Underground.
Susan Cornford

We hurried through the almost-dark passage, following our guide who was code-named Cassandra. Even though I couldn’t see him, I knew that my ward, Billy, was beginning to think this wasn’t a very good idea. He always got this altered breathing thing when that happened. I sent a sub-vocal cue to reactivate his Medic-Robot and was relieved to hear his respirations settle. 

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The closer we got to our goal, the louder the sounds got. This was weird since the Anti-Noise Pollution Act of 2355 required all machinery to operate in total silence. It gave me pause to think how strange a noise-making world must have been in the past. Still, this was a part of why we had come here, regardless of whatever damage it might do to our poor, delicate eardrums. 

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I sniffed; a funny scent caught in my nostrils. I checked my Monitor Implant for excess antigen levels and remembered we’d had to turn them off. As the Dark Website had advised us: “Excess antigen levels are PART of the Genuine, Immersive, Historic Workplace Experience.” I tried to breathe as shallowly as possible. 

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This is what our seemingly-perverse goal had brought us here to discover. Sad to say, humans hanker for whatever it is they don’t have and, for several generations now, we have not had to work. People thought it was fun at first, with time to do other things, until work was made illegal. Then it became a brand-new carrot, dangled on a stick in front of peoples’ noses and the Underground sprang up, or dug in, or whatever. It became available, in exchange for a large chunk of our annually-allotted credits, to the people who wanted to experience whatever is taboo, or put their finger on the burning stove which is labelled: “Do not touch.”

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Cassandra led us up to a heavy, metal door and unfastened what looked like one of those antique padlocks that I’d seen in period movies. She explained that the usual DNA-touch opening mechanism would be perceptible to devices that are set up to search for the various Underground facilities.

She opened the door and we three passed through into what seemed like some minor version of Hell. Clanging, pounding noises came from all sides and the air was dim with bluish smoke. Cassandra explained,. “This is primarily due to fumes from the diesel engines that power the equipment used in the workshop. In the days before Occupational Health and Safety legislation, bosses didn’t need to provide proper ventilation, so workers just had to keep on inhaling it. This is a faithful reproduction of a 1950’s facility so you can get the full impact of your Experience.” 

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She led us along to our “workstations” where we would be doing something called piece work: stamping out a continuous flow of “hubcaps” that would be fitted onto the wheels of gasoline-powered vehicles. However, we would not get paid for our output unless we met the quota that had been set previously by the fastest worker on the production line. 

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“This is not fair!” Billy objected. 

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But Cassandra replied, “the worker has a choice. If he doesn’t like the conditions, he can quit his job. Then he can get another job, one that is just as bad as the job he’s left, or he and his children can starve after being thrown out by his landlord for not paying their rent.” Billy hasn’t got any children, but he chose to work.

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We began stamping out hubcaps and our arms pumped up and down in what became a rhythm. I could see Billy’s lips moving so I knew he’d started singing along as he usually does with any physical exertion. We breathed a sigh of relief when we had met our morning quotas. Then the Quality Control Officer came along with several of mine that had not passed inspection further down the line. What I could see looked like very minor flaws but I still got my pay docked for those. I smiled at him; maybe making friends might make my hubcaps start to look better.

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The Noon Whistle blew to let us know it was time for our lunch break. All of us workers crowded together into the Company Canteen to make our choices. It was a novelty to see real people working behind a cafeteria line, dishing out vastly differing portions of mostly unrecognisable foodstuffs. I spared a thought for my beautiful Automatic Meal Dispenser which gives me the regulated amount of my chosen items, neatly served. All this without someone coughing or sneezing on them. Cassandra had rejoined us for the occasion and explained how it worked. “The bosses made available whatever was cheapest, without taking any heed of proper nutrition. I’m sad to say that mostly starchy, fatty, sugary foods will be all you can get.” Despite this dire introduction, I found the foods quite flavoursome, especially mashed potatoes with melted butter and chocolate ice cream. 

