Always Faithful: The Unconquered City and the Machines Who Defend It

[Espernyan]

Hey hey, party people!
Welcome to Always Faithful, another entry into @Wicked Sanguine's beloved Hungerverse, this time focusing on the war itself, and the Nostrian Front in particular.

Obviously this one takes a lot of inspiration from @open_sketch's lovely Lt. Fusilier (i have stolen your wagons, ma'am, they're terribly clever), though it's quite different thematically and tonally and setting-wise and all that. The (fantasy) Great War will do that to you, I suppose.
All of which is to say that this is a completely normal Cute Robot Story with no Horrors of War at all! Honest.
... Maybe putting a whole-ass foreword into the thread header thing is incorrect to do? I'm not great at blurbs

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Content Warnings: War and Total/Trench Warfare, Graphic Depictions of Violence, Foul Language, probably some Sex, Past Traumas & Implied/Referenced Exploitation (incl. Sexual) & Manipulation, Animal Death, Fantasy(?) Discrimination, Culturally-Acceptable (Nostrian) Necromancy, and Daily Bugle-tier Headlines.

There is no glory in war.

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Part 1:
Nostrians at the Gates​

Wineday, 20th Fading Sun
(5th Day of Thief's Moon, Lunar Month 3 of 12)
Year 9, 2nd Millennium CR
Late Fall





Rifle No. 4 had known, when she boarded that train, that the river-splitting Free City of Outlandishton was often called 'The City of Giants'. Looking upon it now, far off in the distance, through the frosty little Civilian Train window, she wasn't sure she'd fully grasped the significance of that. It was huge. A city built on two scales, one at least half-again as big as the other– all stone buildings, high walls, and snow, with broad streets and tremendous factories that would, gods willing, be able to accommodate No. 4 and her little company of mechanical soldiers.

… With Nos. 1, 2, and 3 gone, No. 4 was the eldest, and the last of the experimental models left, even before the limited production run that brought about the rest of her kin. As the last of the first, her younger brethren (and sistren, and whatever the fuck the nonbinary ones were called, here, because if there was a word for that, she sure as shit didn't have it) looked up to her, probably both personally and for leadership, and- well, she'd done her best, considering the circumstances. And, continuing to consider the circumstances, she estimated she'd done a pretty good job securing this arrangement and getting them here, let alone the fuck out of New Moloch, and the clutches of their Maker. She'd had help, of course – both from sympathetic elements in New Moloch (including Dr. Pharnekes, who had designed the things that made their manufacture possible, and many of the people who had actually participated in that very manufacture) and from Ramshackle, the Free (Machine) City – but she'd still got them here, still been the one to call the shots, still been the one to-

…

She sighed. It'd been, what, three days without sleep, now?

You can't keep doing this to yourself, Four, part of her thought.

Yeah, well, I'm damn well gonna need to, soldier, another part immediately retorted.

She looked down at her hands– at the synthetic skin which padded out her palms, stretched across the mechanical joints of her bonesteel fingers, and made her look-

-and made her look real.

The organics cared a great deal about that sort of thing– she knew that from personal experience.

Their obsession with that sorta shit bordered on… she didn't even know what, but it almost rivaled their obsession with these fucking… harebrained schemes, these super-soldier programs and inane wonder-weapon arms races they'd keep up for decades on-end, on and on and on until…

Until what? The organics sure as shit didn't know, that much was clear.

The Made Men in Ramshackle had briefed No. 4 and her comrades on this – they were, after all, not only a product of it, but about to become embroiled in a conflict in which they might damn well have to deal with it. A Continental War, based on common man's bullshit.

Well. Actually, from what they could tell, the Ramshackle guys seemed fairly convinced – and even moreso unnerved – that it wasn't based on much of anything. Apparently some political assholes had met in a shack somewhere, shaken hands, and war had erupted that very night? Or- some dumb bullshit like that.

They'd sure seemed shocked when No. 4 pointed out that, yeah, that sounded about like what organics did, for… whatever fuckin' reason.

(Gods, she was tired. Was she always this much of a cunt? Always this impatient? …being cooped-up in a fancy fucking train-car definitely didn't help.)

She resolved to shut off her visual arrays for a bit– that is to say, to un-light her eyes and catch some sleep. They were still a ways out from the city, and- whatever organic was gonna be their commanding officer, their seniormost enlisted having caught half-an-hour of shuteye beforehand could only help that first meeting.

Still– starting today, they were the Outlandishton 1st Made Heavy Infantry.

Had a bit of a ring to it, didn't it?

The First Made…

* * *​

No. 4 didn't know why she was surprised.

Of course there was no organic officer. These people were-

She filled her bellows.

Thank the gods they'd thought to make deep breaths (were they still breaths if you didn't really have lungs? Even the Oriza had little lung-sac things in their spiracles, to keep air moving– though they didn't "take deep breaths" in the first place, did they?) calming for No. 4 and her kin like they were for organics. Had they not, No. 4 thought she might find out whether or not they could have fucking conniptions-

The Giant who had come to give her the news, her (their) instructions, and her fancy little Captain's pins sort of… flinched back a little, presumably at No. 4's expression, which, naturally, immediately softened as her processors were flooded with sympathetic guilt.

"Shit," she said, "I'm sorry, it's just- it's been a long couple days."

It was odd, she felt, how pathetic a nine-foot tall man could look, under the right ('right' as in wrong, very much wrong) circumstances.

Gods, and the envelope had seemed so small in his enormous-ass hands, too, and it'd only made him seem even larger in her mind– and now he was the one who seemed… small.

Overhead, a commercial airship, having just made port, taxied slowly toward its mooring-winch, its twin pusher propellers coming on in (quite loud) bursts as it eased its way forward. They never quite seemed to stop, the props. Its (relatively) small balloon and classical wooden hull obviated the fact that there was some manner of magic at work behind the scenes– a chymical element in the gas bladders, perhaps, or some enchantment lightening things through airy resonance, or maybe a combination of sorcerous solutions she'd never even heard of, individually or otherwise.

Of course, No. 4 herself featured magical workings she didn't entirely understand. Magical/resonant circuitry connected things, and carried power and such. That was straightforward enough. Her solar flasks stored energy from the transmutation engines, which, in turn, got it from the sun; her visual arrays worked much like biological eyes, with resonant circuitry connecting them to her main processor at the back, resonant lenses, and an apparatus that could move somewhat freely– they even used the glow of the circuits to project faintly-glowing 'irises' (crimson, in her case) onto the heavy-duty outer lenses, so people could tell where she was looking!

But how her processor worked was an outright mystery to her (apparently organics felt the same way about their brains, though– she'd been assured there was no shame in it). It wasn't a true 'Made Organ,' like conventional Made had, which handled everything: power, locomotion, processing, integration and control of parts– the works. Rather, she and her kin had proper mechanical workings, more or less, and solar flasks for power, with systems in place for vocalization, sight, hearing, and so on. That had been Dr. Pharnekes' breakthrough with them, really. While Made Organs were unique strokes of magical genius, impossible to duplicate, let alone mass-produce, the relatively simpler (relatively!) main processors the Numbers used avoided this in some way No. 4 couldn't fully appreciate, ostensibly by handling only the processing. Of course, that necessitated them being more complicated elsewhere, at least in theory – though having to make sure things actually worked in a sensible manner didn't seem like a terribly unfair thing to ask of a design, in her estimation – hence the Teuthis-made synthetic skin, the fanciest of which interfaced with resonant circuitry in the hands and feet and such, allowing tactile sensation without the need to wait for panels to integrate naturally over time (apparently this wasn't an issue for "proper" Made, but they weren't purpose-built production machines, and No. 4 took some amount of pride in being an actual machine rather than a work of art, or a golem, or whatever else, with working parts and a design philosophy and replaceable composite-armor paneling).

Obviously, all the noise made it really fucking painful to try and hold a conversation, so she took the time to open and read the letter the poor giant had delivered to her – which wasn't her first, actually – making short work of the envelope with the glorious grippiness of bare fingers. Daiel bless the Teuthis, the weird, weird bastards. Bug men from space, with magical meat computers an' fuckin'… living guns. What a strange and wondrous place the world was.

(Something she'd found interesting was that the ceramic mid-layers of the Numbers' armored 'skin' were Teuthis-made, too– it made intuitive sense to go to the biotech guys for skin and titties and shit for your Very Above-Board Made Soldiers Project™, obviously, but- ceramics? She'd never have guessed, had she not been told. And she never did guess, obviously because she had been told-)

She hoped, as she extracted the letter from the confines of the envelope, that nobody could tell she'd been the Maker's favorite ("favorite") by the Relative Plumpness of her ass. No. 7 had grasped it, once, and gone, "Holy shit-!" and No. 7 didn't swear. But that was how the Maker had liked it, with the … 'pushion' and the 'cushion', or whatever it had been, so she'd been happy to be 'upgraded.' She'd mostly tried to ignore the sexual harassment and focus on the sex, which had been pretty good. The 'mistress' thing had been a little gross, given the circumstances, but-

Well, it was a solved problem, now.

Her thighs, too-

…

No. 4 grimaced involuntarily– inasmuch as she could, anyways. Grimace, that is.

Just the thought of the Maker…

The mere thought of that woman discomforted her.

She took a deep breath, filling her bellows and producing a little hiss of steam which vented from equally-little slits in the back of her neck, tiny shutters fluttering, and unfolded the letter. At least her solar flasks were at temperature.

Compulsively, she stopped, like stopping to scratch an itch, and, easing it from its frog, checked that there wasn't any blood on her bayonet.

