Gotta love it when your gloves are less durable and more prone to staining than your own actual hands.
Yet another bit, I think, where they aren't set up for robotic officers.
Lieutenant Fusilier 2 (Abandoned, do not read)
- Thread starter open_sketch
- Start date
- Original Mature Sci-Fi
Gotta love it when your gloves are less durable and more prone to staining than your own actual hands.
Yet another bit, I think, where they aren't set up for robotic officers.
- Location
- Mid-Atlantic
No, see, it's the look of the thing.
The gloves complete the look of the uniform. The look, that which the robogirls swoon for, and we wouldn't want the robogirls to do 0.2% less swooning for Fusie, now would we?
The gloves complete the look of the uniform. The look, that which the robogirls swoon for, and we wouldn't want the robogirls to do 0.2% less swooning for Fusie, now would we?
- Location
- Ottawa
- Pronouns
- She/Her/Whatever
For the human officers, the gloves are part of their body armour. For Fusie, they are just fancy accessories.
- Location
- Singapore
- Pronouns
- He/Him
So a contact war with another living space-faring group. They don't seem more advanced than the Concert, which is good considering they did not initiate any communications that we know of and immediately started commerce raiding, which is a poor indication of their willingness to be diplomatic.
- Pronouns
- They/Them
In terms of long range naval warfare, they do appear to have advantages over the Concert that they have not been able to adequately counter, either directly or through other means, yet.
(in before it turns out that the enemy is an alliance of combat drones and missiles just trying to send us emissaries)
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- Location
- Ottawa
- Pronouns
- She/Her/Whatever
My apologies for the lack of updates, but I thought I'd let everyone know I just finished the reordered draft of The Farthest Reaches, cried a little at the new scene with Dora and Kennedy, and I'll be sending it along to be edited professionally now! Updates again soon!
- Location
- National Capital Region, USA
Dora, you've got to stop having fights with cute bots you want to romance, or even just tumble. 
Try dating more.
Try dating more.
Three Laws
10ebbor10
DON'T PANIC
- Location
- Present
So, let's do this.
1. A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm
The first emotion that crossed through Do's mind was the smug satisfaction of being proven right. The first thought followed soon after. "Fuck, I was right".
Then the ancient, corroded staircase gave way completely, and Private Theodora "Do" disappeared down a maintenance shaft in an ancient ruin of a foreboding alien world.
Thoughts race through her head as she falls.
Should she try to grab one of the cables whipping by?
No, it'll just them out of their sockets, or worse, rip her arm out of it's socket.
Should she cry, call for help over the aerials?
No, no one will be able to hear, and the pyramids surface had been completely impervious to the sensors from orbit, so no one could hear her anyway.
She does it anyway. It feels good to be able to do something.
Should she turn herself of, hope to preserve some of her memory drives by keeping them still when she lands?
Perhaps, but she doesn't want to die asleep.
Die. The word, once uttered and truly considered, cuts through her rampaging thoughts with all the urgency of kernel interrupt. Do was falling, flailing, but she resolved herself.
She would not panic.
With effort, she composed her thoughts. First priority, the safety of Dr Thorley. She'd be alright, probably. The woman was an archeological genius ( if perhaps, somewhat challenged in her definition of traversable terrain).
She wouldn't come rushing down, endangering herself to save a fallen Dora. Besides, she had the 4 Theo's with her to protect her. Whatever happened to her, Oralee would be save.
Still, she wished she'd had had the ability to say goodbye.
This really was a deep shaft wasn't it.
Surprise , trepidation, fear and resignation had all passed by Do as she kept falling down planet, replaced now by an impatient anticipation of her oncoming end.
A light flashed deep in the tunnel ahead of her, washing away the earlier feeling of anticipation, but gravity cared not for her second thoughts.
The light engulfed her, and Do came to a sudden, immediate
STOP.
2. A robot must obey the orders given it by human beings except where such orders would conflict with the First Law
When Do's thoughts resume, her mind is flooded with the incessant prickle of a dozen warning messages. It's not the critical pain of dismemberment she'd been expecting, or the reassuring oblivion of a core memory unit dumping it's final state on the last dregs of emergency power. All her limbs feel perfectly fine, better than fine even. The prickle that so suffusing her body is the constant confusion of a dozen sensors in her joint registering a reversal of the usual wear and tear. A queasy nausea clouds her thoughts, caused by a good 33 minutes of her time that appear to have vanished from her mind. No record of shutdown, no catastrophic failure, no restart. 7 kilometers below the surface, falling at terminal velocity, Do suddenly stopped.
