"She Builds Quick Machines" by Lyndsie Manusos

Hey, y'all. LeVar here. This is my last season of LeVar Burton Reads, and you are listening to one of the very final episodes. And I want to celebrate the 13 amazing seasons of the podcast with you. So find me on Instagram Live on Monday, May 6th from 630 to 8 p.m. Pacific Time. I'll be answering some questions, maybe one from you, and I might have some guests pop in as well. Find me on Instagram at LeVar.Burton, hit follow, and then tune in on Monday, May 6th, from 6.30 to 8 p.m. Pacific Time to help me celebrate LeVar Burton Reads. And thank you for everything. Hi, I'm LeVar Burton, and this is LeVar Burton Reads. In every episode, I handpick a different piece of short fiction, and I read it to you. The only thing these stories have in common is that I love them, and I hope you will too. You got the good guys, the bad guys, you got heroes, you got villains. Sometimes the story makes it pretty clear who's who, and sometimes the story doesn't. In today's story, there are a lot of muddied waters. We don't know who we should be rooting for, really. We don't even know who's robot and who's human, or what kind of conflict is going on, exactly. We zoom in on one being eking out a living, taking pride in the work she does every day. She's an exceptional tradesperson, someone who specializes in creating quick machines tailored to very specific purposes. If you've got the coin, Hex can build you what you need in her workshop and probably in less than an hour or two. And we, the readers, or listeners, are sequestered in that workshop with her, given only enough details to get by. This was a really fun read by the author Lindsay Manousos, and it was first published in the anthology Robotic Ambitions, Tales of Mechanical Sentience. Love that title. Published by Apex Books. Now, Lindsay's writing has appeared in Lightspeed Magazine. the magazine of fantasy and science fiction, and The Deadlands, among other publications. And she's got a novella with Psychopomp coming out this summer entitled From These Dark Abodes. If you're interested in a content advisory for this story, you will certainly find one in the episode description. And now, if you're ready, let's take a deep breath. And begin. She builds quick machines by Lindsay Manusos. In the groove of the moment, her hands moved on their own accord, quicker than her mind, knowing by feel alone if a cog was in the right place, if a screw was tight. To the common eye, her hands were a blur of movement. Pieces on the work table appeared or disappeared. A whiff of air and a drawer opened and shut. The common ear would hear a sound, yet their eyes would be unable to catch the sleight of hand. Every few seconds, there was a click. A lens dropped or flicked up from her goggles to zoom in or out of the contraption. She knew what she needed to build. One hour later. Done. An easy project. A neighbor needed a small surveillance box to see what animal was stealing her tomatoes from the garden on her windowsill. Tomatoes of this mutated variety, ginormous, knotted, and juicy, were precious on beach. A world of boxed and stacked homes built from beach houses of years past. There was water at ground level, sucked up through pipes to be filtered and used, recycled and reused. Long ago, after a century of over-terraforming, the actual beach was now an hour inland at least. Her neighbor would pay her in two bulbous newly grown tomatoes in exchange for the box. She sat back and inspected her work. Not sleek or shiny. Quick machines weren't built for beauty, though they were always beautiful to her. No one bought her work for its aesthetic pleasure. They bought it because it was built quick. And it worked. Someone knocked on the door. Enter, she said. A figure walked in, tall and as boxy as the living unit stacked below and above. Name and pronouns, she said, wasting no time with small talk or pleasantries. Dido, he works, he said. He took out a stack of banknotes from a pocket of his jacket. A lens lowered and she was able to count the pockets of his jacket. She'd never seen a jacket with so many. Seconds passed. She counted 27. I need a gun, he said. Rapid fire sounds as her lenses all clicked up until Dido could see her eyes behind the goggles. She saw his own eyes widened, eyes without goggles fused to his skin. Her eyes were no doubt enormous to him. She let him see how she saw him, as if she might look through him. Don't do those, she said. You build quick machines, he said. Anything but those, she said. She did not pretend to be a beacon of morality. She made quick machines that did their own brand of harm, but guns she would not do. She watched him bite his lip, his gaze searching around her front office. There was a curtain behind her that led to her sleeping cot and a small kitchenette. The office had the work table in which she sat, plus stacks and stacks of random equipment. Gizmos, screws, and cogs of every shape. A