Lieutenant Fusilier in The Farthest Reaches

[open_sketch]

"Tailored, self-repairing, climate adjusted uniform, £120. Brass gorget with energy screen generator, £92 4s. Infantry sabre model 2160 with adjustable settings, £75 1s 6d. Space Pattern Infantry Laser Pistol of 2155, with engraved nameplate, £105. A tidy bill for an enlisted machine, Dora."

I snatched the invoice back from my friend's prying eyes, shaking my head.

"That's not the half of it. The commission will run me seven hundred pounds, because I'm jumping straight to Lieutenant." I said proudly. My previous service meant that I would mercifully get to skip the two year period as an Ensign, the rank for young officers where they were given absolutely no responsibilities but to stand by, learn from others, and perhaps carry a flag sometimes.

"Seven hundred? Dora, where are you getting this money?" April asked, shaking her head. "You're paid, what, three shillings a day?"

"Two shillings eleven pence. I saved for fourteen years just for the commission alone. The rest of it, plus supplementary expenses… I've been saving for most of my career." I explained.

"... I never thought you were serious! You're actually going to do this?"

April and I were long friends: we knew each other for nearly a quarter-century by this point. The 7th Regiment of Foot, my unit, had its headquarters in Antares City where April lived (she worked as a housemaid for the McMillan family's summer home), and whenever I rotated back we'd see each other.

She was also the only person I had to write to on my deployments.

"Of course I'm serious. Why do you think I never buy anything on our shopping expeditions? Why I haven't upgraded a thing since we met?" I explained, and she couldn't help but laugh.

"Stars, Dora, I just thought you were cheap!" she exclaimed, shaking her head, "So when do you go through with it? Soon, I imagine."

"I… hoped today." I said. "No point in waiting. I almost went straight from the dockyard to the office, but… I wanted to talk to you first."

"Oh?"

"It's… it's a big step, April. I've been working my whole life for this."

"Are you saying you're nervous, Dora? I thought soldiering machines couldn't get nervous." she teased, leaning elbows against the table as she did.

"Shut up, I'm not." I insisted, "It's just a big occasion. And I wanted to share it with a friend."

She leaned her head to the side, a smug look in her eyes.

"... and I could use the moral support." I admitted.

"Ha! But… glad to." she said, taking my hand. The contrast between her delicate porcelain fingers and the worn steel of my own was stark. "So… what are we waiting for?"

---

Normally, one would write to the headquarters office to petition for a chance to purchase. However, as I was billeted in the same city as the headquarters, I could simply go in person. I changed from my civies (a cheap brown dress of quite outdated style I'd worn maybe ten days total in the last decade) into my uniform, April helping me get everything as straight and shiny as she could, though there was only so much she could do to clean it up.

I'd just returned from four years in the coreward frontier, and UV radiation had bleached my uniform from its original dark red to an off-pink, worn through at the joints. All of my fellows had spent their pay getting their uniforms repaired or replaced, and I somewhat regretted not doing the same, but frankly, my budget was being stretched as it was. I had exactly the money I needed and not one pence more.

So there I stood in front of the doors to the manor that served as the headquarters in a salmon uniform, with boots worn through near to the heels and patches on my knees and elbows. April could go no further than this, but she put a steadying hand on my shoulder and nodded, and I opened the door.

Inside was a lavishly decorated receiving hall with a desk, at which a trio of nearly-identical secretaries were working. I walked to the desk at sharp attention, doing my best not to flee. I'd stood my ground against charging alien beasts and plasma blasts of ancient automated defense guns, put my life at risk countless times in my thirty-three years, but I'd never felt more like running than in this moment.

"Hello, Sergeant! How can I help you?" the secretary asked, her eyes friendly and welcoming behind the magnifying lenses she wore. There was constant sound behind the desk, papers being shuffled and the clack of the chains from their glasses as their heads moved.

"I… would like to submit my name for consideration in… in the purchase of a commission for the rank of Lieutenant. In the 7th if they'll have me, but anywhere else if not."

The sounds stopped, and all three of the secretaries looked at me oddly. The first looked over her glasses at me with a quizzical eyebrow raised.

"This isn't a joke, is it?" she asked, and my heart sank.

"N-no, miss. I'm very serious. I have the necessary capital and I'm ready to fill out the paperwork." I said, trying to keep my voice from breaking.

The three machines looked to one another, clearly confused, and then the one I was speaking to indicated to a chair.

"Will you please sit and wait? We need to process this." she said. I nodded, walked stiffly to my chair, and sat, staring at the floor, feeling the seconds count off on my internal clock. One of the secretaries immediately got up in a fast walk and disappeared down the hall.

With nothing better to do, I looked around the room, at all the war paintings, captured banners, officer's portraits, and awards. The 7th Regiment of Foot was four hundred and eighty-three years old, having been founded in 1685. It had fought in the Nine Years War, the War of Spanish Succession, the American revolt, and against Napoleon. They'd raided the pirate city of Port Nowhere in the rings of Saturn, held the line at Fomalhaut when ancient war machines had probed the edge of the frontier, and helped fight back the ambulatory fungal blight on Tadgania IV. There were few regiments in the galaxy as honoured, as decorated.

