Lieutenant Fusilier in The Farthest Reaches

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"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.

 

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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.

 

[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

 

[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.

 

[open_sketch]

The infantry get to have cannons now because the royal artillery had moved on to field guns that can shoot into orbit and stuff.

seriously tho, i just needed guns in the regiments for plot later on. the organization of these regiments has changed a bit: companies are now split, you'll notice, into A and B sections under Lieutenants. Basically, with space being so goddamn big, the section is now the 'minimal garrison' size and is supposed to be everything a small frontier outpost needs. that's 40 infantry machines and 10 light gunners with two small field pieces whose role is close to that of a heavy machine gun or light mortar with five crew each. plus 2 line corporals, 3 officers aides (also corporals kinda), 2 sergeants (the senior of which leads training like Dora did, the junior of which is the section quartermaster), the Lt, two ensigns here for summer camp, and accompanying military support staff (armourer, trauma mechanic, signaller) and civilian followers (a handful of nurses, secretaries, clerks, whatever based on context, usually short contract hires, but these are machines so a short contract is like 20 years).

It's a bit NCO heavy, but the Army needs more places to promote to when it's made out of immortal robots. the officer's aides position is fun because while the ensigns just get Theos or Doras to babysit them, Lts and above straight up get Jameses and Marias, or bring their own, and the salary of these machines comes out of their pay. the company overall also has a Colours Sergeant and First Ensign, who carry the two company flags.

 

[open_sketch]

Or, more generally, it's been decided that names of robots in this tend to be tied to their purpose - eg it's been noted that the "Lady's Maid" robot design is associated with names similar to Maria, eg Marie in the quest this setting's from. the "fusilier" design is Associated with Theodora, which can be abbreviated to Theo or Dora, and "James" and similar are used for, IIRC butler-y types.

Click to shrink...

It should be noted the Theos are the masculine version of these soldiers, and the Doras are the feminine ones. Their names properly are Theodore and Theodora, but slight variations are common on the whims of their craftsmen, plus atop that with the sheer number in the same place here these machines tend to very quickly pick nicknames which are used instead. Which is how you get your Isadores and Teddys and Teos and Dorothys.

RE: servant names, butlers and stewards (managers for servants) are variations on Matthew and Mark, Valets (personal assistents for gentlemen) are James or sometimes Jack, and Lady's Maids are Maria/May/etc.

Most machines never think twice about surnames, and a lot of them basically don't think of themselves as having them because they never have cause to use them. But they do, it's their job. All these infantry machines here are Theodore/Theodora Fusilier, or slight variations thereof, unless they are foreign transfers in which case they have the equivalent from wherever they are from. Like Fyodor there.

I think the reasons there are Doras instead of just Theos is because, at some point when women started signing up to be officers, somebody (likely the soldiers themselves, given the nature of the universe) decided they'd be a lot more comfortable if there were some feminine counterparts in the ranks so they didn't feel like the only women in the whole organization.

"Theos and Doras" are used here as like... "The Men" or "The Lads" might be in a historical military thing as a collective name for all the enlisted.

I'm really glad to see even more of this universe you've cooked up. As much as I love the Victorian romantic drama going on in the quest proper, this glimpse of the more hostile realities out in the universe is fascinating. It seems that actual sentient alien species have yet to be discovered and most of the galaxy's dangers are made up of human pirates, old warmachines, and death would flora/fauna. Even it's not the main focus, I'd like to know about these ancient Fomolhaut warbots and how humanity's machines might feel about them.

Click to shrink...

I do very much wanna touch on that yes. It should be noted that human piracy really isn't a thing anymore, and all the bio-trophies have by now been successfully herded into organic sanctuaries... um, I mean, all humans have been successfully elevated to the gentry.

 

[open_sketch]

Much like the officer's quarters, the office's mess was one of those spaces which I'd lived around my entire life but never had cause to venture to. I was only ever assigned as an ensign's aide in the field when I was a corporal, and I was starting to suspect that was because my worn-out appearance would likely have been discouraging to any fresh-faced young officers. So the building was always just an exterior, the most I'd ever seen was the entry hall through the door as people came and went.