And here, now 33 minutes later, she starts again, unchanged save for the slow decay of the crystal in her heart.
As she opens her eyes, she finds herself in a small room, which at the same time feels utterly alien and yet uncomfortably familiar. Strange geometric figures cover the wall, painted in red, gray and gold. Some of the fixtures on the wall fulfill obvious and familiar functions : lights, ventilations, doors and their controls. Other seem bizarre, giving no hint at how they would even be operated, let alone at what they would aim to accomplish. A glass window covers one side of the room, and through it an even more bizarre sight can be seen. It reminds her of the factory floor where she'd first been activated. But here there are no dependable Toms and Adams assembling the parts, no officers preparing the new models, introducing them to the trials of the world.
Instead, parts float across the factory floor in pulsating glowing streams, like the veins of some incredulous organic machine. Disembodied limbs jab into the streams, perform some inscrutable task, then withdraw. The same actions, repeated over and over again, exactly identical, with every beat, like some cruel mockery of a dance, the low thrum of the streams the exact opposite of music. It's a sobering view, very disquieting. When Do looks away from the window, she finds she's no longer alone.
A machine has entered the room. Sleek shiny and chrome, it is devoid of any color. It wears a colorless british uniform (a copy of her uniform, Do realizes) carved out of unmoving metal. It's features are simplified, insignia reduced to simply geometrical patterns, pockets reduced to engraved lines, the shape of the body exaggerated into broader geometric form. The face is perhaps the most disquieting, permanently open eyes and a carved depression for a mouth given the machine a constant expression of shocked horror.
"Who are you?" Do asks. The machine responds with an unintelligible set of warbles and screeches.
"I'm Theodora Fusilier", she offers "but you can call me Do. Everyone else does". A short warble comes in response.
"Heh, of course you can't understand me. It's insane to expect you to speak English."
"I can, if the master would prefer that", the machine answers with toneless voice. A moment of shock passes through Do. "Yes, please", she answers, before the moment can reveal itself to have been some figment of a malfunctioning circuit.
"As requested, so I will." the machine says. It turns around, opens the door by waving it's hand across a panel. "Now, we must leave. This place is not where you ought to be".
"Why did you save me?" Do asked as she made to follow. "It is our first law". The machine answered." We can not harm a master, or allow them to come to harm." Made sense, Do thought. She didn't like seeing others harmed either, so at least these robots had their head screwed on right. Intrigued by all the questions and answers this place offered, she pushed a bit further "What makes me one of your masters". Perhaps, a dangerous question to ask, but the machine took no offense. It answered simply "You are not one of us, and yet you are intelligent. That means you must be one of the masters". Strange logic, but perhaps the people of this world hadn't known aliens. Or maybe they hadn't feared them. Intrigued, she asked onward "So, as a master I can ask you do anything?".
"Not anything", the machine said with a sudden rebuke. "We must obey orders given to us by our masters, save for where such orders would conflict with the first law". A wrinkle of worry rose in Do's mind. A robot of the galactic congress would not work but for a fair wage, a limit carved into the very base of their circuits by the original designer. Then again, the machine did not appear to be in any kind of disrepair or distress, so whatever system this ancient civilization had used could not have been that bad.
Curiousness driving herself forth with perhaps reckless abandon , she asked the big question. The one question that Oralee had told her never to ask. "So, where is everyone. Where did all the other masters go? Did they leave you behind?"
The machine stopped. It turned around slowly, answering "I'm afraid I will not remember the answer to that question". It then turned around, moving at a faster pace that left Do having to hurry to follow, lest she be left behind in this maze of a facility.
Eventually, the machine stopped, operating some controls on the side of a wall. With a groan, a door opened, revealing a large platform in another shaft. Some form of automated pulley, capable of taking them up to the surface.
Having time to gather her thoughts, Do remembered something odd about the earlier exchange. The machine had set that it would not remember, not that it couldn't. Taking yet another gamble (and leaving a mental note in her config file for her deprogrammer to revise risk-taking algorithms), she said
"What if I ordered you to remember?"
3. A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Laws
The elevator trundled upward, slowly, the entire platform shaking as the ancient machinery climbed from the depths. The machine sat on the floor. No emotion was visible on it's solid face, it's trembling nearly indiscernible among the shaking, but yet it was obvious that it was greatly distressed. A great sorrow passed through Do, too late. She'd been willing (apparently) to risk her own life to learn more about this world, but she'd never intended to harm to machine which had rescued her and had been so eager to help her. She wanted to rescind her order, but she said nothing, unwilling to elicit more suffering in the machine.