bin of microchips she'd salvaged, among other things. It was chaos. It was hers. What about defensive equipment? he asked. Shields and such. To defend against? she prompted. He shrugged, smiling meekly. Capture? Probably running from a bounty. Many often did. It was none of her business. I can whip up something, she said. Come back in two hours. That fast? he said, clearly surprised. Usually quick mechanics take a day. Most do, she said, but eyed the banknotes he held. A week's profit, and she hadn't bought new gloves in months. There were holes already in her palm and on the pads of her fingertips. I'm not most. Dido laughed, then placed the stack on the work table. That's what I'd heard. Go to beach, they said. Find the one with the goggles. I have a name, she said. Her ego pleased but irritated that people hadn't seemed to pass that particular fact along. It's on the sign on the door. Hex Key, Dido asked. I thought that was a logo. It's both, she said. Her parents were both quick mechanics, naming her for a tool that was simple, cheap, and can be reconditioned based on its purpose. Not to say they called her simple and cheap. Rather, she had infinite use. Dido nodded then wrapped his knuckles on the work table and left Two hours passed When he picked up the item she made he raised his eyebrows The quick machine was the size of his fist, pipe-like and crudely built, as was most of her work. But she assured him it would be effective. If you're bound or cuffed, this will free you. Hex said. And if it doesn't? Dido asked. Hex tilted her head to the side. Let him see her eyes again. He couldn't help but blink and look away. I've never issued a refund, she said. One week later, someone knocked on the door. Enter, Hex said. Name and pronouns. Would rather not give a name, but she or they, please. Another tall figure, lithe with arms as long as branches, both pumping and purring with gears and spinning cogs, Hex was intrigued. The customer threw something on the table, pipe-like and crudely built. You made this, they said. Yes, Hex said. Hex was never one to deny her own creations. I need something that will make this item useless. You want me to render my own creation ineffective? No one had ever asked that of her before, to combat her own design with another design. Perhaps a quick mechanic should be insulted, but like the mechanical arms this customer possessed, Hex couldn't help but want to scratch the itch. This particular machine was something new, Hex asked. Something new, they said, taking out a small pouch from a pocket that clinked. Hex dropped a lens down to zoom in and was able to estimate the contents and its weight. Good quality metal lay within many uses for that. An hour, Hex said. The customer raised their eyebrows. Hex smiled. An hour then, they said. The mechanical hands clenched, metal clinking against metal. If I may, Hex said, unable to help herself. Who made your arms? They raised their clenched fists, uncurled their fingers and fisted them again. The gears whirred and purred. Hex nearly sighed at the sound. I don't remember, they said, a furrow creasing between their eyebrows. I was taken, my arms lost. A friend got me out and took me to the best mechanic he knew. Hex lowered all her lenses until her eyes were shadowed She squeezed them shut, recalling the horrible stories of harvesters Those who built without consent, without compassion Hex would not press further They stick sometimes at the joints They said, almost under their breath I could fix that, Hex said quickly, voice rising an octave, then bit the side of her cheek. She swallowed, willed her excitement down. I mean, I could help with that. Perhaps another time, but thank you, they said. They left and returned the next hour. Hex made what was requested, rendering the machine Dido paid for useless, but only if this specific machine was used against it. It was a good challenge battling her own design, as different and intriguing as the mechanical arms of her latest customer. After they left, Hex stood from her work table and stretched, joints cracking from neck to toe. She rubbed the skin around her goggles, itching at where the metal was fused to her flesh. The goggles were a quick machine her mother had made, the last one, in fact, before her and her father passed away. She remembered screaming, clawing as they installed them on her face. Looking back, the glory of sight without pain was worth it. Hex was born with a condition in her eyes, a mutated strain of photophobia that increased with her age. But she needed to work with her hands and therefore needed her sight to function. Her parents knew this and built detachable goggles that they adjusted and improved until she reached puberty. By then, the pain of any unfiltered light was too great, and beach, although lovely, was a place of two suns. Night was still twilight, so the pain was constant. Hex remembered many days of cowering in corners and gluing paper to her