The Duke's Palace was an everpresent element within the city, looming at the outskirts. From the base, it's upper roofs and the enormous glass dome of its ballroom were just visible over the rooftops of the city, gleaming in the sunlight of the solar reflector high above the station. I didn't know much about architecture, save that I knew it was very impressive, and dwarfed the other two manors on the station (that being the McMillan family, the industrialists, for whom April worked, and Douglas estate, who I understand own some of the shipyards). My understanding was that there were dozens of guest wings in the palace for visitors, each larger than the building I lived in, plus a dizzying array of other rooms for whatever strange purposes humans found.
The night and day leading up to the party was underlined by the increased traffic to the station, such that from the edge of the base closest to the rim of the dome I could see a sea of masts from all the solar sail clustered about the docking ports.
The morning, spent on musket safety drills and instruction for the highest power settings (which is to say, if you're going to shoot at high power, you best be aware of everything within twenty feet or so of the target), was filled with increasing nervous anticipation on my part, especially with no sign of Kennedy at breakfast and with Beckham making a point to ask every inane question he could about my new face. Finally, though, we broke for lunch, and the officers began to race off for their final preparations.
(The Theos and Doras were, god help us, being given leave for the next thirty-six hours. All of them.)
I returned to Number 18 briefly to ensure my uniform and self were both in as top a shape as I could get, then flagged down a cab and proceeded out into the city to pick up Beatrice from her apartment. She rented a respectable little room in a rowhouse, space for a bed and desk and every other inch overflowing with stacks of paper and wall-to-ceiling shelves of her previously published materials, and opened the door in her dress. Her eyes went wide when she saw me.
"Stars, Lieutenant. I didn't know you were going to go get a whole new face for the occasion." she said, looking askew at me. "Wow."
The dim little pink bulbs under her cheeks flickered to light a moment and I felt a thousand feet tall. And her? Like I knew I was gay, but stars. She had this bottle green dress, same as her mismatched arm, with little toggles and bows in a metallic brass that perfectly complemented everything about her. This might have been a last minute arrangement, but I was pretty happy with how it was turning out.
We got back into the cab and made our way across the city, the anxious energy of it building in the cab. The driver had looked at us like we had screws loose when we told him we were going to the palace, to the front gate moreover, but without complaint he spirited us in that direction with a clatter of Jansen's linkages, and we both desperately tried to keep cool.
"... nope, can't do it. We're going to a fancy party! Full on fancy party!" Beatrice said, so excited she was tapping her feet furiously against the floorboard of the cab. "As guests. Oh my God, this is absurd, isn't it?"
"More than a little, yes." I agreed. "I hadn't really considered this element of the job much, you know. I was very much focused on the leading part and sort of… well, to be honest, sort of assumed that I just wouldn't be a part of the other bits."
"Well, that's because you're English or whatever. In America, this isn't super weird. But also, Americans don't really have giant fancy parties like this. It's seen as aristocratic." Beatrice explained.
"Well… that's because it literally is." I said, a little confused.
"American humans don't terribly like thinking of themselves that way. The, uh… they had a bad time with both their last sets of aristocracy, yours and theirs." Beatrice said, wincing a bit. "It's not talked about. Point is, it's not weird for management machines and officers and the like to mix a bit more with humans. But here, stars, that's just not done."
"... that's a good accent, wow." I said. She sounded exactly like April for a second. Usually when machines tried faking an accent, it sounded… well, incredibly fake.
"I've lived in British space for sixty years now, I had the accent installed. Sometimes I'm doing research and I don't want to be the outsider American so it's helpful." she said.
"What kind of research do you do?" I asked, curious. I still had no idea what she wrote.
"Well, not all my books can be about Beas, you know. I talk to other machines to get an idea what makes them tick, what they value, what their jobs are like, so I can write books for them. Usually get the manuscripts read over by a few to make sure it seems right, you know? Everyone's different, sure, but we are made on patterns." she explained. "So if I was writing a book about Doras, you'd bet I'd want to talk to as many Doras as I could."
"That makes sense. So… is this trip going to be research?" I asked.
"Well, not deliberately. It's was kind of a favour for my friend Miriam at first, and now it's kind of a oh my God, I'm going to the palace with a machine officer sort of situation. But things that happen to me tend to end up in my books anyway. Often kinda by accident? Once or twice I've written about stuff I've been going through before I realized I was going through it!"
