Aeroparts factory
by Paul Kater

Published by the author at Smashwords - Copyright 2010 Paul Kater

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Contents:
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4

Chapter 1
Sweaty, dirty horses pulled carts up and down the street, from where most cobblestones had disappeared. The cobbles had been put to good use over the years, to repair houses or to be thrown at coppers on some raid or other. Someone had done a reasonably good job in making sure that the carts would be able to go through the street despite that: there were two paths in it. Calling them lanes would be overdone, but there was one cobblestone side and one made of sand.
The street was in a neighbourhood that, let's face it, did not belong to the better parts of town. Nor would it fit in the more regular ones. The rows of low buildings on either side of the road, the slate roofs in various states of miserable, were not appealing to the eye, yet there was a lot of business going on in front of some, and inside some others. The few buildings that lay abandoned were unfit for living creatures so much that even rats preferred taking a detour around them.
The street looked raggedy, and not at all cared for. It was perhaps best portrayed by looking at the few people that lay huddled up under motley blankets and other pieces of fabric that were meant to offer some protection against the elements. They had found their refuge in what had been a blacksmith's shop. The blacksmith had long since gone, lacking paying customers. The shop had remained though, and access was made easy through now non-existent windows and the missing door.
Opposite the improvised 'homeless shelter' was Lena's brothel. Business there thrived at the strangest hours. Most of the time nobody was aware of the squeaking and moaning in the rooms of Lena's employees, but on the odd moments that the street was calm, it was easy to determine how many customers were in at the time. The walls of the houses in the street were thicker than folded-up newspapers, but not by much.
The door of Lena's establishment opened and a woman stepped outside, blinking her blue eyes against the light of the setting sun. She had made an attempt to tuck up her blond hair, but half of that had fallen down again. She couldn't care less, it seemed. Her clothes were crumpled and had seen better days. Under a mostly blue cardigan showed a green blouse, its collar worn from too much wear. Her long black skirt had originally been adorned with white flowers along the seam, but like its current owner, the dress had been deflowered long ago.
"Hey, Dotty," a carriage driver in typical dark workman's clothes yelled at her as he passed by, "blown a good job again?"
Dotty raised her hand and showed the driver a finger, in a very unladylike manner. "Fuck you, Tommy."
The man laughed. "Only when it's for free, doll."
Dotty did not pay him more attention. She crossed the busy street and walked along the uneven sidewalk, cursing the pitfalls in it. Dotty did that more out of habit than from being annoyed; it had been like that since too long to get worked up about it, and no complaint had ever done anything. She stepped over a sleeping person who had not made it inside the blacksmith's place and walked the last steps to Bromsky's. The clatter of glasses, the off-tune piano and the laughter brought a smile to Dotty's face. They were the sounds of her second home.
-=-=-
Bromsky's did not look like much on the outside. (Truth be told, it did not look like much on the inside either.) The outer wall consisted mainly of dark, weathered bricks. A considerable number of them were still the same kind. Many places showed repairs however, done with a staggering lack of craftmanship. Chopped-off bricks had been pushed into holes and were kept in place with something that looked suspiciously like newspapers. Behind a rough rectangle of wood had once been a window, but clearly glass had been in short supply at the time of shards.
Dotty pushed the door open. A gust of warm air rushed up to greet her, treating her to a familiar mix of smells. As usual, the smell of beer in all its varieties won. Sweat and smoke were competing for second and third place, and the everpresent fumes of oil lamps and candles that fought the glum darkness inside the place permeated everything without demanding attention.
Bromsky's was filled up nicely already, considering the relatively early hour. Dotty wondered what the reason would be. Usually, if Bromsky's was so full, Lena's place would be more occupied also, like on pay-day. Something special was going on. Determined to learning more, Dotty pushed through the throngs of people in their dull greys and browns, heading for the bar behind which Bromsky was lord and master. As long as his wife Kate was out of sight.
