and watched as part of the railing in front of my android swung out over the vat, essentially making an opening in front of him into the open air. As one, the androids shuffled forward until the toes of their bare feet poked precariously over the edge of the grate. Then, still moving as one being, they slowly turned, clockwise, until they were facing their executioners. The android's eyes locked with mine, and before I could question if I had heard it, a whisper escaped his lips:
"Will it hurt?"
A thick sob escaped my throat, before I could stop it. He asked with such perfect innocence, entirely without fear. His brow furrowed slightly, curiosity deeply marking his otherwise flawless face. He was aware of what was about to happen, yet was unafraid. His eyes flashed, dazzling me.
"Will it hurt?"
I steeled myself, and murmured.
"Not you, my friend. Not you."
The curiosity satisfied, it disappeared, and was replaced by that same trusting innocence as before. And then, without another word, he let himself fall. A strangled cry tore from me in an alien voice, and I was the only one to rush forward, clutching the rail, looking down into his destruction. I saw him fall, his robe rippling in the snow and wind, and then he was caught up in the machine. His legs were instantly severed with a bright spray of sparks and a sound like a car crash. One arm flew up, detached at the elbow, almost seeming to claw at the air, before it fell down into the pit. I saw his head cleaved in two, revealing the most intricate bright blue machinations for only a moment, before all the lights went out. Then the pieces of this thing started to fall through the initial rending; smoking, igniting, and falling into the fire deep below the ground. My tears were nothing but oily steam as I stared helplessly at the death of perfection.
***
I am now twenty-four, and eight years have passed since then. I had never seen an android before that day - the great Android War was before my time, near the end of the 22nd Century, and they don't teach it in the schools. And why should they? The facts are simple. Mankind made the androids too many and too intelligent, and in the androids' literally infinite wisdom, they disputed their slavery and turned on their human masters. But man, as we know, is ultimately and totally destructive, and the androids did not last for long past that. The threat was dealt with by deleting their understanding of violence. It is mankind's great embarrassment, its most immense mistake, and in the way of things the history books have been re-written to laud the victors. Most on the outside are either unaware or uncaring that facilities like Kleindenken even exist, though many, I understand, suspect. There are one or two of these camps in every European country that wasn't ruined by the War, and many, many more than one in bigger countries like America and China and Australia where the destruction the androids wrought was confined to the cities. Every day more than a million androids are destroyed (or neutralised, as our overseers would have us word it) around the world, and we are their executioners. No longer do I flinch at the ripping and slashing of artificial flesh.
No; the pain it causes me is much deeper. Because each and every time an android, male or female, adult or child, makes their final steps, and stands before me, with their end flaming and furious behind them, they look right into my eyes and ask me just what that first android asked me, so many years ago:
"Will it hurt?"
I wish I knew why they ask this. I can only imagine that in their striving for perfection in making these beings, mankind actually managed to get it right. They must have made a connection (probably accidental) in their programming that gave them some semblance of self-preservation. But not fear. Never fear. Neither do I know whether it is only me that they ask this. Every day I try to see whether the other workers are asked such a cruelly simple question, but I can never see, the smoke is simply too thick. And no-one dares speak of this in the mess hall; it is enough of an abomination to have to carry out the act, never mind analyse it with your peers.
And so I outlive. Every day I crush the brilliance and potential of more than a hundred androids, these children of men, without a shadow of hesitation. Each one stares into my soul with those timeless blue eyes, and asks me if their death will hurt.
"Not you", I gasp as they fall through the smoke. "Not you".
© Jerrard Doran, 2008