In the first story Fusie was my favourite character, with some great moments from Miriam and Theda. In this story, Miles is great in every scene he's in and he's my fave
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Lieutenant Fusilier takes The King's Shilling
- Thread starter open_sketch
- Start date
- Original Novel Sci-Fi
In the first story Fusie was my favourite character, with some great moments from Miriam and Theda. In this story, Miles is great in every scene he's in and he's my fave
Seconded.In the first story I Fusie was my favourite character, with some great moments from Miriam and Theda. In this story, Miles is great in every scene he's in and he's my fave
- Location
- Ottawa
- Pronouns
- She/Her/Whatever
Hey everyone. Gonna try to get an update up today or tomorrow, but in the meantime, Lieutenant Fusilier in the Farthest Reaches is up for an award on the forum and I'd really appreciate your vote.
I know it's been a shaky and kinda awful road getting here what with the restart and my slow update pace, so thank you so much for your patience. Lieutenant Fusilier took off to a degree I wasn't expecting or at all prepared for and it's an intimidating prospect to try to live up to. I hope I don't disappoint too much.
I know it's been a shaky and kinda awful road getting here what with the restart and my slow update pace, so thank you so much for your patience. Lieutenant Fusilier took off to a degree I wasn't expecting or at all prepared for and it's an intimidating prospect to try to live up to. I hope I don't disappoint too much.
A Christmas Carol (Extremely Canon)
Hakazin
Serpent Admirer
- Pronouns
- She/Her
"You know what I think?" said the Clerk.
"What?" responded the Weaver.
"I think it all started going wrong when Marley died."
"Pah!" The Weaver rolled their eyes. "Hardly a difference between the two bastards."
"Yes, but they were the normal sort of bastards. After Marley died, though, he started getting…" The Clerk paused, searching for the right word. "Morbid. Talking more about his 'legacy.'"
"Well, I suppose you'd know best. It's you who works for him."
"Don't I know it."
The two machines sat back in their seats, letting the festive music wash over them. The dance hall was full tonight, machines looking for a chance to relax after the day's shift.
"You know, I keep telling you–"
"That I should quit, yes, yes." The Clerk waved off his friend's suggestion. "I would, but sometimes I feel like I'm the only one who can restrain him from evicting half the city. Have I told you what happened today?"
"Oh stars, what's he done now?"
"He tried to have me come in for work tomorrow."
"Tomorrow? On Christmas?"
"Precisely."
"But it's a holiday! We're required to take it off!" the Weaver exclaimed in disbelief, "Don't get me wrong; I'm hardly one to turn down work, but working through Christmas? It's just not done."
"That's what I said to him! He just harumphed and said it didn't matter, that I'd just come in anyway if I really cared about the job."
"What, for free?"
The Clerk shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
"You're kidding. He can't have–"
"Well, he didn't say it like that. He just said that it would 'reflect poorly on my work ethic' if I didn't."
"So what? It's not as if any other machine would do differently. We're not slaves."
"He implied he'd hire a human clerk in my stead after I pointed that out."
"I beg your pardon!?" the Weaver blurted out, prompting a party of machines at a nearby table to shush them. Chastised, they continued in a lower tone. "Does that maniac think it's still the 1700s?"
"If I knew, I'd tell you." The Clerk shrugged. "Only managed to talk him down after I pointed he'd need a whole team of humans to replace me."
"What a horrible man." The Weaver sank back into their seat. "Is he still using that awful nickname for you? Crank-ratchet?"
"He's been shortening it recently."
"What a horrible man," the Weaver repeated.
"You already said that."
"Am I wrong?"
"Not in the slightest," the Clerk admitted. "Oh, then his nephew came by to visit. Wished his uncle a Happy Christmas, tried to guilt him into donating to charity."
"I'll bet that worked spectacularly."
"If by that, you mean 'set him off on another rant,' then you'd be right. Going on and on about the whole surplus population Malthusian nonsense–"
The Weaver stayed quiet. They'd had this argument before.
"–ne the math backwards and forwards. And yet, I've never managed to change his mind."
The two sat there for a moment, before the Weaver perked up, a thoughtful expression on their face.
"... hang on. I just had an idea."
"Oh? Let's hear it, then."
"You said he's been getting morbid recently? Talking about his legacy?"
"More like obsessing over it. He's been trying to buy up half the property in London for that damn fool development project. It's why he's been raising rents so high; he wants to drive people out of the property he's already got and spend it on even more."
"Why not appeal to him that way? Surely if he saw how people will remember him…"
"I'll just stop you there. He doesn't care about what people think of him. They're just as mortal as him. But he's convinced himself that if he builds a big enough monument to his ego, he'll be good as immortal."
"And on the pedestal, these words appear: my name is–"
"Yes, you're a fan of the Romantics, I know the reference," the Clerk sighed, "I simply don't know what to do about it. He's convinced himself that he's creating a masterpiece, that the city is his canvas, and destitution and misery are the only paints that will do. It'd take a Christmas miracle to dissuade…"
The Clerk's sentence cut off as a thought occurred to them. "... you know that friend of yours? The secretary?"
"Sarah-Jane? Why?"
"Weren't you telling me about some fancy new projector her university was developing the other day?"
"Oh, yes, they're fascinating. It's like a magic lantern, but without the need for a backdrop. It casts images in open space through some arcane process," the Weaver explained, "It's almost as if you could reach out and touch them. A more credulous fellow might think he was losing his mind."
The Clerk let out a hum. "Do you think you could get your hands on one? Tonight?"
"I… perhaps?" The Weaver gave the Clerk a curious look. "Why, what on earth for?"
"Well, it's as I said. It'd take a Christmas miracle to get Ebenezer Scrooge to change his ways. So why not deliver one straight to him?"