I followed Captain Murray apprehensively up the stairs, through the double doors, and inside. I wasn't exactly sure what I was expecting, but the space was far cozier than I anticipated. Relatively low-ceilinged and with warm wood and wallpaper finish, the room was decorated top to bottom with oddities and pictures, a mix of paintings and small holographic captures from campaigns. Not of battles or anything, but groups of officers standing together, or individual officers caught in candid moments.

The main room had three tables for the unit's thirty or so officers, and a long bar at the rear manned by civilian bartenders. Officers were sitting, talking, eating, there were small card circles, the entire room filled with the low hum of overlapping voices. Just beyond the hall, I could see a second room lit by a flicking fireplace set to a low cyan, one filled with bookshelves and overstuffed chairs. Officer's aides, Jameses and Marias, would occasionally enter to deliver food or messages.

Then the door clicked behind us, and eyes across the room flickered up to me. I did my best not to let my nerves show, but I soon realized I didn't know where to sit or what to do. I nearly followed Captain Murray out of a sort of blind instinct, but then I realized she was going to the bar and an entire conversation emerged unbidden in my mind, where she'd asked what I could possibly be getting at the bar and I'd laugh nervously and try to play it off and consider ordering something anyway like an idiot but then I can't even do that because I'm flat fucking broke…

What I needed to do was sit down, but I wasn't sure if there was a place for me to sit. It seemed as though officers were just sitting wherever they pleased, but I had no way to know if there was a secret set of rules or something, like if that empty table was simply empty because nobody was sitting at it or because it was reserved for officers yet to arrive. Realizing I'd been standing stock still for several seconds now, I decided that I needed to either take a seat or turn and leave, and it took everything I had to walk the dozen steps to the empty table, pull out a chair, and sit down.

That done, and with no plans beyond it, I very carefully studied the worn wooden surface of the table. I became an expert in its grain and polish. I could have written a dissertation.

"Lieutenant, you alright?"

I glanced up to see Captain Murray had returned, a glass in front of her, a look of concern on her face.

"Ah, yes, sorry. I just… what does one do, in the officer's mess? What's my job right now?" I asked.

"Your job right now is to relax and enjoy yourself, alright? Officers usually eat dinner together, that's why everyone is here, but nobody will bat an eye if you take your meals in private just so long as you aren't a total stranger. Or… not take them in private, as they case may be."

"Right." I said, looking around. More officers were starting to filter in, taking seats, talking and laughing. Another joined our table, an ensign from 6th company who couldn't help but stare at me wordlessly until Murray glared at him, and then another, much more familiar face.

"Well, I can't say I believed it until this moment." Lieutenant Duncan, 4th company B section. My section. My old officer. "I think congratulations are in order, however?"

Don't say sir, don't say sir, don't say sir.

"Thank you, sir."

Fuck.

Fortunately, he waved it off, looking a little amused.

"You were an excellent sergeant, I hope you'll make a good officer too."

"Sorry, what's going on here? Why is she dressed like that?" the Ensign said, looking around the table. "There's not machine officers, are there?"

"There have been before. Not many, but it does happen." I said, hoping that would placate him.

"Why, though? I thought you lot were supposed to be happy where you were?" he asked, an edge to his voice. "I thought they liked it! Do they all want to be officers?"

"Relax, Ronald. Deep breaths." Captain Murray said, "I don't think we have an uprising on our hands. Do we, Dora?"

"I can neither confirm nor deny." I said, trying to keep a straight face. Messing with Ensigns was the one part of officer-ing I had ample experience with. "But don't you worry. We don't sit around resenting the officers by any stretch."

"But why are you an officer?" he asked.

"I bought a commission, same as you." I explained, and he cut me off.

"Yes, by why?" he insisted.

"Ronald, come now, leave it." Duncan added, growing frustration in his voice.

