“Sir!” Thank the Dark. A distraction in the form of Jakara approaches. I rise to my feet and turn toward her as she shifts into her parade rest stance. “I have Team One transferring the replacement parts that have been sent over into this room. Team Two is standing by, ready upon your inventory to go fetch any parts you require from auxiliary storage.”

“Good.” I can feel the snap in my words and have not the impetus to scale it back. “I will see to that at once. Attend and take notes.” She returns a single nod. 

Dragging myself away from the emotional stains on the floor, I peer around for a moment to discern where the assemblage of parts is taking place. Frustration sets in as I realize I cannot see above the heads of anyone else in the room. It must show upon my face, as Jakara steps in once more. “This way, sir.” 

I consider thanking her, but reject it almost immediately. The image I wish to project leaves no room for such consideration. These are my subordinates. But they can never take my place. None of them have even a drop of Denzai blood in their veins. The technology will never bend for them as it will for me. If they want this sub-city to not die wholesale, then they cannot do away with me. My position is secure. Further, I have no desire to fraternize with them. These are not my friends. Those that I would have accepted as my peers spurned me years ago. Now, there is only the balance between superior and inferior, senior and junior. And I need these individuals to see me as Senior Technician and not the youth that I appear to be.

I keep my eyes locked on a spot between Jakara’s shoulders as she leads me through the throng of technicians. It keeps the surrounding emotions from intruding upon me. Also, Jakara keeps her landscape in firm order. Rarely do errant emotions filter across. It is not that she does not feel, but rather that she does not let the feelings distract her. They are recognized and catalogued in an orderly fashion. She holds tightly to a level headed calm that provides an anchor to my own writhing madness. 

Perhaps I should thank her after all. But not where others can witness it. 

I am led to one side of the generator room, away from the press of humans and their intrusive emotions. Here, the massive roll up door stands yawning into the equipment corridors. Technicians are ferrying machinery down the service halls from several storage bays tucked into the bowels of the station. Some few may be aware that the labyrinthine warrens of the Denzai are directly connected to the service bays beneath each station, but I am certain that most fail to draw the conclusion between the creators of this technology and the humanity it serves. Occasionally, a Denzai will venture into the unseen depths of the stations, and so the lights in all the service corridors are permanently lit in red. When they are lit at all. It is a boon to my own eyesight that I do not need to put up with the discomfort that would occur if the corridors were illuminated with the white light that is preferred by human sight.

Several pieces of the replacement generator are already present here: perhaps half the turbine blades, the dynamo, the wiring relay, and some few of the casing sections. I can hear a group of technicians struggling with the next piece to be brought up, their grunts of effort a contrast to the bright metallic rattle of the chains by which they ferry the part along the ceiling mounted tracks. A trolley of Denzai make awaits them at the equipment door, as the track ends abruptly and getting some of these pieces into the room without mechanical assistance would be impossible for humans. The trolley can ferry more weight than would normally be possible due to the crafting laid upon it. A brief glance shows coruscating bands of endurance and determination poured through it, lines that reinforce it in the same way that rebar is used within concrete. Dropping it from the ceiling of the sub-city would be more likely to damage the stone of the cavern than this trolley.

I turn from my impromptu inspection of the maintenance equipment and immediately dismiss the casing sections as beneath my notice for inspection. They are designed to simply provide a curtain of shielding between the interior of the generator and the technicians who work around it. Gasses from the thermal vent are toxic to the lungs of humans, capable of causing severe cirrhosis and death. But the superheated gasses are also extremely useful for power generation. The heat rises in a continuous gust, turning the fins of the generator. It spins the central shaft and the dynamo attached to its pinnacle, thereby generating an electrical current which is diverted out to the homes and businesses of the sub-city. A small portion of that current is retained within the station itself to power our own systems. And though Internal Order is responsible for the generation of that power, along with the other life support systems, we are not the facility that regulates the power or reduces the current to make it usable. Londinium Central Utility Cooperative is the department in charge of making certain the power, air, water, and waste management are taken care of on an individual basis. They work closely with us at times, but ultimately, they would have no jobs were it not for those of us here at Internal Order. And it is my job to make certain that Internal Order can function, even when I cannot.

It is the rest of these parts, this collection of mismatched, unassembled scrap, that I need to forge into a single cohesive unit. Of all the parts which have been laid out here, it is the dynamo that is the most vital. So I turn my attention to it first.

Truthfully, the part laid out before me is merely the armature portion of the dynamo assembly. It functions on a direct drive, as the fins of the turbine are attached directly to the main shaft. The thermal exhaust turns the drive fins, which in turn spins the shaft and its attached armature. This armature is affixed to the very top of the central shaft, while the stator is permanently emplaced within the upper housing of the generator. The stator itself is comprised of many bands of magnetic panels and is naturally shielded by the stone of this chamber to prevent any unnecessary magnetic mishaps. Our devices are generators in even the most technical sense, as the power output is alternating current that is converted to direct current by transformers before it leaves the station.

By all mundane scales of physics, the dynamos here should not be able to provide power to even half of Londinium. But these are of Denzai manufacture. The reinforcement of the magnetic impetus by means of the bands of excitement wrapped around the armature coils enhances the electron fields. Power generation is thus magnified by about 4.5 times what it ought to be. No one looks at those numbers and questions why the generators are hyper efficient, however. They also do not question why it is that the armature coils work without an external source of power for what are clearly electromagnets.

But I can see the magnetism potential already vibrating within each of the coils. They are in a state of containment currently, waiting to be given instruction by a Denzai crafter to release the hold placed upon them. That will be one of the last things I will do, as it would be unwise to have the magnets active during assembly. For now, I simply need to make certain there are no flaws in the craftings that could cause a failure once the generator is returned to service.