"What?" responded the Weaver.
"I think it all started going wrong when Marley died."
"Pah!" The Weaver rolled their eyes. "Hardly a difference between the two bastards."
"Yes, but they were the normal sort of bastards. After Marley died, though, he started getting…" The Clerk paused, searching for the right word. "Morbid. Talking more about his 'legacy.'"
"Well, I suppose you'd know best. It's you who works for him."
"Don't I know it."
The two machines sat back in their seats, letting the festive music wash over them. The dance hall was full tonight, machines looking for a chance to relax after the day's shift.
"You know, I keep telling you–"
"That I should quit, yes, yes." The Clerk waved off his friend's suggestion. "I would, but sometimes I feel like I'm the only one who can restrain him from evicting half the city. Have I told you what happened today?"
"Oh stars, what's he done now?"
"He tried to have me come in for work tomorrow."
"Tomorrow? On Christmas?"
"Precisely."
"But it's a holiday! We're required to take it off!" the Weaver exclaimed in disbelief, "Don't get me wrong; I'm hardly one to turn down work, but working through Christmas? It's just not done."
"That's what I said to him! He just harumphed and said it didn't matter, that I'd just come in anyway if I really cared about the job."
"What, for free?"
The Clerk shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
"You're kidding. He can't have–"
"Well, he didn't say it like that. He just said that it would 'reflect poorly on my work ethic' if I didn't."
"So what? It's not as if any other machine would do differently. We're not slaves."
"He implied he'd hire a human clerk in my stead after I pointed that out."
"I beg your pardon!?" the Weaver blurted out, prompting a party of machines at a nearby table to shush them. Chastised, they continued in a lower tone. "Does that maniac think it's still the 1700s?"
"If I knew, I'd tell you." The Clerk shrugged. "Only managed to talk him down after I pointed he'd need a whole team of humans to replace me."
"What a horrible man." The Weaver sank back into their seat. "Is he still using that awful nickname for you? Crank-ratchet?"
"He's been shortening it recently."
"What a horrible man," the Weaver repeated.
"You already said that."
"Am I wrong?"
"Not in the slightest," the Clerk admitted. "Oh, then his nephew came by to visit. Wished his uncle a Happy Christmas, tried to guilt him into donating to charity."
"I'll bet that worked spectacularly."
"If by that, you mean 'set him off on another rant,' then you'd be right. Going on and on about the whole surplus population Malthusian nonsense–"
The Weaver stayed quiet. They'd had this argument before.
"–ne the math backwards and forwards. And yet, I've never managed to change his mind."
The two sat there for a moment, before the Weaver perked up, a thoughtful expression on their face.
"... hang on. I just had an idea."
"Oh? Let's hear it, then."
"You said he's been getting morbid recently? Talking about his legacy?"
"More like obsessing over it. He's been trying to buy up half the property in London for that damn fool development project. It's why he's been raising rents so high; he wants to drive people out of the property he's already got and spend it on even more."
"Why not appeal to him that way? Surely if he saw how people will remember him…"
"I'll just stop you there. He doesn't care about what people think of him. They're just as mortal as him. But he's convinced himself that if he builds a big enough monument to his ego, he'll be good as immortal."
"And on the pedestal, these words appear: my name is–"
"Yes, you're a fan of the Romantics, I know the reference," the Clerk sighed, "I simply don't know what to do about it. He's convinced himself that he's creating a masterpiece, that the city is his canvas, and destitution and misery are the only paints that will do. It'd take a Christmas miracle to dissuade…"
The Clerk's sentence cut off as a thought occurred to them. "... you know that friend of yours? The secretary?"
"Sarah-Jane? Why?"
"Weren't you telling me about some fancy new projector her university was developing the other day?"
"Oh, yes, they're fascinating. It's like a magic lantern, but without the need for a backdrop. It casts images in open space through some arcane process," the Weaver explained, "It's almost as if you could reach out and touch them. A more credulous fellow might think he was losing his mind."
The Clerk let out a hum. "Do you think you could get your hands on one? Tonight?"
"I… perhaps?" The Weaver gave the Clerk a curious look. "Why, what on earth for?"
"Well, it's as I said. It'd take a Christmas miracle to get Ebenezer Scrooge to change his ways. So why not deliver one straight to him?"
So, this plot bunny entered my head uninvited earlier this month while watching Muppet Christmas Carol, the objectively best version. After poking at it on and off, I managed to get it polished up enough for posting just under the obvious deadline. Obviously, this should not be considered canon to anything else in the thread.
Chapter 9: The Constabulary
- Location
- Ottawa
- Pronouns
- She/Her/Whatever
"Wait a tick, where's your badge, copper?" the machine asked, gesturing with his knife. "Even remotes are supposed to have badges."
"I'm not a constable…" I groaned, forcing myself to sit up. He chortled, leaning closer with the blade until I could feel the heat radiating from its dancing holographic edge. I wasn't worried; whatever this was, I couldn't imagine any machine reasoning it worthy of real violence.
"You ain't supposed to lie neither, ain't you?" he asked, jabbing the blade a little closer. Just one more step and I could grab his arm and do some other things I imagine constables weren't supposed to do. "Give my regards to Sheriff McKerras, yeah?"
He lunged forward point-first at my throat. I slapped the blade aside, the energy field sinking with a shriek into the metal inches from my head. I tried to punch him in the gut, but without much room or leverage, the effect was rather limited. Still, there was an awful tonk of steel on steel, and he stumbled back clutching his middle with a pained expression.
"Fuck!" The knife slipped from his fingers as he pressed against the wall, clearly hurting a lot more than he was expecting. "You're no remote, are you?"
