Lieutenant Fusilier takes The King's Shilling

[open_sketch]

Christmas Day was as picturesque as the controllers could make it. It was cold, but not the blasting arctic wind we'd grown accustomed to. An icey, faint rainbow hung over the city, cast by the setting sun through the frost against the glass. There was gentle snowfall in the still air, floating almost in slow motion down from the clouds against the dome. I felt the brief, absurd impulse to catch one on a tongue I didn't have.

Theda jostled my shoulder and indicated subtly up the street. A figure was approaching in a distinct grey coat and wide-brimed knit hat, head down and swerving wide around anyone else on the sidewalk. She couldn't have looked more suspicious if she tried.

"I feel as though bringing her might be a mistake, ma'am," Theda intoned.

"Noted, Sergeant," I warned, emphasising her rank to get her to drop it. No time for that now. Théa arrived at the corner, casting a furtive glance down the street in either direction, then nodding curtly to Theda. She didn't meet my eyes.

"Before we go in, two things," Theda said, drawing something from her pockets. The first was a small tab with a jack, with a small red string looped through it. I took one, but did not slot it home yet. "Audio filters, for when we are inside, to keep our wits about us. Secondly…"

She dipped back into the expansive pockets of her jacket and withdrew a very small, antique-looking coilgun pistol. It was maybe only four inches long, with a nub of a handle and two narrow barrels, finished in dull gunmetal and greying wood. It had the look of a pistol destined to be taken into evidence.

"I only have two. I'll take one, Lieutenant, you take the other," she instructed. Théa and I both reached for it, so she pressed it directly into my hand instead. "My apologies, you are very distinctive looking, it would be best if you were not armed."

"I think Dora is also fairly… say, your face!" Théa exclaimed, finally looking my way. "Your scars!"

"Miriam filled them in with metallic epoxy," I explained. She'd also gone over my manual and adjusted the colour of my eyes, which I'd never known how to do. There was something uncanny about seeing orange lights in the mirror instead of a familiar green. "You can call me by my name for the operation, Theda, no ranks."

"Of course, ma'am. Dora," Theda corrected. "Now, the pistol. Pull back the safety catch by your thumb, pull the trigger to fire. Two shots, then a five second cycle. You'll get eight shots total. If they have sensors, they will be scanning for focusing crystals and modern powdered batteries, not coilguns."

I unbuttoned my coat to stash the pistol, carefully slipping it into a pocket of my dress.

"We shouldn't need such a thing, should we? Heaven's sake, they are other machines," Théa whispered.

"Criminal machines," Theda shot back. "Close formation. I will do the talking. Our cover is simple; Dora and I are enlisted machines who learned of the event through our corrupt sales of first aid kits. We are escorting the Lieutenant out for a night on the town to get in good with you and cover our tracks."

"Will that not draw attention to me?"

"Yes, and away from us doing the investigating," Theda explained patiently. "You are a foreign guest and curiosity, and as fancy as you are, you almost certainly have money. Simply play as though you belong, have a good time, spend if you can spare it. We, of course, will handle the particulars, that's below you. Simply be charming."

"I'm quite not sure I have charms," Théa said, sounding quite nearly guilty. Theda didn't dignify that with an answer.

We moved down the street toward the large double entry doors as darkness rapidly fell and the soft orange glow of the streetlamps took over. There was quite a crowd outside the Elizabeth Ballroom, machines of all sorts queuing up near the door, which was blocked by quite simply the tallest, widest Theo I'd ever seen. As we approached the blissful Christmas atmosphere was shaken out of existence by a deep rhythm emitting through the open doors and rattling the windows.

Theda simply strode directly up to the machine at the door and said something I couldn't quite make out, gesturing to Théa in the process. The Theo regarded us with suspicious eyes, and I quickly surmised he wasn't of our regiment; he was even taller than a standard grenadier. He'd gone to the private sector, it appeared, and judging by the gold inlay in his face and the mirror-smooth high resolution screens of his eyes, it had worked out for him.

After a moment's consideration, the Theo nodded and stepped aside, and we entered the hall. The music, already loud from outdoors, became all-consuming, a rumble that sent spikes of bliss and excitement racing through my processors with each beat, as we shed our coats and proceeded into the ballroom proper.

I didn't know what I was expecting, perhaps simply one of the dance halls I had attended thirty years ago. Even then they hadn't been like human events; the music louder, the dancing closer, the lights dimmed. But evidently styles had changed in the intervening time, or this was simply a much more intense place than any I had ever visited before.

The music was like nothing a musician could produce, with no defined instruments, just deep synthetic sounds of a hacked automatic orchestra, revelling in its artifice. The lamps and enormous chandelier pulsed in time with the music, casting a red glare over the dark room and the press of machines dancing in its centre. Smoke billowed in from somewhere, turning the lights into flickering coronas and beams crisscrossed the air. Despite the chill outside, the heat from the dancers made the hall an oven. It was overwhelming in the most exciting way.

Carefully, I slotted the audio filter in at the back of my neck; there was no feeling around the port there, so it took several tries. Over the next minute or so, everything just seemed to become dull, muted, sober. The music just became noise, the pulsing lights lost their rhythm, and the dancing machines all began looking a little silly. It left me feeling a little hollow, almost, to cut myself off from it.

"Where do we even start?" Théa asked, having to shout. Theda grabbed her arm and brought us both in close, so we could have something like a conversation over the din.

"I am not sure. Usually important people will have a corner to themselves, let us check around the edges and mingle. We do not want to stand out too much," Theda explained, scanning the crowd. "They, on the other hand, will probably be obvious to us. Criminals in such environments advertise."

"You sound as though you've done this before, Theda?" I asked, and she shrugged.

"I've been around," she replied simply. "Come on, let's not waste time. Look for anyone who stands out!"

With the audio filters muting the experience, hunting through the crowd was a surreal and vaguely embarrassing exercise, attempting futility to look like we could follow the rhythm and awkwardly pushing our way past dancers and partygoers. I noticed the most surreal things in this detached state, like how for all the effort made the change the atmosphere the evidence of the Duke's Christmas Eve Party the previous night were not entirely concealed; there was tinsel and garland running along the walls and tables left out where refreshments would have been served, now blank and useless to the machine partygoers. The engineer managing the automatic orchestra from the edge of the room had gone from looking like a lord of all he surveyed to, well, an engineer who was for some reason waving his hands about while working a switchboard. The energy and wanton abandon of the scene was simply vaguely inappropriate, like we'd walked in on some kind of mass malfunction.

I noticed a pattern to it after a while. Most of the machines here were house staff, clerks, and factory workers who'd lucked into entry and were making the best of their day off in the crowd, and so didn't have the heat sinks and active cooling needed for extended exertion in temperatures like this. Instead, they would join the crowd for a short time, then retire to tables against the far wall where, I noticed, there were open windows and bellows set up to cool them. Once they'd gotten their CPU temperatures under control, it was back up and at the dance floor again, a constant cycle that vaguely reminded me of diagrams of a steam engine.

