this title is NOT stolen from the automatic... i promise!
On the campaign trail
Mihan and Einor have been pounding the streets for days up round the factories, spreading the word. Mihan is not enjoying himself at all. His feet are killing him, his rucksack’s really heavy and he’s got a terrible headache. And it’s raining like the Creator wants to drown them. They’re outside the Petiole steelworks, way up in the outer reaches of First Ward where the air’s thick with smog and fumes.
‘Where have we got to go after this?’
‘Don’t know. I reckon we should skip this one, actually. Thom Petiole and Calvinus are like that,’ Einor crosses his fingers, ‘we’ll get lynched if we’re caught in there.’
Mihan is so tempted to agree.
We could get out of here, back to the lower city and go and sit in a pub somewhere, be normal, pack all this stupid electioneering business in. No one else is bothering, why should we?
No, Mihan, says his conscience. Don’t weaken, you’re doing the right thing. You’re a missionary now.
‘We ought to give it a shot. At least so we can say we tried. You do want to make a difference, don’t you?’
‘Well, yes, but – ’
‘No! No buts. We’re going in, comrade, we’re going to spread the word.’
Einor grumbles, but Mihan is adamant. He feels good about it as well, that he’s keeping going when he could so easily have given in. Mind over matter.
‘At least let’s go in the back door,’ Einor moans as Mihan drags him across the yard.
‘I spose you’ve got a point there. We don’t want a repeat of the Haimisha works.’
Mihan’s still smarting from that incident; they went in the front door, the desk people refused to take them seriously so Mihan decided to preach to them instead. They ran for Security, and Mihan and Einor had to make a mad dash for it, finally losing the Security men in the backstreets of Third Ward. What will come of it, they still don’t know. Ramir was not pleased.
‘Where do you think it is?’
‘No idea. I reckon it’s over there.’
‘What, that one?’
‘Let’s try it. Creator, forgive us for this act of trespass, for it is in Your name,’ Mihan mutters and they make for the door, a slab of corrugated iron set in the wall. It’s open, and it leads straight into the canteen which is jammed with rough-looking workers eating, talking, arguing, laughing. Mihan’s heart does a familiar plummet into his bowels.
‘Right, let’s get this over with, comrade. Have you got the leaflets?’
‘Mihan, I can’t do it. I want out.’
Einor’s gone pale, he’s sweating in his overall, he’s shrinking from the door. Mihan grips his shoulder for a moment.
‘I know, I know. But think of how good it will be once we’ve got them out of Petiole’s grasp. Think of the Master Blueprint. Surely that’s worth the trouble of doing this?’
Einor does not answer. Mihan grabs his arm and hauls him into the canteen. Here they go again, on the campaign trail, no idea what the results are any more.
Come on, Mihan, just let yourself go. Show them how you feel.
‘Oi! How’d you get in ‘ere?’ shouts a tall worker with arms like steel bars. Mihan gulps.
Just do it, Mihan. Free the chained.
‘Are you oppressed by the government and ill-treated by your superiors?’
‘Yer wot?’
The worker’s looking at him very suspiciously. A couple more have turned round to watch what’s going on. Mihan sees their hard faces, hungry eyes, unwashed and tired and poor and he just wants to help them.
Without them we’re nothing.
‘The Architects will free you, comrade! Hear me, all who feel ignored and mistreated and under-represented in the farce we call the government: the Architects are your voice! End the corruption! We promise rights and education and benefits for all, not just those who can afford it. Join us and let your voice be heard, you who have been down-trodden for so long, supporting the gross weight of the capitalists with never a word of credit – workers, hear me, we are your word of credit!’ he shouts, and Einor unrolls the banner with their slogan, Architects: Paving the Way Forwards. Mihan made that up and he’s proud of it. He thinks it says the right things in a concise way. Headline news. You can only print so many newspapers before you’re influenced by the media, however subconsciously. There’s a few sniggers, but they’ve got quite an audience now.
‘How many of you went to school?’
There’s a big laugh at that. No one who went to school ends up in a factory like this.
‘Can you afford the rent every month? Do you pay your tax?’
‘Well, you try, otherwise you get fucked up by bailiffs, innit?’ answers one hatchet-faced woman with a baby on her lap. There’s general agreement and an old man starts to tell a very long rambling story about why he couldn’t pay his tax last time. Mihan despairs.
Help me, I’m losing them. Tell me what to say, Creator, teach me how to teach Your people. Make them listen.
He suddenly remembers what Ramir was telling them about taxation yesterday.
Thank You Creator, thank you. My every inspiration is from Your mighty brain.
‘The Architects will tax the rich and pay the poor! We’ll end poverty and want, if only enough good people like yourselves and your comrades join us and we can overthrow the corruption in the Assembly and in the Guilds!’
‘Oh, what-ever. You’re not corrupt at all, of course, yeah look at us, we believe every word you say cause we’re just poor dumb-arse workers who don’t know shit, ain’t we? Bloody revolutionaries, you’re all the same,’ rants one worker, a wiry blond-haired sparrow with an earring and a dirty face. His friends all agree loudly. Mihan shrugs, suddenly angry, trying to come up with of a cutting remark like the ones Nagy makes so cleverly. There’s always someone with an axe to grind, isn’t there?
‘Then I can’t help you. All I’m saying is it’s worth a try, because what we’re offering is infinitely better than the deal you get now. But if you can’t see that, or don’t want your life to be any better, then it’s not my problem, is it?’
Another big laugh, while the blond guy blushes angrily. A beefy worker points at him.
‘Ha, you got told!’ he crows. The blond guy looks murderous.
‘Shut yer face, or I’ll break it for you!’ he snarls.
‘Oh yeah, you will, will you? Go on then, you fuckin’ midget, go on, break me, go on!’
Screaming curses, the blond guy launches himself at the other one and they roll on the floor; several others join in the scrum. Mihan turns a stricken face to Einor.
‘What the hell do I do now?’
‘I told you this was a bad idea, I told you!’ Einor moans. ‘Do something, quick!’
Mihan gapes at the roiling mass of bodies, with the shocked onlookers ranged round the outside like fence posts, and he stops thinking. He dives into the fight and starts pulling people apart, ignoring the whacks he’s getting in the process.
‘Stop fighting, you morons! It’s not getting you anywhere!’ he screams repeatedly – and finally it stops, the mist clears and they’re all sprawled on the floor groaning or cursing, or not moving at all. He claws some blood out of his eye, hoping it’s not his.