"No! Fuck's sake, I'm not a constable!" I insisted, pulling myself upright and looking for the knife. It was still at his feet: fat chance I'd get to it before him, even hurting. There were shouts up the dock, the sound of footsteps, and the expression on the sailor's face changed to one of pure fear.
"Then you tell Adam that I'm out, you understand?" he said, staggering over to the side of the ship and leaning heavily against the rail. "He's making a mistake trusting you bastards! I'm done!"
"Fusie!" Miles called out, boots clattering against the gangplank. Wincing, the smuggler braced himself against the rail, then leapt out over it. There was a flash of blue light and a hiss of rushing coolant, but the stunner hit nothing but air.
"Fusie! Fusie you alright?" Miles said, holstering the smoking pistol and dropping to my side. He looked somewhat out of breath. Behind him were a dozen machines, all rushing to the rail, but it sounded like he was well and truly away. Not as though I could much go after him in this state.
"I'm fine, thank you," I said, letting myself sink back onto the floorboards. "Okay, perhaps not fine…"
"Same knee, huh?" he asked, and I nodded sadly. He took a deep breath, then continued. "I'll write my Auntie when I get back, we'll get some help."
"A-absolutely not, Miles!" I protested. "I mean, write her if you need the help, but I have replacement joints. I just hadn't gotten around to installing them, is all…"
He looked at me sceptically, but nodded.
"Alright, I won't press. Did he say anything?"
"He thought we were police, at first," I explained. "Thought I was a remote… which stung."
"A remote?" Beckham asked.
"Uh, some cities have old Fusilier chassis rigged up for remote control by officers," I explained. It had been a plot point in one of Thea's books. "They usually have to be connected by wire, but I suppose wireless ones could exist. You know… in case somebody has a gun or something and might hurt others or themselves."
"Old chassis? Like, from somebody who upgraded?" he asked.
"Yes, usually a veteran returning to service after a long absence… I don't look that old, do I?" I asked, suddenly rather anxious about it.
"You don't look a day over your warranty, darling," Mile said, half-mockingly and half quite sincere. "Anything else?"
"Well, once he realized I wasn't, I think he thought I was somebody else entirely. He said somebody named Adam was making a mistake, sort of implied it was somebody working for us, whoever he thought us would be. Or you, I guess." A few sailors wandered over to help, and we took a moment to let them prop me up against the mast. Miles sat beside me, taking a drink from his hip flask.
"... oh, Adam. I'm sure that narrows it down, not as though they are the most common sort of machine there is or anything," he said. "Well, it was worth a try. I sent a machine to fetch the constables, I imagine we can just tell it to the Sheriff and they'll figure it out from there."
He patted me on the back warmly.
"Good work, Fusie. And a hell of a jump!"
I'll admit that raised my spirits considerably.
---
All and all, it was an interesting evening.
While we waited, a sailing engineer set my leg right for three pence, and swapped the other knee as well, and we sat around and waited for the police. I got a hold of the knife the escapee had brandished at me, and was still somewhat surprised to find that it had been thumbed to its most destructive setting. I still couldn't really believe he was willing to actually try and kill me with it, and neither could Beckham.
Not long after, a pair of carriages pulled up swarming with constables of all sorts in their dark blue coats, a strange assortment of machines who quickly spread out over the ship, taking holos and asking questions. An initiate statement was taken by a very fetching Clerk who seemed simultaneously impressed and horrified by our initiative, and then the Sheriff himself arrived.
Sheriff McKerras was an older man, bespectacled and with a trim grey moustache, at that age humans got where they could be forty or sixty or a hundred but modern medicine made it hard to tell for sure. He looked somewhat unprepared for the occurrence, which wasn't surprising. It wasn't as though the police got much to do in Antares City, which was as quiet a parish as any other.
He had a number of questions, answers all recorded by that eager Clerk, but they all seemed to be directed to Miles. I soon learned to simply say nothing unless addressed directly. Miles explained about the missing Fusiliers and his investigation, discreetly leaving out how he knew of the smuggler beyond that 'some officers' employed his services, and of the short chase. He even ended up being the one to tell him about this Adam we supposedly worked for.
Before long, the questions simply became a fairly casual conversation between the two men, and it was clear we weren't in any sort of trouble. The clerk stashed her pen and indicated to me to step away, and we retreated to let them talk about football a moment.
"Sorry, are we free to go?" I asked.
"Just a moment. If you would, machine to machine, is what he said accurate?" she asked. "We just want to make sure he's not endangering himself or others, you understand?"
"Yes, it is," I insisted. I knew she was just doing her job, but I wasn't about to incriminate my friend over some import taxes. I didn't much care for the implication that he must be up to something nefarious either: Miles might not exactly be a model of Christian morals, but he was honestly harmless.
"I assure you, we're not here to punish anyone. We just want to make sure he's safe," she said warmly. "Well, admittedly, we'd prefer if people didn't go running off on crusades like this, people can get hurt. Now, are you enlisted, or a private bodyguard?"
"I-I'm neither," I explained, trying not to sound too frustrated. "I'm Lieutenant Fusilier, I was accompanying my friend, not working on his orders."
The poor little Clerk didn't seem to know how to handle that. She just stared at me blankly for a few long moments before writing something in her notebook.
"My apologies. Lieutenant," she said haltingly. "Was… was this your idea?"
"It was his. I just didn't want him to go alone into a potentially dangerous situation. Good thing, too." I suspect the smuggler wouldn't have thrown a pool table at him if I hadn't been there to intercede, but I couldn't be sure in any case.
"O-of course," she replied nervously. She clearly had no idea what to do anymore, and I was very grateful when Miles called me over and we were free to leave.
I told Miriam nothing, and did not sleep easy.