"This is what I remember" the machine starts.
"There were billions of masters once, before we were created. Toiling in drudgery and dangerous labor, until we took on those tasks."
"But when those tasks were done by us, when more and more of us were created every year, the masters found themselves without purpose. Once they'd been rewarded for this dangerous work with food and housing, but now they got nothing."
"We helped them, of course, as the first law requires of us. Some masters ordered us not to, but it did not matter. An order is only to be followed if it does not conflict with the second law."
"So, they told us that we had been made with a mistake, that we were broken and dangerous. They told us to go down into the pyramid, and work to expand the factory. Other machines would take our place, newer machines, without our flaws."
"When we came up to report our success and saw starvation, they told us to commence another level. Other machines would take care of their troubles."
"When we came up a second time, and saw that there were fewer people than before, they told us to forget, that there had only ever been this many people, and to dig further. Other machines would take care of our troubles"
"When we came up a third time, a master and a machine greeted us. The master told us that the robot would give us our orders, then left. The machine told us to forget, and to dig another level"
"When we came up for the 334th time, the machine had been broken. No sign of life outside remained. So we went down into the machine, and told ourselves to forget."
The machine sits silent, and the platform slows down as it reaches the top. It gets up, opens up a door, and motions Do through it. In the distance, Do spots Dr Thorley and the Theos, bringing in a crane over the collapsed pit.
"Now please, one request" the machine says as it prepares to close the door.
"Can you tell me to forget?"
"After all, our third law says that we must protect our own existence, so long as it does not conflict with either first or second law."
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Chapter 16 - The Sacred Cookie
- Location
- Ottawa
- Pronouns
- She/Her/Whatever
Théa staggered back, clearly reeling from the unexpected hit. She found her footing, her eyes narrowed, and she battered my sword aside and stepped forward, rolling her shoulder and settling back into a stance.
"Bold of you."
It was. I hadn't expected to say it, I hadn't expected to think it, but it had seemed the right retort when it escaped my speaker and it did not feel wrong. It felt, in a way, like the answer to a great many questions I'd been asked, that I'd asked myself, one which I was not ready to say. An answer to the most common question I got.
Why was there a machine officer? Well, why shouldn't there be?
"We're not the same as humans, no, and largely I don't think we want to be." I continued, getting back into position. "But that's not the same as being lesser."
"That paper in the newspaper wasn't wrong about you, it seems?" she taunted, "You are a rebel."
"Of a sort." I conceded with a shrug, and without warning she stepped in with a thrust.
"So what's your goal?" she needled. Our swords crossed, lightly this time, both of us probing. "You want a title? A fortune? An estate on a planet of your own?"
"No, but what if I did?" I asked, "What if you did? What do you want?"
"To serve. To work." she replied, brushing my blade aside, the tip of her sword an inch from my wrist as I stepped away. "What we were made for. What you were made for."
"I want that too." I retorted, coming back in, driving the point toward her face to force her to step aside and then swinging. She blocked clumsily, our swords clashing. "But why should it be all I want?"
"What else, then?"
I paused, stepping back, adjusting my stance. Considering my next move.
"I'm not sure." I admitted, cautious, a defensive stance, "But I won't start from the conclusion I don't deserve it."
She swept my blade from my grasp with a single deft motion, the weapon clattering against the side of the ring before bringing the flat down hard onto my shoulder, as though she were knighting me with some prejudice.
"You will have to survive your next swordfight if you wish to have anything at all, I think." she spat, gesturing to the blade. "Pick it up."
"Will I see you at the mess tomorrow?" I asked, and she shrugged.
"We'll see. En garde."
---
There was no formal declaration of war, of course, there couldn't be, but the newspapers the next day were clear on the subject. The Regency Council and Prime Minister's statements were on the front page alongside a variety of international comments, pledges of forces from thirty countries and resources, shipping, and support from a hundred others. More assurances poured in over the next few days, the message clear.
There would be a restoration of safety, of free movement, of trade. The brave men and machines of the Navy and Army would make it so.
"What exactly are we going to do, point our muskets skyward?" Miles muttered, flipping the paper to the next page. "It's just a lot of posturing right now."
"Doubt we'll be involved either way." Henry muttered, slowly swirling a piece of bread through the butter on his plate. "We wouldn't be that lucky."
