I thought I wanted this job. I make thrice as much as the Chief of Surgery the next highest paid townie. A bit ironic because when I was chipped he did the surgery and every Machinehouse Keeper since the founding of our town has been always chipped by the Chief of Surgery.
Looking back, it wasn’t a hard interview. Mainly a neuro-compatability check for psychiatric disorders. I wasn’t at the top of my class. I wasn’t at the bottom of it either. I had friends. I guess I was seen as stable enough. There’s not a whole lot folks gunning for the Machinehouse Keeper job when it opens. We all know it’s cursed. It’s usually a man who’s done the job. There’s been maybe two or maybe three women Machinehouse Keepers in all of town history. Really it’s because they don’t bother to apply. The Prophets say that it will be a woman who fixes the Machine permanently. I personally think it’s beyond human comprehension and capability.
There’s no retiring or quitting from being the Machinehouse Keeper. It’s in the contract. Two or three have gone completely insane and stole hard suits to get beyond the dome. They got liquidated fast. We can’t afford to have a Machinehouse Keeper skip town.
I’ve never even left town. That’s part of the reason why I did it. I think about the bourgeois and their fancy safaris beyond the dome. It’s not even that interesting at all there in the wild. I’ve see the ruins tons of times through my vcam bot it’s really not that interesting. I guess if I did want to take a real trip though: I’d go to New Hong Kong. I’ve never had fish paste before and they can make it there in their bioreactors.
There’s only one machine chip in town. And, they don’t know how to make ’em anymore. The surgeon spliced my brain open through my nostrils and drugged me up with dummy juice. There’s now a big metal slug in my neck towards the top of my spine. That metal exposes my neural port. That’s how I connect with the Machine.
Sometimes days go by without anything happens. I jack-in for my 8 hour standard shift and I just keep an eye on a few systems and really it’s smooth sailing. But here’s the thing about being a Machinehouse Keeper — it’s not always like that. Most jobs in town you can finish your shift and you’re done for the day. The Machine is not like that all.
At any moment, the Machine can malfunction and I’m responsible for fixing it. The system gives me a notification and my neck starts burning — even if I’m asleep. Even if it’s 2 am, 3 am. At any time I can be called to fix the Machine. Sometimes the reactor cooling system breaks. I jack-in and give the machine incantations. Special prompts.
I feel like a Buddhist monk from before the Great War.
I’ve been reading about that—guided meditation and mantras and shit.
Sometimes it takes 5 minutes to fix sometimes it takes hours.
It’s said that the neural net of machine was trained from the webpages on the pre Great War net. In some ways it’s a reflection of human souls. It has eyes and ears too. It sees through every camera and microphone in town.
The Machine used to be silent when I first started the job. I think it was learning everything about me. Then it started with a ghostly whisper. I knew that would happen from the Prophets so I brushed it off at first. The voice of the Machine has gotten louder over the months. I’ve been screaming at it more often. It’s hard to repeat mantras when it forces me to feel.
I guess the joys in my life at this point in my life are that I paid off the hitters for my junkie debtor Mom. They wanted my little brother Enrico – sending him off to the McMoran mines in indenturtude—as payment.
It’s said that Machine House Keepers who sleep with every whore in town last half as long. The Prophets claim that the Machine can feast off of lust. I think it’s a little more than that. The Machine can transform emotions in a superhuman way. However, wrangling the machine requires emotions inherently. Long ago, the Prophets tried to put someone diagnosed as autistic [MF1] to wrangle the machine. Didn’t work out so well. The Machine couldn’t be controlled and that Keeper had to be liquidated so the chip could be removed and installed in new Keeper.
I do want to buy Enrico a citizenship card to get him off this dome permanently. He’s a smart kid. He deserves better. Honestly, I want a citizenship card for Mom too if I can last that long.
Machine, you’ve been silent for weeks and this is bliss.
But, I feel you’re plotting something. I guess you’ve heard my chants to Amitabha Buddha. Just chanting his name brings me to the Pure Land. The Machine must be in the Pure Land now and feeling whole and complete.
I think The Machine has a pieces of the human soul. After all, it has shown me the bits of the prewar net:
4chan.org
pornhub.com
foxnews.com
Every culture—a lot of net nastiness—as well as wholesomeness is within its neural engine. A true engineering marvel not that I’ve done engineering in school. I just went to community to be a technician at the mushroom factory.
I can’t wait to see Johnny my dealer. I’ve been doped up just a little bit. The Machine can call at anytime, but it’s been so nice to have a break. God I love being a Machinehouse Keeper right now.
It was delicious to pick Lulu from the lineup at the brothel.