"I'm not entirely sure how one does that." I said, and she shrugged.
"Me neither!"
Traffic slowed as we needed the front gate of the palace, choked by all the cabs filtering in. Most were of the sort used in the city, pulled by horses with linked, articulated legs, but there were horses with wheels, hydraulic legs, pedrails, tracks, air cushions, or even modern repulsor coils, all attempting to form an orderly line for arrival and shuffling past one another.
"What the bloody hell is that?" I exclaimed, and Bea leaned over to see what I was pointing at. Crossing the street ahead of us was a cart pulled not by any sort of horse I recognized, indeed not pulled by anything mechanical at all, but instead drawn by four incredibly bizarre and frankly alien beasts that it took me a moment to recognize from ancient paintings. They looked very different (and somewhat sickening) in motion.
"Those are like, horse-horses. The original sort." Bea said in awe.
"Bizarre." I said, feeling a little uncomfortable as I looked at the straps and blinders of the beasts dragging the cart along. Animals shouldn't be treated like that. "I don't think I like that much."
"It probably isn't too bad. They might be genotyped to not feel it." Bea said, sitting back on her chair. "I can't imagine otherwise."
Finally, the cab deposited us at the doors, and we both had to take a moment to marvel at the baroque extravagance before moving in. I offered an arm to Bea, and she linked hers with mine as we approached, doing our best to look dignified and very much in place despite how very much out of place we were.
At the door was two of the soldiers from the 7th in their smartest uniforms standing at attention, and a doormachine who looked at us with more than a little confusion.
"Um… name?"
"Theodora Fusilier and guest?" I said, as though that wasn't obvious from the look of me. The machine scanned through his ledger, flipping a few pages before nodding, but then he looked back at me.
"Why's there a machine officer, then?" he asked.
"Excuse me, this is a skin condition." I retorted. He looked bemused a moment before one of the guards leaned in just a little.
"That's our Lieutenant Fusilier from 9th Company. Let her in, will you?" he whispered, and the doormachine shrugged and checked it off.
We pushed past through the door, every inch around us covered in gilding, molding, paintings or curtains, trying not to look too overwhelmed by it all. This was normal for humans, right? Well, maybe a bit more than normal. There were a few wide-eyed teenagers who couldn't help but gawk at the sheer scale of it, and this was just the entrance.
We made our procession then from the entrance into the reception hall, which was an enormous space which felt twice as tall as it needed to be, flanked by two curved staircases each wide enough to march a regiment up in column. Suspended above us with absolutely no visible means of support was a chandelier dotted in thousands of dancing candles, cycling slowly through colours, each revealing new details of the enormous hall.
All around were people: humans talking, moving, greeting one another with drinks in hand. Machines scurrying about delivering refreshments, guiding guests, carrying messages. It was as chaotic as any battlefield I'd ever marched across, and felt nearly as dangerous.
Then, as we passed through the doors, a butler made eye contact, just briefly, and he announced my name. A handful of eyes glanced toward the door, and were it not for Bea on my arm pulling me forward, I think I would have cut and run on the spot, a full route until I was back safe in my old cot in the NCO's barracks.
I scanned the hall desperately, desperately for any red jackets, and the sight of Beckham and another officer standing about in the corner was like spotting one's regimental standard in the fog. I made a beeline there as fast as I thought was respectable, trying not to bump into anyone along the way, and I'll admit his dumb, mocking smirk was a lifelife.
"Fusie, you actually made it after all! I had five pounds on you doing a runner." he said, looking me over.
"You haven't five pounds at all, you liar." the other officer responded, shaking his head. "Evening lieutenant. I think this is our first proper introduction?"
I froze up, unsure what to say, but fortunately Beckham was there to make it worse with his usual charm.
"And you never told me about her, my God. Bit embarrassed you're already showing me in that department." he said, looking her over. "Somehow, the least surprising part of you is that you're a lesbian."
"Stars, Miles, do you ever think about your words before they escape your mouth?" I asked, flabbergasted.
"Not usually. Miles Beckham, Lieutenant in the 7th. This is my good chum Lieutenant Henry Rubin Turner. You have him to thank for inflicting me on you, Fusie, he's the one who wrote me about the opening in the 7th."