---
The next two weeks passed with agonizing slowness. There was no news, no resolution, I just did my best to put it out of my mind. I could tell it was getting to Beckham too, in a way I'd never really seen him care about anything, but other than some idle speculation we did not bring it up again.
I was not expecting anything to change over the holidays either. Given our recent engagement and missing numbers, new deployments seemed unlikely, and most officers were taking advantage to take as much leave time as they could to see family. The most notable absence was most of our Ensigns: at inspection on the 19th, the last working week before Christmas, only Kelly remained. His family, he informed us, stayed in the city for Christmas.
"That's nothing, I'm the only officer left in the company," Turner said that night, as we surveyed the increasingly empty mess. "I'd call it a lot of responsibility, but we aren't up to much."
"You're not heading home, old boy?" Beckham asked, and Turner smiled in that distant, giddy way he was given to of late.
"Not a chance, Miles. We couldn't decide if we'd spend it with her family or mine, so we decided to just stay in ourselves."
"Um, sorry, isn't she Jewish?" Miles asked. "I'm not making them up, am I?"
"Hannukah falls on the 25th this year," I said, instantly recalling it off my internal calendar. "Did you know that only happens about three times a century?"
"Huh. I hadn't the foggiest," he admitted.
"She says not nearly such a big event as Christmas, but we agreed it would probably scare her parents if she came with me, and she wanted to be fair," Turner continued. "I'd not have minded, but I'd much rather spend the evening with her in any case."
"So, are you converting, then? I have no idea how this works," Miles asked, and Turner gave a noncommital gesture with his fork.
"Still figuring that out. It'd certainly make her parents like me a lot more," he said. "I doubt my parents would care, but my grandfather-"
"The Reverend Turner," Miles whispered to me. Oh dear.
"- might have a sternly worded letter or two for me," he concluded. "Almost envy you, Dora, I imagine this doesn't come up much with machines?"
"No, which makes my required presence at the Christmas party a bit odd," I said. "Now, the day after Christmas I might have cause to celebrate…"
"Why's that?" Miles asked.
"Uh, Babbage's birthday. The man who built my brain," you explained. "Well, no, there were a great many people involved, de Prony among them, but Babbage usually gets the credit."
"Oh, the ones from the play," Turner said, nodding. "Right, them."
"The play?" I asked.
"The Question of the Soul, by Shaw. Long and boring and old-fashioned, and every one loves it. It's on in Starhall again, which I know because my sister's written to me about it." Miles said.
"Oh?"
"The usual guilt-trip. That if I apologize to my father for the terrible slight on the family by jumping regiments, grovel and beg enough for him, she's got an extra ticket for me next Spring. Rather hang, sis, thank you," he concluded.
"Sorry, mate. Do you at least get to see your sister here and there?" Turner asked, and Miles nodded.
"Here and there, and Mother, but I imagine the next time my father and I meet one of us'll be in a bloody casket," Miles spat. "Though knowing him, he'll refuse to show up because I died in the wrong regiment."
I gestured to Turner to drop the subject. Miles was on edge for other reasons, he didn't need this brought back up. To his credit, the Lieutenant got it immediately.
"Well, Fusie, going back a moment to the party, it's… it's not as though it's Sunday service," he said. "I daresay it's unlikely anyone will bring up anything religious at all.."
"It's mostly an excuse to get drunk with friends near a great big fire hazard of a tree and make daring strategic manoeuvres around the mistletoe," Miles added. "There is, at best, an aesthetic."
"Fair enough," I agreed, not sure what I was going to do. There were parties among the enlisted on Christmas Day, though it had nothing to do with anything religious and much more to do with the fact we all had a day off together, and I'd gone to a few as a boxie. In the years since, I'd mostly spent them as I spent any day, an excuse to train and study, or a chance to volunteer for guard duty.
The chance to turn a new leaf and attend a party was honestly somewhat exciting, if still very intimidating. At least it was just with some other officers of the 7th. It'd be no different than the mess, I was sure of it.
---
The next morning, Sergeant Theda pulled me aside before inspection with a very serious expression, directing me to my office. She wouldn't speak until I had closed the door behind me.
"What's this about, Lieutenant?" I asked, and her eyes danced with frightful mirth.
"I have a plan, ma'am," she said. "The 9th company is up for warehouse guard rotation again, and I'd like your permission to take the watch shifts through the holiday."
"Uh, Sergeant, I'm not sure that's a good idea. We rotate duties like that for a reason, so everyone gets a chance-"
"You misunderstand, ma'am. I heard from a sergeant in 2nd company that a few of their guards was likewise approached about medical supplies, though their machines had better sense than our Theo. What I'm proposing is a sting. I'll go out in a private's coat and look boxie, and take them up on their little game. Then we show up with the constabulary," she explained, looking utterly delighted by every word. "Catch the lot of them red-handed."
"I… don't know if that's a good idea. Our guards have been warned, they'll give up eventually," I pointed out. Theda looked at me with something like disappointment.
"If I may, ma'am, they're a nuisance to our guards and they may be engaged in other schemes we aren't aware of. If there really is a problem they're helping solve, it's better brought to the light of the public eye than sulking in the shadows," she said. "Besides, you Englanders may tolerate a degree of crime on your streets, but my pride refuses to allow it to spill into our base."
I'll admit, she did have me curious. They weren't exactly doing much harm now, no, but I did want to hear them explain themselves and how they got caught up in such a scheme. It also had the benefit of being something to do, which I'd always favour over nothing, especially given our impotence in the other mystery hanging over the base.
Perhaps this need not even involve the constabulary.
"Your pride, sergeant?" I asked. "I will need to talk to the Captain. But perhaps."
"I'm not a constable…" I groaned, forcing myself to sit up. He chortled, leaning closer with the blade until I could feel the heat radiating from its dancing holographic edge. I wasn't worried; whatever this was, I couldn't imagine any machine reasoning it worthy of real violence.
