I love how oblivious Dora looks in that picture. XD
Lieutenant Fusilier takes The King's Shilling
- Thread starter open_sketch
- Start date
- Original Novel Sci-Fi
So very very good.
Espernyan
spon
- Location
- lesbian? i thought you was american, spon!
- Pronouns
- She/Her
oh, hell, I'm caught up
that's not supposed to happen
um, great work overall? I absolutely love this, if my having binged it all the past couple days wasn't evidence enough of that, and I'm pretty sure some of Dora's Funny Little Malfunctions are personal attacks (on me, personally!)
kind of a lot of them tbh
honestly she seems almost completely normal to me? which doesn't make me feel less like a robot,
but also, like. it's very... validating? i feel seen, i think, but also like i'm getting my ass kicked at battleship? except it's because my mentality is somehow more or less understood? Which is definitely cheating.
all of which is to say, great job, keep up the good work, i think i'm lowkey heartbroken over bea, how dare-
i'm not sure if this got my creative juices flowing so much, oddly? usually I just know that's happened, but it's possible it's been subtle, and also god knows i could do with enjoying something without it needing to be- well, anything else, really? probably it's simply too different from the current project (but not so different as to approach it from the other direction, either) to do much direct inspiring. whatever the case, it's certainly been a boon to my morale!
it's enrichment!
that's not supposed to happen
um, great work overall? I absolutely love this, if my having binged it all the past couple days wasn't evidence enough of that, and I'm pretty sure some of Dora's Funny Little Malfunctions are personal attacks (on me, personally!)
kind of a lot of them tbh
honestly she seems almost completely normal to me? which doesn't make me feel less like a robot,
but also, like. it's very... validating? i feel seen, i think, but also like i'm getting my ass kicked at battleship? except it's because my mentality is somehow more or less understood? Which is definitely cheating.
all of which is to say, great job, keep up the good work, i think i'm lowkey heartbroken over bea, how dare-
i'm not sure if this got my creative juices flowing so much, oddly? usually I just know that's happened, but it's possible it's been subtle, and also god knows i could do with enjoying something without it needing to be- well, anything else, really? probably it's simply too different from the current project (but not so different as to approach it from the other direction, either) to do much direct inspiring. whatever the case, it's certainly been a boon to my morale!
it's enrichment!
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Chapter 12: Two Parties, No Waiting
- Location
- Ottawa
- Pronouns
- She/Her/Whatever
We were late leaving for the Christmas Party; Miriam had fussed endlessly with the polish on my face and I hadn't the heart to stop her, even as Miles and Théa waited in the guest room. We made our way down to the carriage park, where Théa (the only one of us with any real money) had graciously hired a cab for us. The chain-tracks ground over the dark, icy roads from the base, heading into town.
With nothing else to do, I found myself studying the machine sitting opposite me. Her bright blue eyes and the ever-so-subtle pink glow of her cheeks were like beacons in the dark interior of the vehicle. She was staring out the window at the approaching city, the lamplight diffusing softly through the mirrored glass of her face. I was transfixed.
Fusiliers were not typically interested in other Fusiliers, but she was hardly typical. I've heard it's similar among most machines, the members of any given type are too alike, but she was nothing like me. She was beautiful and feminine, able to look delicate while being anything but, she seemed to have everything under control and was even adapted to these strange circumstances faster than I ever could. I wanted her, and I wanted what she had, and the two blended into a complex knot of feelings I couldn't help but run in an endless loop.
Miles nudged me and leaned close, saying something about the party I failed to process. Théa glanced up, her eyes darting to us, and her blush brightened a moment before she looked very pointedly out the window again. Embarrassed at having been caught staring, I did the same.
She was blushing. Did she feel similarly? She was so forward, so much less reserved, and I couldn't tell if she was interested in me or merely… continental. Either way, I shouldn't sit and pine; she was a machine like me, one of the only machines like me, sharing this strange station.
I resolved I should ask her tonight, at the party, if she were interested. It didn't have to be complicated, we were machines, things could be simple. It wouldn't be like Lieutenant Kennedy. I'd ask her, and perhaps she'd say yes, and if she didn't I would still have an answer.
Though I was under little illusions of my chances. She was a goddess of glass and silver, whereas I still looked like Hephaestus had grown bored and left me half-finished (I had decided to invest some reading times in the classics after Mile's ship metaphor). Perhaps I should think of something else, someone else.
The city was now quite nearly empty of humans, though, the vast majority gone back to the estates of their family or close friends for the holidays, leaving only the foremost families of the city, a handful of unlanded eccentrics, and those Army officers without particular pressing need to travel home. I spotted just one human not associated with the Colours on the carriage ride to the party, a young woman scurrying through the snow with her maid, both carrying a pair of heavy leather cases. Surely she'd have some strong machine to carry them, a footman or something? Seeing her delicate Maria struggling with the heavy packages in the snow was damn near a crime in itself, nevermind burdening a human with it.
