The Humming Line

The Line keeps London in harmony, until one man hears the song of his own heart.

The Humming Line

Mercy T.

London, during its most industrious of years, had come to resemble a vast and living engine. The air was tempered with iron scent, and the sky was bruised by the breath of progress. From the polluted rivers, to the northern factories, every heartbeat throbbed in rhythm with The Line. It was a sublime contrivance of modern genius which had delivered the city from the struggles of individual thought.

None could say precisely when The Line had been installed, some say it had always been there. Yet, all agreed that it was the very salvation of England. Through the quiet pulses threaded throughout each citizen, it carried everything one might need. Instruction, discipline, and calm. It stilled the tremors of hunger and unease that the slums of London once carried. The Line made it so possible that man could work without fatigue and sleep. It created an admirable efficiency that was most devotedly admired and marketed by Parliament and pulpit alike.

Thomas Reed, a man who was numbered among its countless beneficiaries. Each dawn he presented himself at the Northern Factory, where machinery shook the ground like some benevolent god. His task was to tighten the bolts of the rail-press, a humble duty, but one which he performed with unwavering precision. At six each morning he affixed to the base of his skull the slender port of The Line; and by seven he was entirely at peace.

However, upon one remarkable Tuesday that a strange difficulty began.

As he worked, Mr. Reed perceived, at first faintly, then with a distressing clarity, a sound unlike any sanctioned by the Ministry of Industry. Beneath the accustomed thrum of pistons and the whispering current of The Line, a second tone trembled: a low, wandering hum, curiously human in its melancholy.

He paused, spanner poised, and addressed his neighbor, a corpulent fellow named Briggs.

"Do you hear that?" asked Reed.

Briggs blinked. "Hear what, Thomas?"

"That humming. Beneath the line."

Briggs regarded him for a moment, his eyes seemingly a polite vacancy. "The line does not hum," he said at last. "It runs." And he smiled, slowly, dutifully, and returned to his labor.

Reed said no more, yet the sound remained. As the hours passed, the sound continued. Swelling, and filling his thoughts like a secret melody. He fancied that it beat in time with his own pulse, that it whispered words he could nearly grasp. With each vibration he felt some dormant faculty stir within him: curiosity, perhaps, or memory. His work became uneven, his bolts misaligned, and his hands trembled.

That night, in his narrow lodging that was provided by the Ministry, he delayed taking out The Line. The stillness that followed was not the sterile quiet of The Line but a living silence, vast and perilous. Then, softly the hum returned. It seemed to issue from within his own breast. He pressed his palm there and felt, for the first time in years, the irregular beat of his heart.

In the morning his disquiet had not abated. He spoke little, and when spoken to, answered absently. By noon, the overseer had noticed his hesitation and made a note in the record book. At two o'clock the factory alarms began to toll, a shrill and perfect harmony of warning. The foreman approached, flanked by two officers in gray.

"Mr. Reed," said the foreman with professional sorrow, "your Line reports an auditory anomaly. You are requested to attend immediate recalibration."

Mr. Reed knew this would happen, but had wished he could keep his own heartbeat just a little longer.

The journey to the Ministry of Harmony was brief and conducted in silence. The building itself was handsome; decorated elegantly with white stone, brass fittings, and a faint odour of ozone. Within, a young attendant received him with the courtesy reserved for the infirm.

"It happens on occasion," she explained kindly, guiding him to a reclining chair of polished steel. "A little static, a little distortion. Nothing that cannot be tuned"

She affixed the corrective nodes with a deftness that bordered on tenderness. There was a hiss, a spark, and a sudden, terrible stillness as the hum within him faltered and died. His mind cleared; his thoughts folded neatly in order.

The attendant smiled, satisfied. "All better now, Mr. Reed? Any further irregularities?"

Silence continued as Thomas hesitated. Something within him seemed to struggle toward the surface. But the words would not form.

"Mr. Reed?" she questioned, her face empty but pleasant.

He replied, in tones of utmost composure, "Nothing. I just thought I heard humming."

She noted his response on a form, thanked him for his cooperation, and sent him back into the gloomy, obedient afternoon.

Outside, London sang as it always had. Its factories breathing in measured rhythm, its citizens gliding through their appointed duties. The Line continued the pulse serenely within the hearts of each citizen, keeping everyone in check. And if, in certain forgotten corners of the city, there lingered the faintest trace of a human heart, trembling, solitary, defiant, no one heard it at all.