At least it looked like they were having fun, perhaps a bit too much fun. The fastest method to battle the heat seemed to be to undo buttons and shed layers, and I found myself getting a strange sort of insight into the construction of the machines around me as they stripped to undershirts.

It was difficult not to feel self-conscious, even scouting around the sides of the crowd. We were fortunate that Théa's presence, as predicted, made us nearly invisible; she had a gaggle of admirers in short order, and it was actually getting difficult to progress past them. Her cheeks were glowing red-hot, probably dealing as much with the out-of-placeness as I was atop the attention, and finally Theda just indicated to her to pull her audio filter. She just wasn't very convincing otherwise.

As Théa performed her heroic rearguard action (last I saw of her, she was quite nearly being carried onto the dance floor by a footman who I assumed was some kind of handsome), we slipped along the back wall to get our bearings.

"Seen anything?" I asked Theda, and she shook her head and indicated to the stage.

"I'll try to make my way there and be friendly with one of the tech workers. Do you have a plan?"

"I'm going over there!" I replied, pointing to one of the cooling tables. "Our Adam must have a spot picked out for him, right? Should be easy to spot." I figured it was sound logic; they must have a place reserved for them there, if they were running things. Theda nodded in agreement, and to meet back at the entrance in ten minutes to share our findings.

With that, she dove back into the crowd, and I began making my way through it. I had surprisingly little trouble; I might be relatively small, but when a little glass and aluminium Clerk or Keeper sees a Fusilier moving with intent, they have a startling ability to get out of the way. Still, I made a point to unbutton my high collar a little, to make it look like I was looking for a reprieve from the heat along with the other machines heading that way.

I sat heavily down on one of the chairs and just sat back a bit, letting the still-welcome cool air wash over me and scanning the crowd. Obvious, Theda said they would be obvious, and I recalled the smuggler Miles and I had confronted, with his glowing cut-outs and banks of lights. I realised how perfect that must be; you could deactivate them in everyday life and simply look like a very up-to-date machine, but then turn them back on anywhere it would be an asset. It was something to look for.

Unfortunately, it was difficult to make out much of anything specific in the crowd, under the pulsating lights and dancing bodies. There were glows, yes, but they were the screens of everyone's eyes, a glittering starfield in the momentary darkness. Nothing stood out, it was all just a muddled, disorienting mess.

I was about to leave and meet Theda by the door when a machine caught my eye. At first it was simply by virtue of the fact she appeared to be coming straight for me, heading to a vacant seat next to me. Then it was how striking she was; it's not a trait usually associated with textile workers, but she seemed heightened, sharpened somehow compared to the average Eve Weaver. And from a crowd which had mostly in shirtsleeves or less in the heat, it was very noticeable that her severe, almost metallic satin dress was buttoned to its stiff collar. She walked like she owned the place, and at the very least she owned my attention.

As she approached, I realised she knew I was staring, that her eyes were locked with mine. Her face was sculpted with severe cheekbones and angles, beautiful, with exotic purple eyes projected on the glass. The lights from the floor behind her played through her, dancing red patterns under the surface from the scattered light. Her mouth was carved into a very slight smile.

I felt transfixed, unable to move. She passed up the empty chair beside me and stood over me instead, head tilting as she regarded me.

"You look lost, soldier girl," she purred. I failed to muster a response, which elicited a small laugh. "Is that spot taken?"

I reflexively looked to the empty seat, attempting to articulate that no, it was free, please help yourself, but I recognized my mistake about a millisecond before she quite boldly took a seat on my lap, her arms wrapped around my neck.

"We don't get many squaddies. Are you with that pretty Fusilier officer over there?" she asked. She had the accent of a simple working machine, but spoke it with careful deliberation. Wordlessly, I nodded, beyond my depths but absolutely committed to not ruining whatever the hell this was. "Interesting."

She punctuated that last, drawn-out word with a finger slowly drawn along the back of my neck, letting out a gleeful sound as I squirmed involuntarily. She looked quite pleased with herself.

"I wouldn't have thought she'd have heard of a place like this, fancy lieutenant like her, practically human. How'd she find out about our little party, then? You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

The music seemed to be growing louder as I tried to remember the details of our cover story.

"Aaah, well-" I began, but she evidently wasn't finished. She withdrew her hands from my neck, a flash of red in her fingers from the lights, and I wrapped my arms around her to keep her steady as she let go.

"Actually, we don't usually let redcoats in on this, you know, you lot tend to spoil thing," she said, tapping two fingers to my forehead with a soft tink. "Can't help it, they etch all the rules much too deep. No fun."

"W-well hang on, I like to think I can be fun," I said lamely, desperately trying to get some kind of initiative back, feeling overwhelmed by the lights and rhythm. "A friend let us know about it, we had some business."

"Oh?" I very nearly spilled the whole thing, but a tiny, increasingly distant voice in my brain managed to arrest it. A criminal private isn't going to tell some pretty face about all her wrongdoings like this, would she?

"None of yours, I'm afraid," I deflected. "But we figured maybe the lieutenant would get us through the door, yeah? We just want to have some fun, get off base, maybe do some more business. You understand?"

She chuckled knowingly, nodding along.

"Yeah, alright, I buy it," she replied. "Clever of you, just pawned her off on the dance floor and got to work. Well, I'd hate to keep an upstanding member of our armed forces from her fancy important business-"

She stood up to go, but by reflex I caught her hand. I'm not sure what I was thinking, thinking at all was difficult with the beat pounding through my head, but she seemed only mildly shocked. Then, with a malicious glint in her eye, she turned and sat back down on my lap.

And now I saw why she could keep her collar buttoned in the heat. The back of her dress, from the middle of her shoulders down to the bustle, was simply missing, as if scooped out of the design by a monstrously careless seamstress. But beyond that, her back itself was missing, or rather, the glass of its design was transparent, and careful work must have been done to minimise the underlying frames. All her inner workings were on display through the window, lit internally with soft lights slowly playing through a rainbow of colours. Electric motors whined as her spine shifted, pulling taut the cables to her batteries. A hard disc skipped and blinked. Liquid coolant ran through transparent hoses to the brightly-lit fans in her shoulders, the air playing gently over my face.

"You still staring there, dearie?" she asked. "No rush, but I think I know somebody else who wants in on your soldier business, when you're done."

 

[open_sketch]

Her words snapped me out of my distraction, and I stood up perhaps a bit too eagerly. She beckoned me to follow her, and together we moved around the edge of the crowd, heading for the back of the room. I had the vague impression that what I was doing was possibly unwise, but we had no other leads, and how much danger could I be in, anyway?