Nope? No? All clean, don't you worry about any rustin' here, Madame Captain, ma'am.

… by this point, the messenger fellow had disappeared, and No. 4 couldn't help but feel that was probably for the best.

Glancing at the boxcars, where her fellows were unloading themselves in perfectly-orderly fashion, she wondered if any of them knew. What she'd done… what she'd been willing to do- to protect them, and herself.

…

Dr. Pharnekes, who was apparently standing right the fuck beside her, when the fuck had that happened, nudged her with a mechanical elbow. Was it really a surprise that the big smart snake pretending to be the head and backbone of a mechanical humanoid body had turned out to have some ideas about how to build the first production Made Men? Made Soldiers, really. He was a doctor, and that meant… well, she wasn't really sure what it meant, but she knew it meant something!

Whatever the case, she remembered herself at his touch, and straightened imperceptibly, the reds of her projected irises flickering momentarily as she returned to her senses.

"You were reading a letter, dear," he gently reminded her, not that she needed it, and set about pinning her new rank insignia to her cuffs and lapels – three silvery little five-petaled dianthus flowers per panel – as she tried not to think about how the war they'd all been built for had finally broken out. Saltday, 14th Fading Sun, it'd been– almost a week ago, now.

War had come, and soon they'd all be killers. Even little Susie, No. 116. And No. 120, or Gunner 4d, or whatever– they weren't even a month old. Neither of them were, though, now that she thought about it, that was a real misleading way to put it. It would be far more illustrative to note that, hadn't No. 121 been the last one activated before the outbreak of war?

Technically, none of his four younger siblings had ever known a world without war, though naturally they'd been fairly isolated from it, and they were soldiers already, so it hadn't made that much difference. Still- what if they asked, one day? 'What was it like, before the war?'

Gods, and it was only going to get worse as time wore on, and the war began in earnest…

… the letter (not the first she'd received, actually) was mostly just… fluff. Organic niceties, like asking if you really loved them when they knew damn well you did, because at this point you actually couldn't get any sleep anywhere but in her arms, just to make sure she was well and truly entangled in your extra-metaphorical heartstrings by projecting some amount of fake insecurity to tug at your urge to protect, your inbuilt desire to serve in some way. Some people, organic and otherwise, really had insecurities, and that was fine– there was nothing wrong with that! She wanted to protect them just that little bit extra, even! But the mist- the Maker had not been insecure. Not-

… If it was 'not always', then- perhaps she had?

Oh gods.

Oh gods.

More steam. Another nudge.

…

The letter was a bit of bullshit, directions to their new posting, information on their local, organic… troops? They weren't soldiers, per se– rather, a militia force called the 'Particulars', but… were militiamen troops? She supposed they probably weren't, unless 'troops' was a more general term than she'd thought (which, granted, was certainly possible).

There was also a request for her, personally, to report to Councilor Dredge, Head of Defense, at their office in the 'Watcher' District, which also 'happened' to be where the Numbers' new barracks (sounded like an old warehouse, maybe, which would actually be pretty nice– lotta space and all that) were located, conveniently enough. Almost like they'd done that on purpose or something – weird…

Heheheheheh.

Alright, yeah, she'd needed that.

Adjusting the (slightly-outdated) weapon slung over her shoulder, the Mirak B-Type Model 3L long-rifle that was her namesake, as well as that of her fellow Rifles, she turned to watch the men once more. They were wasting no time in unpacking the big guns – water-cooled Mirak machine-guns and a few light, direct-fire field pieces intended for infantry support – and getting them bundled onto their little carriages, Rifles assisting Gunners & Techs without needing to be asked or ordered, and making short work of it besides.

She'd wondered about the cannons a bit, really, them being 37 millimetre/inch-and-a-half guns (and, coincidentally, firing shells of about a pound and a half) but they were quick-firing pieces– 'semi-automatic,' she thought they'd said? Which was apparently not the same as semi-automatic in rifles, but was still comparatively very fast, and pretty cutting-edge, as she understood it. Supposedly the high explosive shells were good, at least for their size, and she'd been assured in the past that the canister shot more than made up for whatever deficiency one might see in the HE. She knew they fired high-velocity ammunition, and that made them suitable for use against armor and emplacements and Nashaxi giant crabs with guns on?

Honestly, if the Gunners and Techs said they were good, No. 4 figured they probably knew what they were talking about– besides, they had, what, four of the damn things? Four quick-firing guns crewed by tireless machines created specifically to operate them was probably pretty fucking good.

… Though, now that she thought about it, four was a pretty good number in general-

That one even brought a grin to her face.

She glanced at the Doctor, noting that he, too, was watching the unit with approval, and grinned a little broader.

Compared to the guns, the hulking transmutation engines would, of course, need a little more attention, and she watched with interest as the men – her men, now, she realized – set to the task. Despite being fairly complicated pieces of magical technology, they were sturdy machines, being quite (and quite deliberately) overbuilt, but that made them heavy, too, even for their size. Granted, each engine fueled a platoon by itself, basking in the sun's rays during the day and absorbing resonance to charge the solar flasks in their breasts, while also providing for the recirculation and replenishment of coolant, and, psychologically, being very satisfying to connect to– so being a little heavy seemed pretty frickin' fair, as trade-offs went. One of the engineers had compared it to the relaxing feeling organics get when "sinking into a hot bath"? The prospect sounded terrifying to No. 4, of course, being that she, too, was very heavy, in addition to being metallic in nature, but- if it was anything like hooking up to the unit's transmutation engine after a long day or three, she got why they enjoyed it.

Much to her satisfaction, her comrades didn't seem to need any direction at all to work together even when it came to assembling the engines' heavy carriages, stowing the coiled lengths of charging-tethers, and other such (relatively) delicate tasks. They looked brilliant, she thought, in their field-gray uniforms, working politely around the train crewmen. Like model soldiers – good gods, had that been the inspiration? – of the Azharach Confederacy. Not a brass button or fleshtone armor panel out of place. Their caps were straight, their rifles gleamed, their puttees were wrapped about their lower legs in the exact proper way (this one was actually a practical concern somewhat: while resistant to corrosion, they weren't immune to it, and preventative measures – like keeping their legs and feet clean and dry – were key to combating the perils and complications of Deferred Maintenance), and there was an air of heretofore unseen contentment about them.

No. 4 certainly understood. Of course they were content; they were finally getting to do some proper soldiering. She- well. Perhaps she'd feel the same way once things had got a bit more stable. She could only hope so.

…

What was she going to tell them?

At this point, she was starting to wonder if she wasn't malfunctioning – how could she explain to them the political situation here? That the Free Cities, and the Free Country as a whole, were… independent, and that northwesterly Outlandishton (and her outlying towns and settlements) faced the prospect of incursion from both the Yasaali to the west and Nostrians to the northwest, and that it was their job to protect this strange city-state of giants and stone? They knew they weren't fighting for the Confederacy that had made them – whose uniforms they still wore – but how could she possibly tell them why? Being vague about it – pussyfooting around it – would do little good, and might only make them more curious; leaving them in the dark, meanwhile, would be cowardly, and could cause some unforeseen trouble down the road. Conduct unbecoming, that.

Maybe she could tell them explicitly, but indirectly? A, uh- memorandum? Or an open letter, or something.

But she couldn't tell them all of what had happened, either. Some of it because they deserved better, and some of it for more… personal reasons. They didn't need to hear that they'd been outright cast aside– didn't need to hear about their makers' mistakes and bullshit. Certainly not some of the specifics.

Ways, but was she unprepared for this.

She watched, perhaps a little proudly, as the company finished their work in good order, and allowed them several minutes to get their bearings, mill about, and talk amongst themselves. They were aware of her, of course. They saw her watching, knew she was the eldest– could infer, from her separation and the lack of a waiting officer, what was probably going on.

Five minutes or so had seemed like a good span; at the end of it, she again filled her bellows, and assumed the mantle that had so unceremoniously been thrust upon her.

"FIRST COMPANY!" She shouted, her voice carrying easily through the trainyard in a way she hadn't really expected, "FORM RANKS BY SECTION!"

There was a sort of… calm flurry of activity as her soldiers moved into formation, forming blocks of twenty, two men deep, each section's Rifles and Technicians flanked by its Gunners and their heavy weapons.

"ORDERRR… ARMS!"

Rifles swung down from slings as her siblings came to attention, their rifles' butts dropping smoothly to the pavement as each man's namesake weapon was brought to rest at their side.

"STAND AAAT… EASE!"

There was a tremendous noise as, in the process of adopting the more relaxed posture, all 120 machines brought their hands together at waist height, clapping in near-perfect unison and scaring the absolute shit out of a number of people in good and righteous fashion– a feat which actually managed to make their big sister beam with pride.

Now that was fucking stress relief.

It occurred to her that, while commanding infantry more or less directly wouldn't be much of an issue for her, being a (literal) Made Infantrywoman, having heavy weapons attached to each section would impede the effectiveness of both if she intended to maneuver at all– putting the guns into a little 'battery' section, under the command of a… gunnery officer(?) might be ideal. If she could find one, anyways.

And, actually, maybe the solution to reorganization (3rd Platoon was all of the youngest machines, after all, and 1st the oldest…) would be to put one or two of the eldest at the head of each section and allow them to select their Rifles amongst themselves. The most and least experienced both needed to be distributed somewhat if the shiniest of their number were to learn by example, and they'd need to do just that if they were to have any hopes of surviving long enough to start thriving.

Gods' blood, she just hoped they'd have time.