My instinct to rescue them from the predicament was somewhat arrested by the speed of the sled carriage, however, so I merely had to settle for a fantasy of it. Oh, they'd be so grateful, and it'd be so much more useful than galavanting around at a party celebrating a God I felt little obligation to, who'd go on to save the soul I didn't have. Surely doing good works (and a good hour's work) was more in line with the spirit of the holiday?
Perhaps they'd invite me in from the cold afterward, that'd be nice of them, in their warm house with a warm fireplace for their thermally conductive saviour. And it'd be far too late to trudge back through the snow, surely they'd offer me a place to stay for the night, it'd feel awfully good to refuse that, being as it's no trouble.
Though if they insisted, and their Maria was as pretty as I imagined she might be, well perhaps-
"Dora? Say, Dora?"
"Wha? Sorry, I was miles away," I responded, feeling almost dazed. My thoughts truly were getting away from me; whichever portion of my system that governed sapphic affections was clearly overclocked.
"Oh?" Miles shook to attention opposite of me, looking about as distracted as I felt. "What was that, Fusie?"
"Sorry, not you. What is it, Théa?"
"We're here," she said, pointing out the window of the carriage. The same window I'd been staring out of, quite sightlessly apparently.
The Official Christmas Party of the 7th Regiment of Foot was being held, not in the officer's mess as I might suspect, but in a building in the city which was rented for the purpose. It was a large hall I imagine must normally serve as a social space during the summer. It was a strangely nondescript-looking place from the outside, built to appear as just another rowhouse. Perhaps it had been, before being repurposed.
We exited the climate-controlled carriage and braved the brief dash across the frozen sidewalk, trudged up the snowy steps, and were relieved to find ourselves in a very warm and cosy space. I had been expecting something like a ballroom, not what seemed like somebody's well-decorated, if expansive, living room. A dining area was set aside at the far end, but dominating the centre of the room was an enormous, sprawling evergreen tree which, having no space to continue upward, had instead spilled out in all directions like somebody had overturned a bucket of needles and tinsel.
Still, it made sense. There truly weren't that many of us; most of the older officers with families had gone home for the holidays, as had most of the ensigns, who were quite often very homesick by the time Christmas rolled around. Gazing around the room revealed mostly lieutenants and captains, young people mostly relieved to have this time to themselves. It was either because they were newlyweds quite content to take this time for themselves, or they were unmarried officers dreading returning home to questions from their family about that state.
I soon spotted our missing friend Henry and a woman who must be his fiancée. They occupied, I suppose, the exact middle ground of the aforementioned binary. Miss Kara Grynberg, who was a striking, full-figured woman with beautiful curls of dark hair, looked quite thoroughly in over her head, clinging tightly to her husband-to-be's arm. As she had a good few inches on him, he was walking somewhat unevenly, nearly hoisted off one leg. On catching sight of us, a smile equal parts elation and desperation spread across her features.
"Lieutenant Beckham?" she asked, her face brightening. "It is very good to finally meet! And you are…" she looked to me, and then to Théa, her smile remaining but her eyes brimming with panic. "Um..!"
"Lieutenant Fusilier," I said brightly, in perfect synchronicity with Théa.
"Aaah, yes…" she chuckled, then turned sharply and hissed. "Henry dear, help?"
"The one on the right is ours," he muttered, blushing considerably.
"Lieutenant Fusilier!" she declared. "I have read about you, you made papers in Poland! A cele-britty." She pronounced celebrity like it was the first time she'd said it after only reading it, which it almost certainly was.
"O-oh. Wonderful," I stammered, trying not to think about it. "And, yes this is the, um, other Lieutenant Fusilier, exchange officer from the French Republic. Dora and Théa, if you must differentiate us."
"Right, yes, this makes sense. Though… not Fusie?" she asked conspiratorially.
"Ah, well, I suppose," I conceded. I'd never escape it, would I? She looked pleased as punch about it, though, so I suppose it'd do.
"And.. I have heard much about you, Mister Beckham, Henry talks of you! I must thank you!" Kara continued.
"Oh? Only the worst things, I hope?" Miles said.
"Absolutely not," Henry managed, looking scandalised, while his wife-to-be just laughed.
"Well, I have heard some stories! But he says you and Lieutenant Fusie are the very best friends he could ask for, you know!" she said brightly. "You especially, Mister Beckham, he says you get him onto and out from all the best kind of trouble…"
"Aaah, well, that is perhaps-" Miles stuttered, the earnest compliments weaving deftly past the projection of false ego.