‘You should be ashamed of yourselves, acting like a bunch of half-wits – you’re grown men and women, for heaven’s sake! Look what this system’s done to you,’ he shouts, ‘it’s turning you into animals! I’d put the lot of you in the zoo and laugh at you if I didn’t think I’d get my teeth kicked in by one of your big brothers.’
They’re sitting astonished. He pauses for breath then continues his onslaught.
‘I mean it! When people work together as a team, as part of a production line, you’re all working for the same goal – and you’re absolutely unstoppable! Think of all the amazing things humans have done when we worked together rather than against each other – we can build cities, for God’s sake!’
He lets the idea hang in the air for a little moment, then brings it down with a bump.
‘But when you’re like this there’s no hope of doing anything. I mean, what a spectacle! If I wanted to see something like that I’d go to the madhouse, I wouldn’t drag myself all the way out here to watch you miserable lot beat each other up.’
He turns to Einor for a moment, then back. He’s full of bitterness now, full of venom.
‘Right, that’s the end of the show, comrades,’ he almost spits, ‘if anything I said even remotely interested you, come to the Selenite community centre in Levers Street, Third Ward on Tuesday evenings and listen to Leader Ramir, who’s a lot better at this kind of thing than I am. Come on, comrade, we’re going.’
And he turns away. The workers, silent, nonplussed, a little afraid, part like the sea for him but he’s too angry to notice what an impact he’s had. Einor dumps the pile of flyers on a table and hurries after him across the hall, out of the door and into the yard where Mihan is leaning against the wall and wiping his brow, which is instantly soaked again by the driving rain. He gesticulates hopelessly to the door, where the renewed sounds of shouting and fighting are streaming out.
‘What have I done, Einor? How can I get through to them?’
He’s shaking. He feels like he’s just run a marathon.
‘Mihan, what’s the matter with you? You were really good! You had me totally convinced – I mean, you would have if I wasn’t convinced already.’
Mihan shakes his head wearily, refusing to believe that. He’s still cringing, imagining himself gauche and small in front of those tough, world-wise workers, especially that blond guy. Who the hell is he to try and change their lives? He knows nothing about them, nothing about how they feel but he automatically assumes they’ll believe in the same things he does.
Why do I think that? I know what I believe in, and if I didn’t think it was the right way I wouldn’t believe it. Forcing my beliefs on other people without knowing the first thing about them is not the way to make friends or supporters.
He longs for the safety of the community centre, where he knows he’s valuable, he knows he’s doing the right thing. He even longs for his Reconstruct project, the concentrated hours of studying, the calculations which are so hard but he gets a real buzz out of doing them right, the feeling that he’s on the cutting edge of technology, about to make the biggest breakthrough the city’s ever seen. That’s the real Master Blueprint, not this undignified door-to-door hawking to people who don’t care, it’s a parody of what they stand for, it’s capitalism in its lowest and dirtiest form, selling ideas: the Master Blueprint deserves better than this.
‘Oh, comrade, don’t be silly. I was a total washout. I think I’m going to go back and do penance duties for this, I can’t face it any more. I was a laughing-stock!’
‘But if you refuse to do any more, you’ll have to do more penances for disobeying orders, won’t you? Come on, comrade, let’s just get it over with. I don’t like it either, but perhaps we can talk about it at meeting this evening, if it really bugs you that much.’
‘No. I can’t take it, Einor. Join up with Nagy and Cave and do their rounds. I’ll go back and explain everything to Ramir. I don’t care what he does to me,’ Mihan says fiercely, ‘cause it’s everything I deserve. Have a productive shift,’ he wishes Einor, conventionally laying his right hand over the Architect badge on Einor’s sleeve and turning away.
‘Mihan, I – ’
But Mihan’s already gone. Einor sighs and runs a hand through his sodden hair, wipes his glasses on a reasonably dry bit of his sleeve which only makes them harder to see out of. He watches Mihan’s figure retreating down the street, shoulders hunched and forlorn, and wonders why he’s so upset.
Some people get too hung up about things.
Mihan arrives back at Levers Street in a fog of misery, a big black cloud that infects everything with its strength-eating hopelessness. He just wants to lie down in a puddle and die, he wishes he’d never joined the Architects, wishes his faith was a bit more flexible, wishes things like looking bad didn’t matter to him and he didn’t have to beat himself up about it all the time. He goes in and flicks his name-tag to ‘On Site’, ignoring Rufilla on the desk who looks at him with concern. He dumps his bag and coat in the sleeping quarters and goes to Ramir’s office. The urge to confess all his inadequacies to someone with no inadequacy is almost unbearable; he’s got to tell someone who understands him, or he’ll explode. He raises a trembling hand and knocks.
I deserve everything I get. I deserve to be punished.
There is no answer and Mihan is bitterly disappointed, let down by the man who never lets anyone down. He trails away to the meeting hall where they’ve set up the altar, a steel table, a tall dark metal lectern with the big copy of Blueprints Set A clamped to it, some bits of machinery, a battered megaphone. It’s so cold, so unwelcoming, so harsh. Mihan wanders across the floor, confused and sad. He’s adrift, marooned on some dark shore by his own faith that led him here so unswervingly and found he couldn’t keep up.
This is what I worship? Look at me, I’m ridiculous, feeling like this over a few lumps of metal. What’s the point?
‘Comrade Igrain,’ comes the deep, compelling voice from the doorway. Mihan yelps and turns round, heart beating wildly.
He’s come to save me, or kill me.
I don’t care which, either is better than this.
He controls himself, stands up straight, eyes fixed on Ramir who is advancing towards him across the floor.
‘Perhaps you would like to explain why you have disobeyed the orders you were given at the start of shift?’
Mihan gapes for a minute, his mind blank, but then it all comes flooding back and it pours out of his mouth, tangled and confused and impassioned, full of faith and doubt and contradictions, without pretence or façades; Mihan doesn’t do that kind of thing, he doesn’t understand it. And at last it’s all out, for better or worse, and Mihan feels faint with the relief. There’s a dangerous silence in the air between them, Ramir’s not meeting eyes. Mihan stands still and waits. Ramir looks up; his face is clouded with thought.
You have doubts too, Leader? Even you are assailed by these painful feelings?