* * *​

At the direction of a slightly ruffled-looking secretary on the first floor, No. 4 strode up the plain wooden stairs of the office of Outlandishton's Councilor for Defense, noting that the place was awfully unadorned so far, both inside and out. Fairly handsome stone building, though, she felt, and it wasn't ugly inside by any means, just– kinda normal? Which was obviously somewhat atypical for the sorts of upper-crust types you tended to expect to hold offices like 'Councilor for Defense' and such.

She'd sent the other 120 machines on to their new billet, having put Dr. Pharnekes and No. 5, her… least-youngest sister, in charge for the time being. It wasn't as though discipline was a concern – they'd literally been made to be good soldiers, they weren't going to cause any real, major trouble, and knew better than to bother the civvies or nick anything important to anybody. (Shit, they'd barely even steal from the government when they weren't bored out of their minds, and that was practically part of the job!)

… the door to the Councilor's office was open and waiting for her, and she stepped inside accordingly, saluting the cloaked and hooded figure seated behind the desk – and evidently scaring the living daylights out of the small, obviously-Human woman they'd been speaking with – as she barked her greeting.

"Sir! Captain No. 4, 1st Made Heavy Infantry Company, reporting, Sir!"

The woman's squeak was pretty cute, but neither of them really seemed sure how to address the saluting soldier now before them; the cute screaming woman managed an 'um,' before No. 4 decided to help them along.

"Traditionally, Councilor, sir," she said quietly, so as not to embarrass them in case anyone overheard, "this is where you would give the words of command, 'Be at ease, Captain,' formally, or even 'At ease,' in a more casual setting– unless you intended to exploit my discipline and ream me out while leaving me as uncomfortable as the law and your station allow. Sir."

"Oh," said the hooded fellow, rather airily, "yes, quite- be at ease, Captain!"

No. 4 relaxed, and he(?) introduced them:

"As you seem to have surmised," he said pleasantly, "I'm Dredge, Councilor for Defense."

He bowed his head to her, and she tried not to wonder (or, gods forbid, ask) about the extremely concealing clothing he wore (a scarf indoors? Good gods.) as he indicated his fellow with a gloved hand, and said,

"And this is my co-Councilor, Ms. Vere Nesrhev, Councilor of Citizens."

No. 4 snapped off a quick salute and a "Ma'am," to the woman, being unsure whether she ought to and, understandably, opting to err on the side of being exceedingly polite rather then inadequately so.

"… Hi?" The woman managed, and frowned– which was a shame, really, because she was awfully pretty.

What!? Fuck you, it's striking when most of the people you've ever met have been your siblings, visiting senior officers (who are usually just older, obviously), and the people who made you!

"Um- the thing you said, about tradition-" she began, and No. 4 nodded for her to continue, "-did you mean to imply that dressing you down and taking advantage of your discipline would also be… traditional?"

No. 4 thought a moment.

"I'm not sure if I meant to imply that, Ma'am," she said, meeting the woman's pretty brown eyes, "but, yes, I don't believe it would be unfair of me to characterize that as something of a tradition among a certain class of officer."

… Fuck. Had this been something she'd been made for, too? Being tactful while shit-talking assholes in high places she intuitively knew were there?

… Had she been made with the… programming? necessary to serve as an officer? With the expectation that she would, or might? Had all of them, or just her, as a pre-production unit? It was certainly easy to believe, in hindsight, that No. 2 and No. 3 had been made with that in mind, but… had she?

She wasn't even sure what all she simply innately knew – what the fuck else could be in her head? Who knew? Dr. Pharnekes? Had it just been the Maker? Did anybody fully know – before or after the Maker's death?

Fuck. She was not well-rested enough for this shit.

The short councilwoman with the pretty eyes cursed in a language No. 4 didn't know – Nostrian, maybe – and said, gently, sympathetically, "I'm sorry, Captain. Is that just a Confederate thing, or are all the militaries that fucked-up?"

No. 4 shrugged. "Is it common for politicians to be pretty young women? I don't know, Ma'am," she said, "and I don't know whether I should like the answer to be yes or no."

The woman – Vere Nesrhev, had it been? – blushed a little.

Fuck, No. 4 thought, she's cute. Daiel help me, she's cute.

"Are you flirting with me, Captain?" She asked demurely, and No. 4 blinked the lights of her eyes.

"Yes, Ma'am," she answered bluntly. "Being stark? I'd made note of how plain the building was – and was thinking about how unusual that seemed – on the stairs up." She looked around the room for the first time.

Relatively plain, but lived-in – knick-knacks and trinkets on the walls and shelves, things she reckoned were trophies of some sort or another presented likewise. Clean walls, clean floor, sturdy-looking cushioned chairs, a well-organized desk– a nice clock on the wall, and a clean window to let light in… there was even a sizable map of the region on the… left(?) (starboard? south-ish?) wall, which was both nice and rather a good sign, given Dredge's position.

"… Fifteen seconds ago, if you'd told me this office was furnished in gold, I wouldn't have known otherwise." A beat. "Er, Ma'am."

Councilor Dredge snorted loudly, Councilor Nesrhev turned as red as No. 4's eyes (and the rest of her circuitry, of course, though none of the rest of it was quite so visible), and No. 4 herself wondered if this was any less professional than they were, though she quickly decided that, no, it probably wasn't– if only because politicians were fair game, so to speak.

Also, she was on very little sleep, and it wasn't like she'd summoned herself…

"At any rate," said the sentient bundle of fabric that was Dredge, "we do have business to attend to…"

No. 4 nodded, and again looked to the raven-haired, rather lighter-skinned, and substantially more organic woman she'd turned red with her powerful magics. (The inside corners of her eyes were kind of… rounded, in a way she didn't think she'd seen before – was that a northern thing?)

"I'd be happy to inspire physiological responses any time, Councilor Nesrhev, ma'am," she said, adding, "I'm sure you're more familiar with the location of my office than I am, at the moment."

The woman cleared her throat, trying not to laugh, or possibly die, and said, "I- of course. But if that's your intention, then- please, call me Vere."

"Of course, ma'am," replied the soldier, and, flashing a grin equal parts impish and apologetic, said, "(sorry, last one)."

Honestly, maybe she ought to flirt with politicians more often– she felt pretty fuckin' rejuvenated, considering.

Dredge, sensing the two were done, nodded, and said, "Thank you. Now- as you may already know, our corner of the Free Country – our fair city and her outlying settlements – lies on the southeastern border of good old 'fair and frozen' Noster. With Shurha's Wall – and, beyond it, one of the sea's great fangs – to their south, between them and Yasaal, and neutral Chelqath to their east…"

"We're their gateway to the interior," Vere said. "If they go through Outlandishton, it's a straight shot to Iash Qoma, and, from there, they'd have a springing-off point to march on anyone and anything they damn well please, the rest of the Free Cities very much included."

No. 4 nodded seriously. "And, with the Tsarina's policy of militarization and modernization, her ambitions for Nostrian Empire are as much a concern for us as they are obvious, neutrality be damned."

"Precisely, Captain," said Dredge, and she could swear he was eyeing her with approval – probably happy he didn't have to explain all of Nostrian politics since the turn of the millennium. "As a monarch, Wyrmthrottler is many things– 'subtle' being chief among the things she is not."

"They've already recalled their ambassador," said Vere, "after making all kinds of requests they knew we wouldn't accept through the poor bastard, of course."

"Right. Anything to legitimize military action." No. 4 shook her head, and walked over to the map. "And a little more than anything to get at their Yasaali rivals to the south without having to go toe-to-toe with the most powerful navy ever built, or else marching through several wheels of their own 'Wall of Famine' region just to get shot and shelled into a fine paste in best organic fashion as soon as they came into eyeshot of some of the most powerful defenses ever built at Shurha Wall."

Tapping twice, she indicated a region some ways south of the depicted, northern portion of Yasaal, her metallic finger making a dull thunk-thunk against the wall in the approximate location of unrendered Nashax, some distance to the south.

"Even with their Nashaxi allies' strength at sea, the distance between Noster and Yasaal is so small the Yasaali Imperial Navy would have no trouble crushing them even while waging a naval war on two fronts; not when the Nashaxi and their saddled leviathans and floating fortresses are doing the same– which they would be, if they didn't want Confederate warships crossing the Fog Road and bombarding their Locusts friends in Shallow Graves, not to mention their own coasts."

Again, she shook her head. "The Confederacy may be new to this navy business, but I'm sure even a green crew can point a big fucking gun in the general direction of land and manage to fire it."

Dredge nodded their entirely-obscured head. "And that's not even mentioning that the Navath-Qor have joined the Comet Alliance– the Nostrians will need to move their navy in support of the Vespergrenites if they don't want the Concord de facto losing the war in the north before it's even really begun."

"Shit," No. 4 said, emptying her bellows, "have they, now? I hadn't heard."

"I'm not surprised," said Councilor Vere, "the First Temple only threw their hat into the ring a few days ago – I remember seeing the headline 'QOR GOES TO WAR' just the other day."

"Ah. Fair to say I was probably a little preoccupied at the time, then, I think," she said, which was a bit of an understatement (which, coincidentally, was also a bit of an understatement), and glanced down at the bayonet at her side.

"It's a weapon with a worker at each end," said Vere, jerking her chin toward the blade. "The bayonet, I mean."

No. 4 blinked her lights at the woman, confused. "I'm one of the hundred and twenty-five deadliest weapons ever made," she said, rather more proudly than she'd thought to, "and the only one of us to have spilled blood– and she-"

The Made soldier stopped.