I followed her through a door nestled behind the speakers, entering a small servants room, and I discovered my reflection in the lenses of an optical musket. The pistol was being held casually by a machine sitting against the far wall, a mechanic plated in pitch-black steel and lit with red lights. Two more pistols pressed against my chest from either side, the fibre optic fuses dancing menacingly, and the Eve Weaver had taken a seat at the small table in the centre of the room, where cards had been laid out.

The thoughts all caught up with me at once. Of course this was an ambush, of sorts, or at the very least they weren't going to talk to me without having me at a disadvantage. I didn't feel scared, but I was beginning to be aware that perhaps this wasn't my best ever decision.

"Evening, lads," I slurred, taking in the machines and their firepower. I counted five in all atop the Eve, mostly factory worker types, but with a clerk at the far end of the table looking apprehensive. The room seemed slightly askew, and I began to suspect something might be wrong with my audio filter. At about that moment, the Eve Weaver dropped something into the mechanic's free hand. Of course.

"Your officers, how much do they know?" the mechanic asked, his voice coming out gravelly and low from the speaker. "Come now, I'm not exactly patient."

I was already mentally chastizing myself for being an idiot, so it wasn't hard to continue to act like one.

"Wot? Officers?" I exclaimed. "Oh, poetry and the like, the classics, bit of tactics as you get up the ranks. Etiquette and all…"

"Don't get smart with us, friend, you know what we mean," the messenger to my left remarked, pressing the pistol up against the bottom of my chin. A nervous laugh escaped me, and my brain screamed at me to switch tactics before I said something that put the officers in danger.

"They haven't a clue, that's the bloody problem," I stammered. "That's why we're… I'm here-"

"The other one, go get her," the mechanic said, and the messenger disappeared through the door, pistol under his sleeve. The other prodded me toward the corner of the room.

"Come now, lads, you aren't going to shoot me?" I protested, all of it feeling quite surreal. "People'd ask questions. My officers would come looking."

"Would they?" the mechanic asked. "Ain't you here because they didn't bother looking for missing machines? I don't want to hurt you, but that's up to you now, see?"

Even with the music still audible through the door, pounding through my brain, I felt myself sobering up as I increasingly realised the danger. I was still parsing the idea of criminal machine, and I'd assumed it must be, ultimately, fairly harmless for the most part. They wouldn't hurt people, right?

The warmth of the humming pistol against my chest said otherwise. Maybe they were glitched, or they'd hacked themselves, or-

"I came here to see, uh, Adam," I said, utterly out of other ideas. "S-see if I could get things sorted, you understand?"

"Find your missing machines?" the mechanic replied, sounding amused. "Oh, they cost a pretty penny, but insurance will cover their replacements, don't you fret."

"Yours too," the machine pressing the pistol against my chest intoned. I didn't recognize his make off-hand; he must be one of the more rural designs, a carpenter or miner, he had the build for it. His eyes danced slowly through a rainbow of colours, and he seemed quite pleased with himself for the joke.

"Shut up, Chris, we're just havin' a word," the mechanic retorted. "This isn't a thing for a fusilier to worry about, you understand? Too much thinking for yourself, this."

"You're making a mistake-" I warned, and at that moment the door opened again and Theda came through. She had only a moment to spot me and the gun before she suddenly jerked and twitched, her whole body contorting with an electric arc and a hail of sparks, and then she crashed down against the floorboards hard enough to dent them. The messenger stepped through behind her, lowering a crackling prod he'd jabbed into her neck.

"I left the frog officer, somebody might miss her," the messenger said, and the mechanic nodded importantly.

"Have a footman take her home, tell her we didn't see her fusiliers all night," the mechanic said. "I have just a few questions before we let you go. How'd you find out about this place?"

I had to not think of them as machines; whatever they were, they were glitched, broken, something was wrong. If I thought of them as anything but, what happened next was obvious; they would question me to find out who else might come looking, then they'd kill us. They were saying otherwise because they wanted me to cooperate, to talk, and to follow them somewhere else afterward because the energy requirements of breaking my armour would probably light the building on fire. Not all of them were smart enough to be subtle about it.

Theda groaned on the ground, trying to turn over feebly as her limbs twitched from the stun blast. The messenger put a boot to the back of her head, pressing it into the floorboards to keep her down. We were dead either way now; I had to fight. There was no other choice.

The music faded. Survival was more important. I had to keep talking, look for an opportunity. When they went to move me; we were heavy enough he'd want me to go under my own power, that'd be the time. They stunned Theda because they only needed one of us.

"A smuggler friend told me, said he didn't want to be involved anymore," I explained. "We thought we'd come take a look."

"And your officer?"

"She's their excuse to come along," the Eve explained, and the mechanic nodded slowly, putting it together. "Don't think she knows anything, she's just come to party."

"Any other fusiliers know?" he asked. I shook my head.

"Plenty are wondering, but it's the Army. Always something going wrong," I explained. That seemed to satisfying him.

"Alright. You want to meet Adam? Follow me, take your friend," the mechanic said, gesturing to the floor. "Hurry up now."

I picked Theda up off the floor and supported her as we went to the door, feeling the barrel of the messenger's pistol in my back prodding me along. We proceeded down a small, unadorned servant's passage to a door to the alleyway behind the building, lit by just a few flickering lamps that thick snowflakes danced through. Another machine was waiting there, and I quickly spotted the pistol under his jacket. There was a carriage at the end of the alley, waiting.

I don't know what prompted it, what tactical programming recognized the moment, but it had to be now. I knew it with unshakable certainty.

I stumbled against the ground as though slipping on ice, and in the process pushed Theda forward onto the machine in front of me, the lumberworker. He stumbled as the fusilier crashed into him, and in the same moment I snapped my free elbow back. There was a crack of metal and glass, and the messenger crumpled against the wall.

The mechanic turned and raised his pistol just in time for me to seize his firing arm by the wrist and rip it from the socket. The linkages of his trigger finger pulled anyway, discharging somewhere over my shoulder as I brought my knee up into his chest. Smiths were tough machines, heavy steel casings and robust builds, but his sternum snapped like a twig and the plates of his chest detached from the violent force as he sailed back into the brick wall behind him.

I felt a stabbing pain in my back that faded almost as quickly as it had arrived, and stepped back to find the clerk backing away with a crackling knife in his hand, the energy bright as a torch in the dark alley. Behind him were the two other machines from the room, heavy factory machines with hydraulic arms and steel bodies and brutal steel clubs. The lumberworker was scrambling out from under Theda and fumbling with his wirelock. Even the Eve was pulling something from her purse.

One worn out Fusilier against five. Now or never.

