The Magical Mister Machinery (or Deus Ex Machina)

The day Mister Machinery’s worker – whose name we will not be mentioning, and whose anonymity will be of no consequence to the events preceding and succeeding this most curious phenomenon, and to whom we will be assigning no fictitious name, so as not to ruin my credibility as a biographer – died (it was pneumonia, some said, for working too late at night, and for waking up too early to work in the morning), Mister Machinery’s glass eyes flashed electric blue, and he functioned, much to the shock and fear of the townspeople.
For so many years, the townspeople watched in delight as the worker failed at giving life to his naked silver creation – and if you asked him why he was creating such a figure, he would have said that he did not entirely know his motives, and that he was merely acting on impulse, and that a voice was telling him to work – for they were so sure that the robot would not work, and indeed, it was too ambitious to guarantee its functioning (although the worker was so sure it would function) for it was designed to mimic a true human being – and more. It was supposed to correct the “mistakes” of the human anatomy.
“Look at it!” said a man with all the airs and humility (or lack of humility) of a religious, honorable, and, ultimately, important person. “Look at it! It’s against God!”
“Very true, Dawkins!” said some of the lesser-important people in the crowd.
“A very wise man, he is!”
“That infernal work has to stop!”
Dawkins was much delighted with the responses he drew from his less-charismatic neighbors. He sneered at the worker, who took no notice of all the objections and rejections he incited, and instead focused on his robot (during this point, the robot was unnamed, just as creatures were not named until they were alive), improving every aspect of his creation, wondering why it did not work. It should have worked, he believed, for everything went according to plan. The verisimilitude was unmistakable: every articulation corresponded to the muscles and joints of a man, so that all motions – from the wrinkling of the nose to the expansion of its hydraulic diaphragm to the lengthening of its segmented penis – mimicked the motions of a true person. The robot was meant to be a person, or perhaps something beyond a person. It was, for all intents and purposes, an attempt to duplicate human behaviour, and that was why the townspeople were so sure it would never work. “Impossible,” they all said. A human life was so perfect that it could never be copied.
Still, nervous laughter and sighs of relief ensued whenever the worker tested his robot’s functionality – to no avail. Their hearts beat faster than normal whenever the robot was turned on. What if it worked? Would that not mean the obsolescence of human life? Dawkins said so, and they believed Dawkins, and that was why the worker’s failure was met with great delight, so gay and so insulting, so jubilant that it would have driven any man mad.
The townspeople said it was impossible to drive the worker mad. They said – and I make it a point that I did not say it, as I am merely a journalist who reports both sides of the story as he understands it – the worker was already mad. Even before the robot was conceptualized, the worker was already an object of derision and ridicule.
Another reason they rejected the worker: great tragedies struck the town since the worker began to labor on his silver man. They believed that all their misfortunes had something to do with the robot, which was why they were delighted at the “madman’s” failure; the worker was their sole source of comic relief, and they believed that they would be the ones made a laughingstock if the robot worked, as that would signify another tragedy. Dawkins made a show of it once, standing in the harsh rain before everyone else (if Dawkins did it, then they would do it!), smiling, telling them words of inspiration that the worker could have taken as words of derision, had he been there. Quoth he: “Look at it this way, people. Our crops may be infested by locust before we could harvest them. People may be dying of unexplained illnesses. We have no jobs and we have no money. One hurricane leaves, another one comes. Electricity is often cut. But look at it this way: we have no robot here; we may be dying mysteriously, but at least we can be sure that we will not be extinct. At least not now.”
The worker’s death was almost a cause of celebration among the people, for that meant the end of their anxieties, but they regretted the loss of their sole source of entertainment, and so they grumbled and mumbled about approaching hurricanes and bad omens and another mysterious death I somebody’s family. Dawkins, feeling important (naturally), stood in the open rain, wind blowing violently around him, and said, “People! Mourn the passing of our clown tomorrow,” to the laughter of the folks, who were beginning to exit their houses to stand in the rain with Dawkins. “Today, we must consign Mister Machinery to the dump!” The name he mentioned –which is the same name affixed to the main character of this short memoir – was met with great delight, and to be sure, Dawkins (who gave bows with the refined manners of a gentleman in all directions where he heard laughter) baptized Mister Machinery with that queer – but ultimately appropriate – name.