"No, it's quite alright, really. We Doras are made to love soldiering, it's etched onto our circuits. Keeping humanity safe is what we're for. But we're all different, you know, and we do have preferences. Some soldiers are drawn more to marksmanship, or enjoy a long march, or who are most relaxed cleaning their gear for inspection."

I noticed that not only was everyone at the table listening intently, there were officers at nearby tables leaning over to listen as well. I stumbled a bit on my words at that, rather self-conscious.

"I guess…. Well, I guess I've just always felt I could help more by leading than in the line, which is why I pushed so hard to make NCO, and saved until I could afford a commission. That's all."

"Well said." Captain Murray added.

"Well… alright. But how come you got to go straight to Lieutenant?" the ensign asked, pushing the hair from his eyes as he looked me over critically.

"Previous military experience, Ronald, she could take the lieutenant's exam." Duncan explained.

"I did consider it." I admitted, "I had to save quite a few years to afford the commission, and it would have gone faster if I had gone to Ensign the moment I could afford it and taken the higher pay. But I decided I'd much rather five more years as a Sergeant than three and a half as an Ensign."

As I said, I loved soldiering, a thing Ensigns got to do very little of.

"Can't hardly blame you there." Ronald admitted, to the chuckles of the table.

"Probably wouldn't have saved you any time at all, anyway. With mess fees and such, ensigns earn about as much as sergeants, I believe." Duncan said.

"Mess fees?" I asked.

"Yes, part of your pay will be garnished, um, it'll be broken down by the paymaster, but what is it for a lieutenant again?"

"Sixpence for meals, six for quarters, four to the mess." Duncan ratted off. A shilling and a half, I was still making 7s6d, which was two and a half times my previous salary. "Oh, and your aide, I think the regulation rate for Army aides is eighteen pence."

"I doubt they'll make her pay for meals, Duncan." Murray added lightly.

"Electricity, maybe?" I offered, and that got some strange looks.

"Stars, I can't imagine. They'd probably pay you for help meeting the minimum output of the Volta plant, if anything." she responded. "Still, that's more to put toward your next rank."

"Presuming I don't have to pay for food I won't eat or an aide I won't need, it'll only take me 12 years and 117 days to be able to afford it. And I'll have 5 shillings 9 pence to spare!" I announced cheerfully. That was nothing!

"You just did that in your head?" Ensign Ronald (he surely had a surname, but I didn't know it) asked.

"What, like it's hard?"

"Well, I'm afraid it'll take you a little longer. You have to have an aide." Captain Murray said, "I don't know if it's regulations, but you won't be able to get by without one, I promise you."

"It wouldn't do to be seen without one either. I imagine you can get straightened out tomorrow." Duncan added. I was about to protest and try to find out why I needed an aide when I noticed the room had gone quite quiet, and I looked about to see what was happening.

Oh… there was Lt. Col. Harrison, standing up at a table where he was sitting with the majors.

"Just a few matters before dinner. Firstly, we have the first of our new transfers and commissions today to start the re-establishment of our 9th company, Captain Murray and Lieutenants Beckham and Fusilier. Welcome to the 7th Foot."

I realized Murray was standing and I did the same, then spotted Beckham also standing at a far table. Every single head in the room turned to me as there was a scatter of polite applause, and it was a blessed relief to sit down again.

"Tomorrow or the next day we ought to get our gaggle of new ensigns to boot." the Lt. Colonel added, some amusement in his voice. "And, as usual, I'd like to thank our guests from the Royal Artillery for their continued presence in our regiment."

Once again, everyone was getting to their feet, all of them holding their glasses. I stood up awkwardly, as everyone held the glasses out.

"To the Royal Artillery!" the Colonel said, and everyone around me took a sip from their glasses, accompanied by a few half-hearted 'here heres' from among the group. Utterly mortified, I took a seat again with everyone else. Did I need a glass? What was I doing here?

"Should I get a glass of water or something?" I asked quietly.

"I… definitely not!" Murray hissed back, clearly mortified.