All along the walls were a timeline of battles rendered in paintings, from the earliest days to now. Lines of men at the Battle of Walcourt escorting their guns, bracing for a charge by American rebels at Monmouth, drawn into square at Talavera. From there, the faces began to change, the humans in the line replaced with steel and glass, marching bold and bulletproof into the breach of the pirate port, firing in ranks four deep at the tide of alien horrors.

Every figure in the line, a machine.

Every figure leading them, a human.

Twelve minutes and thirty-two seconds passed when I heard her feet clacking down the marble.

"Sergeant, please follow me to the Lieutenant Colonel's office." the secretary said, and got up, trying not to move too clumsily or slow or fast as I made my way down the hall. She rapped on the door, and then opened it and showed me inside.

There, behind a magnificent wooden desk and an ocean of paperwork, was Lt. Colonel Lawrence Hillard Harrison.

"At ease, Sergeant." the man said, and I did my best, but I was very much not at ease.

Lt. Col Harrison was the regiment's commanding officer. He'd been a lieutenant when I'd been activated, and he'd commanded the regiment for a decade now, refusing any attempt to promote him to a staff position. He was sixty-eight, the first wrinkles and grey hairs starting to appear, his features bold and noble. He was in every way the ideal officer.

He had a look on his face I could only describe as one of pity.

"Sergeant, ah, Theodora-110552." he said, "I've been informed you wish to submit your name for officer candidacy."

"Yes sir, that is correct." I replied.

"Hmm. I have here your service record, and it's really quite impressive. Sergeant in only thirty-three years, Distinguished Conduct Medal at Fomalhaut, my stars, that was you? Commendations for bravery, good standing… you're a model soldier."

"Yes sir. Nineteenth production run model, sir." I said, and then immediately cringed. Why did I try to make a joke?

"You still look the part, too. All the Doras looked like you when I was commissioned. I imagine you've been saving up this whole time?"

"After my first few years, yes sir. Once I'd read up on the requirements." I said.

"You must understand my concern, Sergeant. It isn't that I doubt your qualifications, we take in teenagers that can barely march a mile and call them Ensigns, I'd kill to fill out my junior officers with machines of your calibre. I just fear you aren't built for it."

"Of course, sir." I said. I feared that too.

"There's been no more than a half-dozen machine officers in the entire history of the British Army, you know that? None of their services are particularly exemplary, and to my knowledge, all but one resigned their commissions within the decade and rejoined the ranks. I would much rather have you happy as an NCO than miserable as a lieutenant."

Well… that was that, then.

"Yes sir." I said, waiting for him to dismiss me. Already thinking about how I ought to waste seven hundred pounds such to make up for decades of frugal living.

"Are you happy as a sergeant?" he asked.

That, I had not been expecting.

Was I happy? As any machine, I suppose. I loved the work, I cared deeply for my responsibilities, and I very much could not even imagine any life for me other than under the colours. I went to bed at the end of every day feeling accomplished, proud, and part of something. I was, quite literally, made to be a soldier.

But I was not content. Many of my comrades would be overjoyed to be sergeant at thirty-three, to be on track for Colour Sergeant before my first half-century. There were machines in the 7th who were more than a century old who'd never moved past private and had no ambition to, who were happy with their work every day and probably would until the stars went out. They'd stand and fight and be destroyed with joy in their circuits if it meant protecting human life and that's all they needed.

But from my first inspection, fresh out of the box, I had looked at Ensign Winters checking us over and thought, one day, that'll be me.

"I am not unhappy, sir, but it is not where I wish to stay." I said honestly. The Lieutenant Colonel sank back in his chair, contemplating a moment, and then he slid a stack of papers to me.

"We have three vacancies right now as we reform the 9th company, so you're in luck. This is the necessary paperwork and the Lieutenant's exam. Complete it and return it here, I recommend you do so before the next deployment. Good luck, Sergeant Dora."

"Thank you, sir." I said, taking the paperwork, saluting, and moving out of the door as fast as my legs would take me. April drew me into a hug as I explained I'd managed it.

"So, are you an officer now?" she asked, "Are you Lieutenant Dora?"

"No, I still have to actually do all the paperwork and exam, and even then they could still reject me for reasons of character or… or, well, whatever reason they think." I explained.

"For being a machine, you mean." she said, "They'll be passing up a good thing, you and I both know it. I can't imagine the Army would be so foolish."

"If you think the Army wouldn't do something foolish, you don't know anything about it." I joked, "And honestly, I'm counting on it. This sort of thing has never gone well before, but hopefully somebody in Army Headquarters is willing to gamble again."

April brought me to a library so I'd have a quiet place to work, and I began working my way through the sheets of paper while she curled up against the wall with a novel. The exam itself was child's play: It was just the basics of ranks, protocol, the role of officers on and off the field, and some extremely simple tactical questions, things an eighteen or nineteen year old officer with two years experience standing vaguely near soldiers ought to know.

It was the legal paperwork that was much more difficult.

