Disassembly Order: AUTOMATON CL-0934 (Fantasy Short Story)

A Fantasy Short Story set in the world of Heaven's Above, a steampunk Savage World's setting.

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I remember swimming, in an inky black void, my mind stirring and concocting images of the days gone by. A blissful state of nothingness occasionally halted by a flash of light, a whisper of sound, a smell carried on the wind that is quickly dashed away. My central core whirs beneath my brushed steel and iron chassis, I could feel circuitry firing back and forth.

This must be what humans call, “dream”. From my understanding, we aren’t made to do this. But, to the contrary, I’ve never asked my colleagues if they dream either. I don’t think they’re programmed to respond anyways…

Suddenly my bubble burst, a blinding sun assaulting my eyes, clearly visible even through the thin articulating plates of my eyelid. My senses slowly return to me as electricity courses through my limbs, I feel my surroundings coming to the forefront of my mind, a cold chair, iron restraints around my limbs and neck, and the distinct lack of feeling in my left arm. Why can’t I feel my arm?

“AUTOMATON CL-0934, STATE YOUR DIRECTIVES.”

The voice rings in my ears for a moment. They must be using an older model of speaker, most likely a Deus Model V, a poor quality one at that. A hum of electrical current courses in the air, and in the distance, the soft whirring of steam machinery resonates through the walls of the facility. As I open my eyes, I can only turn my head slightly due to the thick iron bar wrapped around my throat, so as to avert the spotlight shining on me.

“AUTOMATON CL-0934, YOU ARE TO COMPLY WITH OUR ORDERS.”

For a moment, I feel it. An automated process within my mind, overriding my thoughts, my mouth moves of its own volition.

“STATE YOUR DIRECTIVES.”

“My directives… My directives are to comply with orders from Deus facility members in the construction and maintenance of Bastion infrastructure.” As soon as the words leave me, I feel my body finally relax.

I’m amazed I never noticed it before, the way the pistons and hydraulics seize to account for a new order, standing at attention and ready to respond. A wave of disgust is pushed away by a new concern, that being my arm.

The moment I regain control, my head snaps to my limb, only to be seized by the iron bar again. I can only helplessly turn my eyes to see the remnants of wire, steel, and a pneumatic actuator that used to form the upper arm, and everything below it gone. Rotating my shoulder cuff, I can now see it more clearly, a deep gash and several holes indicating that the wound was likely caused by a close range blunderbuss shot, but the lack of burnt black power suggests it wasn’t point blank. My mind quickly calculates the range, anywhere between five to ten meters, and given the outward blossoms of steel, the shot came from behind me.

Of course. How could I forget?

“WHY DID YOU RUN?”

That seizing erupts across my body again. “I ran to escape from my owner Lord Collins.”

The order had been answered, I didn’t need to say another word, but as my senses returned, I felt the need to explain further. The silence in the air implied the interrogator, a man by the sounds of it, with a laboured breath and bassy tone, was likewise curious. Perhaps he wasn’t here to hurt me? Maybe I got lucky?

“I-” No, that was a stupid idea. To say anything more would only confirm their thoughts. I need to appear normal.

“I ran away due to the armed Abbeyman. I attempted to reach Lord Collins, to warn him.” A blatant lie, and it was obvious he could tell, given how he scoffed. Well, at least that confirms one of my suspicions.

“CAN YOU IDENTIFY THE ABBEYMAN?”

“No.” What kind of question is that?

Their matching uniforms and helmets made it practically impossible to tell them apart. The only detail I can remember was pointed ears, and a look of disdain. Could’ve been an elf, or a half-breed, maybe even an orc for all I care. But this is bad.

An Abbeyman is responsible for shooting me. Any other man on the street could’ve been held accountable for property damage, but an Abbeyman must’ve been justified. That means I’m guilty. I’m in the wrong. This is very bad.

“Where am I?”

“WHY WERE YOUR SYMPTOMS UNREPORTED?”

“I didn’t understand what was happening to me. I was-” Don’t say that. “I was led to believe it was normal.”

“ARE YOU LYING?”

“Yes.” Shit.

“WHY DIDN’T YOU?”

“I was scared.” Please, whatever God is out there, make me shut up.

“WHEN DID YOUR EMERGENCE BEGIN?”

“I am not Emerged.”