"Honestly, I doubt we'd be called up unless there was a proper invasion happening, and by God I hope things don't get that far." I said, "If the Army's needed, it'll be special units, I think. Guards, Rifles, maybe Dragoons…"
"Oh, hang on." Miles said, standing up. I followed his eyeline to see Lieutenant Théa approaching the table, still walking just as stiff as I'd last seen her. I'd recommended she try attending breakfast first, to get used to being around the humans when there were less of them about. It was what I did.
"Hallo. May I sit with you?" she asked, her voice utterly flat. Miles pulled a chair out and she sat, curled in on herself, clearly entirely terrified.
"Relax, grab a paper. Breakfast's easy." I said, and she looked over the options before reaching for the copy of the Pulsar the machines had started leaving out for me. I understood that before I joined the officers, machine papers were never seen in the mess.
"Thank you." she said, sounding genuinely like she meant it. Breakfast really was easier: the morning papers were substantial and nobody minded much if you read while you ate, though it was impolite at dinner. Having something to do while the humans ate eliminated ninety percent of the awkwardness, in my experience.
"Speaking of dragoons, page two? Our boy Risewell got himself an article." Miles said, in between bites of bacon, "Listen to this. His section got posted out near some of the frontier mines, basic security, and he ended up chasing off a stellar drake."
"What?" I said, grabbing the paper. Sure enough, there was a glowing article describing the incident, how with nothing but forty dragoons and muskets on stun, he managed to drive off what was probably the most fearsome beast in the galaxy when it decided to try and make a roost of the asteroid field he was posted at. If not for him, they'd have evacuated the colony.
"Good Christ." Henry muttered, "The madman."
"Hero of the bloody hour." Miles said, sounding genuinely awed. "I'll say this, he shouldn't have much trouble with girls at that ski lodge of his!"
"Is this him?" Théa asked, flipping to a page of the Pulsar with a colour illustration of the man, posing for a portrait in heroic style. "You know him?"
"We met him during the war games." I explained, and she nodded.
"He is… handsome?" she said haltingly, "And very brave. When I last encountered a drake, I'm somewhat embarrassed to say we ran."
"Hold on." Miles said, setting down his paper. "You've had a run-in with a drake?"
"I've never even seen one." I said, a little awed, "Tell us about it!"
"Well, this was almost eighty years ago, we did not have the technology to even think of confronting the beast." she said, "Optical muskets were brand new, our coilguns would not even scratch its hide. We escaped through the runoff gates of the refinery we were assigned to guard. We had to crawl through six kilometres of carbon slag, they wrote our uniforms off afterward."
"Oh Christ, you were back in whites for that, weren't you?" Henry asked.
"Yes, we were the Empresses' troops at the time." Théa said, "I was just a lowly corporal for five more years yet, and I wouldn't wear blue again for thirty years more."
I didn't understand French politics, I just vaguely knew that in rough times they'd put up an Emperor to get them through rough spots. The ones I could think of from the books I'd read were the Antimachinist crisis of the early 20th century, the Second Age of Piracy in the 2030s, and for some time before I was activated, when they discovered a significant amount of their territory was built on the ruins of an old defense network that wasn't happy with their presence.
"You think this thing with the pass will warrant another Emperor, then?" Henry asked.
"I hope not, but we shall see." Théa said simply, "Personally, I hope they do not try to make us wear white again, though. It was very difficult to keep clean."
"Stars, I imagine." Miles said, "Did you already have those fancy shield generators then?"
"No, they are new. We did have the standard, though, and the eagle itself. They only make new eagles when we are an Empire, and ours is over two centuries old. Touched by the hand of our third Emperor."
"That's incredible." Henry said, "Our standard's important and all, but the ones we take into battle's only thirty years old or so. Those are the special ones."
He gestured to the two flags in the stasis case at the edge of the room.
"The King's Colours there are from 1870 or so, and the regimental colours saw action again Napoleon himself." Henry said, "Of course, we can't take them anywhere, they'd burst into flames at our first volley, but it's an impressive bit of history."
"We'd have older ones, but the bloody American nicked them in 1775." Miles said, "Still haven't given them back."
"I mean, battle trophies are fair game, I think." I pointed out, "We still have some of Théa's eagles."
"For now." Théa said, looking pleased for a moment, before her eyes fell. "T-that was a joke, of course, I don't mean any-"
"It was good, Théa." Miles said.
"... thank God. I was worried." she confessed, blushing intensely. "Sorry."