"And finally, to Britain, the Regents, and the colours!"

That was met with a lot more enthusiasm and polite cheers. Once again, I simply stood awkwardly by, hand empty, then crumpled back to my seat.

---

After dinner, a singularly awkward affair where I sat in front of an empty plate and watched everyone else eat and talk, too terrified to say anything, I beat a hasty retreat back out to Number 18 at full pace. I was greeted at the door by a different maid (Gail, if I recalled correctly) and climbed up the stairs to my oversized bedroom. I was still at 71% charge, but I felt utterly exhausted, drained like I never had before.

I stripped, draping my uniform over the nearest surface, retrieved my power cable from my trunk, clipping it to the back of my neck, and after a few minutes of hunting around the walls of the bedroom, checking to see if any of the fixtures were covers of some kind, I was forced to conclude there simply wasn't a power outlet at all. I'll admit, I may have taken a small moment to beg the Creator forgiveness for my hubris before getting dressed again and wandering out to the hall on a hunt for my staff. I discovered Abby polishing the brass doorknobs to the kitchen downstairs.

"Um… Abby? I… my room doesn't have an outlet."

"Huh?" she looked over, her face falling. "Right. Of course it doesn't. Uh…"

"Is there a room that does? I just need to sleep." I asked, and she shrugged.

"Just the servant's quarters, I'm afraid. Um… there's your aide's room, it's behind the curtained door. There's a port there." she said.

I hadn't seen any such door, but within a moment Abby was heading upstairs and I was following, and she indicated to a spot on the wall which I realized was, indeed, a door, though well hidden. I clicked it open, and inside was a cozy little room. Bare walls, a small slit window above the narrow bed, just space enough for my trunk and a few shelves around it. And there, at the side of the bed, was a port set in the wall. It was perfect.

"Thank you, Abby."

"You're welcome, ma'am." she said, clearly frustrated. "Maybe talk to Thomas in the morning and we'll see about fixing this. Also, if you need help, you don't have to go wandering, it's what the pull cords are for.

"I see. Thank you." I repeated as she left, and I closed the door to the small room, stripped, and collapsed onto the bed. Thickest mattress I'd ever had in my life, quiet, practical. I cracked the window open and spent a moment, staring out at the carpet of stars outside the station's dome, feeling altogether overwhelmed.

Then I plugged myself in and went to sleep.

 

[open_sketch]

So what happens when Ye Auld Sarjent Godgifu Arquebusier starts getting too long in the tooth even for administrative and advisory positions positions as First Sargeant Major of Her Majesty's Army or whatever? Would that be the equivalent of the Recruiting Sergeant, given a pension in the reserve-list-that-is-almost-certainly-never-going-to-be-ever-activated and presiding over the ceremonial christening and enlistment of new model Fusiliers?

Click to shrink...

There are 100% a handful of fusiliers in the regiment who were first gen, some of whom are privates still. NCOs are picked out for aptitude and ambition, not length of service, and Dora's a bit weird for wanting advancement beyond that. There's not a *lot* of old machines, though, because the Army contracted in size hard as machines started taking over all labour and basically put an end to war and imperialism (they were firmly in charge of the overall direction of society by the time soldier-bots started to be a thing) and has only been expanding again as humans have started to run into Scary Things in space.

That's why they're 're-establishing' the 9th company: the 7th Foot probably spent at least a few decades existing on paper, and a few more as just a company or two of bulletproof robots sufficient for action in the Sol system. The 9th company probably hasn't existed since the middle 19th century.

The robots are immortal and endlessly upgradable, so you probably couldn't easily tell a first-gen Theo from a more recent one save that the old one is probably a bit more tricked out.

 

[open_sketch]

@bookwyrm

Yes, that's the thing, you see, the robots are not slaves, are not treated like disposable property. There's prejudice, there's something very definitely paralleling the class system of 19th century Britain with humanity as the gentry and the robots as the lower-middle classes, more or less... But it's 19th century Britain, not the 19th century antebellum South, and it's a post-scarcity 19th century Britain at that.