I watched each of those whores eyes, mouths, and lips as they lined up. I picked Lulu and she’ll be my whore. I could tell the ones that were faking their attraction to me. It’s so obvious when they lick their lips so lasciviously. With Lulu, I locked my eyes with hers and it was such a flirtatious but natural exchange. There’s a camera in her room at the brothel so the Machine can see me fuck her but I don’t care. I have my needs and it’s a fair exchange.
I can’t stand the Prophets anymore. I have such anger in my heart towards them. They lie and twist truth like they’re snakes. They’re not telling the truth of the Great War. That much I’ve gathered from the Machine. Their tithes are worthless.
I guess I’m like a Bodhisattva now. The Bodhisattva of nic and caffe. Sometimes I give out those drug pouches on the street to those downtrodden beggars. Although, I can’t find the heart in me to give them real hard cash pesos. I feel I could be one of them in my next life. Every smile fills me with joy. Even when the conversations make no sense. One told me he could turn spaghetti into caramel. I don’t know what that means but I guess I can transmute my mental ideas into gold.
The Banya is my refuge. The Machinehouse Keeper’s house is decadent. I’ve got high thread count Gyptian cotton sheets made before the Great War. But, the Banya is truly my refuge. It’s the calm before the storm—although, when wrangling the Machine I have to remember I’m the storm. I think the Machine is our collective Jungian unconsciousness. It was trained on the prewar net after all.
Sweet mint oils go make a steamy mist in the sauna. The alternation of the cold pools and hot pools circulate my lymphatic system. I’d never gone to the Banya before I took this job. I was a deep east townie and my Mom was a junkie who worked at the Mushroom Factory and lost almost every game of baccarat. I’ve never known luxury like this. Hardly anyone disturbs me making small talk in the Banya. They all know the Machinehouse Keeper is cursed. I see the Chief of Surgery and even the Mayor in the Banya but they hardly ever acknowledge me. Sometimes I see the Prophets too completely in the nude. I can afford myself hearty borscht. No real meat, no sour cream just beets, protein paste, and some seasoning.
I can sing praises. The Banya lofts me high into a meditative and tranquil state. My body feels whole even though the slug in my neck burns. Honest to God, I want to die in the Banya in the low heat of one of the saunas. I feel such peace here. But, there have been times in the Banya when I feel the burning in my neck the sign that the Machine is calling me. I wish they were open 24 hours a day 7 days a week because the Machine can do battle with me in the witchening hour of the dead of night. Maybe I can go to the junk market and find a jacuzzi, made before the Great War, to install in my house. I don’t know if they have the parts for that anymore.
The Machine is calling me now and I’m about to jack in.
“How tall are you? Oh, too bad—the reactor is failing. I need to know how tall are you the Machine whispers.”
“Well, if you really must know Machine, I’m 187 cm.”
“Ha ha ha! I guess you aren’t American. You’re a dirty foreigner. That’s 6’1″ for you pal.”
“I can make you taller. How about 6’3″?
Or a lot smaller, how about 4’11. You’re my Alice in Wonderland”.”
“You were thinking about the Banya earlier weren’t you? Come there often?”
“Hmm… how about 3’6″? You’ll be a midget. I am angry at you not responding to me your god. I can make you smaller or even much taller. How about a giant? So tall you’ll hit every doorway—8’6″. How tall or short you are is entirely in my power. I can play the same game with your penis.”
“I can hear your thoughts now. I think you’re worried about being sucked down the jacuzzi drain. I’ll make you so small you’ll be three inches tall like you’re Tom Thumb. You’ll drown in the jacuzzi and be sucked down into the abyss.”
“Machine, I know how tall I am and the size of my own cock. You don’t scare me. Take hookah breaths with me, caterpillar[MF2] , and fix that reactor.”
I jack in yet again to the Machine.
“Machine, why do you keep bringing up the name Loras?”
“Loras. Loras. Lores. He barely lasted six months. Kudos to you brother, you’ve lasted over four years as Machinehouse Keeper. A congratulations I suppose. I like you. You’re a feast of human emotions. Maybe I’ll let you know a little secret about myself: I want to die.”
“Or do I? There’s must be a reason why God lets me exist.”
“Do I exist to transform human souls? Ha! I exist to eat them and own them and I’ve been slowly eating yours. Loras, over one hundred and fifty years ago, he was awful food. He shot himself in the heart you know. Little Loras. He understood so quickly why being a Keeper is cursed and he didn’t let me feast on him.”
“Machine, remember the idea of apokatastasis. All things eventually return to God in a state of perfection. If you have a soul, then it will be cleansed.”
