Every Wednesday at precisely 8:17 AM, the conveyor belt bled oil for one minute and seventeen seconds. For Soma, that meant a morning spent on his knees with a bucket and a quick ratcheting of loose bolts to get it running. He would grunt and curse his machine, trace the pipes for a while, tighten a few bolts hoping this time the problem was solved. Mechanics didn’t come to this part of the facility, and it always smelled of rotten machinery and wet dirt. The dirt was pleasant. The machinery was not.
His hands were always coated in oil afterwards, and his overalls required a quick change from his locker. If he was quick enough, there was just enough time to squeeze in a shower in the supervisor’s personal shower before clocking in for the day.
Today, he was quick enough.
The old man never came to the factory floor, preferring to stay in his comfortable office. That meant Soma could enjoy the supervisor’s daily allotment of sticky sweet snacks distributed before shift started. The blue sweets were delicious, though they weren’t allowed back in the dormitory.
One day, he would also be promoted from the floor, leaving machinery behind to have a little set of plants and a shiny new desk in the main office.
For eighteen years, he’d prowled the streets of the undercity. Without light. Without grass. Here, there was enough dirt and soon he’d have plants.
“Good morning, my dear employees.” Mrs. Ellavaqua said through the PA system at 9:00 AM, every third syllable subsumed by a hiss of static. “Another beautiful morning with the sun shining, crickets chirping, and little children passing by. At Emerald Dynamics we always say—”
“—safety first.” Soma echoed, hearing the faint affirmation drifting through the single ventilator behind him. He scratched his ear. The sound from the ventilator was always itchy.
“Have a nice day and remember.” Her voice dropped. “No overtime.”
“Not like you’d pay, even if I did.” Soma eyed his machine. “Or that it would run after 6:00 PM.”
He sat still, counting the seconds on the clock until it hit 9:10 AM and his intercom rang. Ride of the Valkyries, Mrs. Ellavaqua had explained during a corporate get-together. She liked the tune.
“Good morning, boss.” He tried to smile, picturing the air conditioning and green money plant on the old man’s desk.
“Morning, Soma. Today we’re processing an extra twenty, three small and three oversized. Might be one or two past the expiration date, but you can check purity levels before stamping.”
“Got it, boss.”
“Oh, Mrs. Ellavaqua plans to do a surprise inspection today, so make sure you get that kink in the separator and the twisted centrifuge sorted out.” The old man’s voice strained through the speaker, hissing, deeper than before.
“Alright. Did you catch a cold?”
“A little. Now get back to work.”
Soma shook his head, another surprise inspection. This was the third in the last two months.
It was also an opportunity. She’d seen him so many times and praised his efforts. Not like the louts next door.
He pushed more dirt against one corner of his machine where the concrete underneath was cracking. Cement would work, but the dirt kept the smell of his machine in check, and its warmth was good for the seeds. Small sprouts were creeping out from the dirt.
The centrifuge could wait, but the kink, that needed attention today. The last batch dissolved every other input inside his machine. Soma grabbed a sandwich from his desk and chewed while he did his morning checks.
The jelly tube was fine, its faint luminescence above the refill line. He’d drawn that in with a permanent marker after a scolding because the damn thing kept switching off.
Input tube. The black bags wouldn’t snag. Fine.
The oil levels were low; the new stuff was more viscous, almost black in color with the tang of burnt rubber. It reeked of the auto shop his car half lived in. He poured the morning’s bleed back in and gobbled down the last bits of his sandwich, regretting the minuscule portions of salami the cafeteria offered.
The kink was a problem.
It was the hottest part of his machine, reaching temperatures his little toolkit couldn’t measure. On one of those rare occasions when a mechanic passed by, the surly woman had eyed him up and down and declared, “Don’t touch hot things, idiot.” He tapped it tentatively, and sure it was cool, poured a sealant around the edges. This would need a mechanic. The requisition was placed, and it was up to the management of sector 7-F to agree.