"Perhaps you could tell me some stories? Henry gets so quiet about it…" she continued, clearly overjoyed at an opportunity to simultaneously mortify her future husband and put Miles off-balance with compliments. I was getting the impression that Miss Grynberg was a person who read others perhaps just a bit too easily, and relished in how she could seize conversations with it. Not in a malicious way, but with a sort of impish joy, perhaps.
"Well, I, uh- Say, how are you enjoying our party?" Miles said, then realised he was perhaps that would come off poorly and desperately pivoted again. "Um, I mean, Henry, have you seen Myx. Lawton? I thought they'd say they'd be here, but I've seen neither hide nor hair for the last two days-"
"They took a short leave to meet family at the port, they're just over… Excuse me, you'll be alright a moment, dear?"
"Of course," Miss Grynberg said brightly, but when Miles and Henry disappeared around the edge of the tree on their skirmisher-finding mission she just about collapsed against the wall. I was quite surprised; it was like all the animating energy that had propelled her like a wrecking ball through the conversations had gone out of her at once.
"Are you alright?" Théa asked, beating me to the punch yet again.
"Everyone is so very, very, very… very…" she paused, milling a hand as she tried to summon a missing word. It seemed beyond her. "Polish or Yiddish?"
"I'm equally terrible at both," I informed her.
"Well, I shall stick with my best then. This party has been exhausting, in a way I absolutely expected and simultaneously completely underestimated," she replied, in Yiddish so rapid my translation software could nearly not keep up. "I was expecting it to be a little awkward, but everyone around here is acting as though if they're too Christian in my presence then I'll spontaneously combust on the spot."
"Ah, well, I'm-" I began, but clearly she'd been sitting on this and could not be stopped now.
"Do they think we don't have Christians back home? We're lousy with the buggers, if I were that delicate I'd not have survived my first December. I feel as though I'm in the eye of a hurricane of embarrassment and I don't much care for it!"
"My apologies," I began, but she was very much not having it.
"Don't you start too!" she groaned. "Sorry, no, I shouldn't be venting to the first machine I see, that's an awful habit."
"It's quite understandable, though," Théa said. Miss Grynberg just frowned at that. I found myself strangely appreciative of her very animated face; it was much easier to read than most humans.
"If it helps, I'm expecting a considerable degree of awkwardness myself. I'm not particularly given to religion of any sort, and I've never given Christmas much mind," I said. I nearly claimed this was because I was a machine, but then I remembered I was standing not three feet from a mechanical Catholic. "I'm not entirely sure I even understand the premise, how exactly God has a son, who is also God?"
"Consubstantiality? If you have a moment, I could explain to you," Théa offered.
"I think I'm good, thanks," I countered. I knew more than I let on, and in any case I'd not learn it from some programmed papist, I had my pride. "In any case, it seems to be like most holidays, a chance to dress up and get drunk."
"... Stars, I could use another drink, now that you mention it," Miss Grynberg muttered. I was about to offer to chase one down for her, but Théa was, unsurprisingly, faster on the draw, and likewise vanished around the Christmas tree in nearly a blur. The helpful, beautiful bitch.
"The worst part is, I came for Henry, not that I'd tell him," she continued, leaning ever so subtly against the wall, her resolution to stop venting having only carried her this far. "He's terribly anxious at these sorts of affairs, you understand, but he's also terrified of turning them down. I thought perhaps I could come and be a bit of a lightning rod for the worst of it. I fear I've only complicated matters. You'll not tell him, of course?"
"Of course not," I assured her. She paused, clearly thinking about how to change the subject.
"Not religious, you say? A sort of atheist, then?"
"Oh, not quite. I think there's probably God of some sort, but I can't imagine He's got time for the likes of me. I suppose you could say I'm agnostic, after a fashion. Most British machines are, I think," I informed her. "Don't have much truck with it, not my saviour and all. It was a bit of a shock to hear the French weren't the same way."
"Ah, well, you know," she said. "The English appear to think of religion as a very personal and compartmentalised thing, moreso than most Christians even, I think. If I can absolutely butcher a metaphor, you seem to think that if culture is an outfit, religion is… a hat."
"I'm not sure I follow, but then again I am very much bareheaded in this metaphor," I offered.
"Oh, so you say. But this is all, well, not normal to you, sure, but not strange either, right?"
"It's familiar enough," I confessed. Sure, it was distant and unclear to me, but none of it was new. It was just how humans were, in my mind, a view I was increasingly realising was very narrow and prescriptive.
"You see, religion isn't a hat, it's the cloth, if you understand. Take off the hat all you want, it's still woven in there. So it's very strange when they try to doff the cap to me around here to be polite, like I can't see what it'd made of. Am I making any sense? I think the drink is already getting to me…"
"... are, um…" I tried to think of a way to phrase this delicately, but I realised that was quite possibly the last thing she wanted right now. "Are there Jewish machines, then?"