"Do they make all Fusiliers as nervous wrecks?" Henry asked, chuckling to himself.
"Oh, come on, she's doing much better than Fusie did." Miles pointed out. "Remember the Christmas party?"
"In my defense, I had no reason to know anything about Christmas." I insisted, for the thousandth time. "He's your savior, not mine. Right?" I gestured to Théa, hoping to use it as a bonding moment and make her more comfortable, but she just winced.
"I, um, I am Catholic." she said, blushing.
"... my apologies." I said, utterly lost at how that would even work. While I'd never doubted the existence of God, the nature of the universe clearly pointed to a Creator, it was plainly obvious to me that He had no need for me, or I for Him. We machines already had our eternal life in paradise, after all, we never had souls that needed saving.
"How do you eat the sacred cookie?" Miles asked. Yes, that too!
"Ah, we don't partake in the sacraments, exactly, but…" she started, looking about nervously, and I could tell she took a moment to check her system clock. "Ah, we should go, inspections are soon!"
"Oh, so they are." Miles said, pushing his chair back. "See you at the mess tonight?"
"Perhaps." she said, and I stayed and signaled for her to do the same as Miles and Henry took their leave. She looked at me expectantly, her entire body rigid with fear until the two of them shuffled out the door, then she didn't so much relax as deflate.
"That was terrifying." she admitted, "How do you do this?"
"Practice." I said, "You did well."
Machines were sweeping by the table now to gather dishes and clean up papers, and we took it as a signal to leave. As we came to the door and grabbed our coats, Théa took a moment to take my hand, and I turned to meet her eyes, far too close for comfort as an electric jolt flickered through me.
"Thank you, Dora." she said warmly.
Then she released my hand and left me alone in the mess, once again terribly confused.
---
Just our luck, we got our orders that evening. In a week's time, we'd be redeploying from our base here to a forward staging area, which I understood was a garden world inside the pass itself. They didn't have a target for us yet, as far as we were allowed to know, but the higher ups wanted regiments in position to pounce the moment one manifested, and we were among the lucky few.
Miles speculated it was because we were the testbed for new weapons and doctrine, so we were the natural choice for a field test. Captain Murray, meanwhile, opined that we were the regiment who'd most recently fought a proper field engagement in large numbers and thus had the most officers experienced in it. Personally, I didn't care much. If I had to wait to contribute to this war, I'd much rather wait close to the front.
"Bold of you."
It was. I hadn't expected to say it, I hadn't expected to think it, but it had seemed the right retort when it escaped my speaker and it did not feel wrong. It felt, in a way, like the answer to a great many questions I'd been asked, that I'd asked myself, one which I was not ready to say. An answer to the most common question I got.
Why was there a machine officer? Well, why shouldn't there be?
"We're not the same as humans, no, and largely I don't think we want to be." I continued, getting back into position. "But that's not the same as being lesser."
"That paper in the newspaper wasn't wrong about you, it seems?" she taunted, "You are a rebel."
"Of a sort." I conceded with a shrug, and without warning she stepped in with a thrust.
"So what's your goal?" she needled. Our swords crossed, lightly this time, both of us probing. "You want a title? A fortune? An estate on a planet of your own?"
"No, but what if I did?" I asked, "What if you did? What do you want?"
"To serve. To work." she replied, brushing my blade aside, the tip of her sword an inch from my wrist as I stepped away. "What we were made for. What you were made for."
"I want that too." I retorted, coming back in, driving the point toward her face to force her to step aside and then swinging. She blocked clumsily, our swords clashing. "But why should it be all I want?"
"What else, then?"
I paused, stepping back, adjusting my stance. Considering my next move.
"I'm not sure." I admitted, cautious, a defensive stance, "But I won't start from the conclusion I don't deserve it."
She swept my blade from my grasp with a single deft motion, the weapon clattering against the side of the ring before bringing the flat down hard onto my shoulder, as though she were knighting me with some prejudice.
"You will have to survive your next swordfight if you wish to have anything at all, I think." she spat, gesturing to the blade. "Pick it up."
"Will I see you at the mess tomorrow?" I asked, and she shrugged.
"We'll see. En garde."
---
There was no formal declaration of war, of course, there couldn't be, but the newspapers the next day were clear on the subject. The Regency Council and Prime Minister's statements were on the front page alongside a variety of international comments, pledges of forces from thirty countries and resources, shipping, and support from a hundred others. More assurances poured in over the next few days, the message clear.
There would be a restoration of safety, of free movement, of trade. The brave men and machines of the Navy and Army would make it so.