I pushed for the lumberworker and simply shoved him into the wall as the first of the Wrights spun for my head. The steel bar deformed against my skull with an awful ringing noise, knocking loose the golden wires of my hair, and I caught his next swing and grabbed for his leg in the same motion. I swept him up off the ground and dropped him hard to the cobblestones, and was about to crush his chest with my knee when the Clerk came back in and I just avoided the knife coming for my face.

I leapt up and stumbled as the downed Wright grabbed the hem of my dress. The knife descended, and in desperation I reached out, grabbed the side of the Clerk's face, and squeezed. The lenses of his eyes popped out as the metal deformed, the knife dropping from shock, and I shoved the little machine away and followed. There was a ripping sound, followed by a crunch as my fist connected with the Clerk's neck. Bright sparks flew as a cable snapped, and he crumpled lifelessly to the ground.

Threat assessment. The first factory machine was scrambling to his feet, discarding the fine fabric he'd torn from my dress, the lumberworker was grasping around for his pistol, the Eve was backing away toward the carriages. The second Wright was squaring up like this was a boxing match, clearly out of his depths. The messenger was twitching uselessly on the ground, the clerk lights out, the mechanic paralyzed.

I stepped back toward the lumberworker, finding the pistol with my foot and kicking it toward the door leading back inside, and the injured machine slumped in defeat as the other two came for me. I blocked a crowbar with my forearm, slammed a fist into a torso hard enough that the machine's batteries flashed and overloaded, and followed up into the next. He had his guard up, which just meant my fist broke both his arms and sent his head rebounding off the ice.

It had taken maybe twenty seconds. I flexed my arms, feeling the twinge of my shoulder activators, the return of a dull pain just under my shoulder blade, an ache against the side of my head. I took after the Eve in a run, slapped the derringer out of her hand with a single motion as she drew it on me, and pushed her hard into the wall.

She sunk to the cobblestones, hands raised in surrender.

"Y-you ain't supposed to fight back…" she mumbled, clearly in shock. "You're a soldier, you ain't supposed to hurt people…"

"Right," I said, glancing back up the alley to the ruined machines. I didn't know how tough civilian machines were; if they were Fusiliers they might be recoverable. "Well, I'm afraid that's all I do. I think I'm going to ask some questions now."

She nodded desperately.

"You're involved with the missing machines, right?" I asked. She continued nodding, eyes wide. "Right. Start talking."

"I-I don't know all the details, but somebody wants Fusiliers, right? New ones out of the box, old ones, they don't care-"

"Old ones? Reups?" I asked. She just looked confused and terrified. "Machines signing back up to the regiment."

"They don't care, just want fusilier-" she began, but I had another question.

"Who's they?"

"The client, I don't know!" she protested. "Adam knows, he's the only one!"

"You're going to take me to him," I said, and there was a moment when her bright purple eyes glanced over my shoulder before she replied. Carefully, I drew the coilgun from my pocket.

"I can't, babe, he's not here, see?" she said, suddenly sounding much calmer. "He's with the client, overseeing the next delivery…"

She glanced again, and I turned, bringing up my pistol. There, framed in the doorway, was the enormous Fusilier from the front door. The coilgun snapped and fired, and there was a little spark off his chestplate. He just looked sort of bemused.

"A coilgun?" he asked.

"It's what I could get, mate." I protested. "You're one to talk, you've just got wirelocks."

He nodded as if agreeing, glancing down the alley and wincing.

"You do that, then?" he asked.

"They start it, Fusiliers finish it," I replied, the statement dredged up from somewhere deep in my programming. He nodded.

"Aye, thought so," he replied simply, then he stepped forward and swung for me. I threw a desperate block in the way, and stumbled away with a sound like a hammer hitting an anvil. Something in my arm had broken from the impact, I could feel it, and I wasn't able to lift it back up to protect my head.

He swung again as I gave ground, looking confident as I tripped over Theda and landed next to the knocked out mechanic. His boot landed heavily on my ankle and ground it into the ground until something inside popped and the limb went limp, and I flopped back, defeated. The Theo loomed over me, raising a boot.

Then there was a flash of blue light and he slumped over against the brick wall, revealing Théa leaning heavily against the door with the mechanic's smoking wirelock in her hand.

"Dora, are you alright?" she called, her words slurred even more through her accent.

"Peachy, thanks," I groaned, touching my broken arm and wincing from the shot of pain that accompanied it. As the desperate energy of combat faded away, I found myself staring at the broken machines, assessing the damage, hoping desperately I'd not killed any of them. I didn't think so; a machine was really just the chips and memory in the armoured case in their skulls; everything else could be replaced.

Théa seemed to have much the same opinion, because after briefly glancing them over, she staggered over to Theda. After a moment of inspecting, pulled her upright. The Sergeant got unsteadily to her feet, leaning heavily against the wall, her head intermittently jerking involuntarily from whatever the hell they'd hit her with. She looked over me, lying broken on the ground, and then to Théa, almost too drunk to stand.

"We should fetch the constables?" Théa asked, and the Sergeant twitched violently.

"N-nein. You should run," she managed. "I will find an officer and claim I was attacked. Do not be here when they arrive."

"Sergeant…" I protested, and she glared.

"Go, Lieutenant. I'll not have this on you," she insisted, the intermitted jerk of her head punctuating the sentence. She turned to walk away, leaning heavily against the wall, then stopped. "Did you find out where our replacements are?"

"No," I admitted. "But I think I know how to."

 

[TheWandofYouth]

Amazing to see another update! Let's see what hijinks this will lead to...

On another note, I was inspired some time ago to do this and write a short note - you will know that it is *some time ago* because it doesn't incorporate the canon position. But hopefully it's interesting, and I'm not stepping on any toes...

Broadly, one of my other passions is heraldry, and I talked about this story to a friend who then commissioned the art. The note is mine, however, and was inspired broadly by a cross between the HEIC and Asimov's USR...

The Royal Consolidated Foundries (in full, the 'Honorable Governors and Company of the Royal Consolidated Foundries of Robots and Mechanical Men) was founded in 2099, as The Consolidated Foundries, as the consolidation of the three main imperial foundries, being the Royal Army Automata Foundry, The Royal Naval Mechanical Foundry, and the Oxford Foundry of Imperial Service, and the numerous other civilian foundries then present in the United Empire of Great Britain and Her Territories Beyond the Stars. The Company received their the honour of the appellation 'Royal' in 2199, on the commemoration of the 100th anniversary of the Company.

