2

The overseer of factory #3990 looked like a man passed out in an alleyway. He leered at Sam like a drunk; Sam was certain he was drunk. It was 2pm.

“Eleven Rings?!” he harangued. “Eleven?! We do three shifts here, little lady. Eight hours. Not like the four-twos. They do twelve. We are gonna need more Rings.”

“It’s enough,” said Sam. “The handbook says –”

“Ahh, the handbook. Says one-per-two-thousand for washers, don’t it? Come.”

Sam followed him onto a web of catwalks. Twenty feet below was the factory floor, stretching to the horizon in every direction, littered with tens of thousands of workstations and miles of conveyor belts. Nine out of ten workers – that is to say, amblers – wore Finley orange. The rest wore a motley of grey and blue and green and whatever else.

“You ever use a Command Ring?” he asked.

“No.”

“No?! Lords Below, apprentices these days! What can they do but sit on their arses and boss around honest men?” The overseer held out his right hand. Seven rings glittered on his fingers: gaudy orange, glittering emerald, midnight obsidian, bland quartz. He took one of Sam’s rings and gave it a thorough licking until saliva dripped from the topaz inset.

Sam grimaced. “You are not supposed to –”

“It works, don’t it. Blood, saliva…ejaculate. All the same. Long as you get it on.” He winked. The ring slid snugly onto his index finger. “Now, the Maestro just need to say go. Leave the micromanaging to me and my boys. Tapeboxes take care of the technical. I take care of the uh…unforeseen circumstances, see. If there’s a fire, a riot –” he laughed at that. “I can wave my hand and think a thought, and they’ll do it. Not exactly precise, but that’s not my problem. If one gets stuck, my boys down there will give them a whip to move them along.”

“Sounds easy.”

“Would be, but uh…well, look here,” he pointed to the right, where a cluster of workstations sat empty. They were piled high with intricate tools and metal parts that resembled neither nuts nor bolts nor washers. “We are not exactly a uh…above-board establishment, see. Got twenty thousand tables making…well, other things. So I’m gonna need more Rings to, you know, get around the fact.”

This man saw no problem disclosing his secret enterprise. He simply scratched his beard and waited for Sam to acquiesce to his little dilemma without protest. Sam was almost too shocked to be angry, but shock wore out quickly these days. Anger lingered.

“I was told this was a reputable outlet.”

“Better than most, worse than some.” The man shrugged. “Makes my job easier if, you know, I got more room to manoeuvre.”

Sam looked back into the overseer’s office. Grace and Luic sat at the conference table, drinking coffee and reading broadsheets. Contractually, they were only allowed to leave once the handover was complete; realistically, Sam was not the Maestro – she cannot compel anyone to do anything with just disdainful looks.

“What are you making there?” she asked. “Looks complicated.”

The overseer chuckled and patted her on the head. “Alright, little lady. I’ll make do, just for you, eh? Don’t usually got Maestro Cowen looking out for us. We usually don’t get uh…custom clients. Agents did us a big good, sending you over, didn’t they? House of Dawn, big business. Don’t worry about the Rings. I’ll take care of it.”

Answer the question, Sam almost said, except she had no ammunition. If James was here, he would…

“Thank you,” she said, taking off her mask and putting on her smile. “It’s my first time down here by myself. I didn’t know how it all works.”

The overseer visibly relaxed. “Oh, you are doing great, doing great. Not an easy job, working for Maestros. I couldn’t. I’d be jumping out of my pants, I tell you. Don’t worry. We are friends now. I got you covered. No paperwork needed. I can guarantee you no problems. Your Maestro gets his money, we get on living life. Easy.”

“I get really stressed out about work,” said Sam. “I don’t want to get in trouble.”

“No trouble, no trouble at all,” the big man smiled amicably.

“No but…but I have tell the Maestro about the empty workstation, or I will get in trouble. He keeps a record,” Sam tapped her bullshit-filled ledger. “He’s really organized about this sort of thing. Remembers everything too. He’ll ask me about why production is not up to…up to…”

She faltered as a storm brewed on the overseer’s face. “How much you want?” he boomed.

“What?”

He pulled out a chequebook and scribbled TWO THOUSAND in bold letters. He slapped it onto Sam’s ledger. “We done?”

Sam strapped on her mask before shock could register on her face. She has no idea what just happened, but two thousand seeds were four months of salary, and apparently it was hers, just like that.

“We are done,” she said.