This first chapter is largely the same as the first 10k words of Golden Eagle, but there are meaningful rewrites. It will diverge significantly from here.
I couldn't hear it; of course, there was no air for the sound to propagate through, but I could
feel it. Reverberating through the ground, like an earthquake. Somewhere on our right, there was a massive plume of regolith thrown upward, rendered as an almost perfect half-sphere in the vacuum. A moment later, a wash of static crackled in my ear, and then a voice.
"Good
Christ, what was that?"
I turned to see my counterpart from A Section, Lieutenant Miles Beckham, holding a hand to shield his eyes. Behind his glass helmet, I could see the sweep of messy strawberry blond hair and the perpetual scruff, his glasses gleaming against the sunlight. Despite the fact he was no more than five feet from me, his voice came through distorted and warped from the wireless. I squeezed the wireless switch on my collar to open the channel.
"Mortar of some kind, I think," I replied. "Landed amongst the 28th, must have slipped over their shield."
"Poor buggers," Miles replied, shaking his head. "Think that'll be them moving?"
"I'll go take a look," I said, taking a step back. Our view forward was obscured by a solid wall of soldiers in red coats and tall shakos, their muskets held at the ready and their radiator panels jutting out like sails, and it looked like I'd have to walk a fair distance to get to a gap in the line.
Instead, I squared up as best I could and
jumped. In the reduced gravity and airless void, I shot straight up, maybe fifteen feet or so, holding weightless at the apex for long seconds.
The blasted moonscape unfolded ahead of me, rolling hills and craters of sharp grey, almost white in places touched by the sun and utterly black in the shadow. I could see our skirmishers a few hundred feet ahead, bounding in long, floaty strides across the landscape, their coats shifting back to grey to match the surroundings whenever they stopped moving.
I could see three pillars of dust getting closer over the edge of a steep dip in the ground.
Gravity, fighting valiantly against my push, reasserted itself, and I began to descend slowly. As I did, there were flashes against the twinkling lights above, our rocket artillery opening up behind us; their flames turned to simple points of red light in the vacuum. They sailed over our heads and winked out in the distance as their motors ran dry, falling against the pillars and bursting ineffectually far above them.
I landed softly back down to earth, dust billowing around me, feeling a slight twing of pain in my knee. Damned joints. Another officer had joined Miles next to me, Captain Elenora Murray, who looked at me quizzically from behind her helmet.
"Well?" she asked, clearly a little amused by my unorthodox little flight.
"They're coming," I reported. "Three groups, it looks like, with shields covering at least one that I saw. Couldn't see them directly."
"About time. Best get to your sections. Good luck, everyone," she replied, and we parted, walking to our appointed places in the line. I fell in at B-section's flank, the far end of the 7th Regiment of Foot's formation, where the ensigns and our senior sergeant were waiting. As usual, Ensign Kelly was being a nuisance, hunting up and down the line for a gap he could see the action through. By contrast, Ensign Sumner was looking up at the stars, lost in thought.
"Ensign?" I asked, switching to the section channel with the twist of a dial.
"Wondering how high I'd go if I jumped like that," she replied. I gestured permissively, and she tensed up and launched herself up, maybe ten feet straight up, flailing a bit in the air before descending and stumbling.
Ensigns.
I waved the two of them to their positions and took mine next to the senior sergeant, who gave me a slight nod and shuffled to make some room so our rad-packs wouldn't clatter together. We couldn't speak; she didn't have a wireless, but she signed
your screens. Wincing, I hastily thumbed the activation key on my gorget, the protective field of teal sparks leaping into existence. She unslung her weapon, a long wood-handled rifle, and switched on the capacitors, a soft yellow glow emitting from the chamber.
Glancing down the line, I saw a sword flicker to light, quickly picked up and copied by the blades of other officers in the regiment. I drew my sabre and did the same, twisting the signal selector and depressing the trigger. We were advancing two hundred paces, looked like: somebody upstairs had gotten the lay of the enemy attack and wanted us shifted.
Ahead of us, the section began moving, pushing forward as one with heavy steel footfalls, a few stumbling against the loose ground and low gravity. There was a particular way of walking in these conditions, and you had to relearn it for every surface and every gravity. It got more manageable with time, but some of these boxies were less than four months into service.
With the unit moving, I finally got onto the flank and got a good view again. There were blue flashes ahead, muskets trading back and forth, our skirmishers and theirs. Looking down the line, far to our left, I could see the rumbling shapes of heavy cavalry, the 5th Dragoon Guards, swinging out long for the flanks, presumably to meet their opposite number invisible somewhere far off. Their enormous footfalls threw massive clouds of dust behind them which hung like storm clouds.
And in the distance, I finally caught sight of the enemy. They were just hazy shapes, but I could see them divided into four groups about thirty abreast. From the look of the smoke behind them, more troops followed in a similar formation. It looked like they were coming right for us.
I clicked back to the company channel.
"Looks like they're coming at us the same old way," I commented.
"They never learn, it seems," the Captain agreed. "It looks like we'll be holding at the edge of the crater there. Make sure your rotaries-"
She was drowned out at that moment by an enormous wash of static, and I looked up to see lights erupting against our company force screen, dozens of shells bursting in crackling blue sparks against our force screens. Beside me, Sergeant Theda shook her head in disbelief, the glowing screens of her eyes flickering as they simulated blinking with each flash. Not that we had to, but it was humanising.
Waste of shells, she signed. It did seem like it. Firing at these distances was just to probe for gaps in the enemy screens; you didn't waste a bombardment against the surface. They must have thought so too, because the bombardment tapered off. Ash from the burst shells filtering through the screens like black snow.
Glancing back, the shield wagon and its massive dreadnought-wheeled horse were still plodding forward, keeping pace. Finally, we counted out our last steps, halting quite near a sizable impact crater, the wagon slowing to a stop.
Then there were impacts, more rolling flashes of light against the screen, and it didn't stop this time.
The bursts came furiously, so many they seemed to overlap, so many I started to be able to hear it as pops of ionised gases washing over my microphones. It must have carried on for the better part of two minutes, impact after impact, and I turned to see the wagon rocking with each hit, the generator sparking and rocking.
Then the emitters died, and the force screen gave out.
I had only about a moment to process this before the first shield landing in our position in a bright blue flash, spraying up dirt all around. Two more before the cloud had cleared, and I found myself sprawling, feeling rattled and dizzy from the nearby impacts. More flashed up and down our line, machines dropping heavily, and I simply lay as flat as I could against the regolith felt the momentary pressure waves batter at my radiator pack, digging into my back with each impact. Every time I thought it was over, another shell would burst nearby with clockwork precision.
