The light seemed dimmed more than usual in this sector; whether due to power conservation, or the idiosyncrasies of those that inhabited this particular strip was beyond my guessing.

Or caring.

It certainly wasn’t the first time that I’d journeyed these streets, and if I kept my eyes open, it shouldn’t be the last. So I hoped anyway.

Still, the ‘specific’ destination was totally new.

The Artists sector was generally an area that I wouldn’t frequent; not that there was that much risk of anything happening; no auras of fear other than those who used that brand of emotion in their art form.

But that was the point; everything here seemed forced, as though the artists themselves had such a fleeting moment to shine in, and they’d literally do anything in their power to burn as brightly as they could in that time.

In general, all but the best of them tried too hard.

My interest in expressionalism didn’t go much deeper than that; sure, I took my work seriously, I tried to do any set task to the best of my ability. But whether that was just so that I wouldn’t have to redo things later, or just because I liked a job well done wasn’t something I gave much thought to; I built things to last, I repaired things to be sturdy, developed suitable alloys for the application at hand, but I wouldn’t call that ‘expressionalism’.

Not in the sense that those empties around here would.

Still, I was set the task at hand, and I would do my best, simply to avoid being sent back later.

Rounding a corner I paused, regarding the unassuming door set into a blank wall; purple-black colouring etched from millennia of acid rain.

The colours were misleading; the only faction that counted around here was the kind placed forwards for others to appreciate.

Not that it wasn’t dangerous; I’m sure that most of these functionless trinkets would be rather peeved if their efforts didn’t produce the desired results …

The bot at the entrance gave me a critical gaze as I entered, “How about an upgrade?”

I guessed that this was what was considered the ‘in’ thing in shell redesign, although in this mechs instance the effect looked like some sort of miniature gestalt; mismatched colours, seemingly functionless datataps forming a lanyard down one arm, other arm looking like it’d been purposefully crushed, then repaired with a crowbar.

I turned away from the asymmetric abomination.

“Perhaps another time?”

“Sure enough. Want a tour? We’ve actually got an exhibition today.”

I gave a quick gaze around the place, realising that it was much bigger than I’d assumed from outside.

My current employer was indicative of those in administrative positions; Monitors usually were.

Like all sector monitors, he possessed a maniacal desire to be noticeably better than everyone else; in particular, he dripped with such pomp and superciliousness it was surprising that he didn’t wear a crown.

And as such, it currently tickled his fancy to further his image through the possession of ‘an artistic display piece’.

And he’d left it to me to ‘journey forth to procure such an item.’

Problem was, that ‘I’ knew what ‘I’ liked; whether I could find something that fit would be another matter.

“Here’s a guide, listing the exhibits by artist; you’ll find the gallery divided into the art forms as indicated by the map on the back.”

I shook from my reverie to take the proffered piece of flimsy.

“Yeah, Thanks.”

Heading in no specific direction, I moved off to inspect the exhibits.

There were artists everywhere; some giving critical examination to others’ pieces, most trying to flaunt their own.

Such attention. I wondered what would happen if I dropped a pin in here …

I stopped at one of the unattended exhibits purely so that I didn’t get hawked at.

I had to admit, the piece was pretty; a large sphere several meters across made of concentric layers of a transparent silicate material, coloured with a semi-mixed tint to produce a random, chaotic pattern which seemed to draw the eye to each deeper layer.

But what was the point? The thing had no functionality; it couldn’t be mounted to a handle and used to cold-wrought steel could it?

As an engineer, I had a predilection towards functionality over aesthetics; this had none of the former.

Probably the sort of bauble Lord Muck expected me to bring back, but this was left up to ‘me’.

Meaning that whilst he would be too proud to admit it, he probably figured that my attention to detail would bring back something out of the ordinary.

Most of the visual displays were the same; someone was displaying crystal tendrils formed by playing lightning through imported sand; again quite pretty but fragile in the extreme.

Burn patterns from welding near sheet glass, organic detritus sintered to produce ceramics.