"Course there are," she said, with a smug sort of smile. "We beat you Christians to it, after all."
I didn't have time to fully parse that, or ask for clarification, before Théa returned with a glass of something bubbly that Miss Grynberg snatched up instantly.
"Oooh, thank you. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a future husband to find among the guests…" she said, looking around the crowded room. "And I should track down Henry too!"
The effort to keep from breaking out into loud laughter took every bit of iron discipline I had. Miss Grynberg disappeared into the crowd, and Théa and I shared a confused glance.
"What a very strange woman," Théa concluded. "Very enthusiastic."
"She's going to run quite roughshod over poor Lieutenant Turner, I think," I observed, and Théa nodded knowingly.
"Perhaps he likes that sort of thing."
Finally, now, the laughter caught us, and we shared a private moment at the corner of the room.
---
Sure enough, the official party after that turned out to be something of a drag, as you'd expect an official function. There was a quiet dinner at a long table where Théa and I eventually managed to distract ourselves by attempting to guess what, exactly, the various foods around us were, with Miles as judge; we both scored very poorly. The Lieutenant Colonel gave a little speech about the year and the importance of the season, with the occasional nervous glance toward a Miss Grynberg who was clearly too far into her drink to notice.
As dinner concluded, Miles clapped my shoulder and indicated toward the door. Already, there were a number of young officers there pulling on their coats, disappearing out into the cold gloom. We collapsed into the back of the cab with a sigh of relief, Miles giving the driver instructions and seeming to melt into his seat.
"How are we doing, girls?" he asked, his voice muffled slightly by his upturned coat collar.
"I am quite alright," Théa said politely, then she looked at me and realised this was not a moment for polite dishonesty. "No, I am bored out of my casing and very much ready to be done with being sober."
"Absolutely, yes," I agreed enthusiastically. "Miles, you said there would be music, right?"
"Bryant collects music cylinders, as a hobby," Miles assured us. "He has a selection, and you're free to browse. You have control over music for the event, I have his word on it."
Oh, that sounded heavenly. It would be perfect; I could get direly polluted to work up the courage, and perhaps Théa would herself be too far gone to realise what an utter mess I am. As my sorts of plans went, it was strategic brilliance, and I spent the rest of the trip refining the details down. I'd never, personally, taken this sort of initiative before; it had to be perfect.
The carriage arrived, and I could tell before I even reached the door that this was a very different sort of party. There was the music audible even here, and from the closeness of some shapes in the windows I surmised the event was very much unchaperoned. My step slowed as the magnitude of my out-of-placeness hit, but then I felt a steadying hand on my back. Miles, pushing Théa and I along.
The door swung open, a red-faced Lieutenant Foster grinning behind it and beckoning us in, practically tripping over himself to welcome us in and take our coats. A job that would normally be handled by his valet, I thought, but clearly the machine had been given the night off. There were, I noticed, still machines about, cute little Abbys moving along the walls with drinks and such, but I had a feeling they were not the usual house staff.
There were perhaps a dozen young people present in the sitting room, a mixture of red uniforms and civilians of similar age. Some I had seen at the official party, but others had clearly been here a while and must have skipped it. All of them had drinks in hand, and the room was filled with a cloying mix of smoke from pipes and cigarettes.
There was indeed an automatic orchestra mounted against the far wall, with a shelf of music cylinders, but the speakers were currently belting out the backing instrumentals to a song that a pretty civilian girl was playing out on an upright piano tucked into the corner. This appeared to be primarily for the amusement of the fresh-faced ensign leaning close with a dopey smile on his face. It was quick and lively, and I got the feeling it was the start of a song familiar to everyone in the room.
"I suppose the cylinders shall have to wait?" Théa observed glumly. I spotted an opening as a couple left one of the cushioned loveseats along the wall. It'd be a tight fit, but could that be a bad thing?
"Music's music, Lieutenant," I declared, half-pulling her along to the seat. "Let's enjoy the show. Miles?" I turned, but he was already gone, off talking to somebody presumably. Probably one of the Abbys, I bet! I could hardly believe the man. Ah well!
We sat, the chair creaking slightly under our combined armour, just in time for an expected treat as the woman began singing. Singing! A few others joined in, mostly drowned by the laughter and cheers all around, and I caught few of the lyrics through the commotion, but I gathered the song was about a woman waylaid by an handsome alien pirate. It was surprisingly suggestive, which I suppose accounted for the tone in the room. I laughed myself, swept up by the absurdity and embarrassment and the already settling blissingful tide of notes.
