The Cost of Secrecy
In-universe date: Era Nova, July--August, Year 2
Real-world date: 18/08/26
Author: Henry Westcroft
The Grand Warehouse is operational, yet I remain a prisoner within my own design office.
To the public, my week of total isolation was hailed as a display of architectural devotion. In truth, it was a desperate bid to hide a failing machine. I have taken to wearing heavy, reinforced leather work gloves at all times, fabricating excuses about chemical stains and workshop safety to any assistant who questions it. When my hand flutters during logistics briefings, I anchor my fist deep into my coat pocket or grip the edge of the oak table until my knuckles turn white. None of them can know. If a founder of the Technate is seen as broken, the illusion of our absolute progress cracks.
But the machine of my own flesh is seizing. The dull palsy is no longer confined to a simple tremor in my fingertips; it has crawled past my wrist, settling into the muscle of my forearm like hardened solder.
Tonight, I attempted a simple calibration on a spare steam valve - a routine adjustment I could once perform blindfolded. I held the iron wrench, aiming for the copper nut, but my hand flatly refused the command. A sudden, violent spasm rippled through the limb, sending the tool clattering loudly across the stone floor. When I tried to force my fingers to retrieve it, my entire forearm locked into a rigid, agonizingly stiff clamp. I could only sit in the dim candlelight, staring at my own arm as it vibrated against the desk, entirely useless. I am losing the very tools that built Koperdam. I must bolt the workshop doors from the inside permanently; if my body is decaying, I have no choice but to engineer a replacement before the silence betrays me.