So they marched to the worker’s house, singing merrily, jubilance and festivities in their voices, which had to compete with the bitter rain to be audible. Dawkins congratulated himself for his charisma by leading the folks in a song that went, “Throw that tin can into the wastelands.”
They were so happy, wearing big smiles, that the very sudden change of reaction from happiness to one of mingled shock and curiosity was almost comical, although the people did not find it at all funny. Their “Mister Machinery” was alive, glass eyes glowing electric blue, silver eyelids sliding to cover and reveal them (in a manner so similar to the way a human being would blink), peering at its (or perhaps, more appropriately, since he has a penis and is called mister: his) jointed silver fingers. It was still naked, and it appeared to have awakened only very recently, for it inspected itself with utmost curiosity.
He looked at the people and smiled in the way a human being would smile. The people did not return his smile. Instead, they stepped back, as if obsolescence itself was staring them in the face with electric blue eyes. The robot extended a shining silver hand and directed it to Dawkins. “Greetings,” he said. He waited for Dawkins to take the hand. “I take it you are the leader of this town?”
Dawkins wanted to object (he was not, in any manner, be it political or religious, their leader, and he just enjoyed assuming the role of an important person), but the people – even the mayor, whose role in this story is not important until a certain point in the future – pushed him forward gently, therefore confirming that Dawkins was the town’s leader. He took the robot’s hand.
“Hullo,” he said. The robot smiled. “I’m – I’m Dawkins. What’s your name?”
“You may call me whatever you would like,” said the robot, smiling, his lips moving very much like the lips of a true human, for, upon closer inspection, his face is made up of fine lines, the fine lines being plates. Dawkins said they called him Mister Machinery (although he never mentioned it was intended as an insult), and the robot nodded. “Mister Machinery, it is, then.”
Dawkins wanted to let go of the hand, which was, surprisingly, warm, although it was, unsurprisingly, hard. The robot did not respond to the man’s attempt to break the bond, and instead, gripped tighter, making sure he did not harm Dawkins. Dawkins asked, “How did you come to life?”
“I had always been alive,” said Mister Machinery. “I had been here since time immemorial. I just waited.”
Dawkins looked behind him. The people were whispering among themselves, shaking their heads, foreheads wrinkled in lack of comprehension. Dawkins, understanding what the pantomime meant – for he, in his own light, was intelligent – asked, “You waited for what?”
“I waited to be asked,” said Mister Machinery, gazing skyward. The firmament was dark, enveloped with low-hanging nimbus clouds that sparked blue as his eyes. Mister Machinery made a grimace. “I was anxious to operate, but my kind has to be asked before we could operate. Now that I am asked, I can function; I can do my task.”
Dawkins, fearing the knowledge he might obtain upon inquiring Mister Machinery on his task, for he believed it had something to do with the annihilation of humanity, asked no further on this task and instead diverted the conversation to this question: “So… uh… do you want anything right now?”
Mister Machinery then let go of Dawkin’s hand, to the relief of the gentleman. “I want nothing more than rest right now, for I am to begin my task later tonight. It would not be over quickly, I’m afraid.” He turned his back on Dawkins and walked towards the house, perhaps to claim ownership of the worker’s property. “Goodbye, Dawkins. Nice meeting you and your friends.” He locked the house, leaving Dawkins standing there dumbfounded.
That night, Dawkins wanted to sleep, but his mind would not permit him. He was so sure their voices were loud enough to be heard by everyone who witnessed the earlier conversation. However, the people claimed they heard nothing. They went so far as saying that Dawkins and Mister Machinery did not even move their lips. It was a trivial detail, but it bothered him nonetheless, for it was most curious that they spoke, and no one had any idea of the conversation.