Théa was blushing. I found myself staring, even as the song came to an end to the applause and cheers of everyone around the room. The girl at the keys beamed as people began calling out other suggestions. Most were lost in the din, but I heard a few clearly, "The Lost Prince", "Bawdy Jack" and "The Astronautess."
"The Astronautess?" the girl exclaimed, sounding utterly scandalised. "Who suggested that! Good sir!"
"So you know it then!" Miles called back from the edge of the room.
"I shant say!" she returned, before snatching the fluted glass perched precariously atop the piano and throwing it back. She tapped a control on the note screen and the backing music changed to something faster, with strings and harp, and she started playing.
"Well they say the stars are no place for a girl, to leave those things to the boys!" she sang, affecting what I could only think of as the cadence of a machine textile worker. "But I to meself I'd give it a whirl, so I'd hatched meself a ploy. I can't tell you nothing about rockets, but there's one thing I know; if there's nothing but men up there in the void, I'd have 'em all to meself!-"
The song, it appeared, was not about space travel at all. The rockets were metaphorical. Théa's mortified laughter was nearly as intoxicating as the singing, as she leaned against me and shook her head in disbelief.
"You English do know how to have fun!" she cried. "I'm so glad for you."
Now, Fusie, come on. Imply something. Make a move.
"W-well, I-" I started, and all confidence fled. "Yes, I suppose they do. We do. Fun." She shoved playfully at my arm, and before I had a chance to recover, Miles appeared on the other side of the couch, replacing whoever had been there before. He had a drink in either hand.
"Sorry about the cylinders-" he began, and we both waved him off desperately. "Right then. Enjoying yourselves, I see?"
"Do you know, heh, Fille de la Ville?" Théa called to the pianist, interrupting herself with her own nervous titters.
"Can't say I do, Miss… oh!" the girl said, clearly only just noticing the two of us. "I wasn't aware we had… is this the machine Lieutenant? One of you?" I raised a hand. "Andrew's mentioned you!"
"Only good things, Ensign?" Miles said mock-sternly, quick to my defence. The red-faced ensign nodded perhaps a bit too quickly; I imagined he'd be swaying on the spot if he weren't propped up against the piano. Miles gestured to the two of us and clearly decided the entire room needed to know. "Yes, the Lieutenants Fusilier, original and French!"
"I should think I'm the original, I've been-" Théa began, but she was cut off by the toast around the room as everyone rejoiced in the redundant excuse to drink more. The girl began playing again, unprompted, and I leaned back in the chair and just let the music wash over me. I'd blown it, but the night was still young. Or at least, it didn't feel that late.
I suppose I needed the excuse to properly relax in any case. Miles and Théa talked beside me, the conversation muffled and seeming distant as I drifted away on the pretty voice belting borderline-obscene lyrics. The girl stopped playing eventually, and Théa shot up to the cylinder collection before I could stop her, a curious Miles in her wake. That was alright; whatever she chose would be fine.
A lively, simple waltz started from the automatic orchestra, which was apparently taken as an excuse by all present to turn the cramped sitting room into an impromptu ballroom. Théa sat back down, her eyes alight with excitement, but no sooner had she done so than Miles pulled her up by the hand.
"A dance?" she asked. "Are you sure?"
"My reputation is already in tatters," Miles assured her. "May I?"
Théa gestured to proceed, and the two of them swirled off. Absurd, the both of them. Everyone stared at them once they noticed, of course, but… but only for a moment, just for long enough to register what they were seeing. Of course, this was a place beyond the rules anyway. The girl pianist lead her dance toward the hall I knew led to the kitchen, clearly with some intent, before pointing out to her dumbstruck ensign something above their heads. A small green leaf… mistletoe, I supposed. I'd never seen one, but from the way he pushed her back against the wall, their lips locked together, I could infer.
Now there's a plan. When Théa finished her little dance with Miles, I could ask her myself. Would people stare? Of course they would. But just for a moment, of course, the same way. It might even be less scandalous. To each their own, they'd think, and go back to staring at each other as I made my manoeuvres.
"A bit of an absurd question, um… miss?" a voice said, just audible over the music, and I was shaken from my daydream by a pretty housemaid standing nearby. "Lieutenant?"
"Lieutenant is fine," I stammered. "Yes?"
"Can I get you anything? I'm not exactly sure of the protocol here," she replied.
"Thank you, but I'm alright," I replied. "Wonderful music, isn't it?"
"I have my filters on," she replied simply. "But I'm sure it's lovely."
Oh, right. Of course she did. She wandered off, and I turned back to find I could no longer locate Théa and Miles. They'd wandered off, I presumed, maybe to get a break from the music. It was a bit much, perhaps they'd be back soon. Or perhaps it was simply Miles getting a drink.