The HCF was founded almost three hundred years after the Industrious Revolution and the discovery of the Voltaic Equation and Engine allowed almost limitless generation of energy and virtually eliminated the principle of economic scarcity, and almost fifty years after mankind first ascended to space. With the United Empire controlling more than twenty worlds, and foundries for the automata which performed so many of the duties necessary to the continued survival and enjoyment of humanity proliferating, an Act of Parliament decreed the consolidation of all the foundries and other manufacturies of automata within the territories of the United Empire for the purposes of standardisation and efficiency. From that act, the The Consolidated Foundries was born. Over the years, the manufacturing and transport activities of the HCF meant a gradual expansion of her duties, including the retention of her own naval forces for the repulsion of pirates and the acquisition of virgin worlds that feed the wheels of progress - or the slow stagnation, however you might see it. Yet it is the proud boast of the Company that her forces have never fired a shot in anger, and that her relations with the natives - wherever they may be - have always been most cordial. And how could they not be, when she is staffed primarily by those various automata which ever have the well-being of every sentient being at heart?

I'm sure there are some kinks (I wrote it some time after reading the first fusie story!), but hopefully pretty art will salve:-

The arms of the company in question, designed to incorporate various motifs I thought might fit, such as the broad arrow (the 'Crown property' mark), both human and mechanical figures, stars, and a very traditional-looking lion-maintaining-something in the crest.

 

[open_sketch]

We staggered in a rush down the alley and out into the deserted, icy street, leaning heavily on each other to not slip into the snowdrifts. This was the heart of the city's human-facing commercial district, lined with shops closed for the holidays, the customers spending the holidays with their families and the machines who worked them presumably fighting off the boredom in parts of the town that catered more to them. At the far end of the street there were machines shuffling to and from the party, just visible by lamplight, but that was all.

I did my best to guide Théa down to the corner in hopes of spotting a cab, and we were rewarded by a heavy ploughing through the snow not long after, riding on a cushion of air behind the grinding chain of a caterpillar horse. We flagged it down somewhat desperately and piled in, and only once the warmth of the interior sunk in did I realise how cold my bare legs were.

"You quite alright?" the couchmachine asked, leaning back to look us over with genuine concern. "You were at the party, I suppose?"

"Bit too much for us, I'm afraid," Théa slurred. I pushed my legs as close to the heating vent as I could, wishing once again I could just wear my uniform trousers. At the very least, I should have bit the bullet and tried to pull stockings over the joints of my legs, though they had a tendency to rip on the hard edges of the metal.

"I'll say. Where to, then?"

"A machine pub, if you will. Somewhere quiet, out of the way, not picky," I asked, genuinely unsure. I didn't want to return to base yet; best we take our time and give Theda time to establish our cover. "We need something relaxing after the night we had."

"Ain't much like that tonight, girl, it's everyone's day off but mine y'know," the driver scoffed, then the cab jerked into motion. "Can think of one place, if I can trust you not to blab, it'd be my head if a bunch of Army rusting up the place."

"You have our word as officers," Théa said naively. The driver stopped quite suddenly, looking back and scanning us over again. Recognition seemed to dawn in his eyes as he stared at me.

"Bugg- I, my apologies, ladies, terribly uncouth of me," he said, falling into the familiar panicked formalities of a machine presented with the incongruity of my rank and my body. "No disrespect meant, didn't know who you were out of uniform. Um, would you still like me to take you-"

"Yes, please, driver," I warned, feeling exasperated. The familiar high of combat and the edge of the music was starting to fade, and I wasn't liking what was taking its place. "Where is this, exactly?"

"Cabbie pub, we're all out driving till midnight, it'll be dead empty miss," he assured us. "A quieter place there isn't in the city. No fare for the Lieutenant and-" he indicated to Théa curiously.

"Also Lieutenant Fusilier," she replied.

"I don't mind paying," I insisted.

"Cor, wouldn't dream of it. My patriotic duty, relaying our esteemed machine officers about," he said joyfully, the cab rattling through the empty streets. Snowflakes danced into existence ahead of the windscreen, caught in the headlamps. I just tried to curl up as best as I could in my seat as the thrill of the fight drained out of me.

"Stupid sods…"

"Dora?" Théa asked, leaning over.

"They just came to pieces in my hands. Christ, I hope I didn't kill…," I said, speaking a little louder over the rattling of the cab.

"They attacked you, did they not?" Théa pointed out. They hadn't, I'd read their intent and struck first. How much of a threat were they really? They'd been housecats and I'd been a tiger.

"They did," I said anyway, barely able to hear myself. "Stupid bloody scrap metal, the lot of them. I'm a Fusilier, they're mild steel, what could they do? What were they thinking?"

I'd never struck a machine in anger before Theda, just a few months ago, and now I'd torn apart a half-a-dozen in a back alley somewhere, dashed them to pieces, and Theda would take the blame. These weren't autowars or aranchnaforms or Stalkers, these were machines. People like me, but they'd been an enemy in that moment and I'd broken them like enemies. The only way I could imagine it being worse is if they'd been human.

"Dora, you defended yourself. Please, take a moment, process things," Théa said softly. "It's going to be alright."

It wasn't the rattle of the tracks; my hands were shaking against my bare legs and it was making a racket. I couldn't seem to will them still.

"... miss, Lieutenant, I… should I take you-" the driver spoke up. Théa leaned forward menacingly, gripping the back of the driver's seat.

"You won't speak a word of this to anyone, Driver," she snarled, the metal of the chair deforming with a groan under her fingers. "She was attacked. You will not make it worse for her. You keep your eyes forward, understand?"

"Yes, miss," he gasped. "My apologies again."

"Good." Théa leaned back into the chair and watched, and I realised that I'd fallen apart too early, too easily. The old me would have suppressed the whole thing, but here was going to pieces in front of a civilian. I couldn't let this chew me apart, but if all I did was dismiss it it'd never, truly, leave me.

Come on, Dora. I assured myself, trying to steady myself. Be rational. They pointed a gun at me, hurt Theda terribly, and were taking us off to somewhere else. If not to kill, perhaps something worse. What would a good person, a good Fusilier, do in that situation?

They ought to defend themselves, and others. A Fusilier ought to stand up against bullies.

Right. I was outnumbered and unarmed. My opposition had already shown lethal intent…

But… they were just civilians, little machines. I'm a Fusilier, a war machine. I ought to have found-

Yes, I am stronger. But they had weapons, numbers, and sobriety on their side. If I were slower or stupider, I'd be the one dead. Can I really expect myself to die to spare the person trying to kill me? Could I ask a good Fusilier to die for the whims of her killer?

I ought to fight to win, if I must. Others start fights, a good Fusilier ought to end them.

They're thinking people like you, which means they thought about every moment that led up to being the stupid bastards who picked a fight with me. It is good that I worry, because it means I still care, but I can't let myself fall to pieces now. Would a good Fusilier let this stop her before the mission was done?

I ought to press on. A good Fusilier ought to press on.

Besides…

They ought to have survived. We're a tough lot, even little Clerks with stupid little knives. A good Fusilier ought to keep this in proportion.

The rattling stopped. My fans slowed. The world felt, somehow, clearer.