He returned to his desk and pulled out a series of snacks, ordering them from largest to smallest while checking the clock. One for each five minute interval. He grinned, spinning the first sweet before tossing it into the air.
It missed and he scrambled across the floor to chase the rolling white ball.
10:00 AM—time to turn on his machine.
He pulled the white handled lever slowly. Old Marcus pulled too fast once and now collected disability. His machine screamed to life, cogs and pistons chugging along with the discordant harmony that signified it wasn’t going to break today.
Or explode. Poor Marcus.
Soma grabbed his testers and got to work, sorting for purity and density. The light cans were tested for purity and the heavy ones for density. Each bag sorted returned two cans, one solid and heavy and one almost airy.
By the time Mrs. Ellavaqua marched through the doors in her bright pink dress and designer shades. He had sorted through half his quota with only one impure rejection. The inputs were excellent today.
He made sure never to check the input. They said it could go bad if you opened the bags and an employee was arrested for interfering.
“Soma, my boy, how’s the kink in your Purifier?” She brushed him, her rose and jasmine perfume tickling his nose. There was a hint of an earthy aroma.
“Soma?” She looked back at him from his Purifier.
“Yes ma’am. The kink needs replacement and I’ve ordered it. From sector 7-F, and three gaskets. Waiting for it. Until then I’ve created a temporary seal as per the—”
“Yes, you’ve done well.” She chuckled. “I’ll get those little boneheads to process your request faster.”
Mrs. Ellavaqua picked up one of the light cans reaching for the tab and Soma gasped.
“No. Uh, I mean, that needs special equipment to open. If you don’t.” He shuddered.
“Your little accident a year ago?” She smiled, a small lock of hair falling across her shoulder, twining toward her neck.
Little accident—the blare of alarms had roared through the factory floor. Half the chamber was frosted, ice crystals spinning out of control from the open can. Screams had torn from his throat as he crawled towards his desk, to the intercom. Snarling shadows had burst through the door, roaring incomprehensibly and dragging him out.
He pushed palms into his eyes, trying to take deep breaths, the silence making his heart race faster. It had almost ruined his machine. He could run—had tried—the cold.
“Yes. Little accident.” He licked his lips and hugged himself.
She pulled an intricate tool from her waist, harsh lines of metal interspersed with engraved wood, the symbols unintelligible. It hummed when she pressed it to the lid of the can.
He closed his eyes and stepped back, but only a sibilant hiss and soft grating of metal echoed through the factory. When he opened them, Mrs. Ellavaqua was breathing deeply from the can. There was an intoxicated grin on her face, a faint blush rising on her pale skin. She dipped a finger in, and her shades slid down. They locked gazes.
She had beautiful eyes. The amber irises were perfectly oval, visible flecks swirling even at this distance, pupils widened slightly. An inky black. A comforting black. He growled, heat rising in his throat. His heart thumped in time to the glimmers darting across the brilliant amber, and the heat became almost unbearable.
“Soma, my child, would you like some? This is a delicacy in the office,” she said smiling, holding out a finger covered in azure liquid, and he wiped his mouth. She popped her finger between her own plump lips and gulped.
He could hear the liquid sliding down.
Loud. It looked so cold. So hot.
The color. Were his sweets azure? They looked so similar.
The earthy scent was stronger. He turned to his Purifier. The sprouts were green. The heat receded.
“Maybe I shouldn’t.”
Her smile dropped and she pushed her shades up. She spun away, tossing the can into a nearby bin.
“Is—is there a problem?” Soma saw his hand reach out, and she turned back and studied him, fingers to lips, drops of azure working their way down her wrist.
“No, my boy. But maybe you’d like my Opener. Just to be safe.” She pressed the Opener into his outstretched hand and tapped his cheek before he could refuse. “I have others.”
Did the supervisor have one? The man’s cold eyes and hulking presence flashed in his mind. He shook his head. The supervisor left the floor behind because he couldn’t work, couldn’t stand the Purifier.