I begin inspecting the part thoroughly. The dynamo is given a first glance to pick up major flaws, a more in depth second look to inspect the details of the emotional crafting, and then a highly detailed third pass to observe the interplay between the various parts that make up the whole and make certain the piece is stable. It takes quite some time, to be certain, and I only accept it as viable once I have run a critical eye over all facets of the enormous assembly. 

This process do I repeat for every single part involved in the entire generator assembly. Dynamo, fin blades, main rotor shaft, regulator-brake assembly, main fuse and main wiring assemblies, readout and main display console, relay conduits; anything that will go into the generator assembly gets this three stage inspection. And as each section passes my rigorous inspection, I subsequently order the parts reorganized to a discrete section of the chamber to await further assembly. I at least trust my technicians enough to shift parts throughout the room, even if they are not able to make assembly without me. 

Hours pass. But I am unwilling to rush this process. It is vital that these parts pass inspection so the assembly has the best chance of success. And part of me recognizes that I am taking excess time in order to keep my chaotic thoughts from straying into much more painful memories. Jakara trails behind me with steadfast resolve, taking notes as I comment on each part and sending out for the additional assemblies that have not yet arrived. She is the face of competence that I lack at the moment.

I allow Jakara to call a short rest break once the inspection is complete. The teams are given 30 minutes for a brief meal. As I was engrossed in the parts, she organized a food order for personnel. And though my stomach howls for sustenance, none of it sounds appetizing. Nausea churns instead. I force myself to eat some bread and a small skewer of vegetables, as I know my body needs the nutrition, but it tastes repugnant in the face of my turmoil. And forcing myself to remain around such idleness gives me too much time with my thoughts, so I end up quickly retreating back to the generator room after only half the meal break. 

The silence of that room is oppressive. But I can correct that. Reaching within, I focus myself for an extended crafting. I find the hollow void inside and let it expand, returning to basic lessons from my youth. It hurts. Dark, it hurts so much. The empty ache where his presence should be echoes with memories. His guiding voice. A hand on my shoulder. The strains of light, and of life. All of it rushes back in a stampede of emotion. It wants to squeeze my throat shut and choke the life out of me until I can only give voice to the raw anguish churning within. 

No. Use it. Pain is as much a building block as any other emotion. Now: which parts need pain? 

None. This is a problem. 

But fear…that I can use. The blades need a fear counterhelix laid down, to be meshed in opposition to the anger so the welds will hold best. I can produce that in excess at the moment. 

Because I am desperately afraid. 

Afraid of failure. Of loss, and the pain it brings. I am a terrified child still, adrift in a sea of adults, alone and quite mad, trying to push forward and seeing no path opening up before me. Haunted by the twin spectres of death and despair. 

Yes. This I can use. 

I open my mouth and song tumbles forth. My feet move of their own accord, carrying me to where the turbine fins lay stacked against one wall of the cavern. As I go, I draw ambient emotion out of the air, dragging it behind me in tattered streamers and reinforcing it with my own feelings into thick green bundles. These get smeared onto each of the fins, drawn down the spine where it will attach to the main rotor. It is emotional flux, preparing the sites to be welded. 

I can do this! The shattered legacy can be rebuilt, better than the original! Excitement courses through my veins like an electrical current as I finish priming the blades, so I turn immediately to the dynamo armature while I ride that high. I smear the yellow and orange paste across the surfaces like a toddler painting for the first time, watching the colors adhere in thick streaks beneath my hands. 

Excitement eventually gives way to determination. I will make this rebuild happen, no matter what. The bronze sheen of that is used to prime the relays behind the display readout box. 

My emotions shift again, plunging into frustration and straight through to despair. This will be so much work. More than I have ever done on my own. How will I ever handle all of it? And yet, I realize I am almost excited to try. Mania rides on the coattails of depression and I interweave that into the regulator-brake assembly with two different voices.

And then the madness swirls. 

I can feel the exact moment it takes over. The song fractures, spinning into wild dissonance, and I have to immediately cease work on the regulator-brake assembly. A few notes of the third voice escape before I can stop them and it almost warps the manic depressive double helix into uselessness. I feel a sympathetic pulse from the main drive shaft, tugging at me, calling like to like. Instead, I pull away from that and turn to the support beams for the regulator-brake assembly. Madness is not the most favorable of emotions to reinforce the supports, but it will work as a substitute for obsession. I carefully draw lines of glittering obsidian laced with purple upon the ends of each beam in a thick cord.

It is only once I have completed this that the song loosens its grip and allows me a brief respite. My voice trails off, the descant dropping first before the refrain fades away. I take stock of myself at this juncture and realize I am primed for more. Though I perspire freely from beneath my scales, I feel a low level of elation rather than fatigue. Moisture has built up beneath my arms as I sweat into my shirt and the feel of it is distracting, so I draw my shirt off and use it as a rag to rid myself of the perspiration. I should probably find some water to drink before I continue, so that I do not become dehydrated. 

As I turn to find where hydration is set up, I realize I have drawn a crowd. My technicians are returning from their meal break. Most of them have diligently gone about picking up their tasks. But a few are staring at me. Hesitancy and concern coat them thickly in pale greens and clashing oranges. It brings a scowl to my face. I am about to reprimand them when Jakara steps in and does it for me, barking orders for them to return to their duties lest they find themselves scrubbing out the wastewater treatment pools, and I am suffused with satisfaction to see the technicians scramble to obey.