That makes Mihan reel; he’s so happy it’s not just him being crazy, but at the same time it makes him sad, that no one at all is ever sure of what they do, even if they look it.
‘Go, comrade. Sign in for penance, please. I need to think about what you’ve said.’
Ramir’s voice is heavy, perhaps disappointed, perhaps worried. Mihan’s stomach squeezes and he wonders what he’s done. What he’s said.
Later, much later, it’s the session in Ramir’s office, round that table with the steel chairs and the cold electric lights. Mihan comes in late, fresh from his penances, all the dirtiest jobs he could find: he’s glowing with the feeling of forgiveness. He’s redeemed himself in the eyes of the Creator for his earlier failings by working as hard and as tirelessly as a Reconstruct, even though his back aches from kneeling on the floor scrubbing stains from the planks, his arm canes from polishing the grease off the lectern and his nasal passages are full of thick dust that makes his mouth taste horrible.
‘Are we all here, then, comrades? Good: let us begin without further delay. It seems that there has been mixed success in the factory campaign.’
Ramir shoots a glance at Mihan that no one else sees. Mihan is warily immobile. ‘Comrade Murat in particular should be congratulated for his inspirational speech in the Beardsley mills, which has gained us 120 potential supporters. May your blueprints ever take shape, Comrade Murat.’
Nagy grins amid the general approval.
‘It was your template, Leader Ramir: I just followed orders, and it’s so much easier that way, believe me, comrades. You never get it wrong if you don’t think too hard about it, cause that’s when doubts start creeping in and undoing all your work,’ he says earnestly. Vagus pulls a face – but carefully, in case other people see him.
‘Which leads me very neatly onto my next point, which is that I know a few of you are finding things difficult. How many of you can feel your faith being sorely tested by this campaign? Be honest, comrades,’ Ramir enquires, his voice soft and persuasive.
Mihan nods instantly. Might as well let it all out – and besides, Ramir will know he’s lying if he says nothing. Faces turn to look at him.
‘I make no secret of it, comrades, Leader. I’m not doing what I should and I feel really, really bad about it. I’m letting you all down, I’m letting the Regime down and I promise from now that I will remedy the situation, in the name of the Master Blueprint.’
As frank as he could. Vagus raises a questioning eyebrow as if to say, why do we care what you’re doing wrong? We’re not going to pity you for it, are we?
‘Your honesty is commendable, Comrade Igrain. Does anyone else feel this way?’
There is some uncomfortable shuffling of feet. Mihan’s wondering why he does the things he does sometimes. They don’t make sense even to him, so what must they be like to someone who’s not witnessing his every thought of garbled explanation?
Nagy nods, the picture of empathy, looking towards Mihan.
‘To be honest, it is pretty difficult to be sure you’re doing the right thing. I know that’s what faith is meant to be about, something to rely on whether or not you’re sure of anything else, a starting point I spose – but, yeah, it’s a tough assignment, especially if you’re not that good in public – ’
‘Which is a problem you obviously don’t have, Nagy, so shut up,’ Vagus says waspishly.
‘Oh, come on, Vagus, there’s no need for that!’ Einor retorts. Vagus has been winding him up all evening and he can’t put up with much more of it. The meeting descends into chaos after that. Ramir shouts at everyone, but only a few of them are listening; Vagus, Einor and Nagy are having a separate argument and Rufilla is sitting, confused, not knowing whether to type down the proceedings, such as they are, or not. Mihan quietly takes the opportunity to leave the room. He feels dreadful as he creeps down the corridor to the sleeping quarters.
It’s all falling apart already and we haven’t even got a seat at the Assembly yet, let alone control of the city. We’re a joke.
He remembers the template Nagy was talking about; he’s lost his and he’s too afraid to go and ask Ramir for another one; resources are not cheap and waste is frowned upon. The only thing he can think of to do is steal Nagy’s copy and replicate it on the typewriter in the Propaganda Materials room.
But that’s immoral. We should share, not steal.
I don’t care. I’ll put it back, so it’s not stealing really.
He rummages frantically through Nagy’s things, finds it screwed up in a ball in his bag. It’s got notes all over it, unmistakably Nagy’s neat cursive. They don’t care, you moron and What makes you think they’ll believe this, when Hacek and the Absolutes have been doing it for years and no one likes them and other, more seditious things that Mihan reads avidly, shocked. He puts the paper down, terrified that Ramir’s going to come in and find him with it and think it’s his writing. The room seems too quiet all of a sudden, too still. Someone could easily be watching him. He gets up and quickly checks in the wardrobes and under all the beds, behind the door, in the space between the bunks and the walls. Then he catches sight of himself in the wardrobe mirror and sits down again, shaking. He doesn’t know what to do about Nagy. He should report him to Ramir, but that would mean explaining what he was doing in sleeping quarters when everyone else was at meeting, and why he was going through Nagy’s bag. Besides, he likes Nagy, he doesn’t want him to get in trouble.
Erase the notes, then no one will get in trouble at all, it’ll be like they never existed.
He runs to the propaganda room with the offending paper burning a hole through his pocket, goes to the drawing cupboard, grabs a ball of rubber – and Einor comes in.
‘What are you doing in here?’
‘I – I, er, I was, er,’ Mihan falters. Einor snorts.
‘Mihan, what is the matter with you today? You’re acting really suspiciously, you know. You really should do something about it before people start to notice. Even Cephall noticed you’re quote showing signs of considerable stress unquote, and he’s half-asleep most of the time. Is there something on your mind?’
‘No, no, I – I’m fine, just a bit tired, you know how it is sometimes; I’ve not been getting much sleep recently and it’s…’
He talks nervously, too fast, too high, too much. He doesn’t even know what he’s saying, all he’s aware of is the bit of paper in his pocket. He puts a hand in his pocket and
OH MY GOD IT’S NOT THERE
‘Mihan?’
‘Ye – Oh, Einor, I was meaning to ask you, have you got your template speech? Mine disintegrated in the rain and I need to use it, after what happened today,’ he gabbles.
Perfect excuse, Mihan. Brilliant.
‘Course, I’ll copy mine for you. I’ve got it here, actually. I’ll be right back.’
He goes into the copy room, a tiny cupboard off the end of the corridor, and Mihan hears the thud of the replicator, not once but twice. Einor comes back with a crumpled copy of the template on the flimsy carbon-paper.