Bromsky was his normal self. The threadbare bowler hat he wore kept itself together out of sheer determination, not reaching the short grey crown that circled the man's head. Forty eight years of life had taken all colour from his hair, and most colour from his face. His deep-lying eyes missed nothing that went on in his establishment. The everpresent stubbly beard on his meaty face hung beneath fat lips that held a stump of cigar. Bromsky was busy: the cigar had gone out and he had not taken the time to relight it. Only the fact that he was behind the bar was evidence that Bromsky was the bartender. He was dressed in the same uncheering greys and black and browns as his customers.
"Hi Bromsky," Dotty said loudly, to be heard over the sea of voices in the pub, "what's the big commotion today?"
"Summin' bad at the airship plant," the barman muttered, "they all talk and hardly drink."
Dotty stared at the used glasses on the counter for a moment. It couldn't be so bad as Bromsky painted the situation. "Give me a beer, and write it up, will you," Dotty then said.
"Write it up, write it up," Bromsky started his litany. "You all gonna be the death of me." He grabbed the small worn blackboard under the counter, produced a smudgy piece of chalk from somewhere and scribbled something down. Then he pulled her a beer and hawk-eyed the crowd again.
As Dotty made her way through the crowd, her bum was groped many times. Somehow the mob always had time for that, no matter how pressing the subject of their talks was. Dotty didn't mind. As long as they groped, they were potential customers. After all, she thought, you also squeezed a tomato before you bought one.
At one of the overloaded tables, men were loudly discussing the problems at 'the factory'. Dotty knew that they were talking about the place that made part for airships. It was the one of the few factories around where the common people were allowed to work, and this one was the main source of employment for the neighbourhood. Actually they were needed there. There were machine men there, but these things could not do all the work. That's where the men came in.
"I'm telling you, there's more than six blokes dead there," said Martin, one of the drinkers. "The load that came down was humongous. Devil knows why so many were in the pit too." Clearly he had been there when it happened, whatever 'it' was. "The coppers were there real fast and they told us all to bugger off for the day. Masterson was mighty pissed off by that, but nothing he could do about it."
Another man, known as Bass, snorted. "You won't find that half day in your pay, mate."
Martin fell silent, his face turning pale. Then he uttered a few unfriendly words addressed to Masterson and the coppers.
Another person entered Bromsky's then. At first the man went unnoticed, but that changed rapidly as he pushed himself through the pub, carrying a large bag that made many a curse heard as it banged into people. The owner of the bag, rather thin and dressed in a black suit that revealed nothing about him, seemed to look for someone. His bag hit Dotty in a hip very hard. "Hey, watch out mister!" she yelled after him, but the man was oblivious to any of the comments that were thrown at him. "Bloody idiot," she muttered, rubbing her hip. It felt as if she'd been poked with a piece of metal. The man was lost from her view mere seconds later.
The man in black made a few rounds through Bromsky's. As he did so, he made an increasing number of people feel hostile towards him, while his bag was to blame. Far in the gloomy back of the pub where hardly a light burnt, he stopped at a table. As most of the commotion in the place was centered around the speakers in the front, hardly anyone was here. There was only one man sitting at the table. Although... he had been sitting. Now he lay slumped over the table. A glass had fallen over and its contents had spilled over the table and the floor. "No desire to go to work today, eh?" the man in black mumbled to himself.
He placed the big leather bag on one of the wobbly chairs. He worked the brass clasp that held the bag closed and took a few gloves and some goggles from it. He put the goggles on his nose, slipped the gloves on and carefully prodded the man on the table.
"Oy, what'cha doing there?" The question came from a sturdy man, tall enough to paint the ceiling of Bromsky's without using a ladder. The man spoke loud enough to attract the attention of several others, and soon the table in the far corner became the new centre of attention.
The man with the goggles stared at the sturdy speaker. The glass in his eyewear made his pupils so large that they seemed to fill the entire frame. "I was looking for this man," he said in a gentle voice, "and it appears that I was too late. Now if you please let me do what I came here for..."
"And what are you here for?" Sturdy wanted to know, putting a ham of a hand on the thin man's shoulder. More voices made it clear that they wanted to know what was going on there, especially the voices from people whose view on the corner was obstructed by big men with broad shoulders.