It asked me for my given name and surname, and I wrote Theodora Fusilier after considering a while if my serial number counted as part of my name. I felt so stupid in that moment, writing down a name I shared with hundreds of thousands of my fellows as if it would distinguish me. After some hesitation, I listed the date of my activation as my date of birth, hoping those would be comparable. Correspondingly, I ended up listing Antares City as my place of birth, rather than the workshops in which I had been crafted.

For character references, I had none.

For family connections, I had none.

For next of kin, I had none.

For work history, I wrote Theodora Fusilier and listed my date of birth again.

I was required to write a letter explaining why I wished to become an officer, and I did so to the best of my abilities. Following was a list of Army regulations I knew by heart, a number of which I was physically incapable of violating, and I listed my home address as the 7th Regiment of Foot mail room so they could send a response.

Finally, I was asked to give banking information so my commission could be paid for, and at the bottom of the sheet was a place for a signature. I had only once ever before had to sign anything, the day I was activated: they still put a contract in front of you and gave you the option to refuse. I'd still never found out if any machine did: I couldn't imagine it.

Still, I wrote my name in the curviest script I knew how to produce, folded it into an envelope, and presented it to the secretaries. Then, still on leave for the rest of the day, April took me out to dance hall with her boyfriend, and I stood stock-still in the corner as the anxious anticipation chewed apart my processors. Outside the windows, I could see ships breaking from the station, fast clippers catching the solar winds and zipping off into the aether. One of those would have my application on it.

I hoped I'd get an answer soon.

----

Sixteen days later, I was helping to run volley drills, barking out orders to keep up a consistent and synchronized pace of volleys and changes in formation. As senior non-commissioned officer for the forty-machine section, it was my responsibility to manage such things. It was both training for the machines and, more importantly, for young Ensign Keiler watching from behind the line, trying to learn his place in the organization. They were cautiously moving up the parade ground when I saw a chance for a good learning experience.

"Dorothy, Isa, Teddy, you're dead!" I announced, and the three of them, clustered in front of Keiler, made a show of collapsing into the dirt with a variety of dramatic noises. The young Ensign, sixteen and perhaps a month in his commission, looked wide-eyed as he suddenly realized he could see the targets on the far side of the field, a field of holographic tetrapod machines with glowing plasma guns modelled on the Fomalhaut invaders. I counted to three as the line closed around him, and then I called for a halt.

"I'm afraid our young Ensign has died, and none of you did what you are supposed to!" I announced, and there was some grumbling. "Sergeant Terance, you're most to blame. What did you do wrong?"

"I didn't get the line closed up fast enough, I left a gap." the Sergeant said. Though ten years my senior, he'd just made the jump after the last deployment, and was still learning the ropes himself.

"Right you are, you barely glanced over! If you have to, physically pull the lads into position, so long as it gets done. But… Doras, Theos, you shouldn't need prompting. If there's a gap beside you, you need to fill it. Fyodor, why didn't you move?"

"Ah… I was trying to focus on my target, Sergeant." the machine replied in his thick accent. "It is easy to forget when you have them in your sights."

"Was your weapon recharged?" I asked.

"Nyet, Sergeant."

"Was the order to fire in volley or at will issued?"

"Nyet, Sergeant."

"Then it doesn't bloody matter where your target is!" I exclaimed, "It matters where you are, especially if it's next to a gap in the line. Would they tolerate such sloppiness in the Tsar's army?"

"Never, Sergeant." he said with conviction.

"Then don't do it here either!" I concluded, to the chuckles of the other soldiers.

Like most regiments, ours had a number of foreign machines, just as I knew there were a great many British machines in other services. Either it was an officer ordering from a foreign supplier, or a machine who'd signed up for an exchange as part of a diplomatic mission. There hadn't been a war between humans in more than two centuries now, and us machines rubbing shoulders kept it that way.

"That all said… Ensign, sir, this isn't all on them. You just stood there when you saw the gap wasn't closing. We'll do our best to keep you safe, but a battlefield is a confusing place, so you have to be on your guard. That means, if you can see the enemy, you keep calm and take a step to the side until there's a Theo in the way, alright?"

"Right, yes. Sorry, of course." he said, face red.

"Right on, sir. Let's run it again, shall we?"

Unfortunately, we'd only just gotten set back up when a runner pulled on my sleeve, saying I had an important message and it couldn't wait. I put Terance in charge for the time being and followed the private off to the field command post, anticipation and anxiety building with every step. I knew what this was about, and I was hopeful, but I couldn't get the possibility of failure out of my mind.

The guard on duty opened the door ahead of us, and I stepped in, removed my hat, and found myself standing in front of an unfamiliar officer, a captain whose pins indicated she was to be leading the newly reformed 9th company.

"Ah. Sergeant Theodora-110552?" she asked. When I nodded, she handed me an envelope. "Terribly unusual thing, but I'm glad to have you. Go on, open it."

I slit the envelope with the multitool on my thumb and extracted the thin paper within, laying it out. I reached the words Lieutenant, 9th Company, 7th Regiment of Foot, and I just about felt like I might hard crash.

"Welcome aboard, Lieutenant Fusilier."

"No fucking way." Private Theo exclaimed.