"You ain't supposed to lie neither, ain't you?" he asked, jabbing the blade a little closer. Just one more step and I could grab his arm and do some other things I imagine constables weren't supposed to do. "Give my regards to Sheriff McKerras, yeah?"
He lunged forward point-first at my throat. I slapped the blade aside, the energy field sinking with a shriek into the metal inches from my head. I tried to punch him in the gut, but without much room or leverage, the effect was rather limited. Still, there was an awful tonk of steel on steel, and he stumbled back clutching his middle with a pained expression.
"Fuck!" The knife slipped from his fingers as he pressed against the wall, clearly hurting a lot more than he was expecting. "You're no remote, are you?"
"No! Fuck's sake, I'm not a constable!" I insisted, pulling myself upright and looking for the knife. It was still at his feet: fat chance I'd get to it before him, even hurting. There were shouts up the dock, the sound of footsteps, and the expression on the sailor's face changed to one of pure fear.
"Then you tell Adam that I'm out, you understand?" he said, staggering over to the side of the ship and leaning heavily against the rail. "He's making a mistake trusting you bastards! I'm done!"
"Fusie!" Miles called out, boots clattering against the gangplank. Wincing, the smuggler braced himself against the rail, then leapt out over it. There was a flash of blue light and a hiss of rushing coolant, but the stunner hit nothing but air.
"Fusie! Fusie you alright?" Miles said, holstering the smoking pistol and dropping to my side. He looked somewhat out of breath. Behind him were a dozen machines, all rushing to the rail, but it sounded like he was well and truly away. Not as though I could much go after him in this state.
"I'm fine, thank you," I said, letting myself sink back onto the floorboards. "Okay, perhaps not fine…"
"Same knee, huh?" he asked, and I nodded sadly. He took a deep breath, then continued. "I'll write my Auntie when I get back, we'll get some help."
"A-absolutely not, Miles!" I protested. "I mean, write her if you need the help, but I have replacement joints. I just hadn't gotten around to installing them, is all…"
He looked at me sceptically, but nodded.
"Alright, I won't press. Did he say anything?"
"He thought we were police, at first," I explained. "Thought I was a remote… which stung."
"A remote?" Beckham asked.
"Uh, some cities have old Fusilier chassis rigged up for remote control by officers," I explained. It had been a plot point in one of Thea's books. "They usually have to be connected by wire, but I suppose wireless ones could exist. You know… in case somebody has a gun or something and might hurt others or themselves."
"Old chassis? Like, from somebody who upgraded?" he asked.
"Yes, usually a veteran returning to service after a long absence… I don't look that old, do I?" I asked, suddenly rather anxious about it.
"You don't look a day over your warranty, darling," Mile said, half-mockingly and half quite sincere. "Anything else?"
"Well, once he realized I wasn't, I think he thought I was somebody else entirely. He said somebody named Adam was making a mistake, sort of implied it was somebody working for us, whoever he thought us would be. Or you, I guess." A few sailors wandered over to help, and we took a moment to let them prop me up against the mast. Miles sat beside me, taking a drink from his hip flask.
"... oh, Adam. I'm sure that narrows it down, not as though they are the most common sort of machine there is or anything," he said. "Well, it was worth a try. I sent a machine to fetch the constables, I imagine we can just tell it to the Sheriff and they'll figure it out from there."
He patted me on the back warmly.
"Good work, Fusie. And a hell of a jump!"
I'll admit that raised my spirits considerably.
---
All and all, it was an interesting evening.
While we waited, a sailing engineer set my leg right for three pence, and swapped the other knee as well, and we sat around and waited for the police. I got a hold of the knife the escapee had brandished at me, and was still somewhat surprised to find that it had been thumbed to its most destructive setting. I still couldn't really believe he was willing to actually try and kill me with it, and neither could Beckham.
Not long after, a pair of carriages pulled up swarming with constables of all sorts in their dark blue coats, a strange assortment of machines who quickly spread out over the ship, taking holos and asking questions. An initiate statement was taken by a very fetching Clerk who seemed simultaneously impressed and horrified by our initiative, and then the Sheriff himself arrived.
Sheriff McKerras was an older man, bespectacled and with a trim grey moustache, at that age humans got where they could be forty or sixty or a hundred but modern medicine made it hard to tell for sure. He looked somewhat unprepared for the occurrence, which wasn't surprising. It wasn't as though the police got much to do in Antares City, which was as quiet a parish as any other.
He had a number of questions, answers all recorded by that eager Clerk, but they all seemed to be directed to Miles. I soon learned to simply say nothing unless addressed directly. Miles explained about the missing Fusiliers and his investigation, discreetly leaving out how he knew of the smuggler beyond that 'some officers' employed his services, and of the short chase. He even ended up being the one to tell him about this Adam we supposedly worked for.
Before long, the questions simply became a fairly casual conversation between the two men, and it was clear we weren't in any sort of trouble. The clerk stashed her pen and indicated to me to step away, and we retreated to let them talk about football a moment.
"Sorry, are we free to go?" I asked.
"Just a moment. If you would, machine to machine, is what he said accurate?" she asked. "We just want to make sure he's not endangering himself or others, you understand?"
"Yes, it is," I insisted. I knew she was just doing her job, but I wasn't about to incriminate my friend over some import taxes. I didn't much care for the implication that he must be up to something nefarious either: Miles might not exactly be a model of Christian morals, but he was honestly harmless.
"I assure you, we're not here to punish anyone. We just want to make sure he's safe," she said warmly. "Well, admittedly, we'd prefer if people didn't go running off on crusades like this, people can get hurt. Now, are you enlisted, or a private bodyguard?"