Chapter 2
Before the man in goggles could reply, the shrill sound of a whistle sent a wave of unrest through the clientèle of Bromsky's. It was unmistakably a police whistle, and everyone in the pub had heard those things often enough to recognise that. "Coppers," someone said needlessly. 
The speaker was right. There were seven policemen outside Bromsky's, deciding how they would all be able to go inside. The place was just too crowded. One of the constables made his way in and started sending people outside. Some went willingly, others needed some physical encouragement. The more people left the establishment, the easier it became for the remaining law enforcers to enter.
"Hey," a coarse voice sounded from behind the bar, "they still have to pay!" Bromsky was rather ticked off as he saw how his valued customers quickly disappeared outside, urged on by the police.
"Don't worry," one of the officers laughed, "all these are honest and law-abiding people, they told us often enough. Surely they'll come back to pay you when we're done."
Bromsky snorted loudly.
Finally the pub was empty. The policemen formed a line around the far table, where the man in goggles stood. One of the constables helped him to put the man on the table, after writing down how they had found the person: very dead. The fact that he had not resisted or grunted while being moved had made that rather obvious. The large red spot on his chest was an additional indication.
"Good of you men to come so quickly," said Goggles as he peeled the sticky vest from the dead man. It revealed a blood-stained grey shirt with a large hole in it. Goggles nodded to himself. "Yes, straight through. I already feared that. Don't touch." The last words were directed towards one of the constables who had picked up the dead man's overcoat.
"What do you mean 'straight through'? There's no hole in the coat," the constable said as he quickly put the coat down again. Goggles shook his head, muttered something and continued examining the man.
Bromsky had left his station behind the counter and, pretending to clean some tables, made his way to the corner. That was well lit now, as some constables had gathered lamps so Goggles could actually see something. Before the owner of the pub had reached the corner, Goggles put away the things he had taken from his bag.
"Nothing more I can do here," the thin man stated. "We have to get this body to the morgue. I will share my findings with the people there, so they can confirm."
One of the policemen went to fetch a sheet in which they could wrap the body. "The honest and law-abiding people stole the lamps from the carriage," he announced. "Again." His words were taken in by his colleagues in silence; a silence that allowed Bromsky's snicker to be heard. Two policemen picked up the packaged body and carried it out of Bromsky's, surrounded by the others. Goggles, ungoggled now, followed them, his big bag in hand. Bromsky was left to clean the table and the chair.
-=-=-
The next morning life came to the street in its normal way. Men carrying satchels left their houses and formed groups. Among these men were Martin Phelps and his friend Bass, whose official name was Sebastian Crowler. When all were more or less accounted for, through some unseen social mechanism, they made their way to the yard where they worked; the same yard that they had been chased away from the day before. The men went through the mostly silent streets like a small and deformed battalion. Discussions went back and forth among them, until they reached the factory.
The wall around the factory was built with red bricks, but the lack of morning light overcame the cheerful intentions of the architect. The iron portcullis-like gate was already open. It looked like a gaping mouth, its metal teeth threatening everyone who dared enter. Over it, a huge sign informed anyone interested that they had reached the Aeroparts Factory. The legion of men that came in through the gate fell apart once inside; they formed smaller groups that would scatter over the various areas of the yard to do their work. At Aeroparts, parts were made for the large airships that were assembled in huge halls and factories not far away.
Martin Phelps walked along with three others. He hadn't witnessed how the accident had actually happened, but rumour had it that one of the automatons that handled the cranes had malfunctioned. Apparently it had released the metal rib of an airship too early, a rib that had to be painted. It had been painted red now, Martin grimly thought. He wondered if the automaton really had been at fault. After all, these metal men had been going for years without fail.
"Hello, you men." The four stopped their slow walk as their foreman, Mr. Masterson, addressed them. "You'll be working painting again today. Production there was delayed yesterday, so you'll have to put in a few more hours. Now get a move on."