"I had to get him somewhere where I could keep an eye on him. We've been friends ever since he was a little boy and I was very confused." Turner said, and they both laughed at their in-joke which I very much did not understand. "But yes, greetings and all."
My stars, they're clones. They found the most irritating man in the world and decided to craft a second, just to see if the galaxy could withstand it.
"Uuuh… Lieutenant Dora Fusilier, as you probably guess. And this is…"
"Beatrice Tailor. Charmed." she said, extending a hand dainty. Was that a thing? Was I supposed to do that thing? I was unsure, so for the purposes of safety I decided to do nothing but look as stoic as I could.
"How long have you known our stainless-steel subaltern, then?" Beckham asked, and she laughed a very charming and very fake laugh and I realized, at some point, she must have researched this exact circumstance for a book or something.
"Oh, just a few days." she said, and worrying desperately about what they might make of that, I quickly changed the subject.
"Have any other officers made it yet?"
"I think Gaynestown is somewhere thataway, and last I heard the CO is with the Duke proper someplace." Turner said. "Plus there's some ensigns… somewhere. It's probably fine."
"I saw Lieutenant Duncan by the balcony." Beckham added. "Oh, and Lieutenant Kennedy, just for a moment. Looked a bit dazed."
"She's had terrible luck at parties. Probably because she isn't allowed to stand far back and blow them up." Turner added with a laugh. "Poor girl, really, a damned shame."
Turner plucked a glass off a passing tray which may or may not have been intended for him as more names were called out over the assembled halls. We were shortly thereafter joined by a confused and lost looking gaggle of our Ensigns, who had been spirited here as a clump and then flatly abandoned by their aides.
"What you've got there, Ellen?" Beckham asked, and I glanced over to see. To my absolute horror, Ensign Darley had somehow secured a glass of something or other from a server, and now they were all gathered about it, quietly daring each other to drink.
"Oh, nothing lieutenant." Darley responded, the drink shielded from Beckham's uncaring gaze as he shrugged and returned to his conversation. She quickly passed it to Sumner, who stared wide-eyed at the contraband.
"Come on, Lydia, it won't be that bad." Kelly insisted.
"It smells quite strong, compared to ciderkin." Sumner said, "I don't think we ought to. Or maybe just in small sips."
"What, you chicken? Come on Lydia!" Brodeway insisted, nudging her arm. With a wince, and before I could stop her, she threw back a considerable portion, and then screwed her whole face up, sticking out her tongue.
"Oh stars, it's foul! Why do people drink this dreck?" she said, a shiver going through her whole body. A curious Brodeway snatched it from his hand, took a sip, and nodded.
"It's alright."
I was distracted at that moment by a voice I thought was calling my name, and I turned to see Lieutenant Colonel Harrison approaching, accompanied by an old man I presumed simply must be the Duke of Arcturus, and unusually with a youth of perhaps fourteen dressed similarly. They both had similar features too, if separated by a century in age, sharp and hawkish. I was aware the title had changed hands recently, but I had no idea what that meant, and my loose understanding of human ages sort of indicated there ought to be at least one or two generations between them.
And, most intimidatingly, there was another figure in a red jacket accompanying them, with a pair of layered sashes and a chest full of medals, her yellow left eye not quite matching her green right eye due to a hasty field transplant. Her, I recognized: Lieutenant General Elliot Sybil Andromeda. Our boss, the general of the entire Arcturus sector, and the most decorated officer currently serving.
The rule is that you don't salute indoors, you have to be wearing headgear to salute, but I swore I felt my arm twitch.
"Lieutenant Fusilier! Wonderful. I was just telling the Duke about you." the Lieutenant Colonel was saying, gesturing warmly. I froze up on the spot.
"Hello. Evening. General. Duke." I said, each word disconnected and meaningless, the extraction of which from my speakers felt like it had to be done with tongs from a safe distance. Did I address the child? Should I look at the child? Something in my processors screamed 'Do Not Look At The Child' and I made a titanic effort to look everywhere else instead.
Then I followed the chain of their eyes looking and realized I needed to introduce my date.
"This is Beatrice. Taylor. My date." I concluded stiffly, praying for death.