"I-I'm neither," I explained, trying not to sound too frustrated. "I'm Lieutenant Fusilier, I was accompanying my friend, not working on his orders."
The poor little Clerk didn't seem to know how to handle that. She just stared at me blankly for a few long moments before writing something in her notebook.
"My apologies. Lieutenant," she said haltingly. "Was… was this your idea?"
"It was his. I just didn't want him to go alone into a potentially dangerous situation. Good thing, too." I suspect the smuggler wouldn't have thrown a pool table at him if I hadn't been there to intercede, but I couldn't be sure in any case.
"O-of course," she replied nervously. She clearly had no idea what to do anymore, and I was very grateful when Miles called me over and we were free to leave.
I told Miriam nothing, and did not sleep easy.
---
The next two weeks passed with agonizing slowness. There was no news, no resolution, I just did my best to put it out of my mind. I could tell it was getting to Beckham too, in a way I'd never really seen him care about anything, but other than some idle speculation we did not bring it up again.
I was not expecting anything to change over the holidays either. Given our recent engagement and missing numbers, new deployments seemed unlikely, and most officers were taking advantage to take as much leave time as they could to see family. The most notable absence was most of our Ensigns: at inspection on the 19th, the last working week before Christmas, only Kelly remained. His family, he informed us, stayed in the city for Christmas.
"That's nothing, I'm the only officer left in the company," Turner said that night, as we surveyed the increasingly empty mess. "I'd call it a lot of responsibility, but we aren't up to much."
"You're not heading home, old boy?" Beckham asked, and Turner smiled in that distant, giddy way he was given to of late.
"Not a chance, Miles. We couldn't decide if we'd spend it with her family or mine, so we decided to just stay in ourselves."
"Um, sorry, isn't she Jewish?" Miles asked. "I'm not making them up, am I?"
"Hannukah falls on the 25th this year," I said, instantly recalling it off my internal calendar. "Did you know that only happens about three times a century?"
"Huh. I hadn't the foggiest," he admitted.
"She says not nearly such a big event as Christmas, but we agreed it would probably scare her parents if she came with me, and she wanted to be fair," Turner continued. "I'd not have minded, but I'd much rather spend the evening with her in any case."
"So, are you converting, then? I have no idea how this works," Miles asked, and Turner gave a noncommital gesture with his fork.
"Still figuring that out. It'd certainly make her parents like me a lot more," he said. "I doubt my parents would care, but my grandfather-"
"The Reverend Turner," Miles whispered to me. Oh dear.
"- might have a sternly worded letter or two for me," he concluded. "Almost envy you, Dora, I imagine this doesn't come up much with machines?"
"No, which makes my required presence at the Christmas party a bit odd," I said. "Now, the day after Christmas I might have cause to celebrate…"
"Why's that?" Miles asked.
"Uh, Babbage's birthday. The man who built my brain," you explained. "Well, no, there were a great many people involved, de Prony among them, but Babbage usually gets the credit."
"Oh, the ones from the play," Turner said, nodding. "Right, them."
"The play?" I asked.
"The Question of the Soul, by Shaw. Long and boring and old-fashioned, and every one loves it. It's on in Starhall again, which I know because my sister's written to me about it." Miles said.
"Oh?"
"The usual guilt-trip. That if I apologize to my father for the terrible slight on the family by jumping regiments, grovel and beg enough for him, she's got an extra ticket for me next Spring. Rather hang, sis, thank you," he concluded.
"Sorry, mate. Do you at least get to see your sister here and there?" Turner asked, and Miles nodded.
"Here and there, and Mother, but I imagine the next time my father and I meet one of us'll be in a bloody casket," Miles spat. "Though knowing him, he'll refuse to show up because I died in the wrong regiment."
I gestured to Turner to drop the subject. Miles was on edge for other reasons, he didn't need this brought back up. To his credit, the Lieutenant got it immediately.
"Well, Fusie, going back a moment to the party, it's… it's not as though it's Sunday service," he said. "I daresay it's unlikely anyone will bring up anything religious at all.."
"It's mostly an excuse to get drunk with friends near a great big fire hazard of a tree and make daring strategic manoeuvres around the mistletoe," Miles added. "There is, at best, an aesthetic."
"Fair enough," I agreed, not sure what I was going to do. There were parties among the enlisted on Christmas Day, though it had nothing to do with anything religious and much more to do with the fact we all had a day off together, and I'd gone to a few as a boxie. In the years since, I'd mostly spent them as I spent any day, an excuse to train and study, or a chance to volunteer for guard duty.
The chance to turn a new leaf and attend a party was honestly somewhat exciting, if still very intimidating. At least it was just with some other officers of the 7th. It'd be no different than the mess, I was sure of it.
---
The next morning, Sergeant Theda pulled me aside before inspection with a very serious expression, directing me to my office. She wouldn't speak until I had closed the door behind me.
"What's this about, Lieutenant?" I asked, and her eyes danced with frightful mirth.
"I have a plan, ma'am," she said. "The 9th company is up for warehouse guard rotation again, and I'd like your permission to take the watch shifts through the holiday."
"Uh, Sergeant, I'm not sure that's a good idea. We rotate duties like that for a reason, so everyone gets a chance-"
"You misunderstand, ma'am. I heard from a sergeant in 2nd company that a few of their guards was likewise approached about medical supplies, though their machines had better sense than our Theo. What I'm proposing is a sting. I'll go out in a private's coat and look boxie, and take them up on their little game. Then we show up with the constabulary," she explained, looking utterly delighted by every word. "Catch the lot of them red-handed."
"I… don't know if that's a good idea. Our guards have been warned, they'll give up eventually," I pointed out. Theda looked at me with something like disappointment.