Martin looked at his fellows. Fat Burke did not seem to mind, as usual. He could be an automaton, for all Martin knew, except for when it came to eating and drinking. Ratty Matty Jones scowled at the foreman but said nothing. Bass shrugged. "Are you sure it's safe out there, sir?" Martin asked Mr. Masterson. "I mean, with what happened there yesterday."
Mr. Masterson dropped his hands into his pockets without losing the roll of paper that was under his arm. "Of course. Today's not yesterday." The tone of his voice made it clear that this was the last word he had for them, so the four men shuffled off to the paint pit.
The four high cranes seemed more threatening than usual. A big rafter hung from one of them, lightly swinging in the breeze that blew through the enormous open doors. The automatons that handled the cranes sat on top of the high constructions, not moving and not caring...
-=-=-
"I swear it, the automaton looked at us as if it wanted to kill us," Martin said, later that day at Bromsky's. Every chair around the table was occupied, even when there were still many tables vacant at this hour.
Nothing bad had happened at the factory that day, but Martin and his fellows had not had a relaxed day. A few times they had been ordered to leave their workplace, while policemen and folks in suits had swarmed over the area all over again, examining the crane. Martin was reasonably convinced that also the automatons had been checked, although he could not be certain. And one of the pieces they had been coating had been pushed around and thereby ruined, so they'd had to polish it and start all over on top of the extra hours.
"Anyone here by the name of Martin Phelps?" a sudden voice asked over all the talking people who promptly fell silent. Martin looked up. "Who wants to know?" A man in a long black coat, wearing white gloves and a hat, looked over at him. "I want to know. I need to speak with Mr. Phelps." There was a cane in the man's fingers, it's tip pointing at Martin. The strange visitor looked painfully out of place.
Martin frowned and looked at his mates. They looked back as much in wonder as he did. "I'm Phelps," Martin then said.
"I suspected so much. Would you please step outside with me?" The voice of the gentleman sounded as if it was wrapped in silk.
Martin grabbed his beer and gulped that down. After all, he thought, he did not know when he'd be back. "Right back, I hope," he told his friends as he stood up.
Once outside, the man introduced himself as Sir Hillary Baldwin. "Here is my transport," Sir Baldwin said, pointing at a carriage propelled by a spluttering steam engine. The carriage was black, void of any ornament or marking that could give away its origin, or the identity of its owner. On top of the contraption sat a man who was so plain he defied any description. "Would you please get in, I have urgent matters to discuss with you, Mr. Phelps."
"Urgent matters, eh? At this time of day? And why can't we talk in there?" Martin asked, nodding his head at the pub.
"Mr. Phelps, the matter at hand is rather serious and delicate. I would prefer to discuss this somewhere more private. If you'd please..." 
With a shrug Martin got into the carriage. The blue upholstery was a surprise to him. He had expected the usual red that was so loved by the uppity classes. It looked expensive though. Perhaps there was some good coin in it for him.
Soon they were away from the streets he knew. Far away. "So when are you going to bring up them urgent matters?" Martin could not hold back his curiosity.
"Soon, Mr. Phelps. Soon." Martin half understood why the talking had to wait: the engine of the carriage was so loud that a decent conversation wouldd not be possible.
Finally the ride was over. The workman had noticed they were in a part of town where mostly businesses were housed. They were standing in front of a building two storeys high and built of grey stone. Sir Baldwin and Martin left the shaking car with its noisy engine. They were silently greeted by a man in a doorman's uniform. He let Martin and the strange gentleman into a building without a word. Two skinny pillars guarded the door they went through, and soon Martin found himself in a small room lit by two large oil lamps. Sir Baldwin sat down on a chair and pointed his cane at the other one that was in the room.
"You were at the factory today." It almost sounded as an accusation.
"So? It's my job, I have to be there," Martin responded.
"I know," said the man in the black coat. "Which is why I have to talk with you. First though, I want you to understand that this meeting should remain among us."
Martin frowned. "And if it doesn't?"
Sir Baldwin leaned back in his chair. "In that case, you will find that accidents can happen in the strangest places, Mr. Phelps."