"O-oh…" I gasped, feeling suddenly lightheaded. "Sorry, I got… a bit overwhelmed."

"It was not an easy thing," Théa assured me. She had no idea.

---

We arrived at the cabbie pub no long after, pulling down a side road and emerging in front of a quiet building with a dark brown front, lit by just a few dancing holographic candles. The sign called it The Runaway, depicting an early steam horse racing away from a shocked-looking machine with the old dot-eyed cameras. We shuffled inside, depositing the cover fee into a grubby box by the door, grateful for the warmth and the selection of comfortable chairs which, it seemed, had been recycled from decades of old cabs. The place was deserted but for a little Abby humming to herself as she cleaned a selection of headphones behind the bar.

With the place deserted, Théa went to the jukebox and selected something soothing, then crashed down opposite and, quite boldly, took my hands.

"Dora, how are you feeling?"

"Better," I assured her. My worries about the criminal machines were not gone, but they were sufficiently out of mind to focus on the next task. There wasn't a point in worrying about it; Theda would fill me in soon enough, I was sure. "How about you?"

"Me? I am not the one who was in a fight," she said. "What about your sergeant? She looked in a bad way."

"Theda's tough," I said simply. "The worst thing we could do for her is fuss. Whatever they hit her with was awful, though."

"I have not seen a weapon like it," Théa admitted. "If you are sure, you said you had a plan?"

"I… an inkling of one, I think," I said, glancing around once more to make sure there were no curious microphones about. The Abby was swaying to the music at the far side of the pub, duster in hand, clearly in her own little world. "Whoever is running this scheme wants Fusiliers, and they aren't picky. They're taking boxies and reups indiscriminately, presumably grabbing them at some point between the factory and reaching us, right?"

"But here is the problem. The trail simply goes cold, yes?" Théa observed.

"Right, and we won't discover anything at this end. The people at the factory have no idea either, because we don't know where in the process they snatch them. We need to fix that."

"... how?" Théa asked, and just to be safe, I leaned even closer in.

"Easy, Théa. I join the Army," I revealed. She looked at me like I'd gotten my head screwed on the wrong way.

"You're already in the Army, Dora, how hard did they hit you in the head?" she asked.

"No, look. I go to the Lieutenant Colonel and tell him the plan, ask for a few weeks leave. We get him to put in a rush order for reups, damn the inspections, we need replacements, that sort of thing, and I travel to Teachport as a beat-up old Fusilier looking to get back in uniform, see?"

"You are not beat up," she corrected insistently. I stared at her. "... you are textured."

"Kind of you, but no, I look like shit. They put me on a ship back to the RMC factory for refurbishment and ship me back out, and at some point our friends drop in on the process. Difference is, I'll know they're coming, and if that lot back there is any indication I should have no trouble taking them in."

She pondered this a while, nodding slowly.

"Perhaps. It is a risky plan,"

"Do you have a better idea? They tried to kill Theda and I. If somebody doesn't put an end to this, soon, more people will get hurt. Humans might get hurt," I said, invoking the magic words. Her eyes hardened.

"No, you're right. But you shouldn't go alone. I will come with you." A bitcrunched warble of laughter escaped me involuntarily. "What?"

"You? Nobody would fall for you as a reup. You're too…"

"Too what?"

"... too damned pretty," I said simply, shrugged. Might as well get that in the open. "You look like an officer, there's no way around it. Reups are usually working as bodyguards, they want to look big and intimidating and reassuring, not beautiful."

Too much, Dora.

"... perhaps I was employed by somebody who appreciates a beautiful machine?" she offered.

"Miles can't afford you," I snapped back, and her whole face lit up with bright pink light.

"A-ah, well, you…"

"In any case, it won't work. You're right I shouldn't go alone, but I don't know who else I can trust. Theda, perhaps, if she's well…"

"What about Mister Beckham?" she asked, still stumbling over her words. Oh joy, we'd be dancing around this too? Perhaps it was the newfound confidence, but I had to say something.

"I am not particularly in a mood to trust Miles right now, if I am to be honest," I said tersely.

"Oh. Is it because-?"

"I overheard you two, yes. I don't care what happened," I lied tersely. "It's like you said, no harm in a fling if you keep it between yourselves."

She looked utterly mortified. In the background, the song ran down, leaving us in silence.

"I… Dora, I cannot believe… and you have been so civil with me, I am so sorry…" she said, taking my hand. "I hadn't know you and him-"

"Oh Christ no, that's not-" I started, then realised all at once that this had just veered into either a confession or a lie I wasn't comfortable with and I hadn't the mental energy for any of it. "It's him I'm annoyed with…"

"I can understand, he never said anything about you," she said. "If I had known I'd never have let it go as far as it did, and I'll certainly put an end to things."

Somewhere in the background, the music picked up again, faster and louder this time. I briefly caught sight of the cute little Abby dancing away from the jukebox, cameras off, clearly lost in the bold strings and rhythmic drums.

"I…" Unlike the maid, I had no more energy for dancing about. "No, there's nothing with Miles, we're friends. I'm a lesbian, Théa. I'm annoyed with him because," I stumbled a bit, but found the courage to press on. "Because I was sweet on you, and he knew, and went ahead anyway without a word. And it's stupid that I'm annoyed, because I know you don't feel the same way about me anyway."

She blinked, slowly, then sat back and shook her head.

"Well, I am flattered. You are very new to romance, yes?" she asked.

"Yes, and I'm fucking terrible at it," I confessed. She nodded, clearly still holding back laughter.

"We are all stupid in the beginning. I truly had no idea you had affection for me in that way, you never said. Why?"

"W-why?" I gasped. "Look at you! You're so… elegant, perfect, you fit in so well, you're everything I'm too stupid and poor and fucked-up to be. You're so inspiring, and pretty and…" I realised at about this moment she was actually asking why had you not said anything but I'd already made such a hash of things I couldn't stop. "... and there's nobody else."

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"Nevermind, I'm sorry, this has been horrid of me," I concluded. "Please don't break things off with Miles on my account. God knows the man needs to catch a break."

I couldn't tell her what I meant, because it was only really congealing in my brain how pathetic it was now. There was nobody else because she was the only woman I could truly say was my equal in every way, who actually knew what I was going through. How lonely and strange and wonderful this bizarre experience was, dancing on the knife-edge between two worlds.

I looked at her, and more than the beautiful face and the close-tailored uniform, I saw somebody who might actually understand. She became this lifeline I could pine over, this dream of a kind of connection which seemed impossible anywhere else, and I had said nothing because I knew deep down it was foolish of me. If I dared say anything, the mirage would be dispelled.

"Thank you for telling me," Théa said quietly, taking my hand again. "I'm sure he didn't mean to hurt you."

