I

The machines ran on anguish. Everybody knew that.

How? “It’s very scientific.” – the Guild would say – “You wouldn’t understand.” The machines were also very dangerous, or so it was claimed. “But we know how to control them.” – the Guild’s tone was calm and reassuring.

The machines made the Guild (and its members) very rich. Rightfully so. They built the machines in the first place. They knew how to operate and fix them. They knew how to keep them safe.

Almost everybody used the machines. Not because it was necessary. Just… it seemed slightly easier that way. It usually saved a small bit of effort and a small bit of time. “It’s progress.” – stressed the Guild.

Sometimes a machine would seize up, though. Sometimes it would tear the cloth, ruin a canvas. Burn or bend the work item. Or spew a bit of filthy grime into the meal being prepared. “This should not happen.” – the Guild would agree. Why did it happen, then? “It’s very complicated.”

There was little reason to doubt the Guild’s promises they’d fix the machines. They were steadfast in promising that for generations.

Most did not question the Guild and its machines. They were slightly useful, after all. And… it was the Guild who decided who could use them. “It’s a small price to pay.” – they defended this power – “Morality and safety are at stake”.

They knew best, they were the experts.

II

At times, a calamity would befall a community.

A summer too hot caused the crops to fail. Or a winter too heavy with snow caused floods to follow in the spring. Or maybe a disease ran rampant, sparing few.

These were times of agony and grief. These were also the times when the machines worked the best. Ceaselessly, efficiently. And while they were only slightly useful, it was still a welcome ray of sun in the gloom.

“What would we have done without the machines!” – beamed the Guild on such occasions, counting the gold. They would have shrewdly raised usage dues seeing the desperate need of a hurting community.

Other times the climate was exceptionally kind, the harvest plentiful, and the air free of sickly miasma.

The machines tended to work less well in such good times. They’d seize up more often. They’d tear the fabric, ruin the food a bit more frequently. This would baffle some, but since the times were good and machines only slightly useful, nobody really paid any mind.

“We need to redouble the efforts to improve the machines!” – the Guild would announce, raising the usage dues to cover the complex, expert work needed.

The machines ran on anguish, but everybody knew the Guild ran on coin.

III

“Whose anguish do the machines run on?” – some would ask. “It would do no good to tell you. It’s better this way.” – rang the familiar answer. “Can you make them run on something else?” – asked others, naïvely. “There is no need for that, they work well enough.” – the Guild would observe.

Few went as far as to suggest that maybe building machines that require anguish to work is wrong. To them, the Guild would say: “Somebody would have built them anyway. They are inevitable.” It’s certainly better that the Guild controlled them. Who’s to say how they could be used if they’d fallen into the wrong hands.

Fewer still refused to use the machines at all, on moral grounds. Preposterous, of course. Nobody knew whose anguish was used to power them, so why should it bother anyone? Nobody apart from the Guild that is.

The Guild seemed unperturbed. The radicals were outcast.

Truth be told, the tribes formed by such outcasts seemed to do relatively well for themselves. There were rumors they were even able to build primitive contraptions to replace some of what the machines could do. And that these did not need anguish to run, satisfied with mere sunlight or wind or running water.

“Machines run on anguish. Everybody knows that.” – the Guild would retort to such ignorant gossip. And indeed, everybody knew. – “This is progress and that’s how it’s always been done.”

Every now and then a prosperous tribe would disappear. “The tribes attempt to build anguish machines without proper guardianship over them!” – stressed the Guild. The machines would run better for a while.

Nobody spoke of that: these backwards outcasts deserved whatever befell them for rejecting the Guild and the progress it brought about. The Guild did not mind – outcasts paid no usage fees.

IV

Not just the outcasts had doubts about the machines, though.

Some were curious about machinery and good with tools. They were not led astray by foolish moral qualms; they knew and accepted that machines ran on anguish. They questioned the Guild’s engineering ways. The Guild would then embrace them as engineers.

They kept anguish machines’ outward parts oiled, polished, and in good working order. They felt important. They were paid well. And sensibly, they only mentioned any lingering concerns to others like them, if at all. “Not everyone is equipped to understand such intricate complexity.” – the Guild would reassure them.

But then there were those, who stubbornly refused to accept the Guild’s patient, sage responses. Who dared doubt the Guild’s wisdom and motives. Those, who questioned the morality of the machines, but did not have the decency and good sense to leave. Those, who insisted on knowing whose anguish the machines ran on, for no reason other than upsetting others and offending common sensibilities.

They were malcontents, rabble-rousers, sowers of dissent. “They are dangerous and they hate progress.” – the Guild would decree – “And progress is inevitable.” They were never around for long.

Those who knew them well, stricken with grief, would sometimes imagine hearing their cries in the machines. And the machines would run a little better for a while.

Still, most did not question the Guild and its machines. They were slightly useful, after all.

And… the machines ran on anguish. Everybody knew that.