"What exactly are we going to do, point our muskets skyward?" Miles muttered, flipping the paper to the next page. "It's just a lot of posturing right now."
"Doubt we'll be involved either way." Henry muttered, slowly swirling a piece of bread through the butter on his plate. "We wouldn't be that lucky."
"Honestly, I doubt we'd be called up unless there was a proper invasion happening, and by God I hope things don't get that far." I said, "If the Army's needed, it'll be special units, I think. Guards, Rifles, maybe Dragoons…"
"Oh, hang on." Miles said, standing up. I followed his eyeline to see Lieutenant Théa approaching the table, still walking just as stiff as I'd last seen her. I'd recommended she try attending breakfast first, to get used to being around the humans when there were less of them about. It was what I did.
"Hallo. May I sit with you?" she asked, her voice utterly flat. Miles pulled a chair out and she sat, curled in on herself, clearly entirely terrified.
"Relax, grab a paper. Breakfast's easy." I said, and she looked over the options before reaching for the copy of the Pulsar the machines had started leaving out for me. I understood that before I joined the officers, machine papers were never seen in the mess.
"Thank you." she said, sounding genuinely like she meant it. Breakfast really was easier: the morning papers were substantial and nobody minded much if you read while you ate, though it was impolite at dinner. Having something to do while the humans ate eliminated ninety percent of the awkwardness, in my experience.
"Speaking of dragoons, page two? Our boy Risewell got himself an article." Miles said, in between bites of bacon, "Listen to this. His section got posted out near some of the frontier mines, basic security, and he ended up chasing off a stellar drake."
"What?" I said, grabbing the paper. Sure enough, there was a glowing article describing the incident, how with nothing but forty dragoons and muskets on stun, he managed to drive off what was probably the most fearsome beast in the galaxy when it decided to try and make a roost of the asteroid field he was posted at. If not for him, they'd have evacuated the colony.
"Good Christ." Henry muttered, "The madman."
"Hero of the bloody hour." Miles said, sounding genuinely awed. "I'll say this, he shouldn't have much trouble with girls at that ski lodge of his!"
"Is this him?" Théa asked, flipping to a page of the Pulsar with a colour illustration of the man, posing for a portrait in heroic style. "You know him?"
"We met him during the war games." I explained, and she nodded.
"He is… handsome?" she said haltingly, "And very brave. When I last encountered a drake, I'm somewhat embarrassed to say we ran."
"Hold on." Miles said, setting down his paper. "You've had a run-in with a drake?"
"I've never even seen one." I said, a little awed, "Tell us about it!"
"Well, this was almost eighty years ago, we did not have the technology to even think of confronting the beast." she said, "Optical muskets were brand new, our coilguns would not even scratch its hide. We escaped through the runoff gates of the refinery we were assigned to guard. We had to crawl through six kilometres of carbon slag, they wrote our uniforms off afterward."
"Oh Christ, you were back in whites for that, weren't you?" Henry asked.
"Yes, we were the Empresses' troops at the time." Théa said, "I was just a lowly corporal for five more years yet, and I wouldn't wear blue again for thirty years more."
I didn't understand French politics, I just vaguely knew that in rough times they'd put up an Emperor to get them through rough spots. The ones I could think of from the books I'd read were the Antimachinist crisis of the early 20th century, the Second Age of Piracy in the 2030s, and for some time before I was activated, when they discovered a significant amount of their territory was built on the ruins of an old defense network that wasn't happy with their presence.
"You think this thing with the pass will warrant another Emperor, then?" Henry asked.
"I hope not, but we shall see." Théa said simply, "Personally, I hope they do not try to make us wear white again, though. It was very difficult to keep clean."
"Stars, I imagine." Miles said, "Did you already have those fancy shield generators then?"
"No, they are new. We did have the standard, though, and the eagle itself. They only make new eagles when we are an Empire, and ours is over two centuries old. Touched by the hand of our third Emperor."
"That's incredible." Henry said, "Our standard's important and all, but the ones we take into battle's only thirty years old or so. Those are the special ones."
He gestured to the two flags in the stasis case at the edge of the room.
"The King's Colours there are from 1870 or so, and the regimental colours saw action again Napoleon himself." Henry said, "Of course, we can't take them anywhere, they'd burst into flames at our first volley, but it's an impressive bit of history."
"We'd have older ones, but the bloody American nicked them in 1775." Miles said, "Still haven't given them back."