‘Damn machine needs calibrating again, the first copy was all over the place. Anyway, I’m off to the workshop. Productive shift, Mihan,’ touching Mihan’s sleeve as is their custom. No one quite knows where that one came from, but it’s become routine. Mihan is left standing there with the new copy, still hot and smelling of ink, no idea where Nagy’s is and a million terrified questions. He takes deep breaths, tries to calm down.
Forget it, Mihan. It’s gone. It’s Nagy’s anyway, there’s no way anyone would blame you for it. They know you’re not like that. Don’t they?
Mihan never uses his own feelings again after that. They’re just not adequate. He sticks to the template rigidly, practises his speeches every night as regular as he says his prayers. He won’t let anyone down again. There are so many factories in the city, there’s no time to make your own speech different for each one. And besides, who would appreciate his efforts, except himself? Work without point is worse than idleness, runs the Twenty-seventh Blueprint. So he doesn’t bother with things he doesn’t have to, like doing it for himself. All is required of him is that he does what he’s told with no questions, no objections and no mistakes. The faces of workers blur into one big grimy mass, his routine bores him, but trying to escape the routine goes wrong. He’s safer just batch-processing. Like when he used to print hundreds of things with a hand-press, he developed little systems, little habits, quick ways of lining the edges up and setting the weight and leaving them a bit while the ink dries before he stacked them. He does that. They’re only bits of paper, nothing more. Treat them all the same and you get uniform results.
Why bother thinking about it all?
Like Nagy said, that’s when doubts start to creep in.
Just let Ramir do the thinking, he’s better at it than me; he doesn’t make mistakes.
I do. It’s all a mistake.
Mihan works, he sleeps, he prays, he eats, that’s about it. Doesn’t go out: he’s too tired. All he does is work for the Regime, for the Master Blueprint, and it’s demanding. It takes everything he’s got and that’s not enough, nothing he does is ever enough. It’s times like this that grind people down, make them angry, make them want to leave. But you have to get through them to see the other side, the good stuff, the sunlit fields beyond the wall. He only hopes the wall doesn’t get any higher than it is now.
It’s hard to believe that they were once nobodies, stuck in the backwaters of Jerboa with no money and nothing to do, only their beliefs that kept them going. Now look at them; they’ve got their own building and they’re in the process of acquiring another one, a derelict warehouse up in First Ward. They’ve got the wonderful community centre, their home, their base, Architect HQ, which gets more and more sophisticated by the day with the things they design. It’s full of gadgets that you don’t get anywhere else, really, cobbled together from bits of scrap and odds and ends but they work, they actually work. Like the one for the lighting at the services; Nagy comes back one day with this great armful of stuff that he found outside a closed-down theatre, all just sitting there in the road. That’s one of the first things; Ramir takes it away, into his workshop room, and all they hear for days is banging and hissing and Ramir shouting the Twelve Keystones at the top of his voice. They try and ignore him, just get on with their stuff, mainly research and calculations, theory work, very boring, but they can’t help talking anxiously about it across the desks in the Preparation Room. He hasn’t been out to sleep, to eat, nothing.
‘I don’t like it,’ says Nagy on the third day, when they’re all at a loose end with their work and there’s an alarming screeching noise coming from Ramir’s workshop. The others all agree, and Nagy volunteers to go and find out what the hell’s going on in there. Mihan wants to go, to see the great man at work for himself. What methods he must use! It’s genius, not madness at all. It’s got to be. They wouldn’t follow a madman.
They hear a yell and a door slam, then Nagy comes running back. There’s whitewash caked all over his head, like someone tipped a bucket of it on him, and he’s shaking.
‘He’s fine,’ he whispers, ‘just don’t disturb him again or he’ll break his concentration.’
That’s the way it is round here. Work comes first, before anything, and once you’ve got in a frame of mind where technical problems just cease to exist, you can see every connection and every calculation, you know exactly what’s going to happen in each place – then get it done, before you lose it again, for God’s sake. If that means no sleep, no food, no talking, then that’s how it’s going to be until you finish. Everyone understands that now. They’ve even got a special phrase for it: ‘assembly time’: and there’s a little sign on the door of the workshop cubicles which you can flick if you’re in there. When you feel yourself going into assembly time, then you’ve got to drop everything and run for the workshop and get your amazing idea made, even if it’s only in prototype, before you forget it; the worst thing is if you draw it out, then leave it and come back to it: you won’t understand it half as well, and it might mean that you have to abandon it, now you can’t see the connection in it that makes it all run – and it often doesn’t come back to you. In assembly time it’s like the world ceases to exist. You just don’t think in normal shapes at all, you don’t question, you just let it happen, never doubt, never even think: it’s in control and you’re the facilitator. No one touches you when you’re in assembly time.
People are in assembly time more and more often. They’ve practically abandoned the campaign trail, after Mihan’s outburst; Nagy has exclusive control of it, and he’s working with members of the congregation instead. In fact, the public seemed really eager to sign up when Ramir said they were looking for full-time workers. Mihan’s been put in charge of propaganda, of the printed stuff, the visuals, the posters, the slogans. It just flows out of him, it’s his stream of consciousness, but every piece comes back with Ramir’s Approved stamp, and it goes to the printing press – which desperately needs upgrading, it’s knackered. It’s so dangerous, Mihan worries every time that his posters will attract Security, they’ll get done for trying to undermine the government, but they never do. It seems that Security aren’t interested in them any more, now they’ve got nearly 1000 people, in and around the city, who have sworn to give themselves to the Creator in their work and in their lives. It amazes him that no one else ever gets afraid about all this, about how it’s not going to work, they’ve put so much into it, working absolutely tirelessly, time and money and effort, and it’s going to fall flat and they’ll just look like another batty cult. What if no one thinks they’re so hard-done-by after all? That’s the major selling-point, of course it’ll flop if that sentiment’s not there.
I suppose I’m just not a very good Architect. But I try so hard, why can I not get the mindset right? I’ve had less assembly time than everyone, even Vagus.
Mihan prays about this all the time, prays that he’ll get some ideas soon that will negate all his fears. Ramir has been asking quite insistently if everything’s alright, or would he like to have a chat about anything that was bothering him; not asked in a particularly sympathetic voice either, more like an interrogation. Mihan blanched and sped off on a fictional errand at that.
He’s out to get me. I’ve let him down.
I’m no good to him like this, I’m inefficient.
He’s going to Reconstruct me.
