ride or die

​

The sweet musk of perspiration perfumed the air of the Ol’ Factory. The white tiled walls of the locker room were pristine as usual, reflecting light back into the room. It was always daylight in the factories—where the world received her energy from.

 

The Ol’ Factory was responsible for powering the earth’s rotation—the more energy generated, the faster it spun on its axis. Everyone spoke of the Bright Ages, when the days were long and melted into nights where the sun hung low in the sky. For the earth had grown heavy from millennia of infringement by man. When we couldn’t build our towers higher, we dug deeper. The earth huffed along about its axis; the sun never set on our half of the world and the other half never saw it rise.

 

I shrugged my clothes and sneakers off, a chill rattled up my spine as my bare feet met the floor. The warmth from my soles left breaths of footprints as I walked into my bodysuit. I reached for the back, and the zipper’s teeth interlocked like the fingers of lovers.

 

The Workspace was an orchestra of kinetic machines whirring and workers huffing. The air was punctuated with chords of system beeps, as we flooded in to start our Workstations. I placed my right palm onto the monitor, and it greeted me back with the familiar three-note jingle that I whistled back in my head.

 

“Good morning, Ixa.”

 

“Good morning to you too, Kobi.”

 

My fingers punched in the same keys on Kobi every day—the lettering was starting to fade in the shape of my index finger.

 

I mounted the kinetic machine like I have everyday for the past 10 years. I have been working here since I graduated from Beikusu at 13 years old - the elite institution that sent 70 of its best pairs of legs to Ol’ Factory every year. This was after all, the most important power station in the continent.

 

There was one in every continent that supplied power—generated from our physical strides on the kinetic machines—to the earth’s core, fuelling its rotation mechanism so that there could be 12 hours each of day and night. Just as nature had willed it before.

 

—

 

Push, Ixa, push.

 

Perspiration glistened on our bodies and our Workstations, the essence of our labour pooled onto the vinyl flooring. All the legs in the Workspace throbbed with lactic acid, but we rode with pride. This was what we were made for.

 

As we pushed the sun down the horizon, the sky toed the threshold between day and night, spilling into the gradients of dusk.

 

“It is now seven o’ clock. All legs may now end your shift. We thank you for moving the world,” chimed all 350 Workstations in this room, as well as the other 10 Workspaces in Ol’ Factory.

 

All 350 riders dismounted, chatter darted across the room as we swarmed to get our showers.

 

“See you tomorrow, Kobi.” If my body allows it.

 

I ran a towel over my mechanical steed and Kobi’s monitor kissed my right palm goodbye with a buzz.

 

The water hit my shoulders as I tried to knead the fatigue from my muscles. The exertion has been getting harder to recover from, the soreness never seemed to fade.

 

Nobody could know that my body was wearing thin. I still had 10 years left in my contract, before I get promoted to a trainer at Beikusu. I shuddered to think of my prospects if I got removed from being a rider.

 

Everyone knew their own place in our society. As a rider, I belonged to the esteemed Beiku class. It was even more respectable that I served to power the earth’s rotation.

 

I enjoyed an incredible lifestyle. Our food supply was the freshest and most nutritious. I did not have to pay for the tram. I got to live in the most prestigious housing on the outskirts of town — where it was serene and allowed us riders to rest properly.

 

The world was on our shoulders, after all.

 

There were Beikus who worked at stations generating power for other purposes. Electricity for homes or the transport system, for example. My knowledge on jobs outside of Ol’ Factory was limited at best, I only had eyes on being one of the pairs of legs to move the earth.

 

If I had to stop riding I suppose I could seek employment within the Prozo class — farmers who produced food, builders who erected houses, artists who created art and music.

 

But I’m only ever good with my legs.

 

The last resort would be to surrender myself to become a Ruoche — the lowest class in our society doomed to live in luxury. They were forced to consume the surplus that the rest of the population did not. On paper it seemed like a good idea, the underprivileged was being taken care of, they were fed and nothing went to waste.

 

It was emotional masturbation for the working classes that their society wasn’t all-work-no-play, we could all focus on our craft knowing that indulgence has been reallocated somewhere else.

 

But riding was all I’ve ever known. All I ever want to know.

 

—

 

The air today in Ol’ Factory was tangy antiseptic. The citrus pricked.

 

The Workstation beside me was vacant. So was the one two rows down, and one in the right corner.

 

“Have you heard?”

 

“That riders are wearing out?”

 

“I don’t want to leave this life.”

 

“Why do you worry? Are you feeling tired?”

 

—

 

The tram system in our city was always clean and punctual — a perfect symbol of our society and its efficiency.

 

Today, the tram huffed to a stop before its destination. I was three miles away from home. My legs ached at the thought of the walk back.

 

My body burned with every step. We put in more hours today to make up for missing riders.

 

I directed my focus toward putting one foot in front of the other instead of the pain in my limbs. Squinting in the darkness, I struggled to put my surroundings into focus.

 

The rich smell of fat roasting permeated the air. Its headiness clouded my head. A piano’s song trilled from one of the houses. Everything was dazzling — giddy, gaudy facades lining streets. I was in the Ruoche projects.

 

I couldn’t take my eyes off the opulent displays. I couldn’t take my eyes off the faces. Ex-riders, reduced to this life. Gazes blank and empty, unlike the bright windows they were looking out from.

 

They were clothed. In burdensome furs and leathers that the working classes did not bother with.

 

They were fed. With fatty meats and caviar that the working classes have lost the taste for. 

 

The excess they were forced to consume were stale leftovers, like the abject they’ve become.

 

—

 

Push, Ixa, push.

 

I was late to work today, after passing out on the kitchen floor last night. There were a lot more empty Workstations today. The remaining riders greeted me between breaths as I hurried to my machine.

 

“Good morning, Kobi. Show me the news,” I palmed the monitor and started pedalling.

 

INSUFFICIENT POWER SUPPLY CAUSES TRAM INTERRUPTION

 

Fear manifested itself in clammy palms. Fatigue had descended upon the nation like a locust cloud.

 

Exhaustion ate away at my chest. I breathed but my lungs did not fill.

 

Push, Ixa, push.

 

My joints were sandy gravel, my muscles corroded by acid.

 

Push, Ixa, push.

 

Black.

 

—

 

My consciousness toed the threshold as I faded in and out. There were two other voices in the room.

 

“That’s the fifth one today. We can’t afford to lose any more.”

 

“What do you want me to do? The next batch won’t arrive for three months.”

 

“Can’t you request riders from other stations? The earth cannot stop moving, we cannot return to that life.”

 

“It’s no use. Rider resources are depleting everywhere.”

 

“How did this happen?”

 

“I don’t know, but if we don’t fix this soon—“

 

“The world will be dead in no time.”

 

Black.

 

—

 

I woke up in fur to the smell of roasted fat.