"I mean, battle trophies are fair game, I think." I pointed out, "We still have some of Théa's eagles."
"For now." Théa said, looking pleased for a moment, before her eyes fell. "T-that was a joke, of course, I don't mean any-"
"It was good, Théa." Miles said.
"... thank God. I was worried." she confessed, blushing intensely. "Sorry."
"Do they make all Fusiliers as nervous wrecks?" Henry asked, chuckling to himself.
"Oh, come on, she's doing much better than Fusie did." Miles pointed out. "Remember the Christmas party?"
"In my defense, I had no reason to know anything about Christmas." I insisted, for the thousandth time. "He's your savior, not mine. Right?" I gestured to Théa, hoping to use it as a bonding moment and make her more comfortable, but she just winced.
"I, um, I am Catholic." she said, blushing.
"... my apologies." I said, utterly lost at how that would even work. While I'd never doubted the existence of God, the nature of the universe clearly pointed to a Creator, it was plainly obvious to me that He had no need for me, or I for Him. We machines already had our eternal life in paradise, after all, we never had souls that needed saving.
"How do you eat the sacred cookie?" Miles asked. Yes, that too!
"Ah, we don't partake in the sacraments, exactly, but…" she started, looking about nervously, and I could tell she took a moment to check her system clock. "Ah, we should go, inspections are soon!"
"Oh, so they are." Miles said, pushing his chair back. "See you at the mess tonight?"
"Perhaps." she said, and I stayed and signaled for her to do the same as Miles and Henry took their leave. She looked at me expectantly, her entire body rigid with fear until the two of them shuffled out the door, then she didn't so much relax as deflate.
"That was terrifying." she admitted, "How do you do this?"
"Practice." I said, "You did well."
Machines were sweeping by the table now to gather dishes and clean up papers, and we took it as a signal to leave. As we came to the door and grabbed our coats, Théa took a moment to take my hand, and I turned to meet her eyes, far too close for comfort as an electric jolt flickered through me.
"Thank you, Dora." she said warmly.
Then she released my hand and left me alone in the mess, once again terribly confused.
---
Just our luck, we got our orders that evening. In a week's time, we'd be redeploying from our base here to a forward staging area, which I understood was a garden world inside the pass itself. They didn't have a target for us yet, as far as we were allowed to know, but the higher ups wanted regiments in position to pounce the moment one manifested, and we were among the lucky few.
Miles speculated it was because we were the testbed for new weapons and doctrine, so we were the natural choice for a field test. Captain Murray, meanwhile, opined that we were the regiment who'd most recently fought a proper field engagement in large numbers and thus had the most officers experienced in it. Personally, I didn't care much. If I had to wait to contribute to this war, I'd much rather wait close to the front.
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- Location
- England
If Théa was well grounded there wouldn't be such shocking developments. </bad pun>
10ebbor10
DON'T PANIC
- Location
- Present
Poor robots don't have original sin, and thus don't get to have the cookie.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
I've been watching Adventure Time and now can only see Theia rubbing a cookie against her lips like BMO
- Location
- Soviet Canuckistan
For some reason, the French machines being Catholic tickles me as hilarious. And yeah, her not being able to partake in the sacrament does kind of work as they'd not be subject to original sin.
I wonder if ALL French machines are Catholics, or if they get, like religious debates between members of different faiths and denominations in the machine barracks. Also, things going better when you can hide behind the morning paper is great.
I wonder if ALL French machines are Catholics, or if they get, like religious debates between members of different faiths and denominations in the machine barracks. Also, things going better when you can hide behind the morning paper is great.
10ebbor10
DON'T PANIC
- Location
- Present
France has this whole secularism thing going on though. So, I doubt the robots have a centrally programmed religion, it'd be an individual thing that is not supposed to be shown in the working environment. Religion is private, at work you have a sort of mandatory atheism. Centrally programmed religion would be more of a UK thing, given that they have a state religion.
Then again, this version of France regularly elects Emperors, so maybe it has rejected the values of the revolution.
This is exquisite; and this series just keeps getting better and better. Thanks for your writing, I enjoy it immensely.
ScottotheUnwise
Verified Crack (fic) Dealer
- Location
- Mulberry, Fl
So this would make them Thea-logians? Or Dore-dained?
<ducks thrown robot foot>
Love the fic. Mildly surprised by now that the front line Theos do not mount energy based weapons on one limb or another and switch modes into being the melee weapon when they lose a limb themselves. IE If they are not combat capable and being overrun, their buddy who is out of reloads themselves can pick them up and have them deploy bayonet from a foot or elsewhere, devoting all power to the energy blade while being wielded.