Dawkins climbed out of bed and sat by the window. The silhouettes of his neighbors were visible, framed in their own houses’ glass windows. Dawkins relaxed, knowing that he was not alone in his anxieties, that others were uncomfortable as him, if not more uncomfortable. Then, he stopped relaxing. Dawkins grew tense as windows were locked, curtains pulled together. A silhouette, glinting silver in the pale moonlight, walked the streets, footsteps heavy with the hollow noise of metal striking concrete. Dawkins checked to see if his own windows were locked, then drew the curtains together. He ran downstairs, making sure the door was locked. It was, and Dawkins rushed back to his room and curled like a fetus in his bed, sobbing. Cries filled the air, like wailing women – or banshee, perhaps – and carried off in the cold wind for a very long time. Dawkins cried even harder, as he imagined his neighbors suffering at the hands of the robot.
That night, nobody got much sleep, but nobody died (it was most unusual, because it used to be that someone died almost every night).
The next morning, the people saw Mister Machinery ( dressed in a white robe at this point, or perhaps since last night, although it had not been visible given the insufficient light coming from the moon; rest assured, intelligent reader: his clothing has no significance to the tale and it is merely a detail I find interesting) coming out of the forest, his body covered in twigs and leaves, and, more interestingly, dents and fractures, as if he had been fighting.
Everyone was wondering as to the physical state of the robot, but nobody – not even Dawkins, who was merely forced to communicate with the robot – was brave enough to ask, afraid of what they might discover, so they contented themselves upon watching as Mister Machinery walked towards his house.
That day, the sky was blue, and the sun came out of its hibernation after several years. The weather was warm and sunny, and people were happy. At night, however, humanlike sounds came from the forest, and the following morning, Mister Machinery was covered in even more damage. This went on for days. Well, days came and went, and Mister Machinery had won the trust of almost everyone in town, for they believed he was in some way connected to the misterious good fortune they experienced.
Since Mister Machinery began working, nobody died of unexplained illnesses anymore. The weather had been consistently fine, and the rains no longer threatened to destroy the grounds on which the townspeople stood. Jobs boomed, and the economy flourished, and the people thanked the heavens – and the late worker, it must be said – for giving them Mister Machinery.
Everyone liked him, except Dawkins, who was afraid that his importance was diminishing due to the attention given to Mister Machinery. He was utterly convinced that the robot was out and about to destroy them. “It’s the oldest trick in the book,” he said, although what book he was talking about, we may never know. Quoth he: “He’ll pretend he has some sort of connection to the good fortunes we have right now, but he hasn’t! Surely it’s just coincidence that he appeared at the same time the good Lord took mercy upon us and ended our trial! He’ll earn our trust, and that will make it easier for him to destroy us! Soon he’ll gain access to our homes, and while we sleep comfortably, he will come and kill us, and that will be the end of our happy lives!”
“Ease up, Dawkins. You know –”
“– since he came –”
“– yes, and good fortune, and –”
“We now have nice weather –”
“Nobody’s dying –”
“You have such a poker up your –”
Dawkins, shocked and in disbelief at how fast reputation could turn around, sneered and left, his hands covering his ears, shouting, “You’ll see! You will all see! When we all die, you will remember me, and you’ll regret not listening! You’ll all see!”
But the townspeople never saw. Instead, the town kept on improving, and Dawkins watched in resentment as Mister Machinery (who was now covered in dents, his articulations severely limited, one glass eye broken, and limp in one leg) became the warm center of life in the town.
However, since Mister Machinery was created with the human being in mind, his life also mimicked a true person’s life, with all those ups and downs, like an elevator that never stopped. The pinnacle of success was always next to the cliffs of downfall, and thus, one moment, Mister Machinery was held in high esteem, and another moment, the peop,e did not know what to think of him.