SOMEONE HELP ME
Mihan and Einor have been pounding the streets for days up round the factories, spreading the word. Mihan is not enjoying himself at all. His feet are killing him, his rucksack’s really heavy and he’s got a terrible headache. And it’s raining like the Creator wants to drown them. They’re outside the Petiole steelworks, way up in the outer reaches of First Ward where the air’s thick with smog and fumes.
‘Where have we got to go after this?’
‘Don’t know. I reckon we should skip this one, actually. Thom Petiole and Calvinus are like that,’ Einor crosses his fingers, ‘we’ll get lynched if we’re caught in there.’
Mihan is so tempted to agree.
We could get out of here, back to the lower city and go and sit in a pub somewhere, be normal, pack all this stupid electioneering business in. No one else is bothering, why should we?
No, Mihan, says his conscience. Don’t weaken, you’re doing the right thing. You’re a missionary now.
‘We ought to give it a shot. At least so we can say we tried. You do want to make a difference, don’t you?’
‘Well, yes, but – ’
‘No! No buts. We’re going in, comrade, we’re going to spread the word.’
Einor grumbles, but Mihan is adamant. He feels good about it as well, that he’s keeping going when he could so easily have given in. Mind over matter.
‘At least let’s go in the back door,’ Einor moans as Mihan drags him across the yard.
‘I spose you’ve got a point there. We don’t want a repeat of the Haimisha works.’
Mihan’s still smarting from that incident; they went in the front door, the desk people refused to take them seriously so Mihan decided to preach to them instead. They ran for Security, and Mihan and Einor had to make a mad dash for it, finally losing the Security men in the backstreets of Third Ward. What will come of it, they still don’t know. Ramir was not pleased.
‘Where do you think it is?’
‘No idea. I reckon it’s over there.’
‘What, that one?’
‘Let’s try it. Creator, forgive us for this act of trespass, for it is in Your name,’ Mihan mutters and they make for the door, a slab of corrugated iron set in the wall. It’s open, and it leads straight into the canteen which is jammed with rough-looking workers eating, talking, arguing, laughing. Mihan’s heart does a familiar plummet into his bowels.
‘Right, let’s get this over with, comrade. Have you got the leaflets?’
‘Mihan, I can’t do it. I want out.’
Einor’s gone pale, he’s sweating in his overall, he’s shrinking from the door. Mihan grips his shoulder for a moment.
‘I know, I know. But think of how good it will be once we’ve got them out of Petiole’s grasp. Think of the Master Blueprint. Surely that’s worth the trouble of doing this?’
Einor does not answer. Mihan grabs his arm and hauls him into the canteen. Here they go again, on the campaign trail, no idea what the results are any more.
Come on, Mihan, just let yourself go. Show them how you feel.
‘Oi! How’d you get in ‘ere?’ shouts a tall worker with arms like steel bars. Mihan gulps.
Just do it, Mihan. Free the chained.
‘Are you oppressed by the government and ill-treated by your superiors?’
‘Yer wot?’
The worker’s looking at him very suspiciously. A couple more have turned round to watch what’s going on. Mihan sees their hard faces, hungry eyes, unwashed and tired and poor and he just wants to help them.
Without them we’re nothing.
‘The Architects will free you, comrade! Hear me, all who feel ignored and mistreated and under-represented in the farce we call the government: the Architects are your voice! End the corruption! We promise rights and education and benefits for all, not just those who can afford it. Join us and let your voice be heard, you who have been down-trodden for so long, supporting the gross weight of the capitalists with never a word of credit – workers, hear me, we are your word of credit!’ he shouts, and Einor unrolls the banner with their slogan, Architects: Paving the Way Forwards. Mihan made that up and he’s proud of it. He thinks it says the right things in a concise way. Headline news. You can only print so many newspapers before you’re influenced by the media, however subconsciously. There’s a few sniggers, but they’ve got quite an audience now.
‘How many of you went to school?’
There’s a big laugh at that. No one who went to school ends up in a factory like this.
‘Can you afford the rent every month? Do you pay your tax?’
‘Well, you try, otherwise you get fucked up by bailiffs, innit?’ answers one hatchet-faced woman with a baby on her lap. There’s general agreement and an old man starts to tell a very long rambling story about why he couldn’t pay his tax last time. Mihan despairs.
Help me, I’m losing them. Tell me what to say, Creator, teach me how to teach Your people. Make them listen.
He suddenly remembers what Ramir was telling them about taxation yesterday.
Thank You Creator, thank you. My every inspiration is from Your mighty brain.
‘The Architects will tax the rich and pay the poor! We’ll end poverty and want, if only enough good people like yourselves and your comrades join us and we can overthrow the corruption in the Assembly and in the Guilds!’
‘Oh, what-ever. You’re not corrupt at all, of course, yeah look at us, we believe every word you say cause we’re just poor dumb-arse workers who don’t know shit, ain’t we? Bloody revolutionaries, you’re all the same,’ rants one worker, a wiry blond-haired sparrow with an earring and a dirty face. His friends all agree loudly. Mihan shrugs, suddenly angry, trying to come up with of a cutting remark like the ones Nagy makes so cleverly. There’s always someone with an axe to grind, isn’t there?
‘Then I can’t help you. All I’m saying is it’s worth a try, because what we’re offering is infinitely better than the deal you get now. But if you can’t see that, or don’t want your life to be any better, then it’s not my problem, is it?’
Another big laugh, while the blond guy blushes angrily. A beefy worker points at him.
‘Ha, you got told!’ he crows. The blond guy looks murderous.
‘Shut yer face, or I’ll break it for you!’ he snarls.
‘Oh yeah, you will, will you? Go on then, you fuckin’ midget, go on, break me, go on!’
Screaming curses, the blond guy launches himself at the other one and they roll on the floor; several others join in the scrum. Mihan turns a stricken face to Einor.
‘What the hell do I do now?’
‘I told you this was a bad idea, I told you!’ Einor moans. ‘Do something, quick!’
Mihan gapes at the roiling mass of bodies, with the shocked onlookers ranged round the outside like fence posts, and he stops thinking. He dives into the fight and starts pulling people apart, ignoring the whacks he’s getting in the process.
‘Stop fighting, you morons! It’s not getting you anywhere!’ he screams repeatedly – and finally it stops, the mist clears and they’re all sprawled on the floor groaning or cursing, or not moving at all. He claws some blood out of his eye, hoping it’s not his.