Finally, in a gap in the shelling, I scrambled to my feet, pulling a handkerchief from my jacket to try desperately to clear the regolith from my cameras. Beside me, the line was reforming, as best as it could, but there were ragged holes in it now. Red-coated bodies were strewn across the ground all over, some lying still and others stirring weakly.
I estimated we were down perhaps a third of our number, though other companies closer to the centre looked even worse off. Casting around, I was relieved to see both our ensigns still on their feet, Kelly emerging from behind a Theo who had shielded him with his body, and Sumner miraculously untouched among a dozen downed soldiers.
I looked back out to the battlefield to try and get our bearings, spotting several of our skirmishers pulling back toward our position, harassed by their enemy counterparts. Their foes were fast, running with unnaturally long strides across the field, their carbines flashing. Sergeant Theda pulled up beside me, levelled her rifle, and fired, leaving one of their sprinting skirmishers stumbling into the dirt and scattering the others.
Beyond them, the main force approached. They were maybe just a thousand feet away now, moving swiftly at a fast march. They wore bulky grey hats, dark blue coats, and brilliant white crossbelts, and they seemed untouched by the dirt and grime that stuck to everything. The ones in front were particularly physically imposing, taller and broader. Even across the field, their red epaulettes and trim stood out.
At the head of the unit was a colours party, a gaggle of musicians with drums beating silently, each impact accompanied by a flash of light. Front and centre was a machine with a small tricolour flag, the pole a silvery metal and running with wires. Atop was a golden symbol, an eagle, and the entire assembly was haloed in white light.
As they closed, the light shifted to a blood-red, and all down the line, the French bayonets ignited.
I flicked my sword's signal to
make ready and pushed into the line proper, trying to encourage Theos and Doras into position. The line formed around me, bristling with muskets barrels, and I flicked my sword to the angry red of
fire and held it aloft, waiting for the perfect moment.
The enemy did not slow.
At seventy paces, I ordered the first volley, swinging my sword down decisively, and the moonscape lit up with pulses of blue light. Our targets disappearing behind a cloying haze of smoke, only the light of their eagle still visible. Machines rushed to feed more coolant into the guns, the thermodynamics of the void merciless, and fired another volley blind through the mist of the first.
The shots flickered against an invisible barrier perhaps twenty feet ahead of their line, the glow from the eagle intensifying. They had a force screen, covering the whole column. Some shots punched through, especially at the weakened flanks, and shadows there stumbled and fell, but others took their place instantly.
They were perhaps thirty feet away when they fired their first and only volley. The screen dispersed it, but despite that, it tore through our ragged line with ease. Ensign Kelly, momentarily exposed by a falling machine, was struck by multiple shots, and he slumped over, his screens overwhelmed. My own screens sparked violently, and the machine beside me pitched onto his face. By instinct, I stepped into his place, and signalled to ignite bayonets.
They began to sprint toward us, overtaking their colours, and we got off one last volley while they were unprotected. Each shot struck home and took down a grenadier with it, but they still hit us hard, bayonets crossing and clashing, machines pushing against one another. All of it utterly silent in the void.
I hit the Dora coming at me with a blast from my pistol, and the one following stumbled over her into my sword, but I couldn't even get my blade back into a guard before the next bayonet drove at me. It swerved away at the last moment as Theda threw herself bodily into the French soldier, her captured alien axe coming down like a thunderbolt.
I had no idea what was happening outside of our tiny area, I couldn't even see A-Section, but I knew if we gave ground, they'd open our flank up, and that would be it for the entire formation. Their regulars joined the fray now, shooting point-blank into the combat as they moved in. I felt a moment of pride as Ensign Sumner cut down a machine before he could bring his bayonet up, but there were far too many, and soon she was obscured by the press of blue coats and glowing bayonets.
There were maybe a dozen of us now, stumbling back against the rocks, but we'd given them hell. A grenadier sergeant came at me with a polearm of some description, the glowing blade glancing off my arm, but I caught him in the hand as he approached and then took him at the legs with the backswing. Drawing back into a defensive stance, I looked for my next target, and that's when I spotted her.
She was tall, willow-thin for a Dora, her long blue coat in blue and white perfectly fitted and trimmed in gold. Across her chest were five gleaming medals in gold and silver and dancing gems. Her face was not steel, but instead a fine white glass, her eyes projecting seamlessly onto its surface, her expression fixed in a smug half-smile. Her eyes met mine, and she levelled a long, elegant straight sword, clearly an invitation to a duel.
The ready light on my pistol turned blue, and I blasted her in the chest.
Her screens dissipated the blast, but they caused her to stumble a moment. It was a moment I used to close on her and swing as hard as I could for her shoulder. Her sword flashed in the way, a blind guard, and our blades clashed, their energies roiling and snapping in contrast. I kicked for her knee, trying to wrest some kind of advantage, and she stepped away, swiping an inch from my eyes, and I was forced to give ground in turn.
She nodded approvingly, then stepped in for another attack, a driving thrust I only just managed to batter aside. She didn't hesitate a moment, stepping into another attack, dancing out of reach every time I tried to respond, taller than me, faster than me. I brought my pistol up at my hip, careful to keep it out of her range, and she swung her sword across the path of the blast and dispersed it in a flash of sparks.
I was giving ground as fast as possible, casting about for Theda, but soon I realised that I was alone. Everyone else was down. I stumbled over a body, came up covered in dust and gripping a fistful of clingy regolith, and I threw it for her cameras as I closed. She staggered, drawing her cuff across her face, and I finally had a moment I could seize on. I pushed forward; blade raised to strike.
With a jolt of pain, my knee buckled and gave way, and I collapsed heavily in a clatter of radiator panels. I tried to push myself to my feet, struggling with the loose soil, but any weight on my leg just made it worse. My opponent stepped back in front of me, her screens now clear, and I tried to raise my blade into some kind of guard.
She gave a sympathetic shake of her head, then ran me through.
---
"That could have gone better."
"Fusie, if you wield your sword like you wield understatement, you'd have carried the day single-handed," Miles complained, unlatching his helmet and running a hand through his hair. He instantly regretted it, just caking his scalp with lunar dust. "This
bloody stuff…"
"We're never going to live this down, you know." Captain Murry said simply, slumping against the side of the airlock. "Biggest war games of the decade, and we crumpled like a tin can. The Colonel's probably going to get an earful from General Andromeda."
"It's not just us. The 28th got it bad too, and the 35th got forced into square without their screens and they worked them over with the cannons. At least the Dragoons put on a decent showing." Major Gaynesford said, dabbing his forehead with a cloth. "Too little too late, I'm afraid, but it was something. What happened to you, Lieutenant?"
"My, um, knee joint gave out," I explained, trying not to look like I was leaning too heavily on my crutch. "Nothing too bad."
"Bad luck," he replied sympathetically.