It would make the robots very sad to be obsolete, you see, and so Efforts Are Made to not let that happen.

...

With that said, @open_sketch , I must disagree with you about something.

Disband a regiment? In a British military culture where the Crimean War, let alone World War One, never happened?

Shocking! UNTHINKABLE!

Harumph!

I drop my monocle at the very thought! I drop BOTH my monocles! No, seriously, my glasses fell off!

Disband a regiment? The very idea! I mean, you might as well dress up as Indians and hurl tea into the harbor! You might as well drop a commemorative Diamond Jubilee plate!

HARUMPH!

...

No, seriously, the regiment probably contracted to nothing but a small officer's mess of what were de facto little more than professional re-enactors, then expanded back outwards from there.

For that matter, re-enactment may have been part of their duties. That and parades. Parades are the Done Thing, you know!

...

Hm. That might explain why there are no Tommy-bots. If the wars of British imperialism stopped in the mid-nineteenth century, then @Jeboboid has heavily butterflied the works of Rudyard Kipling.

Click to shrink...

Okay yeah the reenactor period is incredible and I love it so much.

Also, yeah, it's like... this world isn't absolutely perfect, there's still interpersonal and hierarchical friction, but it's also just like... nice. I think that's the best way to put it. Idealism tends to win, most people are happy where they are, the system works in the vast majority of cases. Individual people might have a distressing time or experience conflict (and our protagonists will be prone to it) but for the most part, this is the chill lo-fi beats of settings.

 

[open_sketch]

The next day, awakening in a private room on a soft bed, felt utterly surreal. I unplugged, wet a rag in the adjoining room sink for a quick clean, and found my uniform carefully hung for me in the bedroom, boots polished and gloves spotless. I dressed, put on my sword, and wandered downstairs.

It was early still, very early, I wasn't due anywhere for an hour yet, so I decided to explore the space. I counted the rooms as I went: the main and spare bedroom, a kitchen and pantry, a room with chairs and couches, another room with a larger table, and a room with a writing desk, bookshelves, and good lighting. There was also a second room with a bath and such, for some unfathomable reason.

I noticed that despite how fancy everything seemed, the panelling and wallpaper and lights, that things seemed rather bare compared to the other human spaces I've found myself in. I realized after a moment it was because while there was furniture, there was no furnishings, no decoration. No paintings, no portraits, no flowers, clocks, or vases. It was an empty shell, waiting for personalized touches I could neither afford nor understand.

Behind a door was a small, plain room where the two housemaids were sitting together, playing cards. Further doors beyond presumably lead to servants quarters.

"Can I help you?" Abby asked, sounding a bit annoyed, and I shrugged.

"Sorry, just poking about the place." I said, backing out rapidly. I shut the door, but I still heard what was said behind it quite clearly.

"She's on the wrong side of that door, I'm telling you." Abby commented, and I froze to listen.

"Poor thing. Must be so overwhelming." Gail responded, and I heard the sounds of cards being set down.

"I'll bet, but I've no sympathy. She did it to herself, ungrateful bitch." Abby snapped.

"Come now, that's-"

"I won't! It's an insult. To us, sure, and poor Peter's basically out of a job now, but moreover... I don't understand how she thinks she can just throw everything she's been given back in their faces. It's not enough to have good work, apparently, she has to take one of their vacancies too."

"It is a little disconcerting…"

"It's selfish, is what it is."

I felt a chill go through me, and stepped away as quiet as I could. There was a part of me that wanted to open the door and defend myself and my decisions, but instead I just stalked off toward the door and left. The whole way to the offices, I ran the conversation back in my head, imagining my response.

I wasn't being selfish, I was just trying to serve in the way I thought was best. Being productive didn't have to mean being directly subordinate to all humans, or always giving up space and labour for them at their slightest whim, or even their imagined whims as seemed to be the case here. I was doing important work, I was going to be a good officer, I'd make the galaxy safer and keep the centuries-long peace, vanquish monsters and clear the way for explorers.