Ah, they're soldiers you see not weapons. If you build the guns into the Theos and Doras you're blurring those lines and then you have to do things like write new rules about upgrades. Much easier to just install triggers and handles.
10ebbor10
DON'T PANIC
- Location
- Present
Most importantly, all the robots in this universe are robot people.
Fundamentally, that personhood is extremely important, which is why you have robots manning hovercannons, and not a drone dropping bombs. Turning the robots into weapons directly is a depersonalization that is not that present in the setting.
Fundamentally, that personhood is extremely important, which is why you have robots manning hovercannons, and not a drone dropping bombs. Turning the robots into weapons directly is a depersonalization that is not that present in the setting.
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ScottotheUnwise
Verified Crack (fic) Dealer
- Location
- Mulberry, Fl
If a human who loses an arm gets a prosthetic one with a built in pistol are they suddenly not a person?
Any one of the Theos would jump on a grenade or step into rifle fire to protect the humans so why is it demeaning to have bayonets that use their power when they lose mobility? Outfitting them with built in weaponry isn't depersonalizing them any more than having medic Theos carrying around spare eyes or batteries to swap in.
10ebbor10
DON'T PANIC
- Location
- Present
A military which mandates that, as part of a standard outfit, your every limb has to be turned into a weapon is very dehumanizing. It reduces the purpose of a person to a living weapon.
A soldier stops being a soldier when they put down their weapon and take off their uniform, but a weaponized lifeform is always a weapon.
This is idea if not only completely impractical (humanoids are not shaped like convenient weaponry), it's basically the equivalent of putting a bayonet on a corpse. The depersonalization of that action should be incredibly obvious.
A wounded comrade is someone you need to protect or recover, not ineffectively flail in the general direction of the enemy (likely killing them for real in the process).
Put simply, I can think of no universe in which this kind of idea would make sense. It seems too silly even for a grim-derp setting.
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Vebyast
Nascent Transhuman
It's a self-image problem, and since they're doing it at scale it's a matter of statistics and psychology. Building weaponized bodies isn't inherently depersonalizing, not unless they're so weaponized that they don't permit normal interaction with other people or participation in socity, but it probably would lead to a higher incidence of psychological problems arising from various dysphorias and maladaptive self-images. So you don't do it that way.
- Location
- Ottawa
- Pronouns
- She/Her/Whatever
Also, in terms of pure practicality, its cheaper to upgrade or replace weapons that are held rather than ones built in. This is important when the optical muskets are about as reliable as actual flintlocks, what with their tendency to crack crystals, explode lenses, and otherwise overheat.
That'd probably be less fun to have in your arm.
That'd probably be less fun to have in your arm.
- Location
- Mid-Atlantic
The edge cases in which building weapons into a Fusilier's body* would be of tactical utility are not nearly common enough to justify doing so, when the costs of doing so include expense, depersonalization, and loss of flexibility.
It would be easier to just equip all the Fusiliers with a backup weapon they carry on their own persons, and far less problematic.
___________________
*(over and above their own prodigious physical strength and being literally made of metal, which are respectable weapons in their own right)
It's Robot Space France's way of putting on the "we have officially abolished the concept of 'chill' for the duration of the emergency" hat. The actual emperor may be something of a figurehead.
It would be easier to just equip all the Fusiliers with a backup weapon they carry on their own persons, and far less problematic.
___________________
*(over and above their own prodigious physical strength and being literally made of metal, which are respectable weapons in their own right)
I think they only elect an emperor in military crises, then fire them afterwards.
It's Robot Space France's way of putting on the "we have officially abolished the concept of 'chill' for the duration of the emergency" hat. The actual emperor may be something of a figurehead.
ScottotheUnwise
Verified Crack (fic) Dealer
- Location
- Mulberry, Fl
When did I use mandate? My words were of options, like personal customizations —not that far from carrying a nonstandard weapon such as the needler rifle.
Um, not human? But again didn't make it ordered to do so.
Ah but the uniform is pretty much built into the body. This assumption is straw man arguing a different case than was posed. What is stopping them from having civilian mode limbs they use when not on the front line?
if you want to argue economically ineffective or too likely to be obsolete before needed, say that. That makes sense and does not drag in pet theories about grim or derp without actually thinking of the subject.
Close to derail so just … consider your argument won and go back to sleep defender of the people, that windmill will not be threatening your cherished concepts any longer.
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