I waited for a very long minute, and then decided I ought to find them. I didn't know anyone else here very well, and I felt very lonely and awkward without them. I ducked into the various rooms around the sitting room, which unfortunately included interrupting the ensign and the pianist in the kitchen, but despite a table full of guests playing cards and another where Lieutenant Foster was standing on a chair in the middle of some foolishness, I didn't spot either of them.
I couldn't imagine they'd gone outside into the unreasonable chill, so I set up the stairs instead. Recalling the layout of Number 18, perhaps they'd retreated to the relative quiet of the study. Or Miles had found Lieutenant Foster's good drinks, knowing him-
I stopped by the guest bedroom, hearing voices on the other side. Familiar voices.
"- Ah, but Miles, who will notice!"
"I can't imagine! Now, ah… dear, dear, I appreciate the-"
"Mmhm?"
"I appreciate the enthusiasm, but you are still armoured, perhaps I should be on top?"
Utterly mortified, I backed as quietly as I could away from the door, headed back down the stairs, and resumed my place at the couch. I felt like I was doing my best to be a statue, even in motion, so nobody could possibly notice me.
The music was nice. It would help. Stupid, stupid, stupid machine. I'd said nothing, done nothing, and of course she'd never so much as noticed me. Why would she? Miles was right there, and he was so damned charming and nice and much more appropriate, as these things went… I'd been so fixated on her little gestures that the very much more obvious possibility that she was simply being kind to me was overlooked.
When did I get so desperate as to get this stupid? I'd gone decades alone, with nothing but my work, and while I could not say I was fine for it, here I was five months into my commission having built up the continental mannerisms of a woman who probably felt nothing for me into my one chance. But it was, wasn't it? She was the only machine in the galaxy on my level, or near enough to. What other chance did I have?
… And that was a lot to put on her, too. Did I feel for her, or was I simply grasping for what I thought was the only lifeline out of loneliness? This was all too much for my drunken processors. I ought not to think about this. I ought to put it behind-
I was shaken from my thoughts when the rest of the couch was roughly occupied by one of the dancing couples, out of breath and laughing. A young man, accompanied by the statuesque Lieutenant Howlette of the Grenadiers, who had clearly been pulling him about the dancefloor. I was apprehensive; I'd always got the feeling she disliked me.
"You enjoying yourself, Dora? I feel like you've just sat here," the Lieutenant asked.
"She has, hasn't she?" the man replied. "Oh, right, I'm Roger, Jane's-"
"Take a hint, man, ask her to dance!" the lieutenant whispered loudly, shoving him toward me slightly.
"Oh, no, I couldn't-" I replied, barely able to process the sudden shift. "It just-"
"I wouldn't mind if Jane doesn't," the man replied. I began to protest, and then Lieutenant Howlette burst out laughing.
"Wait a moment! The ball, in August, the Duke's!" she exclaimed. "I forgot, that seamstress, right?"
"... yes," I said. She smiled broadly and quite nearly shoved Roger off the couch to switch places.
"I knew it, I knew it!" She paused, the drink clearly having the better of her. "You'd prefer to dance with me, now wouldn't you?"
"I…" I stumbled, "Well…"
"Sapphic, I knew it!" she exclaimed, perhaps a bit too loudly. "To each their own, but I can't say I… hell, would you like to?"
"What?" I said, utterly lost.
"Dance! It could be fun!" she exclaimed. "I don't know, I've never of course, but you look so glum and I'd bet we'd turn a few heads. Think of the rumours! Roger, you wouldn't mind terribly?"
"I have no idea what is going on," Roger admitted, quite dishevelled. "Dance away, my dear?"
"Now, hold on, I-" A litany of protests presented themselves, one after another, from "No-You're-Human-And-Are-Clearly-Just-Drunk" to "I'm-Still-Processing-Théa-And-Miles" to "I-Never-Really-Got-On-With-You", but it was as though all the protests converged violently other at the intersection of my speaker and all that emitted was the muted crash of their impact. "I…"
"Come now!" she insisted, grabbing me by the wrists and attempting futilely to pull me to my feet. As the twisted wreckage of my protests settled, a new and powerfully intoxicated thought drifted through my circuits. Why not! If Miles and Théa could go fuck in the guest room and young ladies sing wild songs and ensigns kiss under the mistletoe, then Lieutenant Fusilier could dance a drunken waltz with a heterosexual woman she didn't much care for and all would still be right in the morning. Why not! Why not!
I stood, held out an arm, and stood up as straight as my inconsistent balance would allow.
"Lieutenant Howlette, would you care for a dance?" I asked, as formally and poshly and humanly as I could manage.