bedroom windows. Her parents had made a choice. Their hands turned brittle from the work, their own eyes gushing tears as they held her down to implant the goggles she now wore. Hex made sure the glory of her sight became the glory of her work and the pride of her parents' memory. She kissed her fingers and touched her goggles. She'd installed a lens years back that was not a lens, but a glass negative. A still image of her parents, both in work goggles and their fingers a blur on their adjoined work tables. Hex had taken it with one of her first quick machines. The glass negative disappeared, stored up in the ornate deck of lenses hanging at her brow. She could only look at it for a moment. Her goggles had filters for tears, but it was best not to risk rusting. Cleaning the interiors was a painful process of filtering, chemicals, and willpower. Hex walked stiffly to her kitchenette. She started the electric kettle, found one of the ripe tomatoes her neighbor had indeed paid her. She bit into it like an apple, let the seeds and juices dribble down her chin and throat. As the kettle hummed, Hex suspected Dido would return, assuming he escaped, to demand retribution. She also suspected the Nameless One would return, either to follow Dido or request something else to capture him. Hex was one of the best, if not the best, quick mechanics in the surrounding systems But the surrounding systems were a lonely place It was nowhere near the bright, metal-rich cities light years away It was nowhere near abundant ports of commerce Beach was self-sustaining, a planet in the process of healing, independent from others Hex liked it that way She preferred neighbors to politicians, preferred herding sea cattle with her quick machines rather than prompting war. That didn't mean visits like those from Dido or the Nameless One weren't exciting. Few and far between, surely. They increased her intrigue, warmed her fingers to the tips until they ached for a new challenge. Yes, Hex hoped Dido would return Angry, perhaps He may even threaten her It would satisfy the ache Enough Now, let's get back to our story Three weeks later. The door shut as her most recent customer left with another quick machine. It was harvest season. Sea cattle were being rounded up with the tides. Divers were taking a last dip for foraging and spear hunting before the suns both set at the same time. the only time of the year for a bout of pure night that froze the shores turning docks into jagged ice structures Hex was busy making her most popular quick machine of the season warming units Tiny machines that generated heat, though only for a small amount of square footage. The little generators lasted the length of the cold season before burning out. She asked customers to bring back the machines for repurposing the following year, and most adhered to that. It was getting cooler by the hour, making her fingers still. The warmth kept her fluid, the smell of salt and sand calming. Pure night used to be the balm to her eyes, but a nasty crutch for her hands. She wouldn't be as quick, and she prided herself on speed. The door to her shop flew open. A pipe-like contraption, crudely built, landed on her work table. What the fuck? Dido asked. He was still dressed in the coat of many pockets. In fact, it seemed he added more from her previous count. But his head was shaved, a scab puckered on his chin, a bruise on his cheek. Curious? Hex said. You escaped. Only because they half let me, he yelled and started pacing the small shop. They found you and paid you to break your own work? Hex noticed he put more weight on one of his legs. Hex scanned his internals. His blood pressure was up, but that was understandable. But beneath the coat, there was a noticeable gash on his hip. You're injured, Hex said. And it's your fault, Dido gritted out. That is a matter of perspective, Hex said, leaning back in her chair. She opened a drawer under the work table and rummaged through it until she found a syringe-like quick machine. Hex inspected it and placed it on the table. Kitchenette is in the back, she said. Stitch yourself before you bleed all over my shop. By now, Dido was breathing deep, a shake starting in his fingers and rippling up to his shoulders. His skin, a dark brown, was turning gray with blood loss. Dido, Hex said calmly, leaning over her work table and steepling her fingers. I've never worked with a cadaver before, but I promise to use your skin and bones for future machines if you die on my floor. Dido stumbled a bit in his pacing, his hand using the wall to steady himself. He glared at Hex. She pointed to the syringe machine. He cursed under his breath and swiped it from the table, limping to the back. Hex listened as he shed clothes, clicked the syringe on, and let out a garble of curses as it no doubt tugged and threaded his skin. Might as well have stitched myself with a hacksaw, he grunted. That may have hurt less, Hex yelled back. But it wouldn't