Martin jumped up, making the chair fall over. The sound of the wood scraping over the floor reverberated loudly in the otherwise empty room. "You're not threatening me, are you?"
The smile of the gentleman was calm and cold. "No, of course not, Mr. Phelps. I make promises, no threats. Now if you would please sit down."
Martin picked up the chair and sat down. He did not feel at ease.
"Mr. Phelps," Sir Baldwin said, "yesterday there was an... unfortunate accident on the workfloor of the factory. It was not part of the original plan."
"Not part of..." Martin stared at the gentleman. The hairs in his neck started tickling. "What plan?"
This time it was Sir Baldwin who got up. "We planned to drop the rib from the crane. Alas, something went wrong in the timing, but it did add to the drama." The tip of the cane suddenly rested on Martin's chest. "We are in need of someone who is able to invoke a few more of those accidents."
Martin stared at the cane, then in the calm face of the man holding it. "What? Who are you? I'm not having anything of that." He slapped the cane aside and got up for a moment. Before Martin knew what the man opposite him was up to, the cane hit him hard against the temple. The inside of his skull lit up in a most painful way.
"Mr. Phelps. Please. Do sit down again, it will make things less hurtful." Sir Baldwin then explained, with his silken voice, that he was a member of a group that wanted to eradicate the automatons that were working in the factory. "They are dangers on metal legs, Mr. Phelps. Many things can go wrong with these metal men around. As you have seen. And we need your assistance to prove that these things will indeed go wrong..."

Chapter 3
The next morning Martin went to work as if nothing had happened. His friends had been in a rush to find him, and Ratty Matty was the first one who tried to pry from him what had happened.
The talk with Sir Baldwin had left quite an impression on Martin. Several, actually, as the spot where the cane had landed against his face was clearly visible. As Matty commented on the new dent in his friend's face, Martin told him that the talk had been about nothing special. "And I just ran into something." Fat Burke, as he joined the two, just muttered his usual 'hullo' and stomped along. Bass was more persistent than Matty, but also he was not able to get anything out of Martin.
Martin was not entirely happy with himself, but Baldwin had mentioned a reward for his services. A royal reward, even. The amount at stake was more than Martin had seen in his whole life. He was willing to obstruct the workings of an automaton for that kind of money. After all, once that was done he'd be rich and could quit the job. He'd be very careful also, when he was going to execute his instructions. None of the folks working at the factory would get hurt.
"C'mon, Marty, you can talk to us. We're friends, remember the word?" Matty tried again as they walked onto the yard. Martin looked at the man with the pointy nose and the face ravaged by smallpox.
"I know, Matty. I'll tell to you when I can, okay?"
Bass and Matty nodded. "Sure. Just don't forget who you can trust." Fat Burke did not spend words on it, he was probably thinking about lunch break already.
The four walked to the paint pit. Martin felt nervous and fought to ignore the feeling. In several places he saw automatons walk, carrying heavy material from one spot to the next, to be processed, packaged or shipped. Nothing seemed wrong with the machine men, Martin thought, but who could tell what was going on inside their metal heads. Their eyes just seemed to stare, they did not tell you anything. When one of the automatons, carrying a long spike, which was used to connect a gondola to the actual airship, stepped up to him at an insanely fast pace, Martin's heartbeat went up. "Watch out!" he yelled, pushing Ratty Matty and Bass to the side. Shoving Fat Burke would not have made a difference, so Martin prayed for the best and leapt out of the machine man's way.
The automaton came to a full halt a few feet away from them. The spike was at safe distance, no one would have gotten hurt.
"What the hell is wrong with you, Martin?" asked Bass as he got to his feet and looked for his hat. "You know these things don't run you over. They never do."
Martin, still sitting on the ground, looked at the automaton and then at Bass. "Could be the first time. Danny got knocked dead by one two days ago, remember?"
Bass grabbed Martin by the arm and pulled him to his feet. "Come on, wake up. It was an accident. Work waits, and tea." As they walked off, the automaton proceeded to where it was going. Fast.