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After lunch, we returned to our mind-numbing drudgery. I tried composing couplets, a pastime that I usually engage in during any idle moment. But this distracted me just enough to send a couple more hubcaps into the reject pile. (I must buy the Quality Control Officer some of that delicious chocolate ice cream!) 

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Glancing over at Billy every so often, I could see that he was yawning. While I wasn’t looking, he screamed. I looked up to see blood gushing from one of his hands, which now lacked two fingers. Cassandra turned off our machines, took us into what was called an Infirmary and showed us the “First Aid Box” which was used to treat injuries.  She said, “Although Billy’s Medic-Robot is numbing the pain and will regrow his fingers, real workers often could not afford even the primitive medical treatment that was available back then. In those sad cases, they would be disabled, unemployable and a burden on their families rather than being able to support them.”

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Billy said, “That isn’t fair either! I’m certainly glad we live in a better time, not only technologically, but because we now have much more enlightened views.” I said that I agreed but privately I had my doubts about everything being better.

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As we left the Infirmary, the whistle sounded for the change of shift and we watched as one group of ground-down people was replaced by the next. Cassandra informed us, “Facilities usually worked twenty-four hours a day, six days a week, so that the greedy owners could maximise the profits to be made.” 

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Then we followed our fellow workers out of the door and into the building across the street. It was called “Smokey’s Bar and Grill.” This was certainly appropriate because the air was thick with something that smelled different from the diesel exhaust of the factory. Cassandra told us about the unimaginable habit of inhaling tobacco smoke, which was a standard part of the recreation available to workers. She led us to a “cigarette machine” against one wall which, despite its name, did not manufacture but only dispensed this product. We saw an advertising sign on the wall above it that said, “LSMFT: Lucky Strike Means Fine Tobacco!” After she inserted a small number of coins into the machine, a pack of cigarettes came out of an opening near the bottom. 

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We muscled our way through the crowd to the “bar” section of the establishment, and Cassandra asked the man, called a bartender, for three “beers” and some “matches.” After a short demonstration, we learned how to extract cigarettes from the pack, put them into our mouths, remove a match from the “book”, strike it against the emery paper and hold the resultant flame to the end of the cigarette while sucking in. This rigmarole just caused an extended coughing fit and left a bad taste in our mouths. Cassandra smiled and said, “I admit that the procedure requires considerable practice to obtain full enjoyment.”              

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We proceeded to try and wash some of this bad taste out of our mouths with the beer. Although better than the cigarette flavour, I could feel the small amount of alcohol trying to circulate through my bloodstream. Knowing the extreme toxicity of this compound, I itched to re-engage my Medic-Robot to rid my body of it, but I resisted. As things gradually became hazier and, dare I say it, more enjoyable, I could understand the wicked attractions of this substance. The workers of old may have needed it to help them through their work-weary lives, but it was just as well that it was no longer available. To stand up for my own superior times, clearly it was no longer needed. I ordered another “round” for us while I still had the chance.

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We three staggered rather happily out of the bar, never having had any of the “grill” experience. As Cassandra led us back to the facility’s exit, she promised that, if we came again, she’d treat us to “char-grilled hamburgers.” I reinstated my Monitor Implant and Medic-Robot preparatory to returning to the outside world. As they began to clear the alcoholic haze from my brain, I shuddered at the very thought of consuming burned meat. The prospect of my Automatic Meal Dispenser’s nice, clean, organic food pellets made my mouth water in anticipation.  

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Billy and I parted from Cassandra and made our way to our well-concealed hovercraft. He seemed to have enjoyed his experience, despite the hand injury which was by now almost completely repaired. I was glad; I thought that understanding where his forebears had come from was an important thing for the last biologically-conceived human being. I patted him fondly on both of his heads. Now that the whole in vitro process is mechanised, it is to be hoped that no more children will be born with excess appendages.