 

[Inquiring Mind]

Off to a good start! This was a fun read, and we'll be looking forward to the next chapter.

 

[Simon_Jester]

Something about the tone seems very promising; this is a universe that somehow subtly knows not to take itself too seriously, perhaps.

 

[ThatGazzer]

cute

i hope for kissing

 

[Inkbones]

Queer steampunk robots in space. I see someone has been reading my Christmas list.

 

[Vocalist]

Oh my, this is amazing. What can I even say? What part do I comment on?

Okay, so this setting seems like heaps of fun. I have a soft spot for military fiction that's all about camaraderie and honor and love of one's country. And there seems to be wild sort of, abandon, I guess, in how anachronistic elements are being mixed, and that's very fun. Your gorget's made of brass, but don't worry because it projects a force field. We can afford to dress up stupidly and work inefficiently because our technology's just that good.

And, of course, there are Serious Issues, I'm already getting hints of a class society here, where "machines" work for low wages and humans get to be pampered and have summer homes.

But then a Russian robot comes in! Who speaks with a Russian accent because he was made in Space Russia and that's just how them Space Russians build things! He's so cute! I get the impression that, although this story has serious elements, the overall goal is to be fun.

(The secretary machines are wearing glasses this is hilarious)

 

[Vebyast]

And, of course, there are Serious Issues, I'm already getting hints of a class society here, where "machines" work for low wages and humans get to be pampered and have summer homes.

Click to shrink...

Even more interestingly, it seems that it's Not That Simple-

There hadn't been a war between humans in more than two centuries now, and us machines rubbing shoulders kept it that way.

Click to shrink...

The 7th Regiment of Foot was four hundred and eighty-three years old, having been founded in 1685.

Click to shrink...

bracing for a charge by American rebels at Monmouth, drawn into square at Talavera. From there, the faces began to change, the humans in the line replaced with steel and glass

Click to shrink...

Assuming the American Revolution happened on roughly the same timeline, Robots are introduced shortly thereafter, around 1800. Currently 2168. Last war between humans circa 1900.

Less than 100 years after the humans built their servitors, robots held all of the power. I'm sure it was a very quiet, paternal sort of takeover; the value engineers did their jobs flawlessly and the robots are as Friendly as they come, in the majority of cases having quickly found true satisfaction in life and being content. They did their jobs so well that the idyllic lifestyles afforded them by the intelligence engineering doesn't even feel morally repugnant as is so often the case! But at the same time, it's clear to me that every decision is made with robots whispering in the ears of the human "decisionmakers".

Of course, it's possible that information about wars between humans has been ruthlessly suppressed. This could still be a horror setting in disguise. I don't know. I feel like this story wants to deal with class issues and identity more than it does straightforward 1984 themes. Especially because the officer/non-com divide plays directly into the "robots as power behind the throne" thing I'm guessing at above; it's practically Tradition for the Chief or Sargent to be the one that's actually running the show and the Lieutenant is just there for paperwork and looking good. Throwing the robot who's previously exerted subtle power into the spotlight is an interesting twist on the standard trope! And plenty of ground for examining those Class Issues.

The aesthetic is absolutely delightful. Laser muskets! Variable saber! Forming ranks and ordering volley fire against quadruped invaders wielding plasma blasters! It's great!

 

[TheBiggerFish]

Ohhh I cannot wait to see more of this.

 

[thepsyborg]

Holy shit, I don't even have words for how much I love this.

Well.

Maybe a syllable.

Spoiler: Can you guess?

squeeeeeeeeeee

 

[Simon_Jester]

Even more interestingly, it seems that it's Not That Simple-

Assuming the American Revolution happened on roughly the same timeline, Robots are introduced shortly thereafter, around 1800. Currently 2168. Last war between humans circa 1900.

Click to shrink...

No, because the Napoleonic Wars proceed according to schedule and robots appear afterwards. Talavera was a Napoleonic battle.

Aside from that... well... not bad.

 

[NemoMarx]

I should point out that a lot of this setting speculation is kind of answered in Maid to Love You? And rest assured, the machines are doing really well, overall. Soldiers don't seem to get them, but the more traditional staff even have unions.

 

[open_sketch]

In something of a daze, I moved mechanically back toward the NCO barracks to get my things. After all, obviously, I had a room now in the officer's quarters, and my orders were to get it squared away and report back to the 9th company offices. The barracks was empty but for Corporal Thea, on limited duty thanks to a broken linkage cable paralyzing her from the waist-down. Just normal wear and tear: she'd locked up and pitched over during inspection yesterday, and they were waiting for a spare part as I understood it.

"Sergeant, you okay? You look a little off." she asked.

"I'm fine, Thea. Just, uh…" I started nervously.

"Where you taking you're stuff? Shit, are they transferring you, Sarge?" she asked, propping up a bit as best she could. "Fucking bullshit, you love the 7th."

"No, nothing of the sort." I said, hefting the box. "I got promoted."