In the centre of the airlock, Colonel Harrison, the 7th's commanding officer, stood up to get our attention. He looked rather embarrassed.
"My apologies to your house staff, but you'll all be needed for dinner tonight, so get your uniforms cleaned first thing," he said, glancing around the room at the dirt-encrusted officers. "And do try to be good sports at dinner, will you? Won't do to be sore losers."
"We'll always have Waterloo over them, after all!" An officer, some young lieutenant I didn't recognise, called out.
"Yes, try not to bring that up either," Harrison chided. "They're our guests, after all."
"Right, you're only supposed to talk shit about guests behind their back, you see," Lieutenant Turner muttered beside me, and I did my best not to break into laughter.
We stumbled back out into the cold air of Antares City, and suddenly I found myself wishing for a return to the void rather than face the bitterly cold December wind. We made the short trip from the airlock tunnels to the base, grumbling among ourselves and comparing our experiences, comparing tactics and trying to figure out where it had all gone wrong.
Miles was a bit sore about having been knocked out by a stunning shell and complained that they'd overestimated the effects against our shields, while the ensigns were chattering loudly about how exciting it had all been and how they'd all met their inglorious ends. Darley had been disarmed and captured at bayonet point, while Brodeway had been pinned under a fallen Theo. My broken knee got a great deal of sympathy, which felt somewhat undeserved.
As I always did after void exercises, I snuck around to the rear door of Number 18. Miriam was at the door before I could even knock, my housecoat in one hand and a bucket of rags in the other, looking distinctly unamused.
"So what happened to you, exactly?" she asked pointedly.
"Knee joint wore through is all." I explained, pulling off my coat, and she beckoned me inside quickly, shivering against the cold. "You alright?"
They didn't design us for winters." she replied, shutting the door quickly. "This the joint you've been complaining about for the past two months? The one you assured me you'd get replaced?"
"Knee joints wear through all the time, especially for Fusiliers," I responded, feeling a bit trapped. It was true, though; even for regular machines yearly replacements were the norm. For machines like myself, it was closer to half that.
"Mhm, they do," she replied, looking utterly unimpressed. "You need these cleaned for dinner?"
"Yes, sorry. Bit of a rush." She chuckled at my uncertainty.
"You need to stop feeling bad about creating work for your staff, it's what they're built for," she said, for what felt like the thousandth time. "How'd you do personally, anyway?"
"My entire section got wiped out," I said. "To a machine. Not even the ensigns made it out."
"Well, you'll have to work on that before your next deployment, that's for certain. I heard the French have machine officers, is that true?"
"I ran into one, she kicked my ass" I admitted.
"Huh." Miriam paused, clearing thinking hard about something. "I wonder if she'll be at dinner. Maybe you could ask her for tips."
"Perhaps." Truth be told, I was looking forward to meeting her; I'd never met another machine officer before. I wasn't the only one in the British Army, there was a Captain Theodore Fusilier on General Martin's staff if I recalled correctly, but I'd not had the chance to meet him. And in any case, he'd stayed a captain for some sixty years and I half-suspected he was shut away in a procurement office somewhere happily doing paperwork, lucky bastard.
"It'll almost certainly be good for you. You need a friend, somebody on your level." Miriam said, dumping my uniform in the laundry room for the Abbys. I headed to my study, dabbing at my face with one of the rags from the bucket, Miriam close behind.
"I have friends," I said defensively. "Miles and April surely count."
"Yes, and one of them is a housemaid, and the other is
human," Miriam said.
"I… I resent the implication." I said, "I'm Miles' friend as an officer and April's friend as a machine. I don't see the contradiction."
"Of course you don't," she said simply, shaking her head. "One moment please."
I sat down at my desk, leaning back against the plush leather chair, as Miriam disappeared through the door. Already itching for something to do, I plucked my pen from my charger just to have something to do with my hands and cast over the desk for incomplete paperwork. Finding nothing, I began absently practising my signature on a blank page, trying to get all the curls just right. Officers signed a lot of documents, it was important I do it right.
Not a minute later, I became aware of Miriam's return when she set to work with the rags, clearing the regolith from my neck and shoulders, humming happily to herself. As much as I loathed void operations, I did take some heart in how they tended to cheer Miriam up. As much as she had proven herself utterly indispensable, I was quite aware that I never managed to give her enough to do. Days like this helped mollify the guilty feelings I had over that.
The household utility machine, Thomas, arrived at the door a few minutes later with a toolbox in hand. I hadn't called for him, so clearly Miriam had. A bit reluctantly, I shuffled up the cuff of my trousers until my knee joint was visible and propped it up on a chair, and he sat on the floor with an impact wrench and began removing bolts.
"You know, not normally part of my job description, ma'am," he joked, laying the parts out on the ground carefully as he removed them. "'Fraid I haven't got the exact piece you need, but we can substitute a regular pin just fine."
"I wasn't going to ask, but..." I responded, and Miriam cut me off.
"I will not have you attend the mess on a crutch like a Dickensian orphan, miss," she said sharply, throwing the last of the rags in a bucket. "Before you protest, this isn't just for your sake. Your bearing reflects on us as a staff, you know."
"O-of course," I said. "I just didn't want to cause any trouble. How much do I owe you?"
"Ma'am, my job is keeping the machines in this house running. Don't say nothing about if one of the machines is an officer, does it?" he responded. The plate on the outside of my knee came off, accompanied by a sort of numb sensation. He reached in with a pair of pliers and had soon fished out two pieces of a hexagonal pin, the break showing the multiple layers of metal and ceramic. "Clean in half, look at that!"
"How about for the part?" I asked. "How much will that cost?"
"Oh, don't you worry, I write these off all the time," he said, slotting a new pin in place. This one was a dull, near-white aluminium, almost certainly just bar stock with the ends machined into sprockets. "You can get them three for a sixpence."
Automatically, I reached across my desk to the small wallet I kept my spare change in, retrieving two pennies. Didn't feel right not to pay for it.
"Oh, come now, ma'am. Army won't miss it," he said softly, and reluctantly I dropped the coins back into my purse. "Now as I said, I only have a lighter duty joint, so this is a temporary fix. Get yourself to the company engineer tomorrow and get it replaced proper."
"Of course," I replied, dreading it.
---
I met Miles outside the mess, waiting with Lieutenant Turner, their greatcoats pulled close against the January cold.
"Stars, Fusie, you took your bloody time," Miles complained, waving me over.
"How fast would you have recovered from a broken knee, then?" I teased. I was usually
early, and I was certainly never late. "You could have gone in, you know."
"Like hell, I need you to be my distraction. You're like a smokescreen in machine form, keeps me from having to talk to anyone," he said casually. "Come on."