‘You should be ashamed of yourselves, acting like a bunch of half-wits – you’re grown men and women, for heaven’s sake! Look what this system’s done to you,’ he shouts, ‘it’s turning you into animals! I’d put the lot of you in the zoo and laugh at you if I didn’t think I’d get my teeth kicked in by one of your big brothers.’
They’re sitting astonished. He pauses for breath then continues his onslaught.
‘I mean it! When people work together as a team, as part of a production line, you’re all working for the same goal – and you’re absolutely unstoppable! Think of all the amazing things humans have done when we worked together rather than against each other – we can build cities, for God’s sake!’
He lets the idea hang in the air for a little moment, then brings it down with a bump.
‘But when you’re like this there’s no hope of doing anything. I mean, what a spectacle! If I wanted to see something like that I’d go to the madhouse, I wouldn’t drag myself all the way out here to watch you miserable lot beat each other up.’
He turns to Einor for a moment, then back. He’s full of bitterness now, full of venom.
‘Right, that’s the end of the show, comrades,’ he almost spits, ‘if anything I said even remotely interested you, come to the Selenite community centre in Levers Street, Third Ward on Tuesday evenings and listen to Leader Ramir, who’s a lot better at this kind of thing than I am. Come on, comrade, we’re going.’
And he turns away. The workers, silent, nonplussed, a little afraid, part like the sea for him but he’s too angry to notice what an impact he’s had. Einor dumps the pile of flyers on a table and hurries after him across the hall, out of the door and into the yard where Mihan is leaning against the wall and wiping his brow, which is instantly soaked again by the driving rain. He gesticulates hopelessly to the door, where the renewed sounds of shouting and fighting are streaming out.
‘What have I done, Einor? How can I get through to them?’
He’s shaking. He feels like he’s just run a marathon.
‘Mihan, what’s the matter with you? You were really good! You had me totally convinced – I mean, you would have if I wasn’t convinced already.’
Mihan shakes his head wearily, refusing to believe that. He’s still cringing, imagining himself gauche and small in front of those tough, world-wise workers, especially that blond guy. Who the hell is he to try and change their lives? He knows nothing about them, nothing about how they feel but he automatically assumes they’ll believe in the same things he does.
Why do I think that? I know what I believe in, and if I didn’t think it was the right way I wouldn’t believe it. Forcing my beliefs on other people without knowing the first thing about them is not the way to make friends or supporters.
He longs for the safety of the community centre, where he knows he’s valuable, he knows he’s doing the right thing. He even longs for his Reconstruct project, the concentrated hours of studying, the calculations which are so hard but he gets a real buzz out of doing them right, the feeling that he’s on the cutting edge of technology, about to make the biggest breakthrough the city’s ever seen. That’s the real Master Blueprint, not this undignified door-to-door hawking to people who don’t care, it’s a parody of what they stand for, it’s capitalism in its lowest and dirtiest form, selling ideas: the Master Blueprint deserves better than this.
‘Oh, comrade, don’t be silly. I was a total washout. I think I’m going to go back and do penance duties for this, I can’t face it any more. I was a laughing-stock!’
‘But if you refuse to do any more, you’ll have to do more penances for disobeying orders, won’t you? Come on, comrade, let’s just get it over with. I don’t like it either, but perhaps we can talk about it at meeting this evening, if it really bugs you that much.’
‘No. I can’t take it, Einor. Join up with Nagy and Cave and do their rounds. I’ll go back and explain everything to Ramir. I don’t care what he does to me,’ Mihan says fiercely, ‘cause it’s everything I deserve. Have a productive shift,’ he wishes Einor, conventionally laying his right hand over the Architect badge on Einor’s sleeve and turning away.
‘Mihan, I – ’
But Mihan’s already gone. Einor sighs and runs a hand through his sodden hair, wipes his glasses on a reasonably dry bit of his sleeve which only makes them harder to see out of. He watches Mihan’s figure retreating down the street, shoulders hunched and forlorn, and wonders why he’s so upset.
Some people get too hung up about things.
Mihan arrives back at Levers Street in a fog of misery, a big black cloud that infects everything with its strength-eating hopelessness. He just wants to lie down in a puddle and die, he wishes he’d never joined the Architects, wishes his faith was a bit more flexible, wishes things like looking bad didn’t matter to him and he didn’t have to beat himself up about it all the time. He goes in and flicks his name-tag to ‘On Site’, ignoring Rufilla on the desk who looks at him with concern. He dumps his bag and coat in the sleeping quarters and goes to Ramir’s office. The urge to confess all his inadequacies to someone with no inadequacy is almost unbearable; he’s got to tell someone who understands him, or he’ll explode. He raises a trembling hand and knocks.
I deserve everything I get. I deserve to be punished.
There is no answer and Mihan is bitterly disappointed, let down by the man who never lets anyone down. He trails away to the meeting hall where they’ve set up the altar, a steel table, a tall dark metal lectern with the big copy of Blueprints Set A clamped to it, some bits of machinery, a battered megaphone. It’s so cold, so unwelcoming, so harsh. Mihan wanders across the floor, confused and sad. He’s adrift, marooned on some dark shore by his own faith that led him here so unswervingly and found he couldn’t keep up.
This is what I worship? Look at me, I’m ridiculous, feeling like this over a few lumps of metal. What’s the point?
‘Comrade Igrain,’ comes the deep, compelling voice from the doorway. Mihan yelps and turns round, heart beating wildly.
He’s come to save me, or kill me.
I don’t care which, either is better than this.
He controls himself, stands up straight, eyes fixed on Ramir who is advancing towards him across the floor.
‘Perhaps you would like to explain why you have disobeyed the orders you were given at the start of shift?’
Mihan gapes for a minute, his mind blank, but then it all comes flooding back and it pours out of his mouth, tangled and confused and impassioned, full of faith and doubt and contradictions, without pretence or façades; Mihan doesn’t do that kind of thing, he doesn’t understand it. And at last it’s all out, for better or worse, and Mihan feels faint with the relief. There’s a dangerous silence in the air between them, Ramir’s not meeting eyes. Mihan stands still and waits. Ramir looks up; his face is clouded with thought.
You have doubts too, Leader? Even you are assailed by these painful feelings?
That makes Mihan reel; he’s so happy it’s not just him being crazy, but at the same time it makes him sad, that no one at all is ever sure of what they do, even if they look it.