They reached the paint pit. All four cranes were loaded with enormous parts that had to get done that day. The light that came down through the large glass roof cast big shadows on the floor, giving their workplace a gloomy touch. The slowly swaying parts looked as if an invisible giant was toying with them.
Martin peered upwards. The automatons sat on the cranes, silent and awaiting their orders. He knew one specific order that he would issue that day. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the eight metal men standing against the wall. They were silent, dead, and would remain so until they were ordered to lift heavy parts. Suddenly the whole situation scared him.
"Phelps!" a voice shouted. Martin recognised it. It came from their least liked shift leader. "Get your arse up the ladders and light the lamps. It's like bloody night in here and I don't want you blokes to mess up today's production!"
Martin shrugged, and letting out a sigh he went to fetch a burning candle. It took him quite a while to light all the big oil lamps that were put up on the huge steel pillars that supported part of the roof. Each time he was on the ladder, mounted to a pillar, he stared at the automatons on the cranes. Five thousand pounds, he thought. After today, I will be rich. And they're just machines. Who cares. Dangerous machines too. Men can do that work as well. Sir Baldwin was right. Still, as he lit the last lamp, his hand trembled.
After adjusting the big mirror that would reflect the light to the right spot, Martin climbed down. He put on the big leather apron and the goggles. Then the men got to work, coating the first of the large ribs that were waiting for their brushes.
-=-=-
Martin was the first one to return to the pit after the lunch break. He had come up with some lame excuse to leave early. Matty, Burke and Bass had looked at him quaintly, but they had not asked questions. Martin was glad about that, he hated lying to his friends. But he also had his job to do, and he did not want people around. Nobody was going to get hurt, he promised himself.
Two automatons stood waiting under the crane. The empty chain swayed, waiting to be loaded. Martin told the metal men to pick up the rafter that was to be done next. As the automatons held up the large metal bulk, Martin climbed on it and hooked the chain to it. Once on the floor again, he yelled "Going up ten!" to the machine man on top of the crane. He saw the automaton pull a lever. Slowly the chain was strained as the gears rolled, and the rafter was hoisted up ten feet. That should be enough. Martin looked around the paint pit, to make sure nobody was watching him. Then he stepped back to what he considered a safe distance. The rafter would come straight down, thirty feet would be enough. After another look around, Martin swallowed hard. This was it. "Drop, drop, drop!" Repeat the word three times, Sir Baldwin had said.
For an eternal moment nothing seemed to happen. It was as if the command had not reached the automaton, which was uncanny. Usually it would respond to commands immediately, even when he did not yell so loudly. As Martin was getting his nerves together to yell again, the two automatons that had held the metal part turned and came walking towards him. Martin frowned for a moment. When the metal men were beside him they grabbed his arms tightly. That was when he understood that something was going wrong. "Hel-!" he tried. One of the automatons lashed out and broke Martin's jaw. It changed his scream for help into a groan of pain while he wondered how a machine man could move that fast before consciousness faded away.
The metal men lifted Martin from his feet and carried him to where he had been standing, under the rafter. On top of the crane, the automaton moved an arm, pushing a lever. It released the safety mechanism of the crane and the six ton rafter came crashing down.
-=-=-
Sir Hillary Baldwin looked down at the smudgy man who held his hat in his hands. The man had just told him that everything had gone 'according to plan', which pleased him. "So you are sure that the victim was terminally injured?" he asked to make sure.
"Oh, yes sir," the motley, unshaven man said, "dead as can be. No one survives a rafter falling on their head, sir. The stuff that your alchemist gave me to pour into these machine men worked perfectly. Was pretty damn high up there though."
The gentleman in the black cloak nodded. "Very well. I will have to take your word for it. Of course, you understand that not a whisper of this must get out. It would be very bad for business."
The sabotaging spy, in his worn coat and paint stained trousers, nodded. "I know, sir. No one's going to hear nothing from me, sir."
"You are quite right," said Sir Baldwin, "no one will." He snipped a finger. A closet door opened. A huge automaton, painted black, stepped out of it.