"I'm not. He can be a thoughtless git," I muttered, even as I knew it was unfair. Miles could be cruel, yes, but mostly to himself. "Was he at least nice?"

"Perhaps not a perfect gentleman, but he is very kind to me. Funny, too," Théa reassured me. Then, with about the same conspiratorial secrecy as I had shown sharing my daring plan, she leaned in close. "And… I suspect I am not the first machine girl he has charmed. He seems to know his way about the place."

My turn to be mortified.

"M-my God, Théa, you can't just-"

"Given his thoughtlessness to you, I have earned a bit of kiss and tell. Or be kissed and tell, in this case," she said, tapping a finger to her unmoving lips. "Should I tell you what is most funny?"

I absolutely did not care to hear. I nodded anyway.

"He liked it when I gave him orders. Yes, Lieutenant and all," she said, clearly relishing every word. "Such a strange boy. Of course, you being his friend, you would never use such information against him, no?"

"Of course not," I assured her, already thinking of the ways I would needle him. "Wouldn't dream of it."

She sighed happily and settled back, lolling her head a little against the plush ex-cab seat. She'd clearly not entirely sobered up before she got here, and the music was once again washing over us both, carrying away the tension and urgency of the evening and, I fear, loosening my sound chip.

"It's me I'm really angry at anyway," I confessed out of the blue, resting my head on my arms as I leaned against the table. "I reacted to stumbling onto you two like a complete idiot."

"How so?"

"Danced with a human girl," I said matter-of-factly, the compound scandals of the conversation having robbed it of all its impact.

"Nothing wrong with that," Théa said.

"No, what is wrong is I did it right in front of Lieutenant Kennedy," I groaned. "We…"

"Hmm?"

"I was an idiot, on the other side of the portal. She confessed her feelings to me and panicked and dismissed… everything. Everything I felt for her, all at once. Told her it couldn't be, me a machine and her human. Broke her heart on the spot. She's been trying to piece it back together and here I am, dancing with some blond…" I reached around desperately for a word that could contain all of my complex feelings about Lieutenant Howlette, recoiled from the thought of applying their misogynistic connotations to a human woman, then found it in me anyway, "... bint, right in the middle of the party."

"No, you are right, that is very bad. What did you do?" she asked.

"A runner," I confessed. "Because I'm a coward, that's what."

Théa sat bolt upright, taking my hand yet again in both of hers and nearly yanking my already damaged arm from its socket.

"No! We must make this right!" she declared. "You have no spoken to her since the portal?"

"Miriam says I'll make it worse," I said.

"Perhaps! But you have already made it as bad as it can be. You must talk to her. There is still time to fix this!"

"I think that's the waltz talking," I pointed about, but she clearly wasn't having it.

"You are about to leave on a dangerous and very stupid plan-"

"It's not stupid…"

"-From which you may not return, and so this must be taken as your last chance! You must try to make things right, if you have any honour as a Fusilier!"

"I think the honour wore out of me a decade back, haven't been able to afford a replacement," I joked weakly. "This isn't a halfpenny romance, Théa, I really hurt her."

She settled down, smoothing her dress as she sat.

"... yes. Which is why you must try to at least talk to her," she insisted. "Perhaps then it can be the end of things. Perhaps, even, if she forgives you, it can be a new beginning. In any case, when we make such a mistake, we ought to try and make things right if we can, no? "

"Ought is a dangerous word," I warned, and she gave a lazy, limp-wristed gesture of dismissal.

"Besides, my sweet Dora, you are missing out," she slurred, half-slumped against the table. "It is a wonderful thing, the human tongue…"

 

[open_sketch]

We left soon after, procuring the services of one of the returning cabbies dropping by who was eager for one last run in the snow. Wary of the ice, Théa and the driver helped me to the door, dragging my damaged foot behind me even as I protested that I could walk just fine.

After a brief wait the door swung open to reveal a shocked Miriam.

"Miss, your dress!" she exclaimed, horrified. "Your leg!"

"She was assaulted, Corporeal," Théa explained hastily. "She has trouble walking. Can you fetch an engineer?"

"Our staff are off tonight," she said, taking my other arm from the driver. "Once she's settled in-"

"If you'll show me the way, I'll fetch somebody from the base," our driver announced. Once she was sure Miriam had me, Théa turned and stepped out, the driver doffing his cap and following her back out into the cold.

Miriam led me to the sitting room and the overstuffed chair there, sitting me down carefully and snapping on the fireplace before beginning an inspection of the damage. She seemed to know what she was doing, more than I'd thought.

"You are a mechanic too, atop everything else?" I asked, as she lifted my leg gingerly to inspect the deformed metal.

"My duty is to your comfort and health, Miss. I was programmed with medical knowledge for my usual clients, it would have been remiss of me not to invest in basic mechanics." She paused, her glowing eyes wincing. "She said you were assaulted? By the smugglers you were after, I suppose."

I did not question how she knew; she always seemed to know.

"Yes. Theda is going to explain to the police. Things are far more serious, but I have a plan. I'll need to talk to the Lieutenant Colonel as soon as I am able."

"I have a feeling I won't much care for your plan, but it can wait until a mechanic has seen you," she said, shaking her head and sighing. "This will not be the last time, and the longer you wait the more expensive it will be, you know?"

"I can't afford-" I began to protest, and she silenced me with a stern glance.

"How long have you known that and done nothing, miss?" she asked sternly. "What, were you just going to do nothing until a solution fell into your lap, until you loot another alien sword to pawn?"

I didn't know what to say to that. I just shrugged.

"I understand the desire to put it off, but you cannot run forever. Especially not on a leg like this," she said. "So you cannot afford it, that merely means we need to start thinking proactively. What can you do to make up the money, or lessen the burden?"

"I don't know," I said, but she fixed me with a stare that made it clear this was not an acceptable answer. I racked my brain. "I haven't the time to take on another job, but perhaps I could find something informal. Perhaps I could sell an interview to the newspaper, I know some still want one. I could pawn my pistol, it's not strictly required for an officer… are any of these good?"

"A start. Can you think of anything which does not place yet more burden on a machine already falling apart?" Miriam prompted. Right. Don't imagine this was me; this is a Good Fusilier in distress.

"Well.. I could mention it to the Lieutenant Colonel so he could raise the issue with Headquarters to have my repairs covered like a line soldier, though that would take time and might not work. I need a backup plan," I offered, continuing as she nodded in encouragement. If the command structure couldn't do it, well, when Fusiliers had an issue they needed help with they raised collection with their peers. "I… I suppose I could mention it to the other officers, try to get a l-loan. But I'd pay it back, of course, with interest-"

"Miss, stop," she said, nodding. "You should not be so mortified, this is what officers do. When their accounts run dry, and it happens to the best of them, if they cannot turn to family they turn to friends."