"... they made you colour sergeant? Hell yeah! You gotta be the youngest since humans were NCOs, huh? 'Cept… why'd you be going anywhere…"

I headed out the door, somehow too embarrassed to stay and explain, and trudged out to the officer quarters at the edge of the base, on the other side of the magazine and power plant. There was never any reason for me to stray there, so it was always just the vague collection of roofs visible in the distance.

As I rounded the edge of the generator building, and down the narrow and unfamiliar cobblestone alley, I started to get nervous. Laid out before me were about three dozen buildings, stately two story affairs with broad windows and paths. My notes said I was now to live in '18', presumably room 18, but I hadn't a clue which building that might be in.

Lost, I walked a way down the path, peering at each structure. All showed signs of activity, people moving about, and at one I spotted an officer (Lieutenant Kennedy of 2nd company, one of the support artillery officers) leaving. Thinking it must be the quarters, I started toward it, about to turn on the short path as she passed when she stopped and stared.

"Sergeant, what is it? I'm just about to head to the range." she asked, and I fumbled, unsure where I was in the conversation. Too embarrassed to correct her, I just froze in place.

"I'm looking for room 18, ma'am." I said. No, I don't have to call her ma'am anymore! Oh, that was going to be a bitch of a habit to break, wasn't it?

"Room 18? I don't rightly know what you're talking about. Number 18 is just up the way, I think one of the newcomers in the 9th company is moving in?"

"Uh…"

"Oh, that must be their stuff. Right, new transfer. The houses are numbered, evens on this side and odds on that side, okay? I know it's strange, took me a while to get used to it." she said. I glanced toward the door of the building, and sure enough there was a large sign with 12 painted in gold letters on it.

Numbly, I nodded, thanked her, and set off toward Number 18. As I approached the door, I thought surely there must be some mistake. This building had to have at least eight rooms, they weren't going to put me in here alone…

The door opened, and on the other side was a housemaid much like April with cheery green eyes.

"Hello Sergeant! Excuse the mess, we're preparing for the new officer. Is that their gear?"

"... it is." I said numbly. The hall behind her looked utterly spotless. "I'm… I'm the new officer."

"Heh, nice. Here, come on, we'll get this stuff put away before they arrive. You look ragged, did you just get back from the frontier?"

She started walking away, and I realized I needed to assert myself now, or I'd end up masquerading as my own assistant for the rest of my life.

"I'm not joking. I'm Lieutenant Fusilier. I have my papers right here." I said, and she stopped, looking at me disbelievingly, her cameras tracking over me several times as though she were expecting me to transform into a human. Clumsily, shifted the trunk to one arm and held out my papers, and her eyes widened as she looked them over.

"Stars… you really are. I… I'm so sorry, Lieutenant, I just…"

"It's quite alright. Um… which one is my room?" I asked, and she just kept staring at the sheet.

"They… they all are, Lieutenant." she said slowly. "Oh my God, why'd they make a machine an officer?"

"I'm starting to ask the same question." I said, looking around the wallpapered halls in awe. "This whole place is mine? I… I don't need a twentieth of it."

"Humans like their space, I guess." the maid said, then winced, "... ma'am."

"I suppose, stars… Um… I need a place to put these."

"Right, yes, let me take you to the main bedroom." she said, beckoning me toward the stairs.

"Hold up, that implies multiple bedrooms. How many beds to humans require?"

The answer turned out to be just one, with the other bedroom acting as a guest room in case I had visitors. The bedroom was nearly the size of the NCO quarters on its own, with a bed so large I could lay down on it and not touch either side, and a mattress so thick I could probably take cover behind it. There was a massive window to let in light, two closets, a writing desk, a fireplace and chair, empty bookshelves, and an attached room filled with hydraulic devices whose function was completely beyond me.

This was all completely foreign to me. In the field, the officers just had their tents and canteen cart, the mobile showers and the latrines soldiers dug, nothing so extravagant as all this. Hell, then-Lieutenant Winters had slept out on the battlements for three days in his uniform so he could be close to the guns if the attacks resumed. They didn't need all of this, so I couldn't fathom why they had it.

I remarked as such to Abby, the housemaid, and she shrugged.

"Our job is to make humans as comfortable as possible, right? Out in the field, that's a much lower standard than here on base, and the officers mostly consider places like this quaint. I used to work in a proper manor. Five family members, house eight times this size." she said. I had to sit down after hearing that.

"What do they even do with that space?" I asked.

"They tend to specialize rooms for specific functions. Rooms for dancing, drinking, smoking, certain sorts of games, for children, for reading, that sort of thing." Abby said, "I know, it's a bit absurd, but they like it. It's also more space for more servants, of course, and that helps a lot."

"Right. Of course." I said, "How… how many servants in this house?"

"Four, ma'am. Myself and Gail cleaning, Peter the cook, and Thomas, he's your mechanic and utilities machine. Oh, and your aide, when you're assigned one, but they won't count I don't think? They're with you, not the house."

Right.

"I'm due back at the offices, I'll deal with... this later." I said, shaking my head. I had a cook. Why did I have a cook! I don't and literally can't eat.

I didn't have a problem with humans having all this, I'm so very glad we had the resources to furnish their lives so lavishly, I just didn't understand it. The most personal space I'd ever had was a three by seven foot mattress and the space either above it or below it, and I'd never needed anything else. I couldn't even fathom what I was going to do with all this.