"What's that, sir?" the spy asked as he saw the long hollow tube that was mounted instead of a regular left forearm of the machine man.
"It is, let us say, our insurance for silence," Sir Baldwin said. He had stepped to the far end of the room and watched with interest how the black automaton grabbed the ragged man by the throat and lifted him up. The hollow tube on the automaton's left arm started revolving at high speed, and the screams of the man in his right hand ended quickly as the tube went into the man's chest and emerged from his back.
"Crude but adequate," the gentleman nodded as the dead body dropped to the floor. The automaton stood in silence, the tube coming to a stop. The high speed of it had almost cleaned it of all the blood from it, but a selection of bodily parts fell from it to the floor as the machine man lowered his arms. "Parker!'
A man came in quickly. He had been waiting outside the door. "Sir? Oh, I see. We'll take care of this, sir."
"There's a good man," Sir Baldwin nodded amiably. Parker was a good man, and that kind was hard to find. "Make sure this one is found in a different part of town again, Parker. It is time to pay a certain company a visit. And Parker, do clean up this nastiness."

Chapter 4
At Bromsky's, Ratty Matty was giving a lively description of how they had found Martin. The odd bit that he embellished did not make much difference. "There was blood everywhere! It was so sick, you can't believe it. And two of the automatons were crushed under the rafter also. I could see that one of them held Martin by the arm, as if they had planned to kill him!" A hush went through the pub.
Bromsky was not pleased. All this talk of dead people brought angst on the table instead of drinks.
"Always thought there was something strange about the fellow," a man with a grubby voice and ditto face said, "remember how this fine bloke picked 'm up yesterday? Can't be good." Several people nodded, to the annoyance of Matty and Bass.
"He ain't never been bad, that Martin," Matty objected. "He was a hard worker and a good soul, and now he's dead, God rest his soul. The metal men killed him, honest to God."
After a while, the people at the table dispersed, falling apart in small groups, discussing Martin Phelps and his sudden demise, and other things of mutual interest. Matty and Bass went for an ale and drank that to the memory of their friend. They had another ale, and then yet another.
It was very late when Matty and Bass finally stumbled out of Bromsky's.
-=-=-
"Gentlemen, I am very grateful that you agreed to see me. The news of the accidents that have occured here have reached me, and let me assure you that I feel very sad about this," Sir Baldwin addressed the board of AeroParts. "You may recall my previous letters, in which I warned you that my company had discovered flaws in the automatons that are operational in your company. It may not come as a surprise, gentlemen, that your company is not the only one who has suffered horrible accidents like the ones you have faced. We know of at least three other businesses that..."
The immaculately dressed man shook his head. "Let me spare you the gruesome details, dear sirs. Two of the three enterprises I am referring to have by now eliminated the faulty automatons and replaced them by the models that my company has presented to them. I do value your wisdom to allow me a presentation of our best model. We call it our Autonomous Mechanical Man mark 3, AMM3 in short."
Sir Baldwin looked to the side, where two men stood, next to a large black metal man. "AMM3, approach." The black automaton emitted a few clicking sounds, stood straight and walked over to the person who had summoned him. The heavy footsteps made the floor shudder.
Sir Baldwin, with the huge automaton looming over him, turned to the group of men in front of him. "Feel free, gentlemen, to step forward and examine our AMM3. And if you decide to purchase this model, I am inclined to offer you a nice price. Out of respect of the people who lost their lives..."
-=-=-
A rather thin man, wearing a black suit, opened his big leather bag. The constable who had called for him was talking to the ladies who had made the shocking discovery in the park. The thin man opened the jacket of the man who had been pulled from the lake. "This has to stop someday," he muttered as he put his goggles on and examined the large gaping wound in the dead man's chest. "Clean through. As was to be expected..."

###

About the author:
I am an IT consultant who loves reading and writing.
I've been an amateur-author since years, writing SciFi, Fantasy and lately also Steampunk. My home is  in the Netherlands.
I hope you liked my short steampunk story "Aeroparts Factory".

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