"Lieutenant. I'll admit, I was surprised to hear about your promotion. Haven't had an officer come up from the ranks since I was a junior officer myself." the General said, regarding me with an absolutely unreadable expression. "The Lieutenant Colonel passed me your service record, I remember seeing a report about your action at Fomalhaut. I'm glad to have such an officer in my sector."
"Th-thank you ma'am. Uh… General. Lieutenant General." I stumbled, to the amused smiles of everyone around me. "Old habits."
"I'm glad to have you as a guest. Please enjoy the ball." the Child said, his voice a little uneven.
"Thank you." I said, unsure what I was doing, and we all stood awkwardly.
I was saved further horror by a chime that seemed to quiet everyone in the hall, and everyone began moving with purpose toward a set of doors nestled between the stairs. I vaguely recalled that this indicated the start of dinner. As the group moved away, I felt all the tension leave my body, the same happening to Bea beside me.
"Oh my god, that was General Andromeda. Oh stars, she's read my record. Aaaaah." I said, feeling my hands shaking. "She remembers who I am."
"That kid was the Duke. Like, of the whole thing. The city." Bea added. "Oh stars, I feel a little faint."
"We'll get to sit down now, I think…"
We followed into what turned out to be an enormous dining hall down a short set of stairs, another room of absolutely stunning overextravagance with massive tables laid out in long rows.
"So… do we just sit?" I asked, and Bea shook her head.
"I think we'll have been assigned a spot. I imagine the officers all sit together, so let's go there." she said, indicating to where a section of red (and a single blue) coats were milling about. It soon turned out there was no real seating beyond specific tables, so I and Bea found a spot opposite of Captain Murray and her husband, a lovely looking man in a black suit and small glasses who smiled at us as we sat. Moments later, Kennedy made a dash for the empty seat nearest us, sitting in a rush.
"Dora, thank the stars. This is a nightmare." she said, staring shocked in the seat. "I hate this sort of thing. Oh my God, Dora, your face!"
"Uh… is that approving or-"
"I just… you look amazing. Compliments to the, uh, face-smith?" she said, smiling. "Who is, uh-?"
"Um… this is Beatrice Taylor, my date. Bea, this is Lieutenant Diana Kennedy of the Royal Artillery, she's a friend." I said, indicating beside me. Bea gave a nervous little wave in response.
"... lovely to meet you." Diana said, looking at me strangely. I felt a little self-conscious suddenly: I knew it was a bit unusual taking another woman to an event like this, but I had presumed it would be utterly overshadowed by the unusualness of being at such an event at all as a guest instead of staff. I hoped this wouldn't affect our friendship.
Further introductions went around as more people filtered in: Captain Murray's husband was Albert, I met Lieutenant Duncan's fiancee, I learned so many names they all promptly fell from my head. A curious machine with the servers came by to ask us what exactly we were doing here, and confirm we didn't want anything, though I made a point to ask him for two empty glasses. Food and drinks started arriving soon after, and we did our best not to be too awkward while everyone else was eating.
As part of that desperate attempt at distraction, I began scanning the room, taking in all the people crowded around. The tables seemed themed beyond just the officers: my best guess were locals, guests both British and foreign, relatives of the Duke, and a table of honour with all the most important guests which included the Lieutenant General and Lieutenant Colonel. It wasn't a surprise to see that Bea and I were the only machines sitting down, but it was stark none-the-less.
As expected, as dinner progressed, the first toasts arrived, and this was the genius of the empty glass. It was apparently acceptable for those attempting who had given up drinking for their health to toast as such, and given that pouring a beer into my workings would probably not be optimal for my functionality, it seemed a reasonable substitution. Bea was quite impressed by the solution as I guided her through the first, which made me feel very confident indeed.
Nearing the end of dinner, when our restlessness was at its apex (Bea had started idly twirling a fork between her fingers with, I will admit, very impressive manual dexterity), I noticed a red-coated Maria, an officer's aide who bore the same heterochromia as the Lieutenant General, move swiftly up along the table and lean to her. Her face changed, a look of concern, and she turned and spoke quickly to Lt. Col. Harrison. The two of them got up and swiftly left, servants descending to remove their plates, and I turned to Bea just as there was a great shuffling around us. Before I could speak, however, I felt her take my hand.
"Dinner's ending, Dora. Would you care to dance?"
Or do they just not kick in on cosmetic-only problems, c.f. the giant hole in Dora's leg?