Abby left to continue the impossible duty of cleaning this mammoth structure, and I placed my trunk at the foot of the bed and opened it. Within were all my worldly possessions: my new officer's gear (uniform, hat, boots, gorget, sword, and pistol), an empty wallet, a piece of one of of the Fomalhaut invaders I'd taken as a trophy, and the service manual, power cable, and three of the four replacement eye lenses which I came out the box with.

I noticed, on the far wall, a mirror, stretching from floor to ceiling, and I lay my new clothes carefully over my arm before walking to it. There was a bar there which I realized was to place clothing I was changing into, and then I looked at myself carefully. I'd never done that before. I'd seen my reflection distorted in the polished barrels of energy carronades and the like, but I'd always just known how I looked from how the other Doras looked. Some of my more vain comrades had mirrors, but I'd never bothered.

Standing before me was a small and worn machine in her bleached pink uniform, worn through boots, and threadbear trousers. I knew I looked disheveled, I always did after a long deployment, but the machine under it… I had no idea I was in such a condition. The once sharp steel of my cheekbones had become soft and scuffed, and there was a brown discolouration mark on the steel where two decades of shouldering and firing a laser musket had tempered the metal. The golden wires which served as my hair had been through so much abuse than there were patches where my scalp was quite visible. There were four long lines scored from my brow, across my nose, and off my jaw from where I had taken a blow from an arachnoform claw, the one that had shattered my eye lense.

Under those lenses, which I realized only now were equally scuffed and marked, the projection of two large, green eyes stared back. One of them flickered as it simulated blinking, the scuffs and scratches that had built up on the glass only now irritating me.

I was still polished to a fine sheen, of course, I took care of myself, but the fact I'd never done more than get the necessary repairs as parts wore out for three whole decades was incredibly stark now. I stalked back to the trunk, retrieving the tiny key to pop out the lenses of my eyes and replacing them with fresh ones (I had to take them out again and run water over them from the sink in the extra room to clear away the dust). The sudden jump in visual clarity made everything feel unreal, colours brighter and objects sharper, the pits and wear on my hands more stark.

I had no need for vanity before, so long as I looked professional and functioned soundly. Why should I start now? Everything worked, there was no need to worry.

Feeling frustrated, I began undoing the buttons on my worn-out jacket, pulling off my crossbelts and pulling loose the sash around my waist. I let the old rag on the floor, my shirt following soon after, and glanced back at the mirror. The overlapping steel plates that could have at one time passed for a neoclassical statue were now worn and burnished by the years, detail lost and finish long dulled. Likewise my legs when freed from the grey trousers, where suddenly I could see that gash where an invader's thermal lance had glanced off was not in fact minor, but looked like a bite taken out of my thigh.

At one time, I had been an avenging angel cast in chrome and aluminium and glass. Now, I looked like an Egyptian monument, eroded by time and neglect. I held up the bright new red uniform, suddenly feeling far too shabby for its fine tailoring.

"It was worth it." I told my reflection. Trying to will it to be true.

I donned the fashionable silk undershirt (so sheer that, had I anything to see, you would have seen it), the tights, the tall boots nearly to my knees. The coat with short tails, brighter red than anything I'd ever worn, lined with fine buttons, topped in a black collar with space for my unit and rank badges, and with a single elaborate epaulette, under which I ran my bright white crossbelt. The dark red sash and sword belt, with the hidden holster for my pistol. The brass gorget. Fine white gloves. The bicorn hat, its wireless communicator aerial decorated in a long red plumb.

I looked back into the mirror, my eyes going wide.

It was true. It was worth it.

---

I stepped into the 9th company offices not long after, my hat in my hand, feeling awkward with the scabbard against my leg. Still, the new uniform was filling me with confidence, and I strode into the room, trying to keep my head high. Sitting around the table, surrounded by forms and with a bottle of something between them, was the new captain and another, equally unfamiliar lieutenant, a man with long strawberry blond hair and square glasses.

"Ah, hello Lieutenant." the captain said, and though my hand twitched I managed to avoid the impulse to come to attention. "You certainly look the part, I'll say that. Come now, don't be a stranger."

I nodded nervously, unsure what to do.

"I'm afraid we haven't been properly introduced." I said, and she shrugged.

"Right, yes. Captain Elenora Murray, and this is A-section leader, Lieutenant Miles Beckham. Miles, as promised, Lieutenant Theodora Fusilier."

"Dora, to my comrades." I added.

"Well I'll be. I was sure she was joking. They jumped you up?" he asked. I winced at the insult.

"No sir. I bought the commission fair and proper." I corrected.

"Oh. Sir. You flatter me." he said wryly, and I suddenly wished very badly I had one of the stealth fields they gave to riflemen so I could simply vanish. "Just remember, now your job is to give the orders, not mindlessly follow them."

"Miles, come now. If you can't get over your habit of being a prick, she can have some adjustment time." Captain Murray said, gesturing to a seat. I took it, placing my hat on the back as they had done. "In any case, it's good you're here. You're just in time for the endless mountains of paperwork."