be as quick. Sure enough, the hum of the machine ended after a few seconds and Dido sighed. The shop door flew open again. The nameless one walked in, flanked by two regulators in full armor suits. Hex leaned back in her chair. Her scan concluded the regulators were laden with weapons. At first glance, it seemed the nameless one, mechanical arms purring like music to Hex's ears, was with the armored suits. But when Hex saw their face, the tick of their jaw... Quick mechanic, Hex Key, one of the regulators asked, the drone-like voice whispering through a helmet that concealed their identity. I am, Hex said. We seek information on the whereabouts of one known as Dido Patch, a regulator said. He stole equipment from a regulator outpost. medical supplies, the nameless one muttered. Because he was injured, Hex asked. Silence. Because his home planet is dying, the nameless one said, barely above a whisper, the whirring of her arms almost drowning it out. It was deemed no longer fit for sponsorship, both regulators said in unison. Ah, Hex thought. Losing sponsorship meant that the planet's carbon output had spiraled and whatever natural disasters that had occurred and would continue to occur were deemed too costly to clean up. No longer fit was just another phrase for unsalvageable. It was left to its quickening and inevitable demise. This is why Hex kept to the surrounding systems Planets like the one she lived on, Beach, though sometimes lawless were never chosen for sponsorship to begin with and therefore could not be cut if they did not contribute Shoulders tensed, Hex hoped Dido knew how to be as quiet back in her kitchenette The nameless one's arms grinded as they crossed over their chest They eyed Hex at her work table, taking in her gloved hands, her goggles, and then continued to take in the work table down to the floor. There were droplets of blood from Dido's pacing, freshly spilt, still red. They raised their eyes to Hex. Hex raised all of her lenses so they could see her eyes. Let them stare. The regulators seemed oblivious to the standoff Do you have information? One guard asked Hex wasn't sure which The drone sounded the same and neither moved No, Hex said If we suspect you are withholding information We have been authorized to take action Such as? Search your premises Hex stood up from her work table, gloved hands pressed flat as she leaned forward. This is my shop, Hex said. Do you intend to resist? A guard asked. The question hung there, swinging back and forth like a pendulum. The nameless one's arms purred and chugged along. Hex stared at them, half pleading, half warning. The shop was small, yes, and certainly cluttered and unadorned, but it was hers. Beneath her fingers, knuckles white and pressed against the tabletop were drawers of gears, cogs, wrenches, springs, little motors and generators, pulleys and switches. She was a quick mechanic and she was absolutely sure that these two guards were unequipped for her level of speed. In a flash, Hex began to build. Now, let's get back to our story. The Regulators drew weapons, but she was already halfway done, and the Nameless One had raised their arms to block the Regulators' line of sight. In a whine of pulleys and cogs, the Nameless One's arms expanded, flattening and lengthening into shields. The first blast hit their arms with a resounding twang. How much time? the nameless one asked. None, Hex said, for she was done. She lifted a tiny ball of glass, energy and metal, and threw it. Brilliant, blinding light. All the lenses in the world could not protect her eyes, and she screamed, curling to the floor beside her work table. She covered her head, heard the groan of the nameless one's arms taking blasts. Then, screams. On your left! Dido shouted. Hex raised her head, peering around the corner of her table. Dido had come out dressed in his coat of pockets, and the pockets were emptying themselves. Little bugs, lights and drones, liquids even, all rising from each pocket like some sentient colony. Despite the pain Hex had to look had to analyze and deduce Particles nebulous and flickering poured forth wrapping themselves around the Nameless One And when a blast missed their arms, it was swallowed by light. The Nameless One retracted their shields back into arms and began the assault. They grabbed each regulator, tearing off the arms that held weapons, tossing the limbs against the wall. Blood sprayed in an arc, and Dido reached into a back pocket of his coat and tossed a disc at the regulator's over the nameless one's shoulder. It hit the helmet of one, and that helmet crumpled, holding in on itself until the head was gone and only a stump remained. As the headless regulator fell, the nameless one kicked open Hex's door and pushed the last one out. there was a yell that faded into silence. The nameless one walked back in. Arms bloodied, whining from the strain and blaster hits. One elbow was smoking, yet the light from Dido's pockets, tiny