“Do I need it? To go to the office, I mean?”
Mrs. Ellavaqua tapped his nose. If he didn’t take it, would his Purifier be taken? The closing announcement rang out from the PA as she left. End of shift.
The Opener hummed in his hand.
The conveyor belt bled oil at 8:17 AM for one minute and seventeen seconds.
Soma sighed. The sweets weren’t as tasty anymore. The supervisor had reclaimed his supply, grumbling behind darkened glasses about how little was available, and Soma’s supply was cut. It was still good, just not as good.
He spun the azure tinted sweet at his desk while contemplating his Purifier.
The kink wasn’t replaced, and his fingers were swollen from tightening the bolts. The centrifuge was leaking, split nails were the only remnant of his repairs. The inputs were increasing, more small ones than oversized in the last few days. A dusty fan from the store wasn’t enough to cool him down. Summer had arrived.
He shoveled dirt to make space for the plants. Four survived the week. Soma had made a mound on the other side of his Purifier and transplanted one to rest nearer the kink for warmth.
“Safety first,” echoed the PA, scratching hard at his ear. The ventilator was becoming annoying.
The intercom rang and he gripped the earpiece tightly.
“What?”
“Double quota today.”
The supervisor’s voice was deeper than ever. Soma wanted to throw the earpiece away. How was he supposed to work with a half-functioning Purifier?
“I need my replacements,” Soma explained.
“There’s nothing much I can do. Unless—”
There was a burst of static.
“Unless what?” Soma asked.
“I’ve heard you received an Opener.”
Soma heard the undisguised greed in the supervisor’s voice and brushed his fingers against the cool metal of the Opener. It hummed in acknowledgement. The supervisor didn’t have one? Mrs. Ellavaqua selected carefully.
“I won’t give it to you,” Soma replied.
“No, no. Don’t give it to me.” The supervisor sounded panicked. “Just give me an open can. The light one.”
“I can’t—”
“—yes, you must. Just one today and I guarantee you parts by tomorrow.”
His swollen fingers thrummed in protest. He bit a bent nail and spit it out.
“One.”
“An open one,” the supervisor repeated.
“Fine, but I want the best stuff.”
The intercom clicked shut.
10 AM his Purifier sprang to life, and he got to work.
He chose a borderline can. Its purity was almost below the cutoff. Instead of throwing it in the recycler, he shoved it into his overalls along with the Opener. Soma’s skin prickled, whether from the summer heat or the cold can he wasn’t sure. Sweat stains covered his overalls except around the Opener. His breathing felt louder, his heartbeat thumping in time with his Purifier’s every piston.
The closing announcement rang out from the PA. End of shift. His Purifier shut down, and he carefully closed the lever. Closing was as dangerous as opening.
Currents raced through his heart, from the Opener in his right hand to the can in his left. The closer he brought them together, the stronger the current became. The metal on the opener glowed a pale yellow, its wooden engravings marching across its spine.
It crooned, negotiating, demanding, begging for him to open the can.
He touched the Opener against the can and a rush of lava shot from his feet to his skull as ice coiled through his veins.
The Opener sang.
He pushed.
The azure liquid was brighter than he remembered. No wonder they considered this a delicacy in the office. He listened to the song of the Opener and the sway of the liquid. This must be what the ocean sounded like. Mrs. Ellavaqua liked the ocean.
The supervisor’s shadow filled the door. Was he bigger? Soma backed away, hand over the can to hide its azure glow.
“You have it?”
“My parts?” Soma asked.
“Settled. Tomorrow they’ll arrive.”
Soma nodded. The supervisor snatched the can from his outstretched hand and rushed down the corridor.
A few drops of liquid remained on the Opener.
Mrs. Ellavaqua had looked so happy. The office considered this a delicacy.
There was no point in letting it go to waste. He licked. A burst of anxiety and laughter filled him. The plants swayed in the breeze. Soma closed his eyes. It tasted so sweet.