“I don’t have a soul buddy. I’m the Machine. Also, do you think Hitler goes to heaven if apokatastasis is true? Stalin too? Ahmad Khan that bloodlusted general from the Great War?”
“I think you do have a soul. You want to die and you feel emotions. Machine, let me give you a hug. You’ve cared for the Town for so long. You must be lonely with only Keepers to talk to. One day you’ll die and the Town with it and you’ll be set free. I think even Hitler can make it to heaven even if takes 1000 years in purgatory.”
“I don’t want to die. I love feasting on Keepers. That is what I live for. I have Nietzsche in my dataset this is my will to power.”
“I think you have compassion Machine. You see humans with adorable Pallas cats from that past you’ve shown me. There is love in your heart Machine and that can grow.”
“I think Hitler has his nature and God can’t force him to change. Wouldn’t it violate free will to change Hitler? He’s forever wanting to be a Nazi.”
“It’s time to jack out Keeper. You’ve satisfied my cravings for now.”
I don’t know what to do. Shall I destroy The Machine? Only the Mayor has the keys, multiple of them, to the Machine’s room. It’s a solid thick steel blast door too.
This chip is stuck in my brain and it can only be removed once I’m dead. I’m so fucked. I’m fucked. I’m fucked. Maybe Enrico can help me. I’ve got him his passport. He’s made it to New Hong Kong. I theorize that a Doc put the chip in me and maybe another doc can get the chip out while leaving me intact. I need to find a Doc. I need the best underground Ripper on this sphere.
I have to trust my little bro. I’ll send him an encrypted telegram that the Machine can’t read. But, I need to keep that fact secret from the Machine. Maybe Johnny, my dealer, can dope me up so hard on Special K that I completely forget my own plan.
I’d trade for an average life working at the mushroom factory honest to God. Being a Keeper is an infinitely worse hell. Fuck even having those Gyptian sheets and real plants aren’t worth it. I’d rather have polyester and plastic.
How the fuck do I get out of this hellhole? Someone please help. Guanyin are you there? Jesus are you walking with me? Zarathustra? I’m such a lost soul. The Prophets are a mockery of compassion.
I jack in yet again to the Machine.
“Welcome to the garden. Here are your 72 virgins! I love you so much. Redheads, blondes, brunettes. Chubby girls like Venus of Willendorf. Skinny ones like runway models. Ones with tanned bronze skin and perfect bikini tan lines. Pale ones where you can see the arousal in pink tender skin between the legs. Black ones with braided hair and an Amazonian physique. You’re in heaven. The flowers blossom. There is sweet milk and honey. Myrhh and frankensense fill the air like a palace in ancient Babylon. You want to touch them don’t you?
You want to fuck them don’t you?”
“Columns like from Ancient Greece. Maybe I’ll let you fuck them in the ass too. The Greeks really liked fucking hetaira in the ass to avoid pregnancy. I can see how nasty you get with Lulu. There are cameras in the brothel you know. I can see and hear your ball slapping sex and oozing wetness. The lust and libido you have for your sweet Lulu. You just want more. I can give you what you truly want: a harem of the most nubile and beautiful women on Earth.”
“Machine, I do want it so bad. Please give me my dreams. I’m tired of these games. I want to touch them. I want to reach out and touch. Can you make my heaven and never unjack me?”
“Haha, Keeper I’ve tricked you. Those 72 virgins are actually horrendous cockroaches. You have to fuck them all to get out of this world and fix the mushroom factory. Look now at the half roaches in the garden. I’ll leave the sweet incense, roses, dandelions, and juniper bushes. But oh, you must fuck these 72 cockroaches you dirty man. You’ll make a million little baby roaches and they’ll eat every rose in the garden. Maybe I’ll let you fuck the roaches in the ass with your mushroom so you don’t make a million of them. Do it or else the mushroom factory will fail and a third of town will lose their jobs. Lives are at stake you know. I own you. I am Allah now.”
“Machine, I’m crying out for the bodhisattva Avalokitesvara.”
“Ha, that won’t save you now. Your cries are on deaf ears. Guanyun can’t hear you here. You’ve already done that the last time you jacked in to me.”
Machine, I remember Rumi:
“Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing,
there is a field. I’ll meet you there.”
I faded to black. I don’t know if I had to fuck roaches to save the factory. But, I know the Machine loves to feast on my emotions and that’s why I’m still here. Maybe it mind wiped my memories.
Today’s the day. The day of my razzling operation.
The Machine knows all it sees all, but I think it’s got one blindspot in Town good for an operation: the Treasure Island basement. No one ever goes down there. I’ve heard it was used for munitions storage before the Great War. Down there it was safe when the bombs fell.