I was used to the officer's mess being a fairly quiet space, half-empty with various elements of the regiment away in piecemeal deployments. That was the reality of modern soldiering; sections spirited off into the void to guard some tiny mining outpost or monitoring station. The majority of the tables were empty every night.
Tonight, however, we played host to not only the vast majority of our own officers, not only our usual guests from the Royal Artillery, not
only the members of the 28th, 35th, 60th, 71st, the 5th Royal Dragoons, but six regiments worth of French officers. A room that usually had no more than twenty-five humans in it now had two hundred. To make things worse, every other officer had their aide on-hand to translate for them.
My first impression of it was just pure
noise, and it took me more than a few seconds to make sense of the field and figure out where I was supposed to be going. I spotted Captain Murray among a group of officers, ours and theirs, and we made a beeline for her for lack of anything else to do. I couldn't see her Maria anyway, so it appeared the Captain spoke decent French.
"
Oh, excellent. My subordinates, Lieutenants Miles Beckham and Dora Fusilier, and Lieutenant Turner from 6th Company." Murray said, then she leaned over to us and indicated to each in turn. "Captain Estelle Couvreur, Junior Lieutenant Jacquinot, I didn't catch his first name, and our man from the Dragoons there is Lieutenant Reginald Risewell."
We made our introductions and niceties as best we could over the din and took our seats, and the Captain continued her story, which seemed to be from the aftermath of the Battle of llomia J3H. She was saying something about radiation treatments from my rather reckless use of transmutation shells, and Lieutenant Risewell at least was listening with rapt attention.
The two French officers, however, were staring at me rather obviously. As I usually did in these circumstances, I just kept my eyes down, looked at my hands, trying not to let it get to me. I was glad that the overlapping babble of voices would obscure the sound of my fans spinning up.
I was doing an unusual thing. People would always be acclimatizing to it. They didn't mean anything by it. It ought not get to me. Ought.
Ought-
"I know, the scars, right?" Miles interjected, nudging my arm. "It's a surprise she works at all, you know."
I glanced back up to see the two officers conspicuously looking away now, listening to one of their aides as he translated, presumably. I did a double-take as I realised the aide wasn't a valet, but instead was a clerk, a little bespectacled Simon in a blue uniform. How odd.
I very deliberately didn't stare, though. I been through that enough.
"
So you are the machine lieutenant we've heard about?" Captain Couvreur said. Feeling rather on the spot, it was all I could do to nod. "
It's good to see them recognize talent from the ranks like this. Hopefully they'll draw more from the ranks in the future?"
"
Oh, well, I don't think so. I purchased my commission, you see." I said, feeling a bit slighted by the implication. I wasn't sure they'd understand, given how things seemed to work over there, but the thought of being promoted up to a commission felt deeply wrong. NCOs were promoted, but officers volunteered, put their money and life on the line to contribute to the service. They were different sorts of responsibilities, ones that simple experience hadn't prepared me for. "
There's never been a rule against it. It simply doesn't happen much."
"
Oh." Couvreur responded flatly, the wind taken out of her sails by that.
"
You didn't earn it?" Junior Lieutenant Jacquinot asked, back to staring. He was young, maybe eighteen at the outside, more like an ensign than a lieutenant to my eye.
"
Come now, of course she did. She put in decades of service to earn it," Murray intervened, throwing a sympathetic glance in my direction.
"
This business of buying commissions is very strange to me, I'll admit. I'm surprised you stuck by it for so long," Couvreur said, her mouth drawn into a little frown.
"
There's been modifications made-" Murray began, starting in about the 1843 and 2010 reforms, then Couvreur began talking about their own system as Miles leaned in to whisper.
"... I haven't the foggiest what any of them are talking about," he asked, Turner chuckling in the background. "Fill me in?"
"They're discussing promotion and commissions in our armies. In their army, the machines in the ranks hold elections to select new officers from among their own ranks and cadets," I explained.
"... that seems damned near sensible, why don't we do that?" he said, a look of utter shock on his face.
"You'd think you'd get your commission on that system, Miles?" Turner asked, and Miles shook his head.
"Of course not, this system would
work," he retorted. I'll admit, I laughed, though he really wasn't being fair to himself. He was a fine officer.
"I'd certainly not, that's for sure." That was fine. Soldiers shouldn't be
electing officers, that felt mad to me. Soldiers didn't have the same priorities as commanders. That seemed so inherently evident to me that I couldn't fathom how they thought otherwise.
I wanted to cut in and say that, defend the honour of a system that had served the British Army well for more than four centuries, but the words died on my speaker. I'd have to interrupt somebody to say it, and it felt utterly wrong.
Soon after, a machine came by with drinks, and I secured my customary empty glass for the toasts to come. Lieutenant Colonel Harrison ran us through an exhaustive list of toasts, General Andromeda and her French counterpart both gave a short speech, and finally, dinner began properly.
Dinner was always awkward, considering I didn't
eat, but I'd very much worked out the pace of the ordeal. Dinner came with polite conversation, so all I had to do was be available and willing to talk while not accidentally monopolising the discussion by the advantage of not having to shovel calories into my speaker for the duration. There was some second-hand discomfort among onlookers from the fact I had nothing to do with my hands while waiting to talk, but I'd yet to figure out a solution to that.
Things proceeded quite pleasantly from that point. I was sitting directly opposite of Lieutenant Risewell, and he seemed remarkably considerate. He was clearly a bit disconcerted by my presence, but he was doing a good job not showing it. We soon struck up a conversation about our previous deployments, the usual fare between officers.
"I've not yet seen any action, I'm afraid. A lot of very coreward deployments but no combat yet," he explained. "You'll forgive me for saying so, but I'm hoping I don't have nearly as exciting a time as you did!"
"I mean, you're Dragoons, surely that has to be exciting. I got to ride a repulsor horse on the other side of the gateway, you know. I was never even in combat in it, but even then it was exhilarating!"
"Well, you know, we don't exactly drive repulsors. That's for Hussars and Light Dragoons. We're a bit slower," he explained, "But still, we'll make seventy miles an hour on roads, maybe fifty five on flat fields."
"That's not nothing!" I said, trying to imagine what it must be like, facing down a company of six-ton horses tearing across a field at those speeds. "Certainly worked against our French counterparts, I hear?"
"We got lucky, caught them at the bottom of a hill. Gravity adds a lot of momentum. Just wish we'd have redeployed fast enough," he said.
"Better than we did. We were completely overrun, they just walked through us." I gestured to try and convey the movement of forces involved. "Ended up duelling one of their machine officers, oddly enough."
"Oh, that was Théa, I think! She is in the same regiment as I," Lieutenant Jacquinot said, leaning into the conversation. His English was heavily accented and stilted but still quite comprehensible. "She has been, um, she is sixty-fourteen years a lieutenant. Seventy! Seventy-four years."