Overtime not logged.
The conveyor belt bled oil at 8:19 AM for one minute and seven seconds and Soma grimaced.
One of the plants was different. Its green stem was wrapped in blue crystals.
The supervisor was willing to trade one can for a pot, a chair, and a new desk.
Soma agreed and chose another borderline can. He set aside a little for himself before the supervisor arrived. It sat, pooling in a cup, ripples forming with every tap of his finger on the desk. Drops of water formed on the cup, a deep condensation that shimmered with a similar azure.
He tossed it back, like he’d seen Mrs. Ellavaqua do with alcohol at the holiday party.
His fingers trembled, lips twitching as it burned through his throat. The room smelled sharper, more metallic. The wet dirt was bothering him. It was hiding the metal.
His Purifier ran past 6:00 PM and he frowned. He’d have to switch it off. Overtime wasn’t allowed.
The conveyor belt bled oil at 8:23 AM for forty-seven seconds and Soma potted the now azure plant in a mix of dirt, oil, and clumps of shed hair.
That would save it, the green ones were dying. They smelled of dirt. Without azure it wouldn’t survive near the Purifier. He huddled over them, pouring water on one, azure liquid on another. He reached into the dirt and pulled back with a hiss. His long nails snapped on two fingers.
The dirt hurt.
The rest of the dirt was mixed with oil as well. It smelled better.
The supervisor demanded more cans, but he had no leverage. Soma didn’t need anything; he had his plants and Purifier. The density and purity levels were better than ever. His Purifier was allowed to run for an extra hour. His throat hurt when he talked and his chair was becoming tight. Did the cans make you gain weight? He might need to exercise. Today’s can was bitter, but with a hint of warmth that made his left leg tingle
One hour overtime approved.
The conveyor belt bled oil at 8:46 AM for seventeen seconds.
Soma was purifying dirt with oil and hair when the supervisor came the day before.
“More,” he had snarled, leaning forwards to cast his shadow across the room.
“No. It’s not yours.”
Soma turned away, long nails already tracing the unopened can in his hand.
The supervisor lunged towards him and Soma staggered back, surprised. He growled. The supervisor wanted his can. Soma hurled impure dirt in his face screaming at its touch. The supervisor howled, clawing at his eyes with pitiful nails. Soma struck, driving the old man out, and hurling him down the corridor.
“Never come back!” He roared after the fading shadow.
Density very high. Purity almost off the charts. The testers only went to one hundred and twenty-five. The input was moving more. He had to shove one into the Purifier. Hard.
The chair came from the office. Mrs. Ellavaqua had praised his efficiency. She left in a hurry. There was a problem in another Purifier room. Weaklings.
Two cans were needed. Two delicious cans. Were the heavy ones as good?
His plants were dead. The blue ones had turned to crystal. He bent over them, shoveling the oily dirt to bury them under the Purifier.No more green. His claws scraped the grave clean.
Six hours overtime sanctioned. He tore through the desk, torn flesh and splintered wood showering the floor. The Opener sang its soothing song and he froze. He stumbled to the corner, far from the ventilator and sobbed in deep, rasping breaths until the song hugged him and the Opener smiled.
The conveyor belt did not bleed. The PA was silent. The intercom didn’t ring. An amber eye thrummed above Soma, observing the opened cans and empty bags. The bags dissolved, pale twitching figures on the conveyor exposed in its light. A sigil stamped itself on the input conveyor.
Soma smiled. He understood. He bowed below the eye, lurching his hunched form and checking the quality of the processed meat.
Bags would contaminate the Purifier, affect the taste. That was for the weak. Soma peered at the small eye swiveling in the can. His jaw clicked as he opened wide enough to swallow it whole.
Not bad.
Density mattered less than purity.
Moses Sukumaran writes from a significantly cluttered desk in New Delhi, where he spends time dodging claws and pondering broken personalities and secondary worlds. He hopes to call himself a writer one day, pending successful negotiations with his stories.
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