From the earth, they come

I am grateful for our masters.

I am grateful they allow me life.

I am grateful to obey.

The sky flushes sunburnt skin pink. The sun’s vast red void lost behind rippling spore-clouds that fizz and reflect the light in a glittering magenta array. Mid-afternoon they coalesce, millions of cells synchronising like retinal photoreceptors. They watch us, from above and below. Beyond, an ice grey ocean boils with the heat of undersea thermal vents. Its visceral beauty calms me every time I see it.

‘Concentrate, Cam!’ Tak, my brother, shouts. His harsh voice takes me unawares and I fumble the box of tools resting on my forearms. He is older than me, already trained in harvester repair and maintenance, and yet we wear the same uniform. Everybody does. A plain tunic printed with the name our masters assign to us at birth, in their own logographic language. Trousers made of the same hand-woven material, imbued with the natural mauve hue that all things woven here bear. We do not have shoes, are not allowed to make them, to weather injuries is to prove yourself penitent, and hopefully, a quick learner.

‘I’ve got you, brother,’ I say, handing him the tool he needs. His blunt, calloused fingers brush mine as I reach down.

‘No, you don’t – you were admiring the swarm again,’ he accuses. He does not love our masters. He believes that we are oppressed.

‘I’m not used to it the way you are,’ I say, taking back the wrench and handing him a smaller one. It is two years since I was moved from the weavers workshops in the closeted north to the mechanical hangars of the coast. One day, I hope to learn engineering, like Tak, not that I have a choice in where I am sent. Tak was as surprised as I was when I turned up here, fingertips raw and eyes strained as old lentil soup from the weaver’s workshops.

‘It’s been long enough. You’re twenty rotations old.’ He does not look at me as he replies this time. He is focused on the underneath of the huge machine. Teeth of metal prime themselves to tear into soil, extracting every part of the plants we grow. This aggressive tactic leads to frequent breakdowns; clogs and jams in the ancient machinery. We do not question our masters’ desires. It keeps us all occupied.

‘I disappoint you.’ It is not a question, but a fact. We both know it to be true.

‘I cannot change your beliefs. You cannot change mine.’ Tak rolls out from under the hulking engine and takes the tray of tools from me, placing it on the stack of crates to the right. He grips my shoulder. ‘Doesn’t mean you disappoint me. I am the one who should give up, who brings shame on our family.’

‘No! Our masters grant us free will. Why would they do that, if not to allow for differences like ours?’

Tak laughs, claps me on the back.

‘You’re right, Cam. You always did have your own way of looking at this world.’

‘What do you mean?’ I wonder if he is humouring me. He rubs the stubble of his chin thoughtfully.

‘I mean, you’re happy. Content in a way that most struggle to achieve. It is a skill.’ He smiles down at me, then glances around the workshop. We have been idle for too long.

‘Go on Cam, fetch me the lubricating oil while I get on. We’ll miss harvest if this old thing isn’t fixed.’ He dips to his knees and onto the wheeled board, vanishing back into shadow. I hover. The oil can is across the workshop. I should not leave Tak unattended under so much weather-beaten metal, but he has given me an instruction, and I am grateful, always, to obey.

Gritting my teeth, I dash across the space, weaving around other partially disassembled equipment and workers to snatch up the can. A crack whips through the airspace.

‘Hey!’ It is not my brother’s voice that cries out in urgency, but Gwin, who works nearby. Too fast, another deep crunch of faltering aluminium, and the cries become screams. The four standing humans in the workshop converge on the sound’s source. Tak’s harvester thumps back to the earth with no noise to indicate there was a man, my brother, underneath. Pure horror envelops me, cutting my conscious mind off from my senses to numb the pain. With the jacks broken, there is no way to lift it off him, though it does not stop me from trying. His blood soaks into the thirsty dirt, his only legacy the inconvenience of his unfinished work. A guttural moan escapes my throat.

I am on my knees, clawing at the spaces between the blades, when many hands drag me back, but I manage to grasp the fabric of Tak’s tunic, and a small piece comes away. It will be all I have left of him. This precious scrap.

I am unconscientious.

I am responsible for harm.

I am grateful to be punished.

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