"I would be delighted!" she announced, pulling herself right up close to me with the sort of bravado one can really only manage when it's up in the air if you'll remember in the morning. "So, who leads, how do you determine-"
I led, of course. It was strange and awkward and ever so much fun, tripping over one another's feet, laughing away the embarrassment. I didn't exactly know how to waltz, and if she did she'd left that knowledge behind three drinks ago. It was still undoubtedly exciting, to be pressed so close to this blonde amazon, my hand around her waist. Why not!
"Now don't you pull me toward any mistletoe, Lieutenant," she said, the first time in the conversation she sounded deadly serious. I had no intention, I could think of nothing more tasteless and untoward in this moment, but I gave the slightest pull in that direction just to mortify her. The look of shock was delightful.
"You've nothing to worry about, I'm not much of a kisser," I mocked through unmoving lips, as we swayed to the final notes of the song. She broke away a bit too fast, her discomfort finally outracing her boldness, and I felt a thousand feet tall standing in the middle of the sitting room, scanning the eyes turned my way. Let them stare, why not! They always did, so let them stare at a Lieutenant Fusilier who didn't care what any of them thought.
I settled on one pair of eyes, one particularly shocked expression, on a woman halfway out of her coat at the door. A woman in the blue and red jacket of the Royal Artillery, dark complexion, beautiful waves in her hair.
With nothing else to do, I found myself studying the machine sitting opposite me. Her bright blue eyes and the ever-so-subtle pink glow of her cheeks were like beacons in the dark interior of the vehicle. She was staring out the window at the approaching city, the lamplight diffusing softly through the mirrored glass of her face. I was transfixed.
Fusiliers were not typically interested in other Fusiliers, but she was hardly typical. I've heard it's similar among most machines, the members of any given type are too alike, but she was nothing like me. She was beautiful and feminine, able to look delicate while being anything but, she seemed to have everything under control and was even adapted to these strange circumstances faster than I ever could. I wanted her, and I wanted what she had, and the two blended into a complex knot of feelings I couldn't help but run in an endless loop.
Miles nudged me and leaned close, saying something about the party I failed to process. Théa glanced up, her eyes darting to us, and her blush brightened a moment before she looked very pointedly out the window again. Embarrassed at having been caught staring, I did the same.
She was blushing. Did she feel similarly? She was so forward, so much less reserved, and I couldn't tell if she was interested in me or merely… continental. Either way, I shouldn't sit and pine; she was a machine like me, one of the only machines like me, sharing this strange station.
I resolved I should ask her tonight, at the party, if she were interested. It didn't have to be complicated, we were machines, things could be simple. It wouldn't be like Lieutenant Kennedy. I'd ask her, and perhaps she'd say yes, and if she didn't I would still have an answer.
Though I was under little illusions of my chances. She was a goddess of glass and silver, whereas I still looked like Hephaestus had grown bored and left me half-finished (I had decided to invest some reading times in the classics after Mile's ship metaphor). Perhaps I should think of something else, someone else.
The city was now quite nearly empty of humans, though, the vast majority gone back to the estates of their family or close friends for the holidays, leaving only the foremost families of the city, a handful of unlanded eccentrics, and those Army officers without particular pressing need to travel home. I spotted just one human not associated with the Colours on the carriage ride to the party, a young woman scurrying through the snow with her maid, both carrying a pair of heavy leather cases. Surely she'd have some strong machine to carry them, a footman or something? Seeing her delicate Maria struggling with the heavy packages in the snow was damn near a crime in itself, nevermind burdening a human with it.
My instinct to rescue them from the predicament was somewhat arrested by the speed of the sled carriage, however, so I merely had to settle for a fantasy of it. Oh, they'd be so grateful, and it'd be so much more useful than galavanting around at a party celebrating a God I felt little obligation to, who'd go on to save the soul I didn't have. Surely doing good works (and a good hour's work) was more in line with the spirit of the holiday?
Perhaps they'd invite me in from the cold afterward, that'd be nice of them, in their warm house with a warm fireplace for their thermally conductive saviour. And it'd be far too late to trudge back through the snow, surely they'd offer me a place to stay for the night, it'd feel awfully good to refuse that, being as it's no trouble.
Though if they insisted, and their Maria was as pretty as I imagined she might be, well perhaps-
"Dora? Say, Dora?"
"Wha? Sorry, I was miles away," I responded, feeling almost dazed. My thoughts truly were getting away from me; whichever portion of my system that governed sapphic affections was clearly overclocked.
"Oh?" Miles shook to attention opposite of me, looking about as distracted as I felt. "What was that, Fusie?"
"Sorry, not you. What is it, Théa?"
"We're here," she said, pointing out the window of the carriage. The same window I'd been staring out of, quite sightlessly apparently.