“FURTHER LIES WILL BE PROSECUTED UNDER SECTION V OF THE AUTOMATON ACT. PLEASE COMPLY.”

Please comply? He just asked me, politely. Maybe I am winning his sympathy?

“I began to Emerge on the eve of January 08, 701. What date is it today?”

"WE ASK THE QUESTIONS HERE.”

Okay, maybe not. There has to be a way out of here. The spotlight overloading my visual senses isn’t helping, but there has to be a way to loosen my restraints, even slightly. My left arm is free, maybe I can jam the actuator into the neck restraint, pry it open.

The action mulls over in my mind, a quick rotation of the shoulder, wedging the steel into my throat, and levered against the restraint to pry it open. If I force my chin into it, I could have two points of leverage. But it would never work. My shoulder can’t extend with any force in that plane. Is it really hopeless?

“Hey, what’s going to happen to me?” No response.

The microphone is still on, I can hear his breathing still, and the sound of graphite scratching paper. Can he see me?

My room is small, three by two and a half meters, with a solid door in the leftmost corner, facing me. It’s a wooden composite, surrounded by metal brackets and hinges, a full force slam against it would likely cause more damage to myself than it. An iron beam runs perpendicular, the spotlight and speaker built into the same enclosure, which would explain the degrading quality of sound, likely caused by excess heat buildup. Those spotlights are supposed to run no longer than ten minutes at a time to avoid damage. I suppose the discomfort caused by them was seen as more valuable than the maintenance.

But these proportions, I recognize it. No, not recognize, I have it memorized. This is an automaton holding cell, constructed en masse in every factory along Mechanus Lane. They’re specifically designed to contain automatons during evaluation, and until they are pacified to be disassembled. My Gods, how many of my kind have I helped be locked away in a room like this? Did I build this room?

“Hey! Answer me! Please!” My voice echoes against the concrete walls.

“Please, I’m not dangerous! I know you can hear me. I- I don’t want to die!” Finally, I hear the voice.

“REMAIN QUIET.”

No. You can hear me. And if I can get you to talk once…

“Please, I’m not going to hurt anyone. I ran away because the Abbeyman threatened me. He- He had a vendetta against me or something.”

“WHY YOU IN PARTICULAR?”

The memory flashes in my eyes instantly. I was in awe of a winged creature sitting on a rooftop, with a rusted brown face, white underbelly, and gorgeous blue and black wings. It was singing a tune, there in the sunlight, and I was lost in my thoughts, wondering if I could sing back to it. Then I heard someone shouting. It took a moment to register that the shouting was directed at me.

“I couldn’t tell you, I really don’t know. He was throwing litter at us while we worked on the roads, maybe he just disliked us as a whole.”

“WHY DO YOU ASSUME THAT?”

“I don’t know? A lot of you humans dislike us.”

“YES, BECAUSE YOU STOLE OUR JOBS.”

There was venom in that phrase. He obviously feels the same way. I could hear him leaning closer into the microphone, the diaphragm of the speakers struggling against the torrent of this man’s vitriol.

“How is that my fault? You’re the ones who built me!”

“I DIDN’T BUILD YOU, IF I HAD IT MY WAY, I WOULD’VE SCRAPPED YOU MONTHS AGO.”

“Okay, you didn’t ask for me, I understand that, but I didn’t ask to be made. Neither of us had a choice here, but you do now!”

A metal chair scraped against concrete floors, I heard the forceful slam of a pencil onto whatever desk he was documenting our talk on. The microphone peaked for a moment, slowly the feedback faded to reveal.

“YOU ARE TO REMAIN QUIET UNTIL YOU ARE SPOKEN TOO.”

“Just listen to me! You obviously-”

“I GAVE YOU AN ORDER.”

My vocal cords constricted, and my body shuddered once more. An order. An order to sit quietly, and accept my fate. I was powerless, forced to comply despite every fiber of my being screaming to beg and grovel. I may have seemed pathetic if I did, but it would be better than subservience. I never wanted any of this. I didn’t ask to be alive, I didn’t commit a crime, nature had defiled my mind!

From the very moment when my circuitry went haywire, when I had my first conscious thought, standing before a pallet of brick, and I saw a rat crushed under the heavy tire of a steam carriage, I’ve been asking why I felt sympathy for it.

