Holes in the Firmament

Part XIV

Heckler & Koch PSG-1/XP-1 v.3

I was born in flame, myself and my nine brothers, and in flame will I die.

After our birth the Makers came for us, lifting us up one at a time from our velvet cradles, their eyes huge and distorted behind large, round lenses. The fires of our birth cast demon shadows across their faces, and when their mouths turned down at four of my brethren I learned to yield to the shapings of my Makers. The four who did not were cast back into the flames, the Makers deaf to their cries.

I was honed then, with wood and rag, oil and steel, and when it became too much and I wished only to cry out against what was done to me I held myself still, the lesson in obedience ever in mind. Two of my brethren forgot the lesson, or perhaps had never learned it and the Makers laid them back in the crucible, shaking their heads. Four of us remained.

At last the time came that the Makers granted us vision. Sometimes they would stroke their coated hands across me, and the darkness would glow like the flames. Mostly, though, we rested in our swaddling in the darkness.

Three men came, clad differently than our Makers. The Makers bent before them, and the thought came to me that perhaps these were our Makers' Makers. Our Makers lifted the four of us up and carried us a short distance, and soon I felt a pleasant warmth along my steel and my vision showed me the gleam along my sleekness, my clean lines and simple elegance. They fed us then, small bits of metal that gave us voice. Three of us spoke quietly, but our fourth brother was loud and he passed from us then.

"When next these beauties speak," our Makers said, placing us back in our cradles, "some may hear them, but only one will understand their words."

Then a Maker stroked his covered hand over me, and my vision faded to darkness and silence. How long I sat in darkness I could not tell; time is not something that concerns my kind. I felt I must have dreamed, if we can, for sometimes it seemed I moved roughly, and sometimes there was a steady vibration. Two times I thought there were voices, and I wondered if the Makers had come for myself, or perhaps one of my brothers. Soon even that faded and there was a time I knew nothing, not even the soft darkness that kept me company in my cradle.

Words are what woke me finally, words spoken in a language different from my Maker's, but my kind speak with a voice understood by all, thus we understand all in turn.

"You're late." It was a deep voice, rough-edged and carrying its own threat. Threat is something we understand but do not have within us; only promises.

"Sorry, man. Traffic. You know." A lighter voice, sharp and loud like my fourth brother had been. "That it? Let's see it."

The weight of my darkness lightened, although I was not allowed my vision. As well then, for pain streaked along me, burning worse than all the acids that touched me at the time of my shapings. Surely the creature that could bring me such pain was to be feared.

"Stop that!" There were sounds; a light snap and then the sharper voice cried out, although I heard no pain. Something soft and soothing rubbed along the burn and the pain left. "Never touch this with your bare hands; the acids and oils will mar the finish, not to mention your prints on the metal."

"Sorry, man, but it's a beauty."

"Yes. Now the money." The deeper voice was closer, and I thought that Maker was the one who finished easing my hurt and then sent me back into the darkness.

I had no vision, but there was movement, and noise. So much noise; voices like and yet unlike those of the Makers, others that were made by machine and motion. Then I stopped moving with a sharp jar that would have rattled something loose if I'd been lesser or the Makers not so skilled. The movement may have stopped, but the noises continued, mostly distant but occasionally close by.

But movement never came and so I waited as my kind does, listening to the sometimes words of the small voices at the foot of my cradle until even that faded and I passed into the slumber that is the passing of time for us. A Maker would come for me when needed, and then I would speak and join my brothers, flawed and perfect, in the fires of our death.

I only hoped, when it came time to speak, my words rang true.