‘Go, comrade. Sign in for penance, please. I need to think about what you’ve said.’
Ramir’s voice is heavy, perhaps disappointed, perhaps worried. Mihan’s stomach squeezes and he wonders what he’s done. What he’s said.
Later, much later, it’s the session in Ramir’s office, round that table with the steel chairs and the cold electric lights. Mihan comes in late, fresh from his penances, all the dirtiest jobs he could find: he’s glowing with the feeling of forgiveness. He’s redeemed himself in the eyes of the Creator for his earlier failings by working as hard and as tirelessly as a Reconstruct, even though his back aches from kneeling on the floor scrubbing stains from the planks, his arm canes from polishing the grease off the lectern and his nasal passages are full of thick dust that makes his mouth taste horrible.
‘Are we all here, then, comrades? Good: let us begin without further delay. It seems that there has been mixed success in the factory campaign.’
Ramir shoots a glance at Mihan that no one else sees. Mihan is warily immobile. ‘Comrade Murat in particular should be congratulated for his inspirational speech in the Beardsley mills, which has gained us 120 potential supporters. May your blueprints ever take shape, Comrade Murat.’
Nagy grins amid the general approval.
‘It was your template, Leader Ramir: I just followed orders, and it’s so much easier that way, believe me, comrades. You never get it wrong if you don’t think too hard about it, cause that’s when doubts start creeping in and undoing all your work,’ he says earnestly. Vagus pulls a face – but carefully, in case other people see him.
‘Which leads me very neatly onto my next point, which is that I know a few of you are finding things difficult. How many of you can feel your faith being sorely tested by this campaign? Be honest, comrades,’ Ramir enquires, his voice soft and persuasive.
Mihan nods instantly. Might as well let it all out – and besides, Ramir will know he’s lying if he says nothing. Faces turn to look at him.
‘I make no secret of it, comrades, Leader. I’m not doing what I should and I feel really, really bad about it. I’m letting you all down, I’m letting the Regime down and I promise from now that I will remedy the situation, in the name of the Master Blueprint.’
As frank as he could. Vagus raises a questioning eyebrow as if to say, why do we care what you’re doing wrong? We’re not going to pity you for it, are we?
‘Your honesty is commendable, Comrade Igrain. Does anyone else feel this way?’
There is some uncomfortable shuffling of feet. Mihan’s wondering why he does the things he does sometimes. They don’t make sense even to him, so what must they be like to someone who’s not witnessing his every thought of garbled explanation?
Nagy nods, the picture of empathy, looking towards Mihan.
‘To be honest, it is pretty difficult to be sure you’re doing the right thing. I know that’s what faith is meant to be about, something to rely on whether or not you’re sure of anything else, a starting point I spose – but, yeah, it’s a tough assignment, especially if you’re not that good in public – ’
‘Which is a problem you obviously don’t have, Nagy, so shut up,’ Vagus says waspishly.
‘Oh, come on, Vagus, there’s no need for that!’ Einor retorts. Vagus has been winding him up all evening and he can’t put up with much more of it. The meeting descends into chaos after that. Ramir shouts at everyone, but only a few of them are listening; Vagus, Einor and Nagy are having a separate argument and Rufilla is sitting, confused, not knowing whether to type down the proceedings, such as they are, or not. Mihan quietly takes the opportunity to leave the room. He feels dreadful as he creeps down the corridor to the sleeping quarters.
It’s all falling apart already and we haven’t even got a seat at the Assembly yet, let alone control of the city. We’re a joke.
He remembers the template Nagy was talking about; he’s lost his and he’s too afraid to go and ask Ramir for another one; resources are not cheap and waste is frowned upon. The only thing he can think of to do is steal Nagy’s copy and replicate it on the typewriter in the Propaganda Materials room.
But that’s immoral. We should share, not steal.
I don’t care. I’ll put it back, so it’s not stealing really.
He rummages frantically through Nagy’s things, finds it screwed up in a ball in his bag. It’s got notes all over it, unmistakably Nagy’s neat cursive. They don’t care, you moron and What makes you think they’ll believe this, when Hacek and the Absolutes have been doing it for years and no one likes them and other, more seditious things that Mihan reads avidly, shocked. He puts the paper down, terrified that Ramir’s going to come in and find him with it and think it’s his writing. The room seems too quiet all of a sudden, too still. Someone could easily be watching him. He gets up and quickly checks in the wardrobes and under all the beds, behind the door, in the space between the bunks and the walls. Then he catches sight of himself in the wardrobe mirror and sits down again, shaking. He doesn’t know what to do about Nagy. He should report him to Ramir, but that would mean explaining what he was doing in sleeping quarters when everyone else was at meeting, and why he was going through Nagy’s bag. Besides, he likes Nagy, he doesn’t want him to get in trouble.
Erase the notes, then no one will get in trouble at all, it’ll be like they never existed.
He runs to the propaganda room with the offending paper burning a hole through his pocket, goes to the drawing cupboard, grabs a ball of rubber – and Einor comes in.
‘What are you doing in here?’
‘I – I, er, I was, er,’ Mihan falters. Einor snorts.
‘Mihan, what is the matter with you today? You’re acting really suspiciously, you know. You really should do something about it before people start to notice. Even Cephall noticed you’re quote showing signs of considerable stress unquote, and he’s half-asleep most of the time. Is there something on your mind?’
‘No, no, I – I’m fine, just a bit tired, you know how it is sometimes; I’ve not been getting much sleep recently and it’s…’
He talks nervously, too fast, too high, too much. He doesn’t even know what he’s saying, all he’s aware of is the bit of paper in his pocket. He puts a hand in his pocket and
OH MY GOD IT’S NOT THERE
‘Mihan?’
‘Ye – Oh, Einor, I was meaning to ask you, have you got your template speech? Mine disintegrated in the rain and I need to use it, after what happened today,’ he gabbles.
Perfect excuse, Mihan. Brilliant.
‘Course, I’ll copy mine for you. I’ve got it here, actually. I’ll be right back.’
He goes into the copy room, a tiny cupboard off the end of the corridor, and Mihan hears the thud of the replicator, not once but twice. Einor comes back with a crumpled copy of the template on the flimsy carbon-paper.