The effects were overall interesting, the quality of the work quite good, but nothing really striking.

One piece did draw my attention momentarily; a brown substance interspaced with darker flecks; it appeared as though the flecks went deeper than just the surface.

“What material is this made of?”

The artist beamed, “That’s wood, imported from Earth.”

I cut her off mid spiel, “Ah, so the detail is from the medium rather than the artist.”

That earned me a hurt glare.

“Philistine. Watch your back around here; you’d make a nice addition to this place.”

“Try me …”

“You couldn’t afford it.”

I shrugged and moved on.

Maybe there was something further on that didn’t hinge so much on the visual.

Many of the exhibits seemed so close to similar concepts that it was rather hard to differentiate between one art class and the next.

The performance artists appeared almost hypnotic with their motions; I suspected that many were projecting to the audience, that the dancing was just a way to focus the watchers attentions and their own on a base element, making the audience more prone to the effects.

Then there were those simply broadcasting their own personal fields; by comparison to the nearby dancers, it almost seemed ugly by comparison.

Still, the effects were a lot more defined from these individuals.

I focused on one’s particular wavelength; it seemed to interspace mild despair with unrivalled euphoria.

The effects were interesting, to say the least; I knew how to feel the fields of my materials, and the definition between each specific shift was easily defined.

All up it made me feel rather uncomfortable; I didn’t like sensing others at the best of time, being forced to accept their fields made me feel rather ‘invaded’.

A mech in a heavily customised shell bounded up to me.

“You there, transform.”

I blinked, “Huh?”

“Transform, and run up that cutter of yours; I need the acoustics.”

I blinked again, time passing until I figured out that he meant the trench-cutter disk, the buckets of which formed the better portion of my chest.

“Push off, Clinkerheap.”

“Look, I wouldn’t expect you to understand, I just need the sounds for my archive.”

I noticed several others watching us; this guy would probably have the sympathetic involvement of others if something broke out. Besides, he was getting far too close for my liking.

“Okay, okay.”

Shifting, I spun up the large wheel for a few clicks before reverting and climbing back to my feet.

The mech seemed to cock his head, focusing on an internal replay.

“Nice, thanks. Bearings sound a little too smooth to give the ‘construction’ feel I was after but it’s certainly usable. I owe you one.”

With that he bounded off, leaving me a little miffed.

So I like good maintenance; what did he want me to sound like, a sludge pump?

All things considered, that was probably exactly what he wanted …

I moved deeper into the gallery, stopping every so often to examine a piece or two, always careful to avoid the artist’s attempts to drum up a sale.

Several pieces did catch my attention; one light sculpture in particular appeared to be random shapes, but as the mind focused on it, it resolved into what I could only assume was the form and structure of a simple lasercore.

Striking, impressive, definitely unique, but it wasn’t what ‘I’ was looking for.

My Lord probably wouldn’t care what I bought back, so long as it was ‘something’ only he possessed, but ‘I’ cared. ‘I’ was going to bring back something ‘I’ liked.

Moving on, I noticed something that had been gnawing on me.

All of these mechs present, particularly the more accomplished ones, radiated a sense of superiority and confidence, the sense that it was owed them to have their works admired.

But there was something else beneath that; it was less prominent in the masters, but it was still evident, highly suppressed as it was.

In every one of them, there was the air of uncertainty, the anxiety that their works weren’t good enough.

In the journeymen, it was a fear that their pieces weren’t good enough for their masters, that they’d bring them shame.

It was different in the more experienced mechs; in their case, they’d deride and denounce anyone who didn’t ‘get it’; only the judgement of more adept masters could bring out the same fears that their tyros felt.

But even in the elite there was a sense that their work wasn’t good ‘enough’. Those who were confident enough of the impression their work gave others could afford to focus on their ‘own’ critique.

And in each case it was a sense that their next piece would be better, and as such what they presented as their ‘best works’ were inferior to that which they would eventually create.

Theirs was a sense of anxiety at reaching for perfection; it was the drive that prevented them from retiring, content that they’d reached the epitome of themselves. They’d chase that tail ad infinitum.