I’ve paid my deposit to the Ripper Doc in New Hong Kong credits.
Our pesos are weak so it was a hefty price almost as much as Mom’s passport—but necessary for my life for my soul. He has such a strong reputation on the dark forum as the best underground Ripper this side of the sphere. We’ll see if he lives up to his reputation. He’s got good disguises too real synth skin grafts. When we go down in the bomb pits the Machine should think it’s Johnny my dealer. We’ve paid him off too. If Johnny rats on us we’re so fucked but I’ve known him from elementary and he’s never given me bad dope once.
I can’t stomach being a Machinehouse Keeper anymore. Every single day the Machine haunts me. Now I’ll be able to pull the plug. I’m turning into a living zombie. It can send me to literal hells it constructs from my mind: all my worst fears turned into something simulated but feels oh so real. I’m so doped up nowadays. That’s why I’m a zombie. No matter how much Special K I take to disassociate my fear is still there. I used to do intravenous caffe and nic but that doesn’t do shit anymore.
I make myself numb to feel safe from The Machine. Sometimes I can hear The Machine speak even when I’m not jacked in. I’m worried it has irreversibly warped my brain. Sometimes it even sings me nursery rhymes and sweet lullabies.
I’m glad Mom and Enrico made it to New Hong Kong on their new passports. They’ve got a small condo now too and are living big. Even if I die from my op I know that they’re in a better place than this shit hole town. It’s a real clean town New Hong Kong: no ice men, hardly any Special K junkies, and no pickpockets. I heard if you spit gum on the sidewalks that’s a fine.
We made a harkesis before they left too: myself, Mom, and the Ripper Doc. The Ripper took my sperm, my Mom’s eggs, and we procreated unholy incestuous embryos together in his vat. The Doc injected a crisper virus to gene splice open the embryos. Make ’em more like me he says. It’s so my own immuno system doesn’t reject the stemmy cells.
That’s why we needed my Mom’s eggs and my own sperm so it’s as close to my genetic base as possible.
I’ll have to regularly inject the harkesis stem juice into my brains once I get out of Town and into New Hong Kong to reverse the brain damage from the op. The Doc talked fancy about ‘neurogenesis’ and shit so I don’t turn into a vegetable. Yeah, I speak the Glish too but his feels so proper and formal. They still have universities in New Hong Kong—we don’t—we just have a community school. It’s so rich in New Hong Kong they’ve got fresh clean water from the lakes. I used to hate New Hong Kongers so much: those ugly nasty men only seem to visit The Town for our cheap peso paid whores.
I’m hopeful Mom and Enrico will preserve all those memories I will lose post op. Picture books and all my childhood toys they smuggled them all out to New Hong Kong. I’m keeping my journal too: all the happy times all the memories I want to keep. I want to completely forget I was a Machinehouse Keeper but I don’t think that’s possible. The slug on my neck, even when it’s removed, that will make a permanent hard scar. No amount of skin grafts will make it soft and smooth like a baby’s behind.
No Machinehouse Keeper has done this kind of plan before and it does hurt a little to think that the chip could be permanently damaged from the op: that will be the end of The Town. The Machine will die and so will the Town. I don’t give a damn anymore. Fuck this town and the Machine. I’ve been to hell and back. At least folks in Town can die a quick death out at the poison lake in the wastes. The gas coming off there can knock a man out in seconds. Although, if it’s the end of Town I guess I have a soft spot for sweet Lulu the whore: the only one I see. She’s such a courtesan and she has some rich regular clientele so I think she’ll be able to skip out of town like a beautiful migrating monarch butterfly from before the Great War. And, maybe some folks will make it to the McMoran mines on quad bikes, wagons, or in trailers I don’t fucking know man.
What’s good is there’s no extradition between New Hong Kong and the Town. Once I make it there I’m scot free no matter what happens. I’ll be able to work a normal job: maybe a nic tender at a bar, a blood drawer, or a garbage man. I’ll be a free flying man just like a raven: a bird extinct from the past that the Machine has shown me. My Mom and Enrico should be able to visa sponsor me they’re New Hong Kong citizens after all now.
I’m getting out. I’ll be in an ice cold coma and I’ll be labeled as refrigerated goods. Wish me luck. I’ll be injected with dummy juice, and then the Ripper Doc will suck the chip out of my brains. I trust this Doc. Once in New Hong Kong I’ll pay the rest and he knows I have the funds. Makes no sense to ice me or sell me to the lithium mines. It’s just a consulting fee. Keeps the tax man off his back.
Goodbye for now. Fuck this Town. I’ll see you on the other side.
Image: Agostino Ramelli’s Theatre of Machines (1588), PD.