"Miles can't lend me anything. Hell, I lend him money," I pointed out, then slow horror dawned. "What if he's hurt?"

"You think Lieutenant Turner would hesitate a moment to cover his expenses?" she asked. "Do you think he'd hesitate a moment for yours?"

"It's not the same," I said lamely, but I knew I was defeated. "Would he really?"

"You could, at the very least, ask. If not him, your Captain, or perhaps your old Lieutenant? We all know you would be a very reliable debtor, and in any case friends do not lend money to friends to turn a profit. I doubt they'd let you pay them back, to be honest. So what is your hesitation?"

It was obvious; I wasn't worth it. But, remembering my earlier thought, I imagined, what if Théa needed the money? Would I judge her if she asked? Would I think she didn't deserve it?

"Nothing, if I think on it," I concluded, sinking into the chair and glancing for the window, hoping for the lamps of the cab bringing a mechanic. "Let me explain while we wait. My plan is to take leave and rejoin the Army as a private soldier. They'd send me back for refurbishing and send me off with the new boxies, see? So I can intercept them."

Miriam raised a pixilated eyebrow, but her eyes were sparkling with joy.

"That's clever of you, Miss. getting the Army to cover your repairs the way they should," she exclaimed. "You should have led with that, it's brilliant! Not sustainable, of course, but the Colonel would certainly sign off on it once-"

"T-that's not why!" I protested. When I'd thought of it, I vaguely imagined to myself I simply wouldn't get refurbished; I'd maybe show them the letter or something so as not to take advantage of the deception. Now that I was actually thinking about doing it, however, it seemed absurd I'd not even consider it. "Wouldn't that be defrauding the crown?"

"Hardly. You'd need the Lieutenant Colonel's backing anyway, I'm certain he can work something with the money people while you're doing the hard work. Just work it out with him when you ask, and be honest about how it would be helpful."

"Wouldn't that make him suspect this whole thing is a scheme to get repairs?" I asked. The door knocked, and Miriam stood to move toward it.

"Certainly, but all that means is that when he shoots down your foolish plan, he may instead offer to just pay for it," she concluded, pulling open the door to reveal a contract mechanic with a toolbag in hand. "Ah! Do come in."

---

"I could just pay for it, you know?"

"I appreciate the offer, but showing up worn will be helpful to the plan," I explained to the Lieutenant Colonel, pacing unsteadily around his office. "Fusiliers sign back up in two states; either downgraded to civilian parts or worn to pieces, you see?"

I hadn't been in the office of the Lieutenant Colonel since I had taken my commission; it was just as overflowing with paperwork as when I'd last seen it, but this time I was better able to take a look around the space, not so consumed with the singular moment that my entire life had been building to. He'd filled it in equal parts with memorability from his campaigns and his civilian life; a thirty-year old officer's coat pressed into a frame next to a painting of a world from orbit I imagined must be the Harrison family estate. It was a beautiful jewel of a world, of shallow cyan seas and green spreading from the equator as Earth life colonised the once-dead planet. A small, carefully painted family portrait sat behind the man, depicting a slightly younger-looking Lieutenant Colonel, a raven-haired woman bedecked in green jewellery, and a pair of young children.

"Do they? I thought the private sector paid well and that's why you jump ship. For something better than a shilling a day," he asked, leaning back in his chair and regarding my nervous movements. "A bodyguard fetches a damn good salary, as I understand it, especially for frontier explorers."

"It's not for the money. If you've had a rough ten years, some bad battles, maybe lost some friends, one might seek some calmer duties," I explained. I'd briefly contemplated it myself, at the worst times. "In any case, a few more shillings can still not be enough to keep a Fusilier going; you know our operating costs better than most humans, I think."

He chuckled.

"Too right! I'm glad they don't make it pay for that as well, reimbursement or no," he declared. "I would have to cover your costs as a re-up anyway, if you do want to go through with it, and that of your Sergeant. She's agreed to this caper?"

"Yes, Lieutenant Colonel." I'd asked her this morning, and honestly, eager was underselling her desire to get her hands on the ringleaders of this little gang. It had been three days and she still twitched spasmodically, her head jerking from some hidden electrical damage the regimental engineer had still not managed to fix in the time since the police had released her.

"And you're sure we can't simply get more information from the machines you… I mean, your Sergeant disabled?" he asked, regarding me carefully. "Should we not at least wait?"

"The one most likely to know anything more than the others is the Eve, who is still at large, and their Clerk, who needs weeks of repair at least," I pointed out. "And the longer we wait, the more likely it is the gang will have moved on."

"Why would they not have moved on already? Surely they know better than to hit the same place twice, or perhaps they have all the Fusiliers they need?"

"In that case I turn up in the barracks in a few weeks somewhat embarrassed," I admitted. "But setting up a smuggling job like this wouldn't be easy, or cheap. If we don't seem to have a lead on them, I imagine they'd want to keep using it as long as they could to save on costs and risk."

The Lieutenant-Colonel nodded slowly. He stood and opened a cabinet, glass clinking inside.

"Would you like- oh, my apologies, it's reflex at this point," Harrison said, pouring himself a small amount of amber liquid. "I'll admit, I think it's a foolish plan, but I haven't got a better one and I've learned well enough that if you wait for the Army to act, you'll go grey. Or rust? In any case, I can't hardly give my approval."

I had suspected as much for the last several minutes. I was already trying to think of another plan.

"That said, I do approve of your indefinite leave, of course. You stayed on-duty through the holidays, which I of course appreciate, how could I not?" he continued. "Starting tomorrow, of course. And once you're on leave, I can hardly stop you from doing whatever strikes your fancy, but just in case, I'll write you a letter to show anyone who might give you trouble. I wont have one of my officers held up because some bureaucrat thinks she's a common Fusilier, you understand?"

It was a shamefully long pause before the implications all fully set in.

"Of course. Thank you, sir."

 

[open_sketch]

urgh

i've been trying to write the next part of this for a long time, but as i've edited the first book (which, if all goes to plan, will be out in final form in January or February) and tightened up the pace, i've seen where i've made mistakes in this one too. once again, the problem is that i let too many plot points pile up, making it difficult for the story to transition to its next stage, and its all falling apart in my hands again. guys, writing novels is really hard. quests help paper over that by keeping the story directly in line with reader interests, though with other costs, but they taught me a bad habit of 'winging it' that doesn't work when you're trying to write a single linear narrative.

unlike the last version, i feel like i've got the elements i want, but they're all in completely the wrong order, destroying the momentum of the story. what's not helping is that my stupid hands don't function; constant chronic pain has, i'm sure you've noticed, slowed my writing down to barely ever updating anything, and only sporadically. every time i try to pick this back up, i just want to cry

i dont really know what to do with this anymore. i dont want to start over again, but i feel i need to. i dont know. help?