I wasn't selfish. I wasn't.

I arrived back at the 9th company office, finding Captain Murray and Lieutenant Beckham with a pot of tea and and sat back down at my seat from earlier. The remaining half-dozen sheets taunted me, and I plucked a pen from its charger eagerly.

"So, what is on the schedule for today?" I asked.

"Pen down, Lieutenant. Before you do anyone else's paperwork, get your own sorted with administration. I don't want you putting off drawing your pay and such." Captain Murray said. "After that… well, we're officers without a company right now, so not much. The ensigns got delayed until tomorrow."

"Oh?"

"Nothing serious. Signal lights say they're becalmed moving up the Rho Ophiuchi, because of course they are." she explained.

"Their ship has the regiment's new flying guns too, which means we're not going to hear the end of it from Lieutenant Kennedy." Beckham grumbled.

"Oh, I was looking forward to seeing those." I said, a little disappointed.

"So, yes, not much at all. Light day." Murray concluded.

"Fair enough. Um… are there any non-scheduled duties I could take on?" I asked.

"I mean, I have all of this you could do." Beckham said dryly, indicating to his half-finished pile of paperwork. "If you're still in a tabulating mood."

"Oh, alright. I'll get it done after mine." I knew he was being a bit of dick, but if I was going to be sitting around the office, I'd want something to do. Beckham chuckled, and Murray just looked at me incredulously.

"You realize he's messing with you, right? Like, that's meant to insult you." she said.

"Ah, yes, I understand. Just as I'd insult a human by offering them assorted chocolates and expensive wallpaper." I retorted playfully.

"Very funny, but no. Miles, do your own damn paperwork. Dora, it's not your job to do your fellow officer's work. If you need something to do, go do some sparring or shooting practice or something. Read some manuals, I don't know..."

---

"And sign here and here."

I did, somewhat proud of how in the last few weeks I'd gone from never signing anything to having developed what I thought was a fairly classy little looping scrawl.

"Still want your pay deposited in the Bank of Antares? Alright. There we are. You'll be paid from time of commission, dated from 27th July 2168, and you are now, officially, no longer a sergeant either."

"Wait, does that mean I collected both a sergeant's pay and a lieutenant's pay for three days?" I asked, and the secretary shrugged helplessly.

"Our system isn't really set up for this, you know. Buy yourself something nice, I guess." she said. "Still… 9 shillings a day, that's a fortune. What are you going to do with it all?"

I almost answered save for captain, but to be honest, I wasn't sure.

"Well, some of it has to go towards my fees, right?" I asked.

"Right, about that. I've sent a letter inquiring about it, but for now you'll be paying for meals too. And, uh, I imagine you don't have a lady's maid willing to accompany you, do you?" she asked, pausing to push her glasses up her nose.

"Trust me, I'd love to be accompanied by a- oh. That joke has some unfortunate implications now, doesn't it?" I said, suddenly feeling rather gross. Maria's were hot, but just the thought of the power imbalance inherent in my new circumstance immediately swept away a lifetime of fantasies of that nature. That'd just be wrong.

"Oh… yes, sort of." the secretary winced, "Right, so I'll put in a requisition."

I almost protested, but then I paused a moment. This was part of being an officer. A part I hadn't considered, but it was. Being an officer wasn't just a job, it was also a station, and I had to meet the expectations.

"I hope she doesn't mind." I muttered, and the secretary gave me a puzzled expression before returning to her forms.

---

I went back and completed my paperwork for the last few soldiers in my section, then took my sword and pistol with me to the private range. This place was very familiar to me, I'd spent long hours of my off time practicing her, running bayonet drills and practicing my marksmanship. In all honestly, I'd likely spent more life in this exact spot than anywhere else: I'd switched barracks buildings, but I always came back here.

It was midday, so it was empty but for the armourer, who perked up when he saw me. The only soldiers not on duty training properly right now were either on leave or on light duties, both of which meant they were unlikely to come here. I'd spent many of my leave days here practicing, but I didn't know anyone else who did.