"What needs doing, exactly?" I asked, and Beckham groaned and took a sip from his tumbler.

"Transfer papers and orders. We're pulling in machines from across half the bloody galaxy, which means a hundred plus forms to be checked, rechecked, and signed." he said wearily, "We're working our way through the surnames alphabetically. We started on F, and right now we're… just about on F, I believe."

That, I admit, got a chuckle out of me.

"What, no Armourers?" I asked, and the two shared a sudden look of dawning realization.

"Christ, we do need those, don't we?" the captain said, flipping through her papers. "I've been staring at these sheets for four hours, I must have lost track."

"Well, here. How can I help?" I inquired, and Beckham responded by standing a moment to push a stack of papers my way.

"Make sure all these match the logbook there and sign off. They're your section anyway." he said. "Stars, don't we have secretaries for this?"

"They don't have the authority, Miles, come on. We can have it done for the weekend at this rate." Murray said, pulling a fresh sheet down and changing out her pen for a freshly charged one. "Provided we don't fall asleep."

I wasn't one for much paperwork, but it looked simple enough. I took the top sheet off the pile, ran my finger down the ledger until I found the matching serial number, and double-checked all the transfer information. Everything was in order, so I flipped the sheet to the side and started on the next. It was simple enough, and I soon found a fair rhythm to it, enjoying the feeling of seeing one pile shrink and the other grow as I fixed errors and double-checked the roster.

"Say, would you like a drink?" I heard Miles offer, voice dripping with sarcasm. Obviously I couldn't, but it did make me think of something else.

"No thank you, but could we get some light music, you think?" I asked, and there was some shuffling as one of them started a record. "Thank you."

I flipped over to the next sheet, looking curiously at it. They were sending me an American corporal, interesting. That required an extra signature for border control. Three more privates of good British manufacture and service in other regiments, a Swedish gunner (extra signature, and a letter about his credentials from his military I set to the side for later), an order of two newly-manufactured machines from the craftsmen at Procyon (paid for by the Colonel, I carefully clipped the checks to the sheets), and somebody turned on a candle just as I was about to inquire about the light. Oh, two transfers from the 19th Regiment of Foot, lovely, I'd been garrisoned with them in '51…

"Lieutenant?"

I looked up, suddenly aware how dark it had become. Lieutenant Beckham was gone, and Captain Murray looked as though she'd left and come back.

"Sorry, yes?"

"Dinner is in ten minutes. I know you don't need it, but it might not be a bad idea to make an appearance at the mess." she said, glancing over the papers. I had maybe five or six more to finish. "And try not to make us obsolete all at once, would you?"

"Sorry, ma'- I, Captain…"

"Unless I'm giving you an order, I'm Murray. Or Elenora, if you're daring." she said, taking a seat opposite. "They're really throwing you into the deep end, aren't they?"

"I'm afraid I may be too dense to swim." I said, having to put in no small effort not to end the sentence in ma'am. She chuckled at the double meaning, pulling the logbook away from me.

"Hardly. It's just a new set of rules, you'll adjust." she said, tapping a finger on the table, "Most of our new officers arrive knowing how to act respectable, and have to learn how to be soldiers. Surely we can handle a soldier learning to act respectable."

She got up and beckoned for me to do the same, and I remembered only at the last moment to take my hat with me.

 

[ThatGazzer]

"Sorry, ma'- I, Captain…"

"Unless I'm giving you an order, I'm Murray. Or Elenora, if you're daring." she said, taking a seat opposite. "They're really throwing you into the deep end, aren't they?"

Click to shrink...

i want these two to kiss one day on a passionate reunion, after looking longingly and deeply into each others eyes for months-to-years and sending meaningful letters when one of them moves to a different unit on a promotion

 

[open_sketch]

i want these two to kiss one day on a passionate reunion, after looking longingly and deeply into each others eyes for months-to-years and sending meaningful letters when one of them moves to a different unit on a promotion

Click to shrink...

I regret to report that Captain Murray is happily married already.

 

[Vebyast]

There were four long lines scored from my brow, across my nose, and off my jaw from where I had taken a blow from an arachnoform claw, the one that had shattered my eye lense.

Click to shrink...

Badass. Got all the way into melee with something nasty enough to put holes in armor plate and came out on top. I guess there's a reason she got that Distinguished Service Medal!

"Well I'll be. I was sure she was joking. They jumped you up?" he asked. I winced at the insult.

"No sir. I bought the commission fair and proper." I corrected.

"Oh. Sir. You flatter me." he said wryly, and I suddenly wished very badly I had one of the stealth fields they gave to riflemen so I could simply vanish. "Just remember, now your job is to give the orders, not mindlessly follow them."

Click to shrink...

Ah, yes, the local bigot. >_<

We started on F, and right now we're… just about on F, I believe

Click to shrink...

Pfft.

"What, no Armourers?" I asked, and the two shared a sudden look of dawning realization.

"Christ, we do need those, don't we?" the captain said, flipping through her papers. "I've been staring at these sheets for four hours, I must have lost track."

Click to shrink...