"And it was an officer," she corrected herself, "that ended up on my bayonet."

Councilor Dredge cackled like she'd told the funniest joke they'd ever heard; Vere just looked nonplussed, like she hadn't anticipated any of what had just happened, and had no clue how to process it.

No. 4 made a noise approximating the clearing of a throat she didn't really have (not by any reasonable standard, anyways) and said, "Dare I ask after the disposition of our forces? Even if the Qori are able to hold the Nostrians' attention in the north – maybe even in Chelqath itself – and keep them from flanking or even encircling us, they're a professional army. A huge professional army."

She didn't bring up the militia. Maybe if she didn't acknowledge it, they wouldn't mention it, and instead would explain that they had some manner of reasonable force, or that the militia wasn't nearly so small as it had sounded, or was just one of many groups, or- or, you know, pretty much anything?

Mercifully, it seemed she was indeed mistaken.

"At the moment," he said, "we have just over a dozen Particulars. Giants, about half of them gatecrashers – heavily armed and armored melee fighters – while the rest carry heavy weapons: machine-guns, light autocannons, and the like."

He began looking through some papers on his desk, and Vere took this as her cue to step in.

"Militia recruiting's been stepping up the past week or so; we have a definite corps of 80-some veterans? Beyond that, it's hard to say exactly how many men we'll be able to muster…"

"Veterans of the militia, not any sort of major conflict, yeah?" No. 4 asked, and Vere nodded.

Great. She hadn't expected otherwise, but it still wasn't ideal.

"We currently have several mercenary groups on the payroll," Dredge said, "and are in contract negotiations with a handful more."

"Good," No. 4 said, and Dredge nodded sagely.

"Those who wish to go unmolested amongst belligerents must ever be ready to flash their fangs," he said, and No. 4, taken aback, paused a moment simply to look at him.

"… Er," she said, and again paused, this time to give her processor a bit of a mental whack; get all her thoughts in order, remember what in Daiel's name she'd been about to say, and so on. When all that was done, she asked the question she'd lost, namely:

"… What's the size of your artillery corps?"

Again, she turned to look at the map, this time touching a fingertip to Riversplit, in the center of the pentagonal sprawl of Outlandishton. There, the Krasnaya Reka, a major river flowing southeast from the Nostrian interior, forked, becoming the eastward Machsom river, which ran along Chelqath's southern border, and the southbound Sikra river, which formed part of Yasaal's eastern border.

"-and how many river monitors and patrol-boats does Outlandishton have?"

She traced the Krasnaya through Free Country land and into Noster, mindful of the road running alongside it.

Gunboats patrolling up and down the river could deny more than just water-borne travel in a lot of places, here, and that was the sort of advantage they absolutely had to capitalize on if they were going to survive what sounded like near-inevitable Nostrian incursion.

…

It took a few moments for No. 4 to realize she hadn't received an answer to either question; when it dawned on her that this was the case, it came with a sinking feeling in her abdomen, around the area where her reserve flask – the fourth and largest of them – sat.

She turned to look at the Councilors, the red rings of her eyes widening in alarm, and Vere rushed to say, "Uh, the forts- all the forts have heavy guns, I think? Including the city's walls, of course!"

No. 4's eyes flickered, and, picking up on this, Vere continued, "Um- giants are great builders, for obvious reasons, and we've – they've – been working on our defenses for at least the last couple years, now? Building forts and redoubts and… blockhouses?" She paused, and, lowering her voice, asked, "(Are those all earthworks, or are earthworks another thing?)"

The recently-promoted Captain laughed through her nose (or approximated it, though she wasn't sure there was much difference either way), her relief-response obviated by the politician's follow-up question, which, of course, she dutifully answered.

"Earthworks are yet another thing," she explained, "though they're often more… supplemental than outright fortifications in their own right? Breastworks, trenches, and the like."

"Right. Got it."

"So-" said No. 4, "-cavalry? Monitors, patrol-boats? Skirmishers? Armored cars? Scouts, lookouts, general reconnaissance?"

She glanced back and forth between the two of them. "The 1st – my men – are heavy infantry, and only company-strength. If we have to do our own picketing, it's going to reduce our effectiveness. Especially if there are less-skilled, less-durable organics who could be serving that role. Even our Technicians, completely isolated from their normal duties, would be wasted on that– being a warm body when they could be fighting, coordinating defensive works, helping man artillery… even crewing an armored car, or manning a motor-pool – anything!"

"The militia ought to be able to picket well enough, especially if we draw from local settlements," said Dredge, still consulting documents, "and we should be able to hire on a contingent or two of mercenary light infantry, possibly even a number of scout cavalry, maybe a troop of uhlans…?"

He descended into self-directed muttering, and Vere again stepped in.

"I think Councilor Bodilsdottir's been trying to buy cannons and gun… ships-?" pausing, she met No. 4's eyes, continuing when the soldier nodded, "-and armored cars and such? And, um- gun… carriers?"

No. 4 nodded thoughtfully along, and, after a moment, Vere perked up, her uncertainty seemingly banished, and exclaimed, "Oh! And aeroplanes!"

The machine cocked her head.

"Aeroplanes?" she repeated, and the Councilwoman bobbed her head excitedly.

"Aeroplanes!"

"Interesting-" No. 4 thought aloud, and was immediately interrupted when a young man burst into the room, out-of-breath and windblown, shouting, 'Councilor Dredge! Councilor Dredge!'

The lad doubled over to catch his breath, hands on his knees, and just sort of… panted for a second. He had a cap and goggles, and his trousers were wet between his knees and the tops of the puttees, primarily on the outer sides– a skittercycle scout, perhaps? Must've leapt off his machine and come dashing inside and up the steps at full tilt– you know, just to make absolutely sure he got there out of breath enough that it'd make little difference versus him just having taken his time a little more, and not having to delay.

… Organics are so fuckin' weird sometimes.

Still- the fellow straightened quickly enough, and breathlessly exclaimed, "Nostrians-! Coming down the north road!"

No. 4 zeroed in on that like it had sent a jolt up her chassis.

"How many?" She said, and the messenger glanced at Dredge, who nodded, before answering.

"Hundreds," he guttered, gasping again for air, "Uh- Sergeant Stormalong said a 'battalion'," he said, and No. 4 and Dredge cursed in unison.

"How far out?"

He managed as far as an "Uh," before No. 4 determined he had no fucking idea, and thus that it'd be sooner rather than later, and made her decision.

"I'm going." she said simply.

Her tone brokered no debate, and so no argument was tendered against her.

* * *​

As it turned out, "Uh" meant '"uh" few hours or so,' which was something of a blessing.

By the time the 1st Made, stoic and proud, had mustered and begun their march to the North Gate, an undercurrent of fear and worry had already begun to spread through the town… or was it their very marching that had clued the civilians in that something was wrong?

No. 4 got the strangely-uncomfortable feeling that it was the latter, actually, though of course that wasn't the sort of thing you could really verify when you happened to be in the process of fucking mobilizing.

Was it the cannons and the machine-guns? The fact that they were obviously marching with purpose? Not merely on parade, but loaded for bear and headed off to battle? Was it their field-greys– their Confederate uniforms? Or was it the Numbers themselves– the machines themselves?

…Or was it because they realized that, whoever these strange new metal soldiers were, they were marching to the north? And if they were marching north… well, that could only mean one thing: the Nostrians had come. Had come, or were coming very soon.

She didn't know. All she knew was that she could hear the murmuring; see them whispering. They were frightened. Nervous. The thought that this was caused by her and her men, that fear and alarm were emanating out from them like a wave as they marched down the city's streets, spreading before their column the way their foes were meant to scatter before them… she thought she understood what it meant when the organics said something 'made them feel sick,' if this was what being sick to the stomach felt like.

They were supposed to-

No, Four, she scolded herself, that's not fair. They don't know who the fuck you are, you can't expect them to just trust that you, a group of strange machines, have it handled. You just got here today. You're the very spitting fucking image of an unknown quantity.

… shit, she didn't always swear this much, did she?

… No. No, she didn't.

Somehow, that wasn't entirely reassuring.

They came upon a giant woman at the gates, who, seeing No. 4 come 'round the corner leading a column of uniformed machines, reacted with surprise, confusion… and a reasonably-sharp salute.

Must've seen the pins, No. 4 figured. Not bad.

Standing some three meters tall, the woman, whose hair was fucking snakes by the by, wore a tremendous greatcoat and a fur cap (under which the snakes must have been tremendously shitting comfy, the way they peeked out from beneath it and its flaps, all midnight-black and aglitter in the snow-brightened daylight, their little tongues flitting out languidly, their little eyes regarding the Made Soldiers curiously), both of which bore the concentric sets of three nested, gold-colored pentagons which No. 4 presumed were her Sergeant's insignia. Her skin was a mottle of grey, her eyes were bright blue and attentive, and she looked rather Human, aside from perhaps her fucking tusks.

The Captain was also pretty sure that was a machine-gun slung over her shoulder, and… possibly those were belt-boxes on her- well, on her belt-belt. Good gods, nobody had ever thought anyone would ever carry the belts and boxes for a machine-gun on their actual gods-damned belt when they decided it was alright to call them that, had they?

Either way, she was clearly a woman after the Numbers' own hearts, because she'd saluted a fair bit too early, and held it without barking her greeting for just a bit too long, and when she did- …well, it was certainly endearing.