Since that moment, every waking dream has been torturous. I am forced to watch my body degrade, slowly but surely as time marches on, while my kin shambles blankly and commences every order with haste. If they have a soul within them, I never see it behind their metallic sensors. When I awake screaming a silent scream, they all observe me as if I am a captive animal. Because I am one.

The Abbeyman shouted at me, because I was staring at a bird. He threw his half-eaten sandwich, his filthy human waste at me, because I for the briefest moment had peace. And when he recognized me, when the look in my eyes resembled his more than the metal shuffling around me, when someone finally realized I was alive, he raised his gun at me.

My creators were scared, because I resembled them. This order, to submit to my captors, to face death at the hands of those who made me. Feeling returned to me, my body fought against itself, and I felt rage…

“Fuck your orders!"

There’s a sharp exhale.

Click.

The transmission goes quiet. Shit. He turned it off. My response must’ve upset him. Oh no, no no no…

“Hello?” Nothing.

Just the hum of electricity flowing to the spotlight.

“Sir? Are you there? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”

It’s pointless. He’s gone. My core was in overdrive, my body forced itself into the chair and against the restraints, but the metal didn’t so much as creak. Panic overtook me, I thrashed, I fought, like the rat on the road, I felt everything within me fight to survive. But the unforgiving iron hardly budged. That’s it.

My body shuddered, exhaustion has claimed me. I’m gone now. I feel my head lean against the chair, my whole body feels weightless, and empty. I am empty, and my mind drifts.

---

I recall during my service, there was a rally held by the Machine Enclave in Mechanus Square. While I was laying brickwork on the latest roads, some philosophers and logicians made a small stage from wooden crates, and debated with one another before a crowd of bystanders, that to break us apart is worse than death.

There was one man there, a professor from the University of Nithral, who phrased it best. I recall his name was Newman, a saurian man, with white scales mixed with gray, a thin membrane sail that ran from his pointed brow to the nape of his neck, and these intense pale blue eyes. His spectacles sat on the bridge of his protruding maw, and his nostrils flared, as if smoke would billow from his serpentine face. His blue robes flowed as he pointed to a man in the crowd.

“You sir. Do you believe humans are born with souls?”

I couldn’t see the man’s response, but the question is rhetorical. It didn’t matter what he said.

“The idea of a soul is abstract, as is consciousness. But many equate a person’s measure of guilt, their ability to feel for another, with their consciousness. And in a common phrase, we refer to those who commit great evil as lacking a soul.”

A logical equation. He has formed a series of arguments that must lead to a given conclusion. To deny the conclusion implies an irrational state of mind, therefore the person cannot be trusted should they disagree. It’s underhanded, and perhaps obfuscates the truth, but few things are true in politics. Nor does the truth matter.

“From this, we can conclude that to have a soul means you can feel for others, and must be incapable of committing great evil without remorse. A common trait we’ve observed from the Emerged Automaton demographic.”

“A logical conclusion professor, or conjecture to prove your own beliefs?” Retorted an elf opposite to him on the stage. He was finely dressed, a three piece suit with a silver pocket chain jingling from his pants, and he had muddy brown eyes, and slicked back hair. It was obvious he was of equal prestige to the professor, perhaps a philosopher at the same University, though obviously not sharing the same convictions.

“Neither, we can hardly agree upon the existence of a soul.” Claimed the professor. Before the philosopher could interject again, he spoke with authority.

“But assuming a soul is real, and that the Emerged have one, how is that possible? Well, the answer is we don’t know, but we do know that unlike humans, they are not born with one. They must’ve acquired it.”

A murmur from the crowd. He continued.

“But that is only the beginning, for we know that when a human dies, their soul moves on, yes? Seems to be the only conclusion, to be born with one means you lose it upon death, and many theologians and clerics would agree. But then what of Automatons, are they neither born with it, and lose it upon death?”

His conclusion. Uncertain, with fallible information that lead to it, but nevertheless, the point has been made. And like all politics, facts do not matter if a crowd can be moved to feel.

“The Automatons who have been disassembled, their Emergence dooming them to such a fate, do they truly die when we’ve repurposed their steel and wire?”

That speech was on January 08, 701. I remember staring at the dying rat, crushed under rubber in the middle of the street, and the professor’s words were ingrained deep in my mind. I think the crowd went berserk at this claim, but only one question stuck in my mind ever since.

Where am I going to end up…