It was the machine, promised throughout all eternity, but especially in modernity realized possible. Its plans have been worked on since man first drew on his cave walls, not yet knowing, only dreaming, and beyond that, the faithful scrawls of all ages have added their insights into its construction. Yet it was gears and pistons, pressure and bells and whistles, and it was steel which finally gave those dreams reality. As it was ever known, as far as memory goes this knowledge was passed down, the gift from Prometheus would give it life.
How slow did those gauges rise, and we impatiently at our posts watching the readouts as the fires first burned, had no thought other than the completion of the work, to see the machine finally live.
It is no secret that men died making it. Accidents happened, carelessness and drunkenness in the workers mostly who complained of their pay and mocked the lofty goals of their betters, but that’s only what I thought, accidents. I had no idea.
It was finally the day, our greatest triumph, the realization of a new age, and my brother, the foreman, wasn’t there. I asked the Designer. There was some problem with gearhouse five, and my brother was the only one here qualified—most of the workers were sent home. The main gear was locked. He’d be back in time. But it was now, the reporters and their flashing cameras were at the door. I could make it; I’d be back in time if I ran. Gearhouse five was next door.
They turned the machine on early. I asked, and it was the Designer’s order. He knew where my brother was; he sent him there. I was shouting to him, that he’d need to hurry. There was some pipe fallen into the gears, and he was fishing it out. Then my brother yelled, and the gears were then turning, and the gears were wet with his blood.
It was in the design, I didn’t realize, death was in the design. Sacrifice and blood were necessary for the great machine. It was the design.
And they still feed people to it. The same way they need to burn forests to keep it running, they must throw in men, feed men to its perpetually turning gears. It was all known long ago in the caves whose red paint was once warm and flowing life. The gift of fire was not the only thing needed to turn those gears and to keep them turning. But what can man do now that the machine is running? I helped to build it, I helped draw up those hateful plans. The machine will never die; we are all a part of it now, turning in its gears, our lives feeding the machine, our deaths only strengthening it.
Tale Told 