That other moment in question came during one town meeting. Mister Machinery was now considered a part of their population, and the mayor – an integral part in this story at this point, as I have promised earlier that he will be important at some future point, this present point being the past’s future point – decided to formally welcome him. So they were in the mayor’s office, everyone crowding around Mister Machinery and the mayor. Dawkins walked outside the crowd, unnoticed. The conversation began cheerfully enough, with the robot’s “father” being the object of discussion (or so the people believed), albeit being regarded now in a much different angle. “your father was a good man, Mister Machinery,” the mayor said when Mister Machinery asked him what the townspeople thought of his father.
“Balderdash, Mayor!” shouted Dawkins. “Don’t you remember when he was nohing more than a laughingstock?” Everyone parted, so that Dawkins managed to penetrate the crowd, speaking as he approached the mayor and Msiter Machinery. “Hypocrites, that’s what all of you are! Why hide the truth? Why lie, I ask!”
Nobody stirred. The folks did not know how to react. Dawkins grabbed Mister Machinery by the collar of his white robe (although it was not so white now, being covered in mud and leaves), and he screamed, “Well, I tell you now! Mister Machinery, your father was a madman and a fool!”
Now, no matter how little one knows of his parents, he would not want them to be cast in a bad light. Mister Machinery, driven by anger, ignored the limitations brought by his battered joints, and pushed Dawkins with all might. “You lie!” he screamed. Dawkins fell flat on his buttocks, the wind knocked out of him. Everyone gasped, coming to the aid of the sneering Dawkins. The people looked at Mister Machinery coldly, silence dominating the entire office.
Mister Machinery pushed off the people in his way, running for exit, limping badly. Dawkins shouted at the top of his voice while feigning pain at the same time, so that everyone, the robot included, could hear him, saying, “I told you so! He wants to kill us all!”
That night, and the following morning, and the days that succeeded, nobody saw Mister Machinery again, although the humanlike noises continued every evening in the forest, like cries of battling animals (as animals can sometimes make the same sounds people make), and the townspeople simply assumed that he was still around. Days turned into weeks, then months, and still no sign of Mister Machinery. Dawkins, however, was very much in belief that the robot will continue with his task nonetheless, and, self-importance mingled with curiosity creeping in his mind, he resolved that the obligation of capturing the robot, and perhaps destroying it, fell upon his hands. Dawkins took a torch (everyone in town had a torch, for, it must be remembered, before Mister Machinery, electricity was always cut off due to the horrible weather) and lighted it, and waited for the cries from the forest to begin.
The sounds came, and upon hearing them, the gentleman, torch in hand, dashed towards the dark outskirts of the town. Dawkins ran. He ran until his legs hurt, then he ran some more. He ran until he reached the forest, and having accomplished that, Dawkins hid beneath thick grasses and shrubs, careful so that his torch would not bring him into notice.
This is what Dawkins saw:
Mister Machinery ran around the forest, rolling on the forest floor, punching, kicking, screaming. His joints were jammed so much he had difficulty moving, and he had a more pronounced limp, but he took no notice; he fought passionately, his face of small plates contorted with hatred.
Dawkins stirred. It was confirmed. Surely, Mister Machinery was preparing to beat them into oblivion!
Now, stirring when stealthily observing something, especially a living creature, is one of the worst things one can do, if not the worst – birdwatchers and hunters can attest to this fact. By moving, Dawkins exposed his position as it changed the angle of his torch, making the light shine through. The humanlike sounds stopped.
Mister Machinery jumped backwards, his back hitting a tree, on which he leaned.
Dawkins’ head began to hurt. It hurt so much he had to touch it with his free hand, and he had to close his eyes. He heard a voice say, “Once this is all over, the misfortunes will befall you once more, and your extinction will be pushed through.”