"If I may, ma'am, they're a nuisance to our guards and they may be engaged in other schemes we aren't aware of. If there really is a problem they're helping solve, it's better brought to the light of the public eye than sulking in the shadows," she said. "Besides, you Englanders may tolerate a degree of crime on your streets, but my pride refuses to allow it to spill into our base."
I'll admit, she did have me curious. They weren't exactly doing much harm now, no, but I did want to hear them explain themselves and how they got caught up in such a scheme. It also had the benefit of being something to do, which I'd always favour over nothing, especially given our impotence in the other mystery hanging over the base.
Perhaps this need not even involve the constabulary.
"Your pride, sergeant?" I asked. "I will need to talk to the Captain. But perhaps."
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Well, I think this is the first time being unable to sleep was a good thing! This chapter was absolutely fantastic, and I love the mystery going on with all this possible sedition, or Machine Uprising, or whatever the Hell this is!
Also there's Machine Holidays and I find that both fascinating and adorable! Also Happy Late New Years!
Also there's Machine Holidays and I find that both fascinating and adorable! Also Happy Late New Years!
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Awesome chapter, as usual!
...okay, so, this one of those times where being besties with the author is fucking with my brain: Have we seen police/constabulary before and has the way they're different from, say, 21st century American Cops been described in the book yet or is that for later?
...okay, so, this one of those times where being besties with the author is fucking with my brain: Have we seen police/constabulary before and has the way they're different from, say, 21st century American Cops been described in the book yet or is that for later?
Had to reread the last chapter a bit to remember what was going on since it's been over a month, but great. Heh, the fact that the criminal was only trying to murder Fusie because he was under the mistaken impression that she was just a remote controlled drone rather than an actual living machine really says a lot about the mentality of machines. But yeah, there is definitely something bigger going on with all this mysterious criminal activity.
What I assume is a typo here, though:
What I assume is a typo here, though:
- Pronouns
- She/Her
It's been explained but I can't remember if it happened in the story or an exposition post.
- Location
- Mid-Atlantic
Well, it's pretty obvious from what we see just from their behavior.
robocop
- Location
- Ottawa
- Pronouns
- She/Her/Whatever
It happened in All my Maids are Robots, but uh basically, there are no Police Machines, there's not Bobby Cop The Police Robot Line.
So like, even in the best society you're going to have people who are just kind of assholes, or people who hurt themselves or others because they don't have a solid grasp of reality, or sometihng like that. It's super rare in the Galactic Concert, but it does happen. In the most widespread arrangement of humans, isolated private estates, if something awful happens then the machines vote among themselves what to do about it, and might elect one of their number they trust to manage things while they call for help. In the cities, there's a sheriff and a number of machines who work as full-time officers, but the number is very small (Arcturus City has a population of about two million machines and has 15,000 or so humans who live part or full time here, and it has... maaaaaaaaybe 400 officers) and in 90% of cases their function is more as tour guide than police officer. They had a murder 25 years ago and people still talk about it in shocked terms.
The Galactic Concert has no prisons and is long past any kind of punitive justice: there's degrees of house arrest in certain cases, but its oriented around safety, not punishment. So like... there are robots wearing police uniforms, sure, but their job description is pretty far removed from our modern professional service of highly paid, legally immune housepet extermination & marginalized citizen harassment service derived from colonial garrisons. You know, in much the same way that Fusie's redcoated machines are from their historical predecessors, with the Galactic Concert functioning as an impossibly idealized version of liberal politics because its working class are equally impossible Protestant Work Ethic being the cutest paperclip maximizers (where paperclips is here 'humans living an idealized and agreeable life as early 19th century aristocrats')
On the flip side... a big part of this book is the fact that the machines do not really ever bother looking into one another's affairs. Like sometimes a machine glitches out or ends up in a really dire position, but you do not have to do law enforcement at machines, 99% of the time any who did even by accident would turn themselves in almost immediately and any who didn't is probably sick enough they won't be able to effectively avoid their coworkers or cover the lie. So with that assumed, and knowing that they all share similar ethical programming, most machines just figure that whatever they saw, everything ought to be on the level, right?
Ought.
So like, even in the best society you're going to have people who are just kind of assholes, or people who hurt themselves or others because they don't have a solid grasp of reality, or sometihng like that. It's super rare in the Galactic Concert, but it does happen. In the most widespread arrangement of humans, isolated private estates, if something awful happens then the machines vote among themselves what to do about it, and might elect one of their number they trust to manage things while they call for help. In the cities, there's a sheriff and a number of machines who work as full-time officers, but the number is very small (Arcturus City has a population of about two million machines and has 15,000 or so humans who live part or full time here, and it has... maaaaaaaaybe 400 officers) and in 90% of cases their function is more as tour guide than police officer. They had a murder 25 years ago and people still talk about it in shocked terms.
The Galactic Concert has no prisons and is long past any kind of punitive justice: there's degrees of house arrest in certain cases, but its oriented around safety, not punishment. So like... there are robots wearing police uniforms, sure, but their job description is pretty far removed from our modern professional service of highly paid, legally immune housepet extermination & marginalized citizen harassment service derived from colonial garrisons. You know, in much the same way that Fusie's redcoated machines are from their historical predecessors, with the Galactic Concert functioning as an impossibly idealized version of liberal politics because its working class are equally impossible Protestant Work Ethic being the cutest paperclip maximizers (where paperclips is here 'humans living an idealized and agreeable life as early 19th century aristocrats')
On the flip side... a big part of this book is the fact that the machines do not really ever bother looking into one another's affairs. Like sometimes a machine glitches out or ends up in a really dire position, but you do not have to do law enforcement at machines, 99% of the time any who did even by accident would turn themselves in almost immediately and any who didn't is probably sick enough they won't be able to effectively avoid their coworkers or cover the lie. So with that assumed, and knowing that they all share similar ethical programming, most machines just figure that whatever they saw, everything ought to be on the level, right?