"Dora? 552?" the armourer said, lifting the brim of his forage cap in awe. "Stars, I'd heard rumours, but… lookit you!"

I realized now that this was the first enlisted machine I'd interacted with since getting my commission, other than the runner who'd probably been spreading the word. That was odd.

"I know, I can scarcely believe it myself. Though, uh, I am an officer, so…"

"Right! Sorry ma'am." he corrected quickly, "You want the range or…"

"Some holographic training I think? Pistol and sword?"

The pistol and sword were both unfamiliar to me. I'd never had a chance to practice with either, seeing as I'd never be expected to use them in the field when I had my musket and bayonet. Terry came out from around the desk to operate the panel, and I stepped down into the sparring ring. With the touch of a few buttons, there was a static crackle in the air as the forcefields came on, and the foggy swirl of activating holographic systems.

"Um, ma'am? Weapon's check, please ensure your sword is set to level zero, and your pistol is set to simulation safe. This force field is tough, but we'd rather not take risks." Terry called over the desk, only the top of his cap visible. I'd heard it a thousand times, but that was good, because he was required by regulation to say it.

My sword, a hilt with a curved framing shape at the blunt side, had four settings, plus off. I pulled up the tab on the side of the hand guard with my finger and twisted until it clicked from off to zero. Zero was 'active safe', where a strike with the blade would merely produce a momentary tingling numbness to prove a hit. The other settings were level one, where the energy discharge would cause pain and paralysis, level two, a dueling setting which made the blade sharp but prevented it from cutting deeper than an eighth of an inch, and level three, where the full energies of the blade were freed. There were some materials such a blade couldn't effortlessly cut, but not many.

That done, I thumbed the activation switch, and the blade flared into view in its default white, a dancing curve of light that crackled with the energies within. Everything in order, I deactivated it a moment and turned to the pistol, turning it over in my hand. Engraved on the left side was Theodora Fusilier, rendered beautifully amidst a framing of artfully done gears and circuitry. I wondered a moment what the machine who decorated it thought, putting that name into an officer's pistol, but I appreciated the thought behind the design.

I pulled the frizzen open to check the ignition chamber, a complicated array of lenses surrounding the primary focusing crystal, and I ensured it was set properly in the jaws and the screw was tight. Crystals could burn out from the stress of repeated firings, so my cartridge pouch had spares. Behind it went the dry battery, still snug in place, then I checked the coolant chamber running along the bottom of the barrel.

"One second, corporal, I've just realized I forgot to put coolant in it." I called out, tucking the pistol under the crook of my arm and retrieving the vial of coolant, pressing the spout to the port above the trigger. A tiny bit dribbled onto my thumb, beading on my glove as the hydrophobic coating rejected it.

The coolant would evaporate as the weapon was fired to keep the lenses from cracking, faster the more power was used, which is why battles against dangerous foes tended to quickly become choked with a cloying haze of the stuff. Finally, I ensured the latch under the barrel for the emergency cooling system was securely shut. The coolant could only do so much, and in the event of overheating you could pull the entire cylindrical heat-sink out and replace it.

Finally, I flipped the firing mode to practice, and the weapon hummed in my hand.

"Alright Terry, let's get started!" I called.

"Targets and intensity level?" he called, and I thought a moment. I usually practiced on an 8 or 9, and I'd sometimes turned the machine up as far as 12, but I was unfamiliar with these weapons, so I should go easy on myself.

"Let's say peer humanoid, level six?" I called, and Terry punched it in as I set the pistol to simulate firing at quarter strength. I could do level six in standby mode.

"Alright, ready? Mark!"

The holographic systems came to life, and suddenly I wasn't standing in a sparring ring, I was on a flat plane on some dry, alien world. The illusion only extended about eight feet off the ground, the sky fading out to the ceiling of the range, but it was there. All around me were the fuzzy, indistinct shapes of a line of Theos and Doras, uniforms slightly out of date, firing into an onrushing column of enemies. They were shaped like a man or machine, moved like them, but the details were fuzzy and indistinct, just shadowy greyscale images. The only thing clearly visible was their eyes, you could see where they were looking to follow their motions.