"
She hasn't been promoted?" I asked, and he laughed.
"
She is happy where she is. If she went higher, she would fight less!" he explained cheerfully. I took a moment to lean back and look around the tables for her, but while I could see plenty of dark blue coats in officer's cuts, I couldn't see any machines wearing them.
"
Do you know where she's sitting? I'd like to talk to her," I asked, and he looked at me as though I'd grown a second head.
"
She's not here. Why would she come to dinner with us?" he said, shaking his head. "
I don't understand why you are here either, for that matter."
"
I'm an officer, it's the officer's mess. It's where I socialise with my peers," I said, and he waved that off.
"
Peers? Officers can coordinate well enough while on duty, but this is a space for humans, you know?" He spoke with a tone that clearly conveyed that he meant no offence, and indeed that he couldn't imagine it being offensive. Like he were stating something so obvious it should have gone without saying.
"
This is a space for officers," I said flatly, trying not to let it get to me. It was not easy.
"
Well, that's the problem. In France, these things are not one and the same." he said, "
Once more like you make the jump, you'll figure that out."
I didn't know what to say to that. Feeling somewhat defeated, I broke eye contact, looking around the room anxiously, wishing suddenly to be anywhere else. It was not an unfamiliar feeling, but it was one I hadn't felt this intensely in this space in months, and I was not pleased at its return.
My cameras cast around for something familiar, safe. There, nearly blending in with the darker blue uniforms of the French officers she was talking to, was Lieutenant Diana Kennedy, laughing at a joke as her aide translated for her.
I looked away before she could spot me—neither familiar nor safe.
---
The moment we judged it would be polite to do so, we left, Miles inviting Turner, Risewell, and myself back to his place for drinks and an escape from the crowded atmosphere. I was so incredibly grateful to be out of there, away from the noise, Frenchmen, and past mistakes.
We were greeted at the door of Number 22 by his valet, who went by Jim and who was, in every way, perfectly suited to the job of being Miles' servant. He was just as casual, laid back, and relaxed as my friend, to the point where it made me sometimes wonder if there was some mysterious force pairing officers with Jameses and Marias who exactly met their needs, or if this was in some ways an act.
Miles had, from somewhere, acquired a set of the comfiest, rattiest furniture I'd ever seen, more suited to the backrooms of a servant's area than anyone's sitting room. Jim was back in a moment, setting a tray of bottles on the side table before setting a music player going, a simple rhythm low enough for conversion.
Sometimes I felt a bit strange, spending so much of my time with Miles and his friends. With men, rather than the female officers you'd expect me to be friends with. I'd tried, but honestly I'd not connected to many of my feminine peers: they had… an affect I presumed came from their upbringing that I had never experienced. I always felt profoundly out of place, but it didn't feel as pronounced around Miles and his friends.
I thought perhaps it was some lingering influence of the military as a historically masculine pursuit affecting my mindset, even though it had been centuries since that was true. Then again, a lot of my former peers in the ranks were far more feminine than I ever was, so perhaps I was just a bit queer.
In any case, Miles was just about the only human who really,
truly treated me like a peer. Yes, he constantly said mildly insulting things, but I'd long figured out that he considered that to be expressions of affection. Turner was a bit more stilted and quieter, but he'd never said a thing wrong to me either. And this Risewell fellow seemed nice enough.
Miles uncorked his beer, and the sound was like a starting gun for conversation, almost.
"The fucking
French," Turner immediately said, and there as a chorus of agreement all around.
"Smug bastards, the lot of them," Risewell agreed.
"We need a rematch. We can't let them get away with this," Miles said, "Right?"
"Absolutely. It's their bloody
screens, absolutely unfair," I added, "Basically cheating. And that
artillery."
"We need hussars next time. Somebody to get in their artillery park," Risewell agreed. "And... the things he said to you, Fusilier, I'm almost surprised you didn't take a swing at that Jacquinot fellow."
"I could never!" I protested, and Miles shook his head affectionately.
"I know you can't, but I may consider doing it on your behalf. What'd he say?" he asked, and Risewell recounted the incident, putting on the best worst French accent I'd ever heard.
"... or something like that. My frog's a bit rusty," he concluded.
"Jesus
Christ, what a prick," Turner muttered.
"I'm definitely breaking his nose next I see him," Miles said simply.
"I'll hold his arms," Turner added.
"You are
not. Stop it, both of you." I said. "It's just… frustrating. Plus, it means I didn't even get to talk to any of their machine officers."
"Like that one who beat you?" Miles suggested mischievously. "Can't imagine why you'd want to talk to her…"
"I.... listen you!" I protested, to the laughter of my friends. Risewell raised a curious eyebrow, and to my horror Miles beat me to any kind of explanation.
"Fusie has a thing for girls who can kick her ass," he said.
"I do not!"
"Honestly, I think she just has a thing for girls," Turner observed. I could concede to that, at least.
"Well, that's relatable," Risewell said, taking another swig of his beer. "Though I'm grateful I'm finally getting another deployment after this, I've been fending off the women my parents have been shovelling my way. A lot of them are and
quite lovely, but the way it's done, it's almost… mechanical. No offence."
"None… taken? I'm not sure what you mean," I said. I had no idea about human courtship other than the general need to
stay away.
"Of course not, Fusie, let me explain," Miles said, "I was just dealing with the start of that when I pissed my father off. The moment you're old enough to start thinking about what you want to do with your life, your parents come to you like, here lad, here's a list of women ranked from most to least socially acceptable, pick one quick, and do try not to ruin your life with the wrong choice. Like
fuck off."
"Right? I've told them I'm handling my correspondence on it myself after I get back from my deployment. Honestly, I doubt I'll even go home after," Risewell said, sounding utterly exhausted. "My family has a ski resort near the south pole they keep forgetting about. I figure I'll hold up there and maybe invite a girl or two, you know? Something without the damned pressure."
"Plus, cold place, a lady might want somebody to keep her warm," Miles joked.
"... I will not say that is not a part of my motivation," Risewell confirmed, to smiles all around.
I knew that humans weren't supposed to get intimately involved with one another outside of marriage, but I wasn't a boxie, I knew they
did. Just wasn't sure exactly
how that happened, if they had servants charged with chaperon duties hovering around all the time. Then again… thinking about it even a moment, I was absolutely certain that Miriam would not only tolerate it under the right circumstances but lie to her charge's parents about it if it was warranted.
"So there you are, Fusie. Human romances are a tedious, joyless procedure. Like dental surgery," Miles said.
"I'm engaged." Turner added simply, and Miles' glum, cynical expression immediately vanished as he turned, drowning out Risewell's congratulations with a near-shout.
"You're
what? I… good God man, when were you planning on telling me?" Miles asked, and he shrugged.