‘Damn machine needs calibrating again, the first copy was all over the place. Anyway, I’m off to the workshop. Productive shift, Mihan,’ touching Mihan’s sleeve as is their custom. No one quite knows where that one came from, but it’s become routine. Mihan is left standing there with the new copy, still hot and smelling of ink, no idea where Nagy’s is and a million terrified questions. He takes deep breaths, tries to calm down.
Forget it, Mihan. It’s gone. It’s Nagy’s anyway, there’s no way anyone would blame you for it. They know you’re not like that. Don’t they?
Mihan never uses his own feelings again after that. They’re just not adequate. He sticks to the template rigidly, practises his speeches every night as regular as he says his prayers. He won’t let anyone down again. There are so many factories in the city, there’s no time to make your own speech different for each one. And besides, who would appreciate his efforts, except himself? Work without point is worse than idleness, runs the Twenty-seventh Blueprint. So he doesn’t bother with things he doesn’t have to, like doing it for himself. All is required of him is that he does what he’s told with no questions, no objections and no mistakes. The faces of workers blur into one big grimy mass, his routine bores him, but trying to escape the routine goes wrong. He’s safer just batch-processing. Like when he used to print hundreds of things with a hand-press, he developed little systems, little habits, quick ways of lining the edges up and setting the weight and leaving them a bit while the ink dries before he stacked them. He does that. They’re only bits of paper, nothing more. Treat them all the same and you get uniform results.
Why bother thinking about it all?
Like Nagy said, that’s when doubts start to creep in.
Just let Ramir do the thinking, he’s better at it than me; he doesn’t make mistakes.
I do. It’s all a mistake.
Mihan works, he sleeps, he prays, he eats, that’s about it. Doesn’t go out: he’s too tired. All he does is work for the Regime, for the Master Blueprint, and it’s demanding. It takes everything he’s got and that’s not enough, nothing he does is ever enough. It’s times like this that grind people down, make them angry, make them want to leave. But you have to get through them to see the other side, the good stuff, the sunlit fields beyond the wall. He only hopes the wall doesn’t get any higher than it is now.
It’s hard to believe that they were once nobodies, stuck in the backwaters of Jerboa with no money and nothing to do, only their beliefs that kept them going. Now look at them; they’ve got their own building and they’re in the process of acquiring another one, a derelict warehouse up in First Ward. They’ve got the wonderful community centre, their home, their base, Architect HQ, which gets more and more sophisticated by the day with the things they design. It’s full of gadgets that you don’t get anywhere else, really, cobbled together from bits of scrap and odds and ends but they work, they actually work. Like the one for the lighting at the services; Nagy comes back one day with this great armful of stuff that he found outside a closed-down theatre, all just sitting there in the road. That’s one of the first things; Ramir takes it away, into his workshop room, and all they hear for days is banging and hissing and Ramir shouting the Twelve Keystones at the top of his voice. They try and ignore him, just get on with their stuff, mainly research and calculations, theory work, very boring, but they can’t help talking anxiously about it across the desks in the Preparation Room. He hasn’t been out to sleep, to eat, nothing.
‘I don’t like it,’ says Nagy on the third day, when they’re all at a loose end with their work and there’s an alarming screeching noise coming from Ramir’s workshop. The others all agree, and Nagy volunteers to go and find out what the hell’s going on in there. Mihan wants to go, to see the great man at work for himself. What methods he must use! It’s genius, not madness at all. It’s got to be. They wouldn’t follow a madman.
They hear a yell and a door slam, then Nagy comes running back. There’s whitewash caked all over his head, like someone tipped a bucket of it on him, and he’s shaking.
‘He’s fine,’ he whispers, ‘just don’t disturb him again or he’ll break his concentration.’
That’s the way it is round here. Work comes first, before anything, and once you’ve got in a frame of mind where technical problems just cease to exist, you can see every connection and every calculation, you know exactly what’s going to happen in each place – then get it done, before you lose it again, for God’s sake. If that means no sleep, no food, no talking, then that’s how it’s going to be until you finish. Everyone understands that now. They’ve even got a special phrase for it: ‘assembly time’: and there’s a little sign on the door of the workshop cubicles which you can flick if you’re in there. When you feel yourself going into assembly time, then you’ve got to drop everything and run for the workshop and get your amazing idea made, even if it’s only in prototype, before you forget it; the worst thing is if you draw it out, then leave it and come back to it: you won’t understand it half as well, and it might mean that you have to abandon it, now you can’t see the connection in it that makes it all run – and it often doesn’t come back to you. In assembly time it’s like the world ceases to exist. You just don’t think in normal shapes at all, you don’t question, you just let it happen, never doubt, never even think: it’s in control and you’re the facilitator. No one touches you when you’re in assembly time.
People are in assembly time more and more often. They’ve practically abandoned the campaign trail, after Mihan’s outburst; Nagy has exclusive control of it, and he’s working with members of the congregation instead. In fact, the public seemed really eager to sign up when Ramir said they were looking for full-time workers. Mihan’s been put in charge of propaganda, of the printed stuff, the visuals, the posters, the slogans. It just flows out of him, it’s his stream of consciousness, but every piece comes back with Ramir’s Approved stamp, and it goes to the printing press – which desperately needs upgrading, it’s knackered. It’s so dangerous, Mihan worries every time that his posters will attract Security, they’ll get done for trying to undermine the government, but they never do. It seems that Security aren’t interested in them any more, now they’ve got nearly 1000 people, in and around the city, who have sworn to give themselves to the Creator in their work and in their lives. It amazes him that no one else ever gets afraid about all this, about how it’s not going to work, they’ve put so much into it, working absolutely tirelessly, time and money and effort, and it’s going to fall flat and they’ll just look like another batty cult. What if no one thinks they’re so hard-done-by after all? That’s the major selling-point, of course it’ll flop if that sentiment’s not there.
I suppose I’m just not a very good Architect. But I try so hard, why can I not get the mindset right? I’ve had less assembly time than everyone, even Vagus.
Mihan prays about this all the time, prays that he’ll get some ideas soon that will negate all his fears. Ramir has been asking quite insistently if everything’s alright, or would he like to have a chat about anything that was bothering him; not asked in a particularly sympathetic voice either, more like an interrogation. Mihan blanched and sped off on a fictional errand at that.
He’s out to get me. I’ve let him down.
I’m no good to him like this, I’m inefficient.
He’s going to Reconstruct me.
SOMEONE HELP ME
posted by 3jane at 4:35 PM
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