Spark (Notevember 2021, #27)

There is a yearning in the metal. A voice. You can hear it, can’t you, Kenna? That chunk of tin wants to melt into a toy soldier. This piece of silver wants to circle a young husband’s finger. And that iron bar over there? Try to flatten it out, and it will offer less resistance than if you wanted to bend it. It wants to be flat. It’s screaming for it.
   If you ever wondered why it’s always been so easy for you, Kenna, this is it. Others work the metal, but you work with it. Or, rather, it works with you. For you. Oh sure, you need to coax it into shape with your tools and your strength. Without pressure and force, nothing changes – even in hands such as yours.
   The boys laughed at you when you first picked the torch up. Idiots. They stopped laughing quick, though, didn’t they? In your mind, the pieces were fused before you even saw the ingot. Once they lay on the table before you, all you needed to do was direct the flame and let them meet. The tungsten electrode was eager. It’s not mind over matter – it’s matter melded with mind. Not that I need to tell you; you already know.
   That’s not why they were frightened, Kenna. People who can hear metal speak its desire, well, they are naturally drawn to this profession. Where else would they go? No matter how rare – one in a million, I’d say – they end up making a name for themselves where their skills are most needed. They will be admired, or envied, or both.
   But you, Kenna? You are something else. It’s one thing to hear what a sheet of steel wants. That is a gift from God. It’s another matter entirely to change the metal’s mind. That, my dear girl, is unnatural. It scares the shit out of the smiths and machinists and welders. They have no clue what they’re seeing, but they can feel that it’s wrong. Anyone can bend a piece of tin – the material is supple enough. But to make it want to bend, convince it not to crack, to behave in a way it’s not supposed to? No, I have never encountered that before.
   Don’t worry, Kenna. Men fear most anything deemed “different”. Oh, they’ll goad each other into a fight, encourage each other to go to war – how many boys aren’t overseas already? They feel brave, signing up. Brave in boot camp. Brave until the bullets fly. But war is familiar, you know? A constant, recurring historical episode.
   Yet all it takes to make them fume and froth at the mouth is to see a woman do their job. Even more infuriating when she does it better than them. And now they’re pissing themselves because of what you can do. You, and no one else – as far as I know.
   No, don’t worry. War may be the most natural thing in the world, disgusting as it is. But war time is a time when everyone is happy that those they fear are on their side. Use that. If you can frighten them simply by your craft, imagine what the enemy will do once they see your creations.
   Because you will make things, Kenna. Horrific things. Things that have no place outside of wars, and should have no place in them either. Oh, make no mistake, you will save lives. Countless lives. And no one will thank you for it. You will be shunned, but you will live. No one will dare mess with you, girl. If you can end a war started by bullies, you can end the bullies too – and you can be sure they know that.
   So you let that steel slab know what you want, Kenna. And you let the men know, too. What does the sign say, again? “Maintain safety distance at all times.” Them’s the rules, and easy enough to follow. And if they don’t follow, you just tell them to step back.
Remind them who makes the rules now. Remind them that flesh and bone are far softer than iron, and far more difficult to put back together. Remind them who will bring their friends home in one piece.
   Most of all, Kenna, remind them that when the metal speaks, it speaks with your voice. And they had better fucking listen.