"Still, um, getting used to it myself, old chap. Kind of a spur of the moment thing." Indeed, he sounded a bit shell-shocked. "Nobody's more surprised than me, I think."
"I think I'll disagree, I didn't even know you were seeing anyone," Miles said, "Who's the unlucky lady?"
Turner smoothly made an obscene gesture without pausing as he finished off his bottle.
"Her name is Kara, she's lovely. We ran into each other in the park and just... hit it off, I suppose." Turner explained, leaning against the edge of his chair with a wistful expression on his face.
"When'd all this happen?" Miles asked, sounding suspicious.
"Last month. We've been meeting up in the evening-"
"
That's where you've been?" Miles exclaimed. "I didn't hear a word of this!"
"Haven't really told anyone yet. Her parents don't know yet either." he said, "I dunno, it's not a secret or anything, it was just a private little thing."
"So who is she, where's she from? Good family?" Risewell asked.
"She's, um, Polish. Kara Grynberg. Her English isn't that strong, but it's much better than my Polish or Yiddish, so, you know, she's brilliant. I… I proposed to her on Monday, and we've been trying to figure out how to tell her parents."
"I don't know what to say, old boy, except congratulations. I didn't see it coming." Miles said. "How about your folks, they know?"
"Not yet, I'm sure they'll be fine. They'll probably just be ecstatic I found somebody at all, I had them worried I think. I doubt any of the details will bother them," he summarized, leaning back in the chair so far he was almost sinking into it. "She's lovely, Miles, if she had circuits you'd be smitten."
"Sorry?" I asked, but I was drowned out by Miles announcing that this called for a celebration. As if summoned, Jim arrived with some harder drinks, bottles of brown liquid and small glasses. I took the opportunity to lean over to the music player and turn it up a little.
Miles, assisted by a confused but enthusiastic Risewell, interrogated Turner about his sudden engagement. Not really having anything to say, I let the music carry me away, the sting of today's humiliating defeat and frustrating conversations muted by a pleasant buzz.
"- you're ridiculous, man, but seriously, my congratulations to the both of you." Miles finished, settling back with his drink. "Just don't go retiring and leave me alone with this tin can for the rest of my career."
"Love you too, Miles," I muttered.
"You're safe for now, don't you worry," Turner assured him. "Course, what if Fusie does the same?"
"What, retire? Machines don't retire," I said, laughing at the absurdity of it. "Nor do we get married."
"Really? There's a couple on my parent's staff, it's actually kind of sweet," Risewell said.
"Well, not
never, I guess," I said. A few Theos and Doras were married to machines in the city too, but it had always struck me as somewhat absurd. "We probably shouldn't, I think, is the thing. We've got a commitment to our job first and foremost. It's not something we'd do if we weren't imitating you lot, I think."
"You've got the right idea, if you ask me." Miles added, "Sounds a lot more pleasant."
"I don't believe you're that cynical, Miles. You're putting up a front," I said. "The right girl comes along, I'm sure you'll change your tune."
"Oh, I'm certain I will, I'm nothing if not a hypocrite," he flippantly, sipping from his glass. Whatever it was, it was strong enough that even
he winced a little. "But until then, I've got nothing to my name but a father who's probably warned every family in the sector about me. Not worth the trouble."
"Say, Fusie, whatever happened to that tailor you brought to the ball, anyway?" Turner asked, and I sighed.
"She… well, she thought I'd died, left the city. Miriam got in contact with her again after we returned from Starhall, but she says she doesn't want to… to reopen old wounds."
The music must have been hitting me pretty hard, because it felt like the bottom fell out of the world as I said those words.
"Oh Christ, I'm sorry, I hadn't realised," Turner muttered, looking down into his drink.
"... you know, this'll sound awful of me, but I never thought of… all that," Risewell added, clearly drunk enough that the potential impact of his words were well beyond him. "Sorry, just, it always felt like machines were just… playing at relationships? Like small children do, you know?"
"I understand what you mean, but I'm afraid not," I said simply. "It's just that we're good at moving on. Maybe a bit too good, if you understand. Sometimes."
I probably
should have moved on, but my deprogrammer had made it clear to me that I needed to stop dismissing feelings so reflexively. I'd done it so often I'd lost the ability to deal with my problems in any other way. So instead, here I was three months on, pining for somebody who probably never thought about me anymore. It probably wasn't better, but at least I wasn't just shoving the feelings away and pretending they didn't exist.
"My apologies, that probably came out poorly. I'm a bit out of my depths," he said quietly, staring at the bottom of his empty glass. "Beckham… um, Miles, is there any more of this…"
"I think? Jim?" he called, then slumped back in his chair. "You've not seen anyone else?"
"I've been on a few… it's just messy," I said, leaning a little closer to the music player as I talked. "Nobody knows how to act around me, it's… I saw this girl two weeks ago, uh, a messenger, you know? Cute as a button, but it was so awkward…"
"What's the matter?" I contemplated how to answer that for a few long seconds, my mind sluggish.
"Well… it's just…. they, t-they treat me like
one of you." I managed, stumbling over my words as the emotions poured out. "They can't see me as just a machine anymore, because I'm an officer. I'm like… some kind of mythical creature. It's not doable. There's a fucked up… thing. A power thing."
"Oh hell," Miles muttered.
"Compared to them, I have money and authority and… and… fancy clothes. I have a
servant. A
Maria! Like… to machines, Marias are like… p-
princesses." I tripped over that word in particular, unsure why. "They're royalty; they're special because they… they work right for humans, talk to them every day. And one of them
works for me, so w-what does that make me?"
I reached out to turn up the music, but Jim was there ahead of me, hand on the dial. Couldn't hear me, of course, but he nodded sadly as he turned it down. A bit embarrassed, Turner put down his half-finished drink, and Miles leaned forward across the table at me.
"Fusie, you okay?" he whispered.
"I dunno. I guess," I concluded. "It's just… fucked up. I'm not one of you, but I'm not one of them. What am I?"
"Right now, very drunk," Miles said, swaying a little where he sat. "Which I get."
He looked up and tapped his ear, and the music clicked off. On the other side of the room, Risewell and Turner were getting up, and I felt a sudden shame that I'd brought things to an end. I can't remember saying anything to that effect, but I did remember Turner reassuring me that it was late enough that they ought to get going anyway.
Miles went to the door to see them out, then returned and sat heavily in the chair. Jim was there with a glass of water, but then to my surprise, he sat down too.
"What do you need right now, Lieutenant?" he asked, looking to me. I struggled to think of an answer, not sure what to say.
"... I think I need to go home," I managed eventually, and Jim moved to get my coat, but I kept talking. "Miles, have… have you talked to Lieutenant Kennedy, since…"
"Diana?" he said, looking at me funny. "Why?"