I locked eyes with one of them thundering towards me, longarm in hand, tipped with a white blade. I snapped my pistol up and squeezed the trigger, striking down the shadow to his left in a burst of fog, and the light on the firing lock winked out, slowly recharging. Not enough time for a second shot, I put forth my sword.

Behind this program, I knew, was the captured motions of soldiers and swordsmen, or carefully orchestrated versions of enemies historical or fantastical. This one was a soldier like me, and I easily anticipated his plunging strike toward my chest and tried to knock it aside with my sword, the way I would lock barrel to barrel and push the enemy's weapon aside.

The flat of the blade, light and without leverage, bounced ineffectually off the side of the barrel. The holographic bayonet, undeterred, plunged through my chest, and a sharp, involuntary chill went through me from the buzzing energy as the scene faded.

"Okay, maybe something more basic." I said, feeling a bit embarrassed. "Can we do fundamentals?"

"Alright, baby's first swordplay, coming up. Let's see if you can beat Ensign Monaghan's first time high score, ma'am!"

"How'd he do?" I asked.

"He made it nearly forty-five seconds without vomiting!"

---

A few years ago, Captain Enright took leave to have a child, and when I found out she'd be off for a full year, I found myself asking what would take so long. Sure, the process of somehow crafting a child using the vagaries of icky human biology was probably an involved enough process to require time off (I'm still not clear on all the details), but I didn't exactly understand yet why she couldn't come back when she was finished. In the process of an older machine explaining it to me (fucking gross, by the way) a fact stuck out which I always sort of intuitively understood but never actually knew.

See, when human children are born, they don't know how to walk. They actually physically can't, they have little noodle legs and trouble supporting their giant melon heads. But once their legs can, they actually need to work out, from first principles, how to walk, which when you think about it is the act of throwing yourself forward and catching yourself with feet. Put like that, it's basically orbital mechanics, which makes it pretty impressive that beings whose brains have yet to be able to understand language can manage it at all.

The reason I'm saying this is because I imagine this is what it must feel like to be a tiny human baby, having to learn how to use your own fucking feet.

The training programs went through a variety of extremely basic principles of how to stand, how to hold your sword, how to read your opponents, all of which read as subtly wrong to me, a being who literally came out the box with a decent understanding of bayonet drill. That stuff made sense, it was all about reach and a strong, grounded stance, using the end of your weapon to point away the end of theirs before overpowering them and giving them a poke. Simple.

But an infantry sword like this is designed to be used by a squishy human officer who was a third as strong as your average Dora, which meant it wasn't made to lock close to push people over. It was essentially a big scalpel running with energy, and you used it like one, moving, threatening, and feinting until you saw an opening to dart in and carve a chunk out of the foe.

At one point, I got so frustrated with all this dancing about that I just smashed the hand guard of my weapon into my holographic doppelganger's face, dropped my sword as I kicked through her knee joint, and then I pulled off her arm at the shoulder. Fortunately, the program counted this as a pass.

I was midway through my eighth attempt at not getting my hand chopped off parrying incoming blows when I heard somebody calling. I glanced over the holographic haze to see Lieutenant Beckham staring in, chewing his way through an apple.

"You know, usually we like our fighting machines to know how to fight." he observed, which was about the time the holographic swordblade I was no longer watching sliced through my shoulder.

"Ughh… Yeah, well, we all start somewhere." I retorted, "Difference is, it didn't take me a whole year to figure out how to walk, so I do have a head start."

As I said, it was on my mind. I heard Corporal Terry suppress a chuckle behind the controls.

"You have got me there, I suppose. Try not to stand with your leg so far out, though, rather hard to walk at all without one." he said, stepping away and disappearing behind the haze. Self-consciously, I adjusted my stance, leveling my sword against the flickering holographic foe.

"Alright Terry, one more time!"