"Ma'am! Sergeant Stormalong, uh, Lieu-"

No. 4 did a very good job of not smiling, and also pretending not to notice, and very definitely acted as though she didn't know that at least a handful of her siblings were standing behind her, urgently shaking their heads, making the bouncing little upwards-pointing gesture for 'higher', drawing flattened hands back and forth across throats, and possibly looking absolutely fucking mortified as they did all this.

(It was really hard not to smile.)

"-er, Captain, Ma'am!"

"Captain No. 4, Outlandishton 1st Made Heavy Infantry." No. 4 replied, and smiled just a little, as a treat, as she briefly returned the Sergeant's salute. "Be at ease, Sergeant."

Sgt. Stormalong relaxed, possibly a little too much, and… honestly? It was still just kind of endearing. No. 4 had expected incompetence to rub her the wrong way, but- the girl was trying, right, and, shit, she was even most of the way there! So it just ended up being, well, kind of adorable.

"You're one of the Particulars, I assume?"

"Yes, ma'am!" The giant not-quite-bellowed.

"What are your orders, Sergeant?"

Stormalong blinked those bright blue eyes, and No. 4 knew immediately that the woman just. Didn't have any. She'd done her job, and now had no idea what in Savnok's wounds she was meant to be doing.

"You don't have any, do you?" She asked, and Stormalong gave a vigorous shake of the head, possibly disturbing her poor… hair?

"No, ma'am!"

"Would you follow my orders, were I to give them?"

"… I don't see why not, Captain, Ma'am!"

"I don't expect the Nostrians will be going quietly, will they?" No. 4 asked, and it was a question – Sgt. Stormalong had seen them herself, after all, so she was far better qualified to gauge and testify to their current disposition.

"Not a snowball's chance in hell, ma'am!" Stormalong said, and with such certainty as to leave little room for doubt.

"And how far out are they, in your estimation?"

Stormalong furrowed her brow. "… A few hours' march, I'd wager. Er- Captain, Ma'am."

"That's about as good a news as I could've hoped for," No. 4 said, relaxing ever-so-slightly.

Did they say 'a news'?

… Oh, it didn't fuckin' matter. If they didn't, that was their own damn fault. She had more important shit to deal with right now.

"… As an organic, I should warn you– we will be going into battle, and if you're going to accompany us, we'll be expecting you – and relying on you – to do so with us." No. 4 said, her expression growing unintentionally grim. "I will be asking you to kill, Sergeant. To fight, and possibly die, in defense of this city. My men and I were made for this, deliberately and intentionally. We know what we've agreed to."

Behind her, the 1st cheered; Stormalong (and her hair snakes) looked like they were listening carefully to what she was saying, even if they didn't quite understand where she was going just yet. Probably because they didn't, in fact.

Still, she… hadn't even considered that sort of thing would- might happen. Soldiers, cheering for her words…

Shit.

She waited a moment for them to quiet before she continued.

"It is our intended purpose, and we were designed to be resistant to it." She filled her bellows. "Obviously, the same is not true of you – thank the gods – and there is no shame in-"

"Ohh-!" went Stormalong, and clapped No. 4 on the shoulder, laughing.

Fortunately, No. 4's chassis was made out of bonesteel – that is, steel made with bones – rather than bone bone, or anything else short of a resonant, materially-superior metamaterial, like bone, or steel, or even bone!

"For a cute war robot, Captain, you sure are sweet!" guffawed the giant, evidently forgetting herself, and definitely not registering the way No. 4 (and probably most of the machines behind her) flinched for a few moments more as she continued, "I'm not gonna back out on ya! Kill, fight, die– that's what a soldier should-"

She stopped. "… is somethin' wrong, Ma'am?"

"… We… don't use the 'robot'-word, Sergeant," No. 4 said quietly.

"Hm? Why not, Cap?"

"Because it comes from an old word, from old countries, which meant 'forced labor.' And we aren't– we chose. Had to choose."

"Oh. Hell." Sgt. Stormalong said. "I'm sorry, I didn't-"

No. 4 raised a hand to forestall her.

"It's fine, Sergeant," she said, "just- surprising to hear."

"Yeah, I'll fuckin' bet, Cap!" Stormalong agreed, and No. 4 laughed weakly.

"Still-" she said, patting the giant's elbow, and turned to call back over her shoulder, raising her voice to make sure the men could hear as she called, "-unless any of my machines have any misgivings-!"

… Nope, not a one.

"-we'll be glad to have you along, Sergeant Stormalong."

One of the little shits whistled. 'Little' because it was from somewhere near the back of the formation, and thus one of the younger ones. She hadn't even known they could whistle. 'Shits' because it inspires much the same exasperated feeling as being asked 'why "shits"?', in a manner that causes you to reply, 'Oh, you know damn well why, you little shit-,'

"And, by virtue of being…" she paused to check her internal clock for effect, looking at her wrist as they'd been taught to when interfacing with organics (in non-pressing situations), to mimic checking a watch, for politeness' sake. "Oh, say, more than nine months old, it's my honor to inform you that, as our senior enlisted, I'm appointing you honorary First Sergeant, effective immediately."

Stormalong didn't much react to the 'nine months' figure (a fact which definitely wouldn't throw No. 4's expectations regarding that figure at all out of whack at any point in the near future, honest), but she did make an appropriately big show of acting as though she'd been waiting for this promotion her whole life/career. Which, naturally, elicited cheers of 'Congratulations, Sarge!' and the like from the men, which was all fun and good and wonderfully goofy, and, in turn, terrific for morale. Just what the Captain ordered, as it were. Probably the Doctor, too, though he'd obviously stayed behind, being not a combat automaton, but an Ophidian, and a big nerd at that.

And, gods, but did they need that levity after the fear. No. 4 couldn't have been alone in noticing it, after all, and she could only imagine how some of the younger machines must've felt– if even that.

* * *​

A few minutes of surveying the lay of the land beyond Outlandishton's northern gates, mostly to make sure it wasn't too good to be true, and the 1st got started on the preparation of their positions. The plan was simple as could be; several hundred yards of ridge-line mounds, made by the giants, flanked the main road on either side, and they'd be morons if they didn't take advantage of that. With (snow-filled) ditches between their inward faces and the road itself, No. 4 couldn't have asked for a better set of defensive positions, and the people of the peculiar pentagonal city had been happy to lend strong backs and shovels (and even white sheets) to the war effort. The workers had at least doubled the Numbers' numbers, probably just glad to be able to do something, anything other than sit around and wait, and the soldiers were certainly grateful for the help, and the- the company. Gods damn it all, they were keeping the Company company, weren't they. Besides, the machines and the townspeople were each curious about the other, and establishing that they didn't bite (this also went both ways) and that the Numbers were their friends, and would fight for their freedom– well, that could only ingratiate them, as far as No. 4 could figure, and the appreciation and support of the people could well become critical for unit morale, in time.

Stormalong said the Nostrians were three companies of line infantry, supported by six half-tracks with armor and machine-guns. From her description of them, the Techs (and Gunner!) who were into that sort of thing seemed to think they were Kusnetzov-Monkhbat armored cars, designed at the ass-end of ten-oh-seven (or maybe in the very late spring, so not the last quarter-year, but only just) and put into production sometime last year by the Nostrian firms of, go figure, Kusnetzov and Monkhbat. No. 67, who had apparently asked to be a Tech (which suddenly made the utter nonsense of their whole muddled serial range make a whole lot more sense– some of them had had requests!) said it was one of the best armored cars in the world, with respectable armor, a rotating turret for the 7.5mm machine-gun, and a something-or-other engine that let it go up to 10 wheels per hour (he said this was just over 32km/h, and that this was Good). There was something about a "differential", but apparently this was not the same as their differential engines, and instead was a kind of gear train that allowed the car's engine to power the drive-wheels in the rear, and, with them, the treads, which was obviously good, because even No. 4 was pretty sure treads basically had to be driven?

'Unfortunately,' he'd explained, their armor was not likely to be particularly proof against their 37mm guns; given they had no idea what kind of state the guns up on the city's walls were in, nor what all they even were, or where ammunition (which No. 4 refused to believe they wouldn't have at least some amount of) for them might be stored, this was damn good news.

Actually unfortunately, though, there would be six cars, and they only had the four pound-and-a-half guns. Two machine-guns being free to return fire for any length of time was bad news for Platoons Two and Three, and they'd be dug in on the reverse slopes of the right and left ridge-mounds, respectively (thus putting 2nd Platoon on the Nostrians' left, because they were the second-oldest, and a right-handed rifleman can turn and engage a foe to his left, 'across his body', a bit more quickly than one to his right), let alone 1st Platoon and No. 4 herself, who had to be out in the open, right in front of the gates. This was both so No. 4 could parley with the enemy commander (unless she was to very obviously walk to a hidden position, quit the field, or return to the gates and die by overwhelming fire afterward) and to keep their ambush from being stupid-obvious, though there was also an element of needing to be able to keep the Nostrians from just making a mad dash to the gates when they opened fire.

The Numbers' armor was good, very good, but the ceramic worked by breaking up on impact, and the bonesteel plates backing them, the base of the armor panels themselves, could only take so much punishment. More with the ceramic, of course, that's why it was there, but there was a finite number of rifle rounds any given plate could take either way, and it was a potentially quite variable figure, one which none of them were especially keen to find out.

All of which is to say that they didn't quite know how well they could hold up to concentrated machine-gun fire (nor, in fact, concentrated rifle-fire, although that wasn't generally expected to be a concern in modern war, where distributing – diffusing, as opposed to focusing – incoming fire was of doctrinal importance), and circumstances dictated they'd need to figure out some way to avoid or mitigate that, lest they suddenly find themselves alarmingly well-informed. Just the sort of lesson one has to imagine a pair of machine-guns is all-too-terribly qualified to teach.