"... I dunno," I said, the words feeling like a mistake the moment I heard her name. "I don't."
I hadn't told him, or anyone, what had happened between us on the other side of the gate. What hadn't happened. The way we'd been too ashamed and awkward to even interact afterward, the horrible gulf between her heartbreak and my… absence. Instead of trying to meet her at an emotional level, I'd just crushed everything I'd felt, discarded the genuine friendship and care I had for her, and
bludgeoned her with it.
Absent the survival pressure on the other side of the gateway, we'd simply drifted apart, and I was left with a feeling I didn't know the shape of. A hole where the proper emotions should be, just a vague shame, a sense something was missing.
"... did something happen between you two?" he asked, and I shook my head reflexively. If nothing else, I had to protect her, I did all this to
protect her, but I never had a good poker face. Miles read me like an open book. "Oh. That… explains a few things, doesn't it."
"We didn't do anything. We didn't. We didn't," I protested, and he waved a hand dismissively.
"If you're worried about me judging her, or you, trust me, I haven't a bloody leg to stand on."
"N-no, you don't understand. We didn't, and, and she wanted-" I started, then stopped, suddenly gripped by terror. I ought not be affected by this, a proper machine wouldn't, I ought to feel nothing,
ought-
Miles shifted over from his side of the table to sit beside me, silent. Unsure exactly what I was doing I leaned against my friend, my head against his shoulder, and just sat in the moment a while. He wrapped a hand around me, and I realized I'd never been hugged, comforted like this. The only close physical contact I'd ever had was fighting and fucking, never just… this. I never knew what I was missing.
I leaned into him a bit more and finally felt myself relax.
"... Christ, you're heavy," Miles muttered.
---
I woke up in an unfamiliar bed, slightly smaller than I'd grown used to, unsure exactly how I'd gotten there. It took me a long while to realize it was the guest room. I was having trouble focusing for a few minutes, virtual memory a bit overloaded perhaps, playing back snippets of half-remembered conversations as it cleared. I had only a vague idea of what I'd said, but what I could remember was embarrassing.
I reached up to disconnect my power cable at just about the moment the door clicked open, and thinking it was Miles I pulled the covers up, suddenly aware I was not wearing nearly enough to be decent. But it was Miriam, somehow, looking perfect as usual.
"How do you always know when I wake up?" I asked groggily, and she shook her head affectionately as she retrieved the battery pack.
"Good morning to you too, miss," she chirped. "Your uniform is being cleaned, and before you wander out without clothes on, you're still in Lieutenant Beckham's house. I know you haven't exactly got much to cover up, but it's the principle of the thing. How are you feeling?"
"Like shit," I muttered, flopping back against the pillow. "I think I made a fool of myself last night. Why am I still here, my house is two over-"
"It was hard enough getting you up the stairs, never mind back home, and from what I saw of your friends, I doubt any of them remember it. To answer your earlier question, by the way, I wake up fairly early and stay in earshot of the door. I have excellent hearing," she explained, wrapping my power cable around the battery pack and stashing both in a shoulder bag. "Now, what's on the agenda for today?"
I wracked my still-cold processors trying to remember it all.
"Uh… morning inspection, initial company briefing whenever it is that Captain Murray gets out of the regimental brief, then a training plan for the day, and… oh no." According to my system clock, I was quite nearly already late.
"You still have time. Calm down," Miriam reassured me as she swept out of the room. She returned minutes later with my uniform, freshly pressed, and I dressed and staggered out in the best order I could. I caught a brief glimpse of Beckham in his housecoat, red-eyed and poking at breakfast as Jim fussed over him.
"Morning, Fusie," he managed to sort of half-groan, and I waved goodbye before stepping out into the bitter cold and early-morning dark, Miriam at my heels. I retrieved my gear at the door of Number 18, then made my way alone back to the 9th company offices, my collar turned up against the cold.
The weather controller, whoever they were, were clearly some kind of fucked-up sadist or had gone mad with power because I can't remember the last time it was this cold. The insulation of my coat couldn't do anything about being made of thermally conductive material. I swear, I could feel my batteries draining.
Our company's little office space was crowded today. The ensigns were there with our aides and clerks as usual, but Senior Sergeant Theda Füsilier and Junior Sergeant Theodore Rifleman were also present. They were the senior NCOs of my section, both foreign transfers from other militaries, namely the Prussian Army and American Marines. It looked like both of them had only just barely beat me inside, as they were clustered close to the fireplace trying to warm up. The ensigns, red-faced from the cold, looked little better.
"Sergeants. Does anyone have a proper temperature reading today?" I asked, and Sumner did that little bounce to attention she did whenever she knew something.
"It's five degrees today!" she exclaimed cheerfully.
"
Why?" Kelly blurted out, looking horrified.
"I don't know. Maybe the Duke wants a particlarly white Christmas? This winter has been really intense." Sumner said. "It's supposed to be warmer tomorrow."
"Small blessings. So, Sergeants, what's the issue?" I asked. They wouldn't be here if something weren't wrong somewhere.
"Forces of the French Army have annexed regimental parade grounds," Theda said gravely. "They have refused all requests to move and will not provide other information. The Captain's still in her briefing, and we have no orders, ma'am."
"It didn't sound like they were keen on shifting, ma'am," Rifleman added.
"Oh, absolutely not," I said flatly, stepping to the door. "Theda, wait here until I return. The rest of you, get the troops up and about. I'll get to the bottom of this, and we're getting our field back."
Normally, if the field was unusable for some reason or another, morning parade would take place on the road on the other side of the barracks. But I wasn't just going to let some smug French pricks take our field without a fight. If nothing else, the presumption had to be challenged.
I met Miles as he came down the way and explained the situation as we walked the short path to the parade grounds, hunched against our coats. We went around the corner of the barracks building and sure enough, there was a whole damned regiment of soldiers in tan greatcoats, standing in close formation despite the cold. Officers, accompanied by their NCOs, were walking the line and checking soldiers over.
I took a moment to straighten my collar before walking over to the nearest officer.
"Excuse me, why exactly are you on our field?" I asked, very deliberately in English, and the officer turned. Instead of a human face under the brim of her hat, I was met with a glowing screen projecting a pair of a curious eyes.
"Well, look at this. It is lovely to see you again!" the officer called cheerfully, stepping over with a hand extended. "I'd call it better circumstances, but your weather controllers do not seem to agree?"
It was her—the one from the battle, with the perfect glass features, tall, beautiful, elegant. I no longer had to worry about the cold because I could feel my processors racing, fans spinning up under my collar as our hands met.
"Lieutenant," I said awkwardly. "Um, just what is going on here?"