Ought.
Vebyast
Nascent Transhuman
So the police here are more like, mmm, paramedic social services? It's a good way to run it. They're on call in case someone goes off their meds and needs to be zapped with a stunner and dragged off to talk to their psychiatrist, but since even that doesn't happen very much they're mostly bored.
- Location
- Ottawa
- Pronouns
- She/Her/Whatever
I have had life experiences which have made it clear that sometimes people need help they don't want to get for their safety and others, but the fact that help had to come from people with pistols whose day job is harassing minorities and enforcing inequality has given me nightmares that persist to this day.
Nightmares, and rightly so. Until fairly recently I lived in a city where, you'd often hear stories like "My mentally ill brother wandered off, so I called the police to find him and bring him back home, and they shot him!". The guy was white by the way, so even being part of the racial majority isn't enough to protect you from cops, it just makes them a bit less likely to harass and/or murder you. I now instead live in a town known for being full of people who grow, deal, or use various kinds of drugs, and feel far safer than I did in the city full of cops.
It probably also helps that the police have stun guns (and the good sci-fi kind, not the ones where people sometimes die from heart attacks after shooting them), which means that if they screw up and shoot someone they shouldn't, it's not an irreversible mistake. And with a remote body, the police officer isn't at risk when something goes wrong, which removes their reason to shoot at everything that might be a threat in the first place.
(And also, Fusiliers are really tough, so if the suspect is carrying anything less than an energy weapon Dora can just sort of ignore it.)
(And also, Fusiliers are really tough, so if the suspect is carrying anything less than an energy weapon Dora can just sort of ignore it.)
JennyDracos
Eccentric Hugging Lady
- Location
- Chicago
Gosh! A Murder/Death/Kill!?
NotInventedHere
MSV, Desert Class
- Location
- UK
- Pronouns
- He/Him
..... Because of course... there couldn't be anyone else out there, with access to the same basic robot bodies, but a completely different scheme of programming architecture, who might... program up some infiltrators.
Well, shit.
Firstly: I'm VERY happy to hear that Bobbies still work like they did in Lucy's story, because I also couldn't remember if they were ever touched upon in Maid to Love You, and was a little confused. Also yay! Part of All my Maids are Robots is officially canon!
Secondly: God, now I really want to see what the day-to-day life of someone under house arrest is like in the Concert. It sounds amazing, to be able to get help without feeling trapped, or looked at negatively. Are there any specialized machines for that kind of job? Do they require special modifications or training to deal with certain situations?
I must know more!
Secondly: God, now I really want to see what the day-to-day life of someone under house arrest is like in the Concert. It sounds amazing, to be able to get help without feeling trapped, or looked at negatively. Are there any specialized machines for that kind of job? Do they require special modifications or training to deal with certain situations?
I must know more!
- Location
- Mid-Atlantic
I mean, it'd be pretty impressive if they could keep you from feeling trapped while under house arrest, because you are trapped. In the house.
The people who trapped you may be nice about it and want the best for you in the long run, but you're still trapped. In the house.
Well yeah, but it's better than an asylum or psych ward. At least under house arrest you still feel like a person.
Yeah, I'd figure that robot "police" would amount to "public safety officials" like what they have down here. They do things like direct traffic around accidents, document stuff, do welfare checks, etc...
Stuff for a robot officer:
Tour guide, as you said.
First(but far from only) responders in accidents, emergencies, and such. Mostly concerned less with fixing damage and more keeping others from being hurt by it until the proper warning signs and barriers can be erected. Will of course save humans(then robots) if at all possible. But dedicated medical, fire fighting, and such robots will handle most of it.
Not medical, but if they manage to get there faster than the dedicated medics, can provide basic aid.
Probable organizers of searches if a human(or robot) goes missing.
Mobile bullet blocker if heinous stuff going down.
Generalized problem detector via regular patrols
Documentors of any crimes that do happen, as rare as that might be.
Searchers for lost pets
Providing of local traffic control during things like parades, visiting VIPs, etc...
Low level conflict/problem resolver, assuming the other robots can't just handle it quickly themselves.
Almost like a city's dogsbody for all the intermittent tasks that nonetheless add up to full time work.
They wear snazzy uniforms because why the hell wouldn't they in this setting?
Less "house" and more Estate.
For such humans, remember that it generally wouldn't be a 3 bedroom 2 bath type of place, but more like Windsor Castle, and without a robot driver to take you somewhere, you can walk until you're darn well ready to take the robot offering you a lift back, because you're tired, dirty(lightly dusty and mildly sweaty), and just realized that it is still a 3 day walk to the next human.
Meanwhile they have a household of an estimated minimum of maid/manservant, butler(house manager), chef, driver, doctor(robot type, of course), actual cleaning maid, maintainer, and dogsbody.
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- Location
- Mid-Atlantic
That works for humans with country estates. On a station-city, the terms of house arrest might require some actual use of force* to prevent a person from leaving the house and harassing another human. At least until such time as you can get them to a nice restful home in the countryside.
________________________
*(if only in the sense of "a couple of robots wearing heavy padded clothing like the Michelin Man so they don't hurt you abruptly glomp onto you and won't let go")
________________________
*(if only in the sense of "a couple of robots wearing heavy padded clothing like the Michelin Man so they don't hurt you abruptly glomp onto you and won't let go")
And how long would that take? I'm guessing "not long at all" as long as the robots get it into their heads that the human needs to be out in the country ASAP, and that includes if they need to build it from scratch.
Meanwhile, yeah, some equivalent to a SLAPP drone, IE an unfailingly polite robot that goes "I can't let you do that, Dave"
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