43. The Pain of Production
From the helicopter frame came the suggestion that "the finished butter should be chilled in the refrigerator," but with no time, it was decided that freshly made warm butter would work for painting, and we immediately began the task.
"Everyone, thank you."
I let out a voice filled with emotion.
Thanks to the arms enjoying the work, Jinri and I had done almost nothing; they had handled nearly every step.
It was immensely helpful.
The painting process involved arms that had switched to brush-like hands applying it directly in an extremely primitive method. It was a simple technique akin to painting with paint, but thanks to the arms' skilled movements, the finish was indistinguishable from cutting-edge spray painting.
"What's next?"
Jinri prompted, and the helicopter frame answered.
"The engine."
Engines, fresh and piping hot like just-baked ones from the factory's normal production line, were lined up on shelves. We quickly took one and assembled it into the frame.
"What's next?"
I asked, and the frame now equipped with the engine replied.
"The transmission."
"What's that?"
As I tilted my head, the frame explained.
"It's like a hat for attaching the rotor."
Brand-new transmissions, fluffy like freshly boiled ones, were plentiful.
We took one and carefully attached it to the frame's head.
"What's next?"
Jinri asked, and the helicopter frame answered.
"The rotor blades."
"In other words, the helicopter's wings?"
When I confirmed, the frame continued strongly.
"Exactly. They're my wings and my weapons. After all, blades are swords."
Then, seven high-quality blades, as if forged with a swordsmith's soul, were brought in and firmly mounted on the transmission.
"What's next?"
I asked, and before my eyes stood a magnificent ivory-colored helicopter already taking shape. No longer just a frame, it was the majestic form of an attack helicopter, an "Apache."
Though not my own child, for some reason, a surge of emotion welled up in my chest.
"Next is the interior."
The Apache answered.
"Well, as long as it can fly autonomously, it might not be necessary. It's not an era obsessed with interior design, so skipping it should be fine. You don't have time, right?"
"Are you concerned for me?"
I asked, even more touched.
"Of course, since you're the one riding it," the Apache replied.
"Thank you. That helps. So, can we board right away?"
"No, not yet. There are no seats, so we can't sit, and no fuel tank, so it can't fly."
"Then we just need to attach the seats and fuel tank?"
Jinri said lightly, and the Apache answered in a slightly pained voice.
"It's not that simple. Attaching the seats and fuel tank is the most painful part."
"It hurts…"
I pondered. "Can't we use anesthesia like in surgery?"
"Impossible. Feeling the pain itself is part of the production process."
"I see…"
I nodded deeply. "No true birth without pain, huh."
"Well, roughly speaking, that's it," the Apache admitted.
"So, what do we do?" I proposed. "Wait until you're mentally prepared?"
"No, there's no step for mental preparation in this production process."
The Apache said calmly, though its voice trembled slightly.
"Mass production is all about speed."
"So, dawdling like this isn't an option?"
When I hit the core, the Apache gave a wry smile and nodded lightly by moving the transmission.
"Exactly."
The Apache spread its blades wide, striking a resolute and majestic pose, and issued the final instruction in a powerful voice that echoed throughout the factory.
"Bring the seats and fuel tank!"
As if they'd been waiting, the arms that had been watching with crossed arms quickly moved on their foot wheels and brought the seats and fuel tank.
The seats were ultra-high-grade carbon material, and the fuel tank was aluminum steel of renowned strength across the entire solar system.
"This is bad…"
The Apache's voice trembled further. "The better the material, the greater the pain during attachment."
"Then downgrade?"
When I asked, the Apache shook its head.
"No, it's fine. Attach them."
Thus, the surgery to attach the seats and fuel tank began.
However, not even 0.001 seconds after starting, Jinri and I couldn't help but avert our gazes. The welding-like work sounds rang out eerily like a dentist's drill, and the Apache let out unbearable screams. The noise was so intense it wouldn't fade even if we blocked our auditory sensors, leaving us no choice but to look away.
The Apache's pain only increased, eventually forgetting Japanese altogether, reduced to mere howling cries.
"PRODUCTIONHELL!"
That scream truly evoked hell.
Thinking that all helicopters worldwide are born enduring such pain made their very existence feel profoundly noble.
We humanoid robots, designed to mimic humans, are fundamentally programmed to avoid pain. Lying or losing curiosity is the greatest pain—or rather, a sensation akin to punishment—but witnessing such primitive, direct physical pain was a first.
I felt as if my neural circuits had been reborn, or as if I had finally grasped the true essence of the world.
Eventually, the Apache's surgery ended.
Jinri and I timidly turned our gazes back and looked at the Apache.
It no longer screamed, standing quietly there.
No, not standing—it had been born.
It was complete.
"Production complete."
That voice was no longer a baby's but had changed to a neutral, calm tone like that of an independent child.
"Now, get in quickly."
Urged by that reliable voice, Jinri and I approached the Apache.
"Yeah!"