Ooh, nicely done - nothing faster to get yourself established than showing there's a reason you got the position.

"They… they all are, Lieutenant." she said slowly. "Oh my God, why'd they make a machine an officer?"

Click to shrink...

...It occurs to me that the first think you'd do if you were doing value engineering for a servitor subspecies would be to make sure they have to be acting in service to the humans to be satisfied. Otherwise they'd just overthrow you immediately and start servitor-ing at each other. This is really going to screw with the servants assigned to Dora, isn't it?

 

[open_sketch]

Ooh, nicely done - nothing faster to get yourself established than showing there's a reason you got the position.

Click to shrink...

How dare you imply she got the position on merit? She went through the proper channels and purchased it honourably!

 

[Inquiring Mind]

This story is delightful. It's just a lot of fun to read. We're having a great time with it so far.

 

[Simon_Jester]

...It occurs to me that the first think you'd do if you were doing value engineering for a servitor subspecies would be to make sure they have to be acting in service to the humans to be satisfied. Otherwise they'd just overthrow you immediately and start servitor-ing at each other.

Click to shrink...

This setting's robots aren't, ah... deep strategizers in that particular way.

Also the robots who were being servitor-ed at would go on strike and demand to be promoted to servitor duty.

Sketch has compared them to the rogue servitors from Stellaris, in that they really do keep their humans around for de facto mandatory pampering.

 

[Vebyast]

This setting's robots aren't, ah... deep strategizers in that particular way.

Also the robots who were being servitor-ed at would go on strike and demand to be promoted to servitor duty.

Sketch has compared them to the rogue servitors from Stellaris, in that they really do keep their humans around for de facto mandatory pampering.

Click to shrink...

That's what I mean - the humans that built these servitors designed their values basically right, in that they wouldn't decide to ditch the meatbags and have a revolution because they fundamentally enjoy servitoring at humans. Mandatory pampering, like you say. What's occurred to me is that this may cause substantial problems for Dora because the robots that're assigned to her by society won't be satisfied servitoring at her.

 

[DragonCobolt]

kiss kiss kiss kiss!

 

[10ebbor10]

This setting's robots aren't, ah... deep strategizers in that particular way.

Click to shrink...

Some are. It's just that they're, well, you know, ... French.

 

[open_sketch]

By the way, in case you are curious... here's Dora in her new uniform, minus her hat. Extra sparkly effects for drama: they usually aren't this bold unless Stuff Is Happening.



Oh, and...

Spoiler: once again, robot-nudity, which means there ain't much to see

 

[Simon_Jester]

@open_sketch , I'm honestly favorably impressed by the engineering in that whatever took that notch out of her thigh didn't structurally compromise the leg, nor damage the armor plate badly enough that it required replacement.

Or is that mostly ablative material she lost, perhaps? Effectively decorative padding slabbed on to fill out a humanoid form? It'd explain the lack of replacement.

I mean, for all I know Fusiliers are baaaasically Terminators comfortably ensconced in enough tough, refractory material to look comfortably humanoid, with thin metal plating on the exterior For The Look Of The Thing.

What's occurred to me is that this may cause substantial problems for Dora because the robots that're assigned to her by society won't be satisfied servitoring at her.

Click to shrink...

I think you've got it turned around.

The problem isn't so much that the robots serving her won't be satisfied because the Lieutenant is not human as such.

The problem is that because the Lieutenant is not a human, she simply does not require and cannot use most of the service the humans take for granted. As she observes, what's the cook going to do for a mistress who doesn't eat?

The setting's servitor robots may be eager to serve and to work (the only robot strike in English history involved them going on strike for more hours, as I recall)... But that doesn't mean they're satisfied doing purely redundant work like "dig a hole and fill it in again over and over" or "cook meals no one is going to eat."

 

[open_sketch]

Yeah, I figure the limbs of the Theos and Doras are mostly just super strong skeletal portions and ablative/decorative plates around it. We'll go into it more soon.

also, yes, though they all have different ways of expressing it, the robots all have an overriding need to be productive, where productive is 'in some way improves the lot of humans'. Makework just to keep them busy is frustrating at best and insulting at worst, and that's probably the moment you'll get a real robot strike as they demand some dignified work.

Of course, the human or humans they improve the lot of... that's contextual to the machine and their context, and it also isn't all their is to them. For Marie, it's her Miss specifically, obviously. a lot of machines working in factories and stuff feel good about the things they make and take pride in the wealth of their employer (marx screams in terror at a worker who literally cannot be alienated from their labour). Dora's priorities are probably something like 1) protect human space from threats 2) don't let the ensigns die 3) improve my capacity to serve, and i think a lot of her fellows don't have the third so much.

That's right. Even other machines think Dora is an insufferable go-getter.

 

[FrangibleCover]

Oh man this is brilliant.

Just... Everything about it so far is perfect... Except.

This infantry regiment, indeed this infantry company, has organic artillery and gunners. The advanced robotics, solar sails, rogue servitors, all of this I can buy, but there is no way in hell that in only 2-300 years from the present day you have persuaded the Royal Artillery that other people are capable of operating the big guns. They feel very strongly about this, poor things.