But the anxiety, the drive to be better was still there.

I stopped. In front of me was an unassuming stall with a single piece on display.

The mech behind the table glanced up at me hopefully, then lowered her eyes respectfully.

“This piece isn’t for sale. It isn’t finished yet.”

I gazed down at the piece.

It was a twisted mess of sheet metal only giving the faintest impression of what it was supposed to represent.

There were dents covering the surface, as though the sculptor had gotten frustrated with something she couldn’t achieve. It hadn’t been abused, merely that the frustration had resulted in the abandonment of all care and finesse.

There were deep gouges along the surface; marks from using too course a file and not finishing them off with one of a finer grade.

The edges where it had been hammered into shape showed multiple creases, as though the artist had tried several times to get the fold in just the right place. As a result in several areas the metal had work-hardened and left nasty fractures amongst the creases.

I felt sympathetic; even a technician should have been able to work sheet better than this.

The artist was asking too much of herself and of the material; it was obvious what she was trying to achieve, but it wasn’t physically possible to obtain those shapes without thinning and splitting the medium.

Lightly I touched one corner of the material. As I suspected, it was even the wrong composition; too much carbon was making it brittle, not enough lead or silicates to make it malleable or homogeneous in alloy composition. The annealing procedure was totally wrong; the crystal structure was heated at too low a heat for too long before being quenched, resulting in an over-aged grain formation.

I gazed up from the tangled wreck to the femme behind the table.

And despite everything, I sensed in her hope, and a feeling of accomplishment not perverted by egotism.

She was proud in herself of what she’d achieved, but it was bittersweet; she knew it was just worthless junk in the eyes of her master.

But, she was fully aware that it was practice, a stepping-stone along the path to recognition.

When she spoke there was a tinge of bitterness, “My master is displeased with my progress; he felt that I needed to be punished by placing me beside all these other great artisans so that I could be compared to them. He said that I wasn’t worthy of bringing shame to him, so I had to accept it as my own.” She brightened slightly, “but I’m getting better. This piece is much better than my last one.”

I smiled.

“Can I make a suggestion?” She nodded. “This alloy is better suited to cladding; find something softer to work with. Don’t use steel-tipped tools for dress work; use brass or something softer; it’ll produce a nicer finish. Take your time; don’t rush things.”

She smiled; I could tell it was heartfelt. “Thank you.”

I left the gallery.

“Well Cable? What fruits have your sojourn produced?”

I stood from my position on one knee, millennia of practice keeping my optics from meeting my liege’s.

“I’ve returned with appreciation.” I could feel his optics boring into me.

Slowly I withdrew an item from subspace where I’d stored it on my way in.

It was small; barely the size of my fist.

Several times, I’d thought of melting it down and reusing the material but something had always stopped me from doing so.

It was my first ever attempt at casting. The alloy had been supplied to me in the right composition, all I had to do was prepare the mould and produce a proper casting.

I could never figure out why I’d asked if I could keep it; the mould had partially collapsed during pouring, resulting in a crater pitted surface and a large ‘blow’ around the parting line. I’d poured it too quickly, the metal had shrunk in the mould; a slower pour would have left material to fill the shrinkages. The result was that the parallel sides had instead a pronounced taper, the surface finish was non-existent, and there were still pieces of mould medium ingrained in the deeper craters. The pour spout had been made too large, making for extra material that would had to have been filed smooth had the piece been intended for use; a waste of material and a waste of time finishing had I ever bothered.

But, the important part was that it was mine. It was a testament to myself that I could now produce runs in the thousands, all perfect. Never since that first time had I repeated those mistakes.

My master took the piece, regarding it critically.

I’d been anxious of his reaction; I’d never known him to be pleased with anything, but I could tell that he wasn’t ‘displeased’.

After a moment, he nodded, “The uniqueness is apparent, this shall serve well. Dismissed.”

Bowing slightly, I turned on my heels and retired to my quarters.