The Cogsmith’s Report

The Cogsmith adjusted the brass cranial halo, tightening the screws until Bertie felt a dull ache in his temples. “Immersion requires sacrifice,” he croaked, a phrase Bertie had heard far too often. The Cogsmith strapped Bertie onto the inclined plane, its wooden frame creaking under his weight. A complicated system of pulleys and gears, powered by a hissing steam boiler in the corner, connected to the halo. The Cogsmith attached a conical metal visor over Bertie’s eyes, then spun a valve.

The world dissolved. In its place, a simulated pastoral scene flickered into view – a jerky, monochrome meadow where blocky sheep grazed under a polygonal sun. “Behold, ‘Nature's Embrace, Version 2.3’,” the Cogsmith announced. Bertie wanted to scream. The gears whirred, the steam hissed, and the scene lurched – sheep dissolving into pixelated mush, then reforming in new, equally unconvincing positions. It was less an escape, more a mechanised torture device pretending to be fun.

The Cogsmith’s report on the subtle experiment that masqueraded as entertainment was written in the hurried tones of an artisan bureaucrat from the Ministry of Social Scrutiny:

Today’s mandatory “Mental Hygiene” session involved the K-3 apparatus. A boy, not yet in his prime if his whining was any indication, was strapped to the gurney. A metal cage clamped over his head, feeding him “dreams” via oscillating lenses powered by a hissing steam engine. Weights were adjusted underneath to calibrate for youth and for the personal pleasure of the operator. The whole affair smelled faintly of burnt oil and despair.

Later, Bertie was ushered to a new contraption – a cast-iron monstrosity that looked like a bicycle built by a lunatic. He was strapped into its pedals, a heavy flywheel whirring beside him. The Cogsmith attached a viewing box to the mechanism. “This is The Grand Tour, showcasing the wonders of the Pneumatic Empire.” As Bertie churned his legs, the box displayed images of smoke-belching factories and soot-covered cities. Bertie felt a strange kinship with the hamsters he’d seen powering cages in the market. Progress, it seemed, was less about moving forward and more about being endlessly, pointlessly driven by steam.

The following was appended to the Cogsmith’s report:

Young Bertie, barely a man, strapped into a modified velocipede, the B7. Massive iron wheels cranked by his legs, powering a flickering gas lamp projected onto a screen. The “experience” was supposed to be a nature documentary. We fed him that line about the Pneumatic Empire. All the subject saw was the same backdrop of smoky factory, overlaid with grainy images of diseased and emaciated pigeons. “Think of the outdoors, son!” an overseer bellowed as, no doubt, the subject invariably tried not to.

They say too much organic thought breeds rebellion. Hence these grotesque contraptions. It’s hard to contemplate overthrowing the regime when you’re cycling for your life or have a pressure-cooker strapped to your skull. At least the gears make a nice rhythm. A lullaby of iron and misery. It’s the sound of progress, so they say.

It was the boy’s father’s turn next – this time on the J4, or Industrial Foot Sander. This was a particular favourite of the Cogsmith’s, where those guilty of extreme sloth, showing lustful affection for a piano leg, or some other egregious offence to decency, are encouraged to use the device to either identify more strongly with the plight of the piano leg or lose weight in order to become a better person. Weight loss is achieved through the simple expedient of removal of the feet.

The C5, or Penduloid Harlot Trebuchet, was the preserve of the mother. An adapted and mechanised version of the Witch’s Stool of yesteryear where women were routinely drowned for the heinous crime of not being the witches that society thought they were, the Harlot Trebuchet is much more refined. When fully cranked on its ratchet, the C5 is capable of throwing a woman 7 miles through the air to the next parish, where she will receive the order of kindness and care that any incoming unidentified and unexpected ballistic mass would engender.

Mr and Mrs Smuttocks were rapidly edited and flung to their hearts’ content. Mr Smuttocks, in particular, was so overjoyed with his new stumps that he promptly fell over as soon as he made his exit from the J4. Mrs Smuttocks was unavailable for comment, now being in a non-adjacent postcode and disrespectfully failing to remain alive. Poor show!