636Writer: Thank you for still reading. You're free to pronounce (in your head) the main characters' names whichever way you like, but if you would rather have a guide, 'Xi' (female) is pronounced like the first sound in 'psychology', 'Ayn' (male) is something like Aye-yen but it's one sound, not two; and 'Piqa' (male) is 'Pee-ka' as in 'piquant' without the ending sounds. Hope that's helpful!
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TITLE: JUST A TOOL
CHAPTER 2: THINKING IS DANGEROUS (ii)
-AYN-
I close my eyes for a moment, willing myself back to the task at hand – trying to piece together the shattered ratchet plate that is the most debilitating of the damage to the MuTT. There apparently isn't currently a spare plate available in the repair bay's store, although I've been told that "there'll be a few of them when we restock in a few days' time."
Well I can't wait for a few days. And this isn't even my job. The maintenance and repair crew are supposed to take care of all repairs. But they're shorthanded—as always—and I want my ride back fast so that I can get right back to training. I have to train more to be a good Shield. I have to become better, faster, stronger.I have to keep Xi safe.
I'd do anything to achieve that goal.
I stifle another sigh as my sweaty fingers slip off another tiny piece of metal. I hadn't counted on 'anything' including having to fit together metal shards like a puzzle. I am frustratingly ill-fitted to the delicate movements that this requires. I trust my fingers; I know they can move with speed and precision over the controls of the MuTT even when I'm under pressure. But they're not exactly small fingers, hence my marked lack of progress on this task.
"Heads up!"
I jump back as something lands on my work bench, scattering the pieces I have painstakingly pieced together so far. I start on a swear word, and then do a double take. The object on the bench is a shiny new ratchet plate, still rocking gently from side to side from the momentum of its landing.
I look up with a grin at the source of my good fortune. The face that grins back is familiar.
"I heard you throwing a hissy fit at the store," says the owner of the face, winding his way around the piles of parts that currently comprise the MuTT. "Typical Shield behaviour."
I don't take offence at the remarks, recognising them as a joke from my fellow Tool. "Thanks, Zim."
Zim bounds over the last pile of metal and drapes his lanky frame over one end of my bench. "No troub. I owe you for dragging my carcass off the Zone that time."
I acknowledge this honest expression of gratitude with a simple nod. Zim is a Spear and the Spears are the only other Tools that go out onto the Conflict Zone, so they're the only other ones who use MuTTs and have the parts for them. But he doesn't have to share his parts just because he has them, and for that, I am deeply thankful to Zim even if I don't actually say this out loud.
There's a rivalry between the different classes, but it's a friendly one, so Zim is by no means the only Spear who's on good terms with a Shield. If nothing else, we share this understanding of what it's like to go out every time not knowing whether you'd come back through those gates; not the most auspicious of commonalities, but a commonality nevertheless. The Swords and their Shields and the Spears – we are the frontline, the masses who take the heaviest losses in battle and in turn strike the hardest blows, who would block the enemies' advance with our piled-up corpses if all else failed.
And for whose benefit? The Users, of course.
A grimace of distaste replaces the smile on my face at that thought of the Users. Fortunately Zim is in the midst of an animated account of how he had single-handedly disabled two Hostiles by some elaborate manoeuvre, and is thus too occupied to notice my sudden change of mood. It's not that I want—or feel that I need—to hide my opinion on the Users from him, but vigilance and caution have been so thoroughly saturated into me that they've become second nature to me. I live in a world where the uncautious don't live long to protract their foolishness.
I rearrange my face into a suitably bland arrangement and nod every now and then so that Zim will go on talking, meaning that I won't have to say anything. After a while, his voice blends in with the greyness of the walls, the same dingy colour as the floor, becoming part of the featureless sameness that is the repair bay. There is nothing in his words for my mind to grasp to prevent my attention slipping off from his chatter; before I know it, my earlier interrupted thought has firmly re-established itself.
Everything is for benefit of the Users, who stay inside the fortified heart of the base and never venture even one milky finger into the outer sections. Why should they? They're our creators and masters, whose convenience and comfort is the only reason for the existence of the Tools.
They know that. And they know that we Tools know that.
I catch myself, suddenly realising how much I sound like Xi in one of her black moods. Almost immediately after, I hope guiltily that she isn't in one of those moods because of my failure. Zim is still going on, seemingly oblivious to my lack of attention to his account. I refocus my attention on getting the ratchet plate into the right place, giving half an ear to his chatter.
What am I doing anyway, thinking about the Users? I am a Shield and Xi is my Sword.
All that I need to think about is how to keep my Sword safe.
Lost in my own thoughts, I only realise that Zim has stopped talking when the silence has dragged on into awkwardness. I go red, fumbling frantically for an excuse for my inattention, but I am saved by Zim's easy smile.
"So?" asks the Spear, "How was the outing?"
The question is simple, yet loaded with self-imposed censure for me; hence not a question I want to answer. So I just shrug and give him the bare minimum of responses. "We survived."
"I heard your Sword got beat up bad," my interrogator remarks. "So bad she got two whole days off."
I frown slightly at his words. There is a suggestion of envy in his voice, as if he thinks Xi is slacking off somehow. That insinuation raises my hackles in a protective gut reaction.
You're lucky you brought me the part I needed, Zim… or I'd have smacked you across your smirking face.
It's my fault anyway, not hers. She has enough to bear on her shoulders without me clambering on top with my inability to do my job.