Rivulets of sweat running down his hairy forearms, Ben struggled with his grip, the slab of stone shifting dangerously in his slick hands. “Watch it!” he cried out.
Releasing his end, Felix jumped backward as the stone hit the ground like an earthquake.
“Is it broke?” Ben asked fearfully, dropping to the ground and running his hands over the granite. “Please, no. I can’t take another whipping.”
Scampering nimbly through the stacks of wood beams and salvaged nails, Felix returned with the old battered lantern. Standing over the granite, he recklessly turned up the wick, bluish light washing over the deserted construction site.
“It’s okay.” He sighed, lowering the light to the bare minimum again. This was all the alcohol they would get for today. When it was exhausted, they’d have to work in the dark if that stone wasn’t in place. And that was a sure way to lose fingers. Wasn’t a man or woman among the crew whose hands weren’t covered with scars from the rigors of masonry.
“We’ll never get this freaking thing in place,” Ben grumbled, flexing his aching shoulder muscles. “Why can’t we bust it into pieces?”
“Baron Strichland wants this greenhouse twice the size of his private one,” Felix stated, “which means bigger end walls, which means stronger foundations.” He glared hostilely. “Unless you want to tell the foreman to go jump a mutie.”
“And get fed to the Machine? Fuck that.”
In the distance behind them, the great beams of the Alphaville searchlights swept the sky in their endless motions, back and forth, a slight wobble every now and then as a prisoner slowed at his task and a sec man encouraged him to do better with a lash from a knotted bullwhip.
“So what do we do?” Ben asked, eying the slab hopelessly.
“Gotta ask for more men on the job.” Felix sighed, rubbing his lower back. “We’ll take a few lashes, but that’s better than busting this thing.”
Ben shook his head. Another whipping. He was starting to lose feeling in his back from the accumulation of scars. Felix said the outside world was a lot worse than this place. He was an immigrant and should know. But Ben was born here and couldn’t imagine a worse hell then living in Alphaville.
“How about we take another rest, try again in a—” Ben stopped and smiled broadly. “Never mind. Here comes the answer.”
Out of the dark, a huge figure was shambling along the street, moving hunched over as if struggling against a fierce wind.
“Hey, Sarge!” Ben called out with a wave. “Over here!”
Shuffling along, Harold paused and stared at the men with his good eye. Many people, when they first met him, instantly thought him to be a mutie, with his bent back, mottled hair and distorted features. But in truth, he had been one of the most handsome men in the ville until he fell through the top of a greenhouse, the shards of glass reducing his good looks into a grotesque mockery in less than seconds. And even worse, a sliver of glass had stabbed into his head, producing little blood and healing quickly, but his mind was gone, terminated like a cut cable. All that remained of the master sergeant of the Alphaville sec men was a powerful body, forged to even greater strength by the endless toil of brutally hard work.
Harold came their way at a leisurely pace, trying to smile, but only managing to distend his lips and drool slightly. In his powerful arms, he clutched a tiny box covered with flowery wallpaper.
“What’s prob?” he said with slurred words, bobbing slightly. “Bad rock?”
Hands resting on his hips, Ben laughed. “Yeah, that’s right. It’s a bad rock. Toss it on top of the wall for us, would you, pal?”
Harold blinked at the titanic stone as if registering its existence for the first time. A soft wind blew over the work site, carrying the smell of hot dust from the outer desert. Somewhere, a wolf briefly howled and was abruptly silenced.
“Sure.” Harold grinned. Putting aside his package, he started to bend to grab the rock, when a song repeated in his addled mind about lifting big things “up from the knees.” He had to listen to the voices in his head, he admonished himself. They were friends.