spirits, remained wrapped around them in a cocoon. Return, Dido said The lights poured back, filling his pockets until they were all nestled against him Dido coughed and spit a glob of bloody saliva on the floor You exert too much, the nameless one said, trying to roll their wrists One wouldn't budge Don't empty them for me You'd taken enough hits, Taito said, his eyes on the ground looking almost bashful. Hex stared at them both from the floor. Her blinding light machine had fallen beside her, now a little ball of spent energy. She'd put it in a drawer for repurposing later. Her eyes stung, but it was manageable. She stood up. Quick thinking, Dido said to her. We thank you, the nameless one said. Aren't you trying to capture him? Hex asked, again unable to help her curiosity. The nameless one turned to Dido and smiled. Not for the moment. One mechanical arm let out a gust of smoke. whined, then went lip. Shit, they said. I can fix that, Hex said. It's the least I can do. We fucked up your shop, Dido said, if that was an apology. Hex shrugged. I can fix that too. If we helped clean up, The nameless one said. Would you allow us to crash here for a bit? You'd have to sleep on the floor, Hex said. But yes, that'd be fine. I could improve your arms day to day. Dido looked at the nameless one. They stared at each other until each of their mouths curled up at the corners. Then the nameless one walked to the work table, sitting on it, and presented Hex their limp arm. I'd be honored, Hex Key, for you to fix my arm. A warmth filled Hex's chest, akin to the warmth her hands created when she worked, like the light that poured from Dido's pockets and wrapped around the nameless one in a soft hug. Hex scanned the broken arm. The damage was great Metal bent and charred Pulleys and gears twisted to mesh And yet, Hex had the glory of her hands She recalled the determined look of her parents in the glass negative Infinite possibilities could come from this Hex could barely build them all in her mind I have an enormous amount of respect for those who are good with their hands People who can make things I'm not one of those folks, you know. But I admire people who are facile with their hands to see something in your mind's eye and then be able to take whatever materials you have at hand that you are comfortable working with and to fashion something that functions, that has use and purpose. Wow. I mean, I don't know what that feels like, but I certainly can imagine the sheer pleasure, the joy that it must bring those who have that facility, that talent, that skill. there's there's this dynamic it's it's it's really a relationship isn't it between the maker of the thing and the the the receiver of the thing the person who's going to use that thing that was lovingly made lovingly crafted um lovingly created um for us to use and what's interesting in the story is that, you know, she makes quick machines and they're not meant to last, but they're meant to function exactly the way they are designed. Right. And and even though, you know, they break. She says, bring it back and we'll repurpose it now. You know, we just go on our computers and click on Amazon and it arrives a day or two later and then we use it and then it breaks and then, you know, we throw it away or put it in the recycling. And who knows what happens to it after it goes into that blue recycling bin. I'm not necessarily sure we're collecting all of those things and repurposing them, using them to make other things necessarily. There's something beautiful. There's something elegant about intention being connected to the making and that there's a satisfaction by the user. At the other end, there is a purpose fulfilled and it feels right. And it feels like that's something that's kind of missing in today's world of quick commerce. Our producer on this episode of LeVar Burton Reads is Julia Smith. She is the best in the business, y'all. Our fabulous researcher is L.D. Lewis. Always happy to have you aboard, my sister. We had additional research support this season from Talon Stradley and Josephine Marjarana. Theme music by the extraordinary Brendan Burns. Editing and sound design courtesy of the fantastic Jared O'Connell. If you enjoyed this podcast, please tell a friend about it or leave us a review on Apple Podcasts. Like I say, share the short fiction wealth. LeVar Burton Reads is a production of Stitcher and LeVar Burton Entertainment. Our executive producers are Josephine Marjarana and yours truly, LeVar Burton. My great thanks to Lindsay Manusos for allowing me to read her story today. She's got a new novella coming out this summer from Psychopomp. It's called From These Dark Abodes. Get yourself. And if you want to find me on the internet, I'm lavar.burton on Instagram, at lavarburton on X, or you can simply go to lavarburton.com. You can also join my book club at fable.co slash lavar. I'll see you next time but you don't have to take my word for it