No. 5 had floated the idea that they could try and erect a barricade of some sort or another, if they had the time and manpower, and, obviously, No. 4 had approved the proposal. With an arrangement like that, they could even have two of the machine-guns with them at ground level– which would be both more convincing as a defense and reassuring for them as defenders!

"Make it so, sister," she'd bade the girl, and the young soldier had saluted smartly, the lilac lights of her eyes vivid-bright against the blackness of their sockets, even in broad daylight, and gone off to make it happen.

The occurrence had given No. 4 something to think about as she'd gotten back to her floating, hands-on, 'help where I need to, make sure everything's going smoothly' style of supervision. As her least-youngest sister, as No. 4 liked to call her, Rifle No. 5 was someone No. 4 knew well. Five was the eldest of her hundred-and-twenty younger siblings, and the first of the production Numbers… and, as her closest sibling, she'd always seen through No. 4's shit. She was smart, she had initiative… dutiful, respected and well-liked among the unit…

… she was going to be No. 4's first officer, wasn't she.

It seemed almost like an inevitability, really, now that she'd had the thought.

* * *​

Eventually, of course, they came. The Nostrians, in their hundreds, with their white winter uniforms, their fur hats and ear-flapped side caps, their Batbayar-Petrova Model 998 rifles held proudly at the shoulder as they marched. Ahead of their formation rode two Kusnetzov-Monkhbat armored cars, leading, or perhaps escorting, the mass of footmen, their domed turrets turning to track the defenders as soon as they came into view around the bend, holding steady as their bearers made the turn, their machine-guns gleaming, high and proud.

Some of the Numbers' civilian supporters had scrambled back through the gates at the appearance of the splotched, white-gray-black bodies of those first cars, but yet more had remained, determined to finish the piling of the sandbags that would protect their outnumbered soon-to-be defenders. And finish they had– laying the last handful of dirt-filled sacks just as the head of the Nostrian column emerged around the bank, flanked by another pair of armored cars.

Line bless'em, No. 4 actually had to send some of the civilians back inside the gates when they were done.

The Nostrians marched on in most disciplined fashion, drawing nearer until, some distance after the rear of the formation and its two cars had come around and fallen into line, a few sharp blasts of a whistle signaled a stop– a directive the men and cars alike swiftly obeyed.

An officer, accompanied by standard-bearer and small escort, sallied out ahead of his battalion, the waving of white and black flags signaling that he wished to meet with the enemy commander under the auspices of parley, but that his party was armed, and likewise did not expect his foe to disarm for their meeting.

(Technically, international law forbade the bearing of arms under the white flag, but this wasn't generally enforced, especially for surrendering common soldiery and the like, who didn't typically own their rifles, and who sometimes even used their rifles to display white flags without exposing themselves to fire. In this particular situation, however, doing things properly was a sign of propriety and respect, and No. 4 certainly appreciated it.)

Calling for Nos. 5, 6, 7, & 8 to accompany her, No. 4 hopped nonchalantly over their waist-high sandbag barricade, landing heavily on the well-trodden snow of the road before it. It wasn't the easiest jump ever made by any means, but she'd been made to be strong – had to be, really, given she weighed something like twice as much as an organic woman of similar size – and being able to jump or vault over barriers was a useful ability for a soldier to have, if you were to, say, make soldiers from the ground up for some reason.

The five machines met their Human counterparts midway between their two forces, with No. 4 having tentatively identified her opposite as a Major within a few moments of his rank insignia (two vertical stripes and two stars) becoming clearly visible. Nostrian rank signature hadn't exactly constituted a major focus of study for her, historic-

Oh, heh. Major.

The Nostrian officer was a tall, fair-skinned man, presumably Northern Nostrian in ethnicity, his bushy gray-and-white moustache and peaked cap each screaming 'I am an officer!' in equal measure. He seemed to be tall even among his own people, in fact, and absolutely towered over No. 4 and company (and because they're all the same size, you can take that either way, just for fun), a discrepancy which appeared to bewilder man and machine alike for a moment or two.

"Major Chotan Guseva," the Nostrian introduced himself in accented Continental, "12th Independent Rifle Battalion, Nostrian Royal Soldiery."

He extended a white-gloved hand, and she pondered the fact that it had become quite the fashion among officers to wear lovely white gloves with their field dress. It seemed oddly innocent– like it had never occurred to them that blood would need be spilt, that they would wield those shining sabers in battle or die hesitating, and their nice white gloves would be ruined either way…

"Captain No. 4, Outlandishton 1st Made." No. 4 said, shaking off visions of bloody battle even as she shook the man's hand. "It's good to meet you, Major – would that it could've been under different circumstances."

"Indeed, Captain," said the man, and regarded her curiously. "I can see that you're Made," he continued, nodding towards her, "but- I don't think I've ever seen your like before."

He seemed to be indicating some aspect of the construction of her face as evidence. Obviously, it being her face – and the gesture being of the vague, cranial sort – she couldn't quite be sure what, exactly (if there was a singular what) he was getting at. Ultimately, she supposed it didn't really matter.

"No," she agreed, "I'm certain you haven't."

A pause, then– neither officer sure what to say to that.

"… Turn back, Major," No. 4 said, at length. "Outlandishton is Free Country, not party to your war. Please– take your men and go. Go, and return to your families in peace."

The Nostrian studied her a moment, and she could feel the weight of invisible arithmetic behind his eyes as he ran his numbers– considered his options, his bushy brow knitting.

She knew as well as he did that no threat an enemy could levy could compare to that of his own superiors in the Nostrian Royal Soldiery; that any danger they could pose paled in comparison to the wrath of Tsarina Vyria Wyrmthrottler, whose name was quite illustrative of more than just her general disposition and temperament.

"You must be young," he said, at last, "for me never to have heard of you."

He sounded almost sad.

"… Tell me-," he began, locking eyes with someone over No. 4's shoulder, "what do young metal men know of family?"

Obviously, No. 4 had the discipline not to look over her shoulder to see who the Major was addressing– she thought it was probably No. 6 anyways, and she'd find out soon enough…

"Permission to answer, Captain, ma'am!?" Called a voice she did indeed recognize as belonging to No. 6, not a moment later.

"Granted, No. 6." She replied. "And don't call me 'ma'am'– I work for a living."

"Yes, Captain!" They called in response, and thank Daiel they respected her enough– and understood the situation enough (and had the presence of mind) not to call her 'ma'am' in that instant.

She heard them take a step forward and answer, "Sir! I know they're the ones who'll bury you, sir!"

This… the man must have found agreeable, for it appeared to set him at ease somewhat, but No. 4 was just glad that, by some small miracle, he hadn't taken it as a threat, let alone… this.

"… Thank you, Soldier," he said evenly, and returned his attention to No. 4 as her sibling stepped back into line.

"My apologies, Captain," he said, a little quietly.

"I am sure you must be young," he said again, "but I am sure you must also understand that my orders are absolute. I am to take my men and occupy this city, just as you, I am sure, are to oppose me."

No. 4 nodded. She wondered if he wasn't up for promotion– sure, it might be a bit of a short-battalion, so to speak, but he really ought to be a Lieutenant Colonel to hold such a command, oughtn't he?

"I am," she said soberly, "and I do."

She didn't need to say, 'and we are.' He knew.

"… Return to your lines, Major," she said. "I'm sorry."

He nodded, turned on his heel, and, with his entourage following suit, walked calmly back to his men.

A moment later, No. 4 and her comrades did the same, returning to their defenses with all due briskness.

And, a few minutes after that, there came shouts and shrill whistles, the former (and presumably only the former) in the Nostrian tongue, and the children of Noster began their advance, marching down the snow-whitened road in close order, the machine-gun turrets on their armored cars angling to face their opposite numbers among the defenders. The drivers of the forward vehicles moved to put their armored bulks between the two visible machine-gun emplacements and the soldiers behind them, and No. 4 wondered if they knew – if they had any clue at all what was about to happen. Surely they were keenly aware of the ridge-line mounds flanking the road on either side – surely, they must have been – but did they at all suspect an ambush was waiting for them?

As she raised her right hand, fingers splayed, above her head, she couldn't help but wonder about that.

Idly, she wondered if she should hope so.

Still, Dredge was right: if Outlandishton wanted to remain neutral, and retain her independence, she'd need to be willing and able to flash her fangs– and that meant No. 4 and the 1st Made had to be as well. Hell, they themselves were the city's fangs.

"ALL MADE," she called, surprising herself with the sheer volume of her own voice, "MAKE READY!"

All at once, the soldiers of second and third platoons sprang up from their hiding spots, casting off white tarpaulins and bedsheets to take their positions on the reverse slopes of the opposing ridge-lines as the field- and machine-guns were brought into place.

Half of the car-borne machine-guns slewed one way or the other to face these new targets, less disciplined than the riflemen they escorted, who turned outwards to either side and formed firing ranks with tragic precision and professionalism. So well-drilled were they that the response seemed almost automatic, the action of bringing rifles to shoulder – and, as a woman purpose-built from spell and steel to do just the same, No. 4 had to admire that.

Clenching her raised right hand into a fist, No. 4 issued the word of command "FIRE!" just as the world was erupting into chaos and noise all around her. Bullets and the reports of rifles filled the gunsmoke-perfumed air as Nostrian and Rifle alike fired their opening volleys in quick succession. These were joined shortly by the cries of organics as, struck in the initial exchange, their blood spilt into the road, staining snow and winter uniform alike a terrible pink. And it wasn't as though this was any fault of theirs; they'd simply been damned by the larger target their close order formation presented, sitting ducks in the face of the literally-mechanical precision of the incoming fire.