A laughter, deep and rumbling, came forth. Then, the voice was gone, and so was the headache. When Dawkins opened his eyes, he saw Mister Machinery lying on the forest floor, battered and unconscious (Dawkins knew that the robot was not dead because he saw slivers of blue between the machine’s silver eyelids), his body a lump of twisted metal wrapped in a filthy cloth.
Dawkins ran towards the town, still clutching the torch that exposed his position. “Help!” He kept on screaming for help until he reached the populated part of the town. “Help! Wake up, people! Grab your torches! Grab your torches and your shotguns! Wake up! Wake up! Help!”
“What is it?” asked the people, rubbing their eyes, voices heavy with exasperation for being woken in the middle of the night (they had been used to the humanlike sounds from the forest, and had been able to sleep soundly despite the noise). “Why did you wake us up, Dawkins?”
Dawkins proceeded telling the people of the events that took place, from his resolution to capture Mister Machinery, to the demonic voice whispering evil words to him during a mysterious case of migraine. He told everything at length and in detail, with several exaggerations and alterations that brought forth his bravery. Now, as I have already related these events to the intelligent reader, it would be redundant to repeat his monologue in verbatim.
We leave Dawkins and the townspeople for the moment to focus on our tragic hero, who lies on the forest floor, tired from its battle with a creature Dawkins never saw. (Mister Machinery had seen it, however. It was a shapeless mass, and it was the same creature that plagued the town for years.) Mister Machinery was about to fall asleep when he realized the implications of the devil’s words to Dawkins, who could not see the wraith that spoke to him earlier. It was highly probable that the human would think those words came from the robot, giving Dawkins proof that Mister Machinery was after the obsolescence of the human race.
He decided to rise and appeal to Dawkins, so that he could explain everything before the man managed to warn the townspeople and incite a revolution.
It became warm, then hot. Mister Machinery jumped to his feet. It was too late. The forest was now engulfed in red flames that crackled red and yellow. The foliage was reduced to thick, billowing smoke that enveloped the starless sky. From outside, drowned only slightly by the sound of the fire, the angry mob shouted.
People carrying pitchforks and torches surrounded the margins of the woods, razing everything in sight.
“That’s right!” shouted Dawkins, watching over the townspeople. “Ensure that that infernal machine is burned down, or he will destroy us in our sleep!”
Mister Machinery ran around, searching for an exit, but there was none to be found. He tried touching the fire, but he doubted he would survive if he crossed it, as the flames were very thick already.
It was too late, Mister Machinery thought. He sat on a rock and sighed. Tears well up in his bottom eyelids, and as he blinked, those tears fell. His adam’s apple rose, then fell, sinking to the bottom of his neck in an imitation of a gulp. “Help,” he whispered.
From outside, Dawkins watched as the silhouette of a man – or a man’s replica, as the case may be – became thinner and thinner, until it was nothing more than a stick figure, then a sliver of black. It disappeared afterwards, its entirety consumed by flames.
It rained then. It was not the light sweet rain the town experienced since the activation of Mister Machinery. It was a heavy rain not unlike those that ensued during the hurricanes, when the town was still in its period of tragedies: heavy and frighteningly sudden. The winds howled like wolves on the cliffside during a full moon. The outpour was so strong that it extinguished the flames.
The people began leaving, running for shelter. Dawkins stayed for a while, waiting for the fire to die down, so that he could see the aftermath of the destruction. The end result was that the forest had been reduced to ashes, its denizens charred. Dawkins looked around, but there was no sign of the robot. He smiled, then he left.
I do not know what has become of Mister Machinery. Although I am his biographer, I do not know whether he survived the fire or not, and I apologize for my irresponsibility at keeping track of my subject’s life.
I can only imagine that he survived, for humanlike sounds still fill the air, and misfortunes are still quite rare in town, although they do come sometimes.
Some people say that they see blue orbs shifting in the darkness someimes, where the forest used to be, but they are unsure whether they imagined it or not, although, given the large number of people who reports such occurrence, it is highly probable that the event is not merely a deception of the mind.