The Machinist

He flipped the switch, and coffeemaker began to hiss, and then slowly dripped black liquid into a dirty glass pot. Its percolation was the only sound aside from the dull hum of the mini-fridge beneath it.

The tall man took his seat on a stool in front of his workbench. It was a rustic table in the center of the room made of cedar planks. On it were two objects. One was a partially disassembled robotic forearm with colored wires dangling from the elbow. The other was a piece of paper with a printed diagram of a similar arm, annotated in handwritten ink.

Brick held it for a moment to examine the previous day's work, then adjusted the overhead lamplight and poured his coffee.

The room was a mismatched assortment of old and new. Behind was is a toolbox filled with low-tech precision tools: pliers, wire strippers, screwdrivers. Next to this was a small cube-shaped computer connected to an old mechanical keyboard and large, brilliant, razor-thin monitor displaying schematics. Just now, it displayed a detailed diagram of Helpmate Version 1 Female arm. He glanced up at it only for a moment.

A wood-and-glass toolbox full of drawers contained many small components, meticulously labeled. Transistors, fasteners, small circuit boards, steel rods, rubber rings.

Efficiently, Brick made a few small adjustments to the robotic arm with his tools, then plugged several of its wires into the inputs of a small metal box. He turned a dial on the box, and observed the hand clench into a fist. As he pressed a few keys, each finger then independently touched the thumb, as a person counting on their fingers.

After a short while, an electronic bell rang, signaling the entrance of a customer. Brick walked through the saloon-style doors that separated the lab from the reception area.

Like the lab, the room was small, but well put together. There was a wooden reception desk facing the door, and filling the rest of the room was a lone couch and a black glass coffee table with a potted orchid in the center.

In the center stood the customer: a Helpmate 1 unit who, by its own preference, went by Rachel.

"You've fixed it?" she said.

"Yes. Hold on." Brick went into the back and quickly returned with the arm in one hand, and a precision tool in the other. He gently reached for the customer's arm and began reconnecting it.

"I had to replace some of the joints of the fingers and wrist, but its movements should be correct now."

As he was saying this, he finished the attachment.

"Tell me if it feels like it's supposed to."

Rachel opened and closed the hand on her newly reattached arm. She relaxed her shoulders, a sign of relief. “Yes. It… I don’t feel pain, of course, but it was very unpleasant to spend the night parted from this arm.” She continued to wave the arm around and move the fingers, testing it for any differences.

“Any problems?” said the machinist.

She shook her head. “No. Thank you.” She kept waving the arm. “It does feel…”

“Heavy?” said the machinist. She nodded again. “The aluminum parts that were broken are hard to come by. I had to use steel. The durability should be about the same, your motor functions should be just as precise, but that arm is about 10% heavier than the other now.”

She looked up from the arm and simply stared at him for a moment. As usual, it was impossible to tell what she was thinking.

Rachel: I’ve never met a machinist who wasn’t a machine.

The machinist began putting away a few tools.

Rachel: And that revolver of yours.

Brick: There’s nothing special about it. Just an antique.

Rachel: Exactly. That construct who pulled my arm off — you put four bullets right in the center of his torso, without much hesitation. He wasn’t more than a foot from Claire, and humans can die permanently from one bullet. Weren’t you afraid of hitting the waitress?

Brick shrugged. I knew I wouldn’t.

Rachel: So you’re a marksman, and a machinist, and you live in a ghost town with almost no humans.

He shrugged again. “Everyone here has a story, don’t they?”

Rachel cocked her head, exposing mechanical parts on the side of her neck. “I suppose, yes.”

Brick: You’re a construct. You have no stomach, but you spend time in a diner full of humans.

Rachel: I like, what is it you humans call it… people watching.