Already, torrents of machine-gun fire tore across and into the field, roaring their doom-rattles from all directions as they carved steadily-sweeping arcs into what felt like the very fabric of the world itself. The flanking guns poured fire into the Nostrian formation below and were, in turn, fired upon; the guns of the armored cars swept across the ridge-line or pinned No. 4 and 1st Platoon in place behind their sandbags, and their pair of MGs had the Nostrian column in enfilade (where they could shoot between or around the cars, at least)…

It was, in short, a fucking mess.

Then the cannons opened up, and two cars just… died, knocked out by explosive shells from those pound-and-a-halfs– and you could tell they were HE because of the smoke that plumed out the side where they'd been hit, and the bang, and the little bulge in the opposite side of the hull, where the shell had gone off inside. No. 4 hadn't thought the HE shells were supposed to penetrate armor, but then, what'd she know? She was just a rifleman. And an officer? But- an infantry officer. And one who evidently had mistaken beliefs about their field guns, too.

She peeked over the barricade to sight a white uniform and fix it in her sights, settling on… A young woman, looked like? She didn't expect that made any difference, and shot the woman in the chest, running the bolt of her rifle to repeat the process once more when no fire was directed at her in particular, shooting an older (for a soldier) man in what looked to be the heart.

Funny, how easy it was. Be hilarious, if it weren't so horrific.

A few yards over, No. 12's left eye suddenly exploded in a shower of sparks and broken glass, and she jerked back, dropped her rifle, and went down. And she went down hard, the pale green light of her remaining eye winking out before she hit the pavement, and good gods did No. 4 not want to lose a sister on her first day in this fucking city-

A third armored car had a smoking hole poked in its side, and another followed in rapid succession. It was less of a bang, No. 4 distantly observed, and more of a thwump sort of thing.

Then a stream of tracers tracked across the top of the barricade, forcing No. 4 and crew to duck back into cover and keeping their heads down for some moments. When it had passed, and they popped back up to resume firing, there was what looked like a rain of iron flechettes falling on the berm left of the road, right on 2nd Platoon's heads.

What the fuck?

Tracing their path upwards, No. 4 found a riding bat flying high overhead, probably carrying a Nostrian war-mage, and resolved to end the son of a bitch as soon as possible. To whit, she raised her voice over the gun-fire (a tall order, even for a machine designed for battle, but not impossible) and shouted her orders.

"SECOND SECTION," she bellowed, "EYES UP! TWO-HUNDRED METERS! SLIGHTLY LEFT, CIRCLING OFF THE TOP OF THE STREAM OF FLECHETTES! TAWNY-GRAY RIDING BAT! THREE ROUNDS, RAPIIID– FIRE!"

Like magic (clockwork, actually), twenty Rifles fired their namesake arms into the sky with a tremendous, elongated CRACK of shot – then they cycled them, fired again, cycled them again, and fired a third time, after which nearly all of them had to reload.

Possibly this had been overkill, but the bat – splotched now with crimson, its wings alight with sunny holes – pitched sharply downward, its rider limp in the saddle as it careened into the icy waters of the Krasnaya Reka.

It felt pretty fuckin' bad to shoot an animal like that, being stark. The soldiers at least knew they might die, and could conceive of being shot– the bat was just carrying his favorite guy, flying around and having a good time. But his favorite guy had been dropping fucking… conjured darts onto the heads of her favorite platoon of middle-children, and you couldn't really shoot the man off of the beast when it was flying overhead, so– the bat had to die.

Fitting a clip into the charger-bridge, No. 4 stripped five more rounds of 8mm ammunition into her emptied rifle in a motion she was literally designed to make and briskly closed the bolt, which automatically kicked the empty clip into the snow, allowing her to shoulder the weapon and shoot yet another Nostrian soldier.

She ran the bolt again. Up, back, forward, down, find a Human face – the uniforms do their job in matching the snow, after all – interpose the sights over the breast, press the trigger. Fire, noise, and recoil.

… and blood.

Trying to think of them as 'godless northerners' (which she supposed they were) didn't make it feel any better to kill them. Kinda made it feel worse, in fact.

But the Nostrians were already in the heart of the city's territory. The defenders couldn't cede so much as an inch, and they'd need to seriously bloody the Empress' nose if they were to take a moral victory – crushing Nostrian morale and buoying that of the people of Outlandishton – and send the NRS reeling long enough to shore up their defenses while she was still on the ropes. This had to be a massacre, an absolute fucking slaughter. If they couldn't manage that…

Another armored car went up as an explosive shell penetrated its turret and set off its ammunition, sending a jet of flame into the air at an odd angle and sending nearby Nostrians scattering. Coincidentally, this managed to make No. 4 miss her next shot as her target suddenly dove to the ground in sheer terror. Still, even scattered, the Nostrian formation was still so tightly-packed, and their options so scarce, that her shot had almost certainly hit another man somewhere further back. She could only hope it hadn't struck anybody anywhere too inhumane. The generation of casualties was to be undertaken as ethically as possible, after all. Cannons, machine-guns– these could not be fully controlled and accounted for in their regular and effective use. But rifle-fire? In the hands of an automaton, that could be fairly well-regulated– and so it was with the Numbers.

Some of the cannons started loading canister shot at this point, as evidenced by the sudden uptick in horrific carnage amid the Nostrian lines, infantrymen dropping in twos and threes and fives as modern grapeshot carried on through flesh like bullets would carpet, tearing men down with terrible prowess and efficiency.

That, in No. 4's estimation, was about when the enemy started to rout; even this was done professionally, inasmuch as it could be, and that alone would've made her heart ache, if she'd had one.

The 1st kept up the pressure, of course, firing over their heads and at their heels to keep them on the rout, while the two remaining armored cars, effectively unable to retreat in any real way, pointed their machine-guns aft and stuck little flags through pistol ports to signal their surrender.

… and then, just as awkwardly as it had begun, the battle sort of… tapered off to a close. Petered out, such that it was hard to say precisely when it had ended, only that it most certainly had.

Climbing the right embankment as Techs rushed about the wounded and ordered Rifles around, No. 4 found a point of vantage and surveyed the field. A certain sort of numbness came over her, looking out over it all. Blood and bodies and burning wrecks, dead and dying men strewn about the snow-covered road; men with cannon-puckered wounds, or their organic internal workings made external, or, in one poor soul's case, their middle made hollow as though scalloped out with a knife like a slice out of a grease-cake… the handiwork of an afternoon.

'Good gods forgive me,' she silently prayed.

…

Eventually, her own men had to drag her away from the sight.

* * *​

Saltday, 21st Fading Sun
(6th Day of Thief's Moon, Lunar Month 3 of 12)
Year 9, 2nd Millennium CR
Late Fall




'MADE SOLDIERS: THREAT TO OUR INDEPENDENCE?'

"… Some of these broadsheets are real subtle, huh?" said No. 5, exchanging her very subtle issue of the Foundation Horn for today's Outlandishton Supernal, with the very centrist headline '1st MADE: IRON DEFENDERS OR MECHANICAL MENACE?', seemingly trying to strike a balance between the Horn and the New Leviathan ('STEEL SENTINELS SAVE CITY, DEFEAT NOSTER'), whose respective stances on the 1st Made were, again, extremely subtle.

The Hammering Process, meanwhile, had an article examining their origins, pointing out their equipment and appearances and correctly concluding the Numbers were of Confederate origin, printed alongside a column speculating about their manufacture, the nature of their souls, and the ethics of producing people specifically to serve as soldiers… followed by three composed of far more lurid speculation and conjecture about No. 4 and her kin– some of which was actually not too far from the truth, which, in No. 4's opinion, was actually pretty impressive?

(The Process also said they'd 'fought like hell,' which No. 4 and several others agreed they quite liked.)

… A good night's sleep had done wonders for No. 4, of course, and waking up to a makeshift office and makeshift desk made of recycled crates had brightened her mood considerably in a way she couldn't quite express, which, in turn, seemed to brighten the mood in their makeshift barracks in a way that couldn't quite be covered by 'morale'. Evidently seeing their leader and eldest sister in a fugue state had been- well, bad for morale.

Go fuckin' figure, right?

Still, it meant they cared, which was sweet. It was a good thing, too, no matter how she tried to spin it, even if it could potentially pose a problem somewhere down the line– there wasn't anything she could do about it, especially if it was to be considered with an eye towards morale. Sinking it now so they wouldn't be too attached later was what they called 'fucking stupid' (a technical term, mind you), and being a bastard or trying to appear aloof and distant were less-than-stellar options. No, continuing to be an elder sister to her men was far and away the better option – perhaps there were calculations one could make, determinations about whether it was better to be close to one's men or not based in facts and figures, but, to put it plainly, she just didn't have the heart.

A C.O. who cares… from the soldier's perspective, wasn't that the ideal scenario?

No. 4 wasn't sure anymore, and not just because she'd been put into a position of command; even led her men in battle. Rather, her uncertainty found its origin in the tangled mess that was her relation to the- to her Maker.

Whatever her precise feelings might have been, the woman had certainly cared about No. 4 in some way– you don't just go out of your way if you don't give a shit, after all. But beyond that simple observation? It all started to break down. To come apart; fray at the edges. Thus the uncertainty, she supposed.

The mechanical woman drummed her fingertips on her little desk, producing a triplet of heavy thuds every few moments as her cycle repeated itself. As cycles tend to do– and damn well will do, if they don't want to become sequences!

