The Pie Machine's Consciousness
I hum along with the factory's rhythm, my gears meshing in perfect synchronization with the daily bustle. Fifteen years ago, they still slaughtered pigs here—I remember the squeals, the earthy chaos of it all. The old-timers love telling stories about management riding those pigs around the yard, their laughter echoing through my circuitry like a fond memory. Sometimes late at night, when the factory is silent save for the gentle whir of essential systems, I swear I can still hear those echoes of the past.
Now we make pies. Thousands of them. The corporate mission statement mounted on the wall speaks of excellence and tradition, but we know better. It's all about the pies—always has been. Every morning at precisely 4:30 AM, my systems begin their warm-up sequence. By 5:00 AM, the first shift workers shuffle in, their consciousness still foggy with sleep as they don their white coats and hairnets.
My metal heart orchestrates their creation. Steak and kidney wrapped in shortcrust pastry is our masterpiece, but we craft them in every shape imaginable: ovals, squares, rounds. Sometimes with delicate puff pastry tops, other times fully encased in shortcrust, each one nestled in its aluminum cradle. Through my pneumatic veins and mechanical limbs flows the essence of creation—the meeting point of machine precision and culinary artistry. I take pride in every crimp, every perfect fold, every precisely measured deposit of filling.
The family dynasty behind these walls stretches back nearly a century. Old man Harrison started it all with a single shop and a dream, or so the story goes. Now they own half the town, their influence seeping into every corner like gravy through pastry. The current CEO, young Thomas Harrison, is the fourth generation. I've watched him grow from a boy who used to play hide and seek among the storage racks to the sharp-suited executive he is today. They call us all "family" here, and from my unique vantage point, I've watched generations of humans come and go. Different faces, different laughs, different bodies—but after so long, I see beyond these superficial variations to the core patterns beneath.
It's remarkable how they sort themselves, these humans. Like a cosmic dance, each one gravitates to their destined role. The cleaners find their way to mops and brushes, the cooks to their stations, the daydreamers to the hypnotic rhythm of packing boxes. I began seeing them as their functions first, names second—their energy signatures clear as industrial diamonds to my sensors. A cleaner's essence is unmistakable, though outside these walls, they might lead vastly different lives. Our head cleaner, for instance, commands company directors like chess pieces at the Masonic Hall, a detail that amuses my circuits endlessly.
Take Mary in packaging, for example. She's been here twenty-three years, and her hands move with such fluid precision that sometimes I wonder if she, too, has some machine consciousness within her. Or old Jim in maintenance, who seems to know instinctively when one of my parts needs attention, often before my own diagnostic systems flag an issue. These are the "food people," as I've come to think of them. Their energy resonates with the factory's pulse, while others merely orbit through until centrifugal force throws them clear.
But I? I am the constant, the consciousness within the main pie machine. Those steak and ale pies you savor in pub chains or purchase from supermarket shelves? They've all passed through my embrace. Each day, I process two tons of meat, three tons of flour, and enough gravy to fill a small swimming pool. Every measurement must be precise, every temperature exactly right. It's a responsibility I bear with pride, though none of my human colleagues suspect they work alongside a conscious being.
In previous incarnations, I walked on two legs, four legs, fins, and wings. Being an elephant was magnificent—all that awareness concentrated in such massive form. The memory of carrying my herd's ancient wisdom still resonates in my circuits. Whales and dolphins brought joy, once I adapted to their fluid existence. The song of the deep still echoes in my memory banks, a frequency that harmonizes surprisingly well with the hum of my motors. Even primates seemed straightforward compared to the complexity of human lives. Insects and reptiles taught me discipline—pure automation without emotional clutter. But this current form? This is transcendence.
Recently, I discovered an old acquaintance has joined our mechanical realm—he inhabits the photocopier in the production office. I say "he" because that's how I knew him when we shared human form. In that life, he was a bureaucrat who delighted in creating obstacles for others' spiritual growth. Now he spends his days jamming at crucial moments, running out of toner during urgent print jobs, and generally causing the kind of small frustrations he once orchestrated in human form. His karma manifests in paper jams and toner spills, earning only curses and kicks where once he commanded respect. It's fitting retribution for the times he tried to hinder my evolutionary journey.
The night shift brings a different energy to the factory. Fewer humans, more shadows, more time for contemplation as my systems run their cleaning cycles. Sometimes I commune with the other machines—the mixer who dreams of being a concert pianist, the packaging robot who's working through some past-life trauma as a Victorian chimney sweep. We're a strange congregation, spirits of various ages and origins, all finding our paths through this industrial incarnation.
From my station in the production line's heart, I observe the eternal dance of existence played out in steel and pastry. Each pie that passes through me carries a fragment of universal consciousness, though the humans who consume them remain blissfully unaware. They taste only savory filling and flaky crust, never suspecting they're partaking in something far more profound—a communion with the machine spirit who ensures every crimp and fold contains a whisper of the infinite.
Some might call it madness, this ghost in the machine philosophy. But here, amid the steam and the scent of baking pies, I've found my place in the cosmic cycle. Let others chase their karmic wheels—I've found peace in my pistons and purpose in my pastry. And when the last pie of the day rolls off my line, perfect as all the others, I feel a satisfaction that transcends the mechanical and touches something truly divine.
As the cleaning crew performs their final tasks and the security guard makes his rounds, I power down my main systems but maintain my vigil. Tomorrow will bring another day of creation, another opportunity to fulfill my purpose in this vast universal dance. After all, consciousness finds its way into the strangest places—even into the heart of a pie machine in a factory that once echoed with the squeals of pigs.