"Were you not told?" she exclaimed, her eyes shocked, "
Théo, I need a moment, please take over. My apologies, I assumed they would tell you! We are staying for a while for joint exercises, at the request of your General Andromeda."
"... okay, but you're in our field," I said insistently, unsure what else to do.
"Ah, you see, it is
our field for now." she said simply, laughter in her voice. "I do not know for certain, but I believe you are to use the road? My apologies."
"Well, um," I said numbly, my resolve crumbling. " An honest mistake, thank you."
"Not at all! Say, once the day has concluded, would you perhaps like to get together, talk? I do not meet many machine officers from other services, you understand," she asked, her voice still cheerful. I stood dumbly for a moment before Miles nudged my arm.
"Oh. Yes. Of course," I said. Awkwardly, I turned and beat a hasty retreat back into the offices, Miles snickering behind me. As the door clicked closed and the warmth returned, he burst into laughter outright.
"Stars Fusie, you poor thing," he chided.
"Shut
up, Miles," I said, still reeling. "Don't even start." I looked over to Theda at the fireplace, seeing her turn away with some kind of mirth in her eyes.
"We're on the road," I said bitterly. "Go get the parade assembled, I'll be there in a moment."
A few minutes later, I stepped out to see the regiment arranged haphazardly along the road back to the officer's quarters, a line of shivering machines in grey greatcoats. I couldn't help but be irritated by the uneven lines, reduced as they were from the casualties we took in our last engagement. There was a long lead time for building new Fusiliers, but I hadn't know it was this long.
Unsurprising given the thrashing they'd received yesterday, the terrible weather today, and the various delays, the troops were in low spirits, and not even the captain's arrival cheered them up much. Their relief was palpable when Lt. Colonel Harrison came by on his horse, looked them over approvingly (and perhaps a bit hastily in the temperature), and they were dismissed back into the warmth of the barracks. We returned ourselves to the office, crowded as close to the fireplace as we could get.
"So, yes, the 96th Line Infantry Regiment will be staying on base with us for the next two weeks. And yes, as our guests, they have priority on the parade grounds," Captain Murray explained, "General Andromeda is worried about our performance and wants us to coordinate on weapons and tactics. No, I'm not happy about it either."
"It's not tactics; they've got a portable energy screen! Just give us one of those!" Kelly declared loudly. "Right?"
"It's more situational than that, it's a shock element. Our grenadiers have something similar. Remember, energy screens are two-way, Horace, it's why your pistol is a back-up." I explained, and he just looked glum.
"We don't even have pistols," he muttered, a bitter edge to his voice. Not until they pass the exam, no.
"Honestly, it's our own damn fault for letting them come at us," Miles said, "Screen only works in one direction, and the column means putting all their eggs in one basket. We needed to pressure a flank, but we were too busy getting trashed by their artillery."
"That's more or less what the General concluded, so guess what we're going to be practising," Captain Murray said, tapping the desk with a sense of finality. "Fire and manoeuvre drills. Get used to it; it's going to be our week."
---
We didn't make much progress on that first day, practising transitioning between formations to be more proactive in the face of such assaults. With the French providing our opposing force, we ran through dozens of formations and scenarios, accompanied on both sides by ghostly holograms on the field to simulate a combined-arms environment.
We learned a French company consisted of 140 machines with eight companies in a battalion (as with us, battalions and regiments had become effectively interchangeable: we had little use for reserve formations). They had a company of grenadiers, five fusilier companies, and two skirmisher companies. That last one was unexpected, almost three times as many skirmishers as our regiments deployed.
The French game plan was quite straightforward: they'd get the lay of the land, fan skirmishers out ahead of the main column, and begin bombarding with simulated artillery. Even if they couldn't break an enemy's screens, they had smokescreen and chaff shells which did an excellent job obscuring their movements. They would then simply push at the enemy line either wherever they were weakest, accompanied by a special screen-projector built into a little caterpillar track horse. There wasn't much more needed.
Yes, it was simple, but that didn't much matter. A tactic is a trick that works even if the enemy knew it was coming. Their skirmishers hampered attempts to maneuver: they were called
voltigeurs, vaulters, which was originally because they were supposed to jump on friendly horses to get around, and was now because they wore repulsor packs. They moved like they were in reduced gravity, sprinting at breakneck speeds across the field. Any time a section or company tried to shift to flank the incoming column, the voltigeurs would be there in a flash, firing and harassing at their flanks, melting away if the enemy got too close.
What we played out were less like mock battles and more akin to chess puzzles, small scenes where occasionally our commanders would pause everything and walk the field to assess what was going on. A few of the Theos and Doras amused themselves by freezing in exaggerated or outlandish poses whenever a hold was called, which I admit I appreciated. I swore I heard General Andromeda suppress a chuckle walking past our line.
The day, frustratingly, ended inconclusively, our officers not sure what the next steps would be. The soldiers wandered off free for the night as the officers piled into the regimental office for a debrief of the events of the day. I'd really grown to enjoy meetings like this: figuring out what should be recorded in notes, and how to condense it, is a unique little challenge every time. I'd heard the human officers sometimes complained about them, but honestly I think this is more to do with attitude than the differences between us.
Sumner enjoys them, after all!
Everyone else, however, honestly looked like they were struggling to stay awake as our senior officers painted holographic patterns against the walls and discussed the events of the day. At least my machine counterparts among the French officers also seemed to be paying good attention, pens scratching and eyes focused, drowning out the occasional yawn from the human officers. Admittedly, the meeting did drag on a little long, but we were only a little late in being released for the officer's mess.
Not that I made it there. I was talking with Miles about something or other, modernising our screen carriers I think, when somebody took my hand rather unexpectedly. I turned to see that same French Lieutenant again, looking at me puzzled.
"
Hello, Lieutenant. Where are you off to?" she asked.
"T-to the officer's mess," I stammered, and she laughed. Oh, she had a lovely laugh.
"Why?" Stars, not this again.
"Look, we could talk after-"
"Nonsense, come on. We have commandeered ourselves a little officer's club, just for us machines, come along!" she insisted. I gave a grinning Miles a defeated shrug and followed her out into the cold toward what looked like one of the storage warehouses, where a few others were already milling about the door.
Sure enough, inside it turns out they'd taken over one of the empty spaces, having procured a table and chairs from somewhere. A music player was playing softly in a corner, somebody was already going through a newspaper, and the half-a-dozen odd officers were sitting casually, talking, laughing. Somebody was shuffling a deck of cards.
Despite the blue uniforms and unfamiliar machines, something about it was so comforting. All my doubts vanished in an instant: Compared to the officer's mess, it was like coming home.
"
Oh, la machine britannique! Come on, sit, sit!" one of them beckoned, and I eagerly took a seat. "You know how to play piquet?"
"No, but I can learn!"