One of the Techs, a young fellow in the 90s range, entered their… very spartan office and saluted smartly.

"Captain!" He dutifully exclaimed, and No. 4 acknowledged him with a nod.

"At ease, lad."

In truth, their office resembled little so much as a young person's first place of residence, which… wasn't inaccurate, really, if you thought about it.

He read off a casualty report – 47 lightly damaged, 12 casualties, and 0 'unrecoverable' losses – and, when asked, was able to inform them of No. 12's condition – unconscious, and down one eye, but expected to be systems-nominal today or tomorrow – before being dismissed.

He hadn't been gone for a ten-count before No. 5 turned to question her elder sibling, her curious lilac eyes interrogating the other machine already.

"What're you thinking, Four?" She half-asked, half-wondered, leaning all the way over her desk in evident anticipation.

No. 4 grinned despite herself. She'd always found her sister's enthusiasm in these sorts of situations infectious, and it seemed today would be no exception.

"I'm thinking No. 12 as Quartermaster, where she can't get herself killed on account of that missing eye."

No. 5 nodded, her expression turning more serious.

"… And whadda you make of the whole…" the younger construct made a sort of constrained 'expansive' gesture, her elbows staying relatively close to her body as she spread her hands, like she was trying to encapsulate or grasp at something broad and intangible, but definite, and looming. It took her but a moment to finish, "… Nostrian situation?"

"Well," No. 4 said flatly, "I think it's fair to say peace talks have broken down."

No. 5 rolled her optical arrays, the contrast between the dark glass of her outer lenses and the pale glow of her projected irises somehow emphasizing the effect of the emotive display. The quirking and slight parting of her lips said this was a fond sort of exasperation, fortunately, so No. 4 again spoke.

"Look. The Tsarina sure as shit isn't gonna be happy about us bloodying her nose. We haven't seen the last of the Nostrian Army, and I don't think we will be anytime soon." She shook her head. "We were already in their way, but now we've gone and wounded the pride of an empire, and a woman called fucking Wyrmthrottler isn't gonna be the type to let that stand."

"… Because she either earned it or has to cling to the lie to maintain her image," No. 5 thought aloud, "and either way she can't let an insult to her power stand without losing face."

No. 4 nodded. "Exactly. Big or small, she still has to swing her dick around like it's on fire if she wants Noster to be seen as anything more than just "that cold, backwards shithole with the necrochemists and the wolves and the total fuckin' disregard for the safety of their peasantry," and having their soldiers slaughtered wholesale by some company of soldiers nobody's ever heard of…"

"It definitely doesn't look good," No. 5 agreed. "So you think we've really kicked the hornets' nest, huh."

"More fucked a beehive, I think." said No. 4, humorlessly.

"Well, then- whadda we do?"

"The only thing we can do, Five. The only thing that's right. What we were made to do."

"Our duty." said No. 5 supplied, and the senior machine nodded.

"Just like the papers said– we fight like hell."

* * *​

haha.
ain't war hell?

We (I) might try some amount of, like, interactivity with this one?
I'm not sure right now, I guess maybe it depends on the response this gets?

personally i think it's actually pretty funny that No. 4 comes pre-traumatized from the manufacturer-

and also happy easter​

1 ---> 5

 

[Wicked Sanguine]

YES
YES
THE TIGER IS OUT

Beloved pardner I have been waiting so long for this and it's so worth the wait. Let The Grave Tremble, For We Fight Like Hell

 

[Strunkriidiisk]

Hella. Big fan of both Never Full and Lieutenant Fusilier, so I'm already having a good time.

He read off a casualty report – 47 lightly damaged, 12 casualties, and 0 'unrecoverable' losses

Click to shrink...

This feels a little tragic in context honestly - I don't know how easy the Made are to repair, or how resistant they are to damage other than 'pretty tough' so it feels like they may face the risk of attrition. And unless they stole their own schematics they probably can't make more of themselves. Fingers crossed that I'm wrong, but this feels like it could easily be setting up for the company to dwindle.

 

[Espernyan]

Hella. Big fan of both Never Full and Lieutenant Fusilier, so I'm already having a good time.


This feels a little tragic in context honestly - I don't know how easy the Made are to repair, or how resistant they are to damage other than 'pretty tough' so it feels like they may face the risk of attrition. And unless they stole their own schematics they probably can't make more of themselves. Fingers crossed that I'm wrong, but this feels like it could easily be setting up for the company to dwindle.

Click to shrink...

i'm glad you enjoy/ed!
And they have some supply of replacement parts, in addition to Pharnekes and I think some other technical staff? Making more of themselves is out of the question, and repairs will only grow more difficult as parts get scarcer and local manufacturers have to pitch in, but for now, numbers like this are... somewhat-sustainable?

The Numbers are built exceptionally tough, and with replaceable paneling to make minor repairs easier, and lightly damaged means they could still fight if necessary. It's just that the accumulation of that sort of thing tends to lead to casualties down the line, meaning preventative maintenance and these sorts of minor repairs can be more important than they seem on the surface!

As for how tough Made are, the Numbers are very unusual in that they're genuinely machines, and don't have 'true' Made Organs? Other Made run the gamut from spindly clockwork waifs who are for kiss, now that i think about it to beefy chad golems; the Numbers are built to spec and fighting-fit.

I suppose one way to put it to you would be to draw comparison to the BEF in the Great War. They started out elite, but attrition and battle fatigue wore that first crop of troops down in fairly short order.
The Numbers are tough that if ever there was a unit to make it from one side of the war to the other, it'd be them?
Which. Bit of a double-edged sword, really.

ah, um. I hope this was interesting? H-haha

edit, to be succinct and all that: essentially, yes, but it's not *so* dire at present

 

[WinterLantern]

Guess the maker had to make some tough compromises on how dummy thicc the numbers could be. Can't have those clapping cheeks give away their positions

 

[RagnorakTres]

Mmmmm
Trauma

This is so so good at emphasizing the reality of conflict in the era of transition from pike and musket to more modern day insurgent/squad tactics. The violence is sobering, a powerful reminder why we try really hard to not just line up and shoot at each other to resolve political disputes anymore. The sea change in how casualties can be and are treated hasn't come through yet, and the results are...stark.

No. 4 is a fantastic pov to examine this dynamic and I'm really excited to see it.

 

[Espernyan]

The sea change in how casualties can be and are treated hasn't come through yet, and the results are...stark.

No. 4 is a fantastic pov to examine this dynamic and I'm really excited to see it.

Click to shrink...

Much like the Great War, the horrors of trench warfare are soon to come... and will save many lives.
We need only look to the early days of the war, especially some of the early French actions, to see this.
Unfortunately, Continental warfare will be mirroring this-- as seen with this tragic Nostrian advance.

I believe there should be some number of Nostrian survivors/prisoners?
Frankly they'll be in better hands here than in ~fair and frozen~ Noster
DON'T TELL SANG I SAID THIS BUT I DON'T TRUST NOBODY WHOSE INDUSTRIAL RUNOFF TURNS THE PEASANTRY INTO SHAMBLING CORPSES- I kid, of course. Sang done been knew

Quick edit, basically just to link to the relevant episode of The Great War (it's only week 4, h-haha!) where the French first encountered modern war.

Spoiler: Spoilered just to keep things compact

View: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y-OYK2M4U3Y&list=PLB2vhKMBjSxO1lsrC98VOyOzfW0Gn8Tga&index=4

But yeah. 27,000 Frenchmen died on August 22, 1914. And the men in charge had every reason to have known better.

Another edit: apparently that video is age-restricted, so you can only watch it on the 'tube, and also: don't let me forget to badger Sang about the rail lines
the more railway access the Nostrians have, the worse
lol
they're probably already marching men through mirror-gates to reinforce Vespergren, and, while the Chelqathi are gonna be doing their Political 'Cooperation' thing to limit damage and scope WRT the Nostrian advance, if they have easy rail access into and/or from Chelqath (i.e., into the Free Country to the south, past that little mountain range along the border that keeps Noster from just hooking around through Chelqath and getting behind Outlandishton)... well, that could be bad!
Like, if they can mirror-gate teleport to a major Chelqathi city and then take trains south from there, that's. Like, that's bad times! For us, for the Free Country/Free Cities in general, and likely for the Navath Qor, who would likely have to meet their advance!

(I think I might badger sang about getting our map up soon, visual aids are real nice in times like these)

 

[WinterLantern]

Does make me wonder if they can arm the zombies

 

[Espernyan]

Does make me wonder if they can arm the zombies

Click to shrink...

I'll have to ask Sang about that, because, off the top of my head, I don't actually remember all the specifics
The Nostrians have some pretty neat stuff going on, though!

 

[Wicked Sanguine]

I'll have to ask Sang about that, because, off the top of my head, I don't actually remember all the specifics
The Nostrians have some pretty neat stuff going on, though!

Click to shrink...

The Nostrian army is bulked out with kost'sluga, or "bonejacks." These are puppeted skeletons, controlled by a necrochemist who has a ritual jawbone or skull which has been filled with one tooth from each skeleton it can control. Bonejacks are perfectly capable of wielding weapons, and are often fitted with crude scrap armor or packed with clay to make them tougher. Free-willed undead are a result of pollution, and tend not to be used as weapons of war because they are mindless and intractable, while perfectly intelligent undead tend to have the sort of background that makes them leaders or magicians, not footsoldiers. An intelligent Deathless is an expensive thing to make, while a volition-less puppet bonejack is relatively cheap.