The Official Christmas Party of the 7th Regiment of Foot was being held, not in the officer's mess as I might suspect, but in a building in the city which was rented for the purpose. It was a large hall I imagine must normally serve as a social space during the summer. It was a strangely nondescript-looking place from the outside, built to appear as just another rowhouse. Perhaps it had been, before being repurposed.
We exited the climate-controlled carriage and braved the brief dash across the frozen sidewalk, trudged up the snowy steps, and were relieved to find ourselves in a very warm and cosy space. I had been expecting something like a ballroom, not what seemed like somebody's well-decorated, if expansive, living room. A dining area was set aside at the far end, but dominating the centre of the room was an enormous, sprawling evergreen tree which, having no space to continue upward, had instead spilled out in all directions like somebody had overturned a bucket of needles and tinsel.
Still, it made sense. There truly weren't that many of us; most of the older officers with families had gone home for the holidays, as had most of the ensigns, who were quite often very homesick by the time Christmas rolled around. Gazing around the room revealed mostly lieutenants and captains, young people mostly relieved to have this time to themselves. It was either because they were newlyweds quite content to take this time for themselves, or they were unmarried officers dreading returning home to questions from their family about that state.
I soon spotted our missing friend Henry and a woman who must be his fiancée. They occupied, I suppose, the exact middle ground of the aforementioned binary. Miss Kara Grynberg, who was a striking, full-figured woman with beautiful curls of dark hair, looked quite thoroughly in over her head, clinging tightly to her husband-to-be's arm. As she had a good few inches on him, he was walking somewhat unevenly, nearly hoisted off one leg. On catching sight of us, a smile equal parts elation and desperation spread across her features.
"Lieutenant Beckham?" she asked, her face brightening. "It is very good to finally meet! And you are…" she looked to me, and then to Théa, her smile remaining but her eyes brimming with panic. "Um..!"
"Lieutenant Fusilier," I said brightly, in perfect synchronicity with Théa.
"Aaah, yes…" she chuckled, then turned sharply and hissed. "Henry dear, help?"
"The one on the right is ours," he muttered, blushing considerably.
"Lieutenant Fusilier!" she declared. "I have read about you, you made papers in Poland! A cele-britty." She pronounced celebrity like it was the first time she'd said it after only reading it, which it almost certainly was.
"O-oh. Wonderful," I stammered, trying not to think about it. "And, yes this is the, um, other Lieutenant Fusilier, exchange officer from the French Republic. Dora and Théa, if you must differentiate us."
"Right, yes, this makes sense. Though… not Fusie?" she asked conspiratorially.
"Ah, well, I suppose," I conceded. I'd never escape it, would I? She looked pleased as punch about it, though, so I suppose it'd do.
"And.. I have heard much about you, Mister Beckham, Henry talks of you! I must thank you!" Kara continued.
"Oh? Only the worst things, I hope?" Miles said.
"Absolutely not," Henry managed, looking scandalised, while his wife-to-be just laughed.
"Well, I have heard some stories! But he says you and Lieutenant Fusie are the very best friends he could ask for, you know!" she said brightly. "You especially, Mister Beckham, he says you get him onto and out from all the best kind of trouble…"
"Aaah, well, that is perhaps-" Miles stuttered, the earnest compliments weaving deftly past the projection of false ego.
"Perhaps you could tell me some stories? Henry gets so quiet about it…" she continued, clearly overjoyed at an opportunity to simultaneously mortify her future husband and put Miles off-balance with compliments. I was getting the impression that Miss Grynberg was a person who read others perhaps just a bit too easily, and relished in how she could seize conversations with it. Not in a malicious way, but with a sort of impish joy, perhaps.
"Well, I, uh- Say, how are you enjoying our party?" Miles said, then realised he was perhaps that would come off poorly and desperately pivoted again. "Um, I mean, Henry, have you seen Myx. Lawton? I thought they'd say they'd be here, but I've seen neither hide nor hair for the last two days-"
"They took a short leave to meet family at the port, they're just over… Excuse me, you'll be alright a moment, dear?"
"Of course," Miss Grynberg said brightly, but when Miles and Henry disappeared around the edge of the tree on their skirmisher-finding mission she just about collapsed against the wall. I was quite surprised; it was like all the animating energy that had propelled her like a wrecking ball through the conversations had gone out of her at once.
"Are you alright?" Théa asked, beating me to the punch yet again.
"Everyone is so very, very, very… very…" she paused, milling a hand as she tried to summon a missing word. It seemed beyond her. "Polish or Yiddish?"
"I'm equally terrible at both," I informed her.
"Well, I shall stick with my best then. This party has been exhausting, in a way I absolutely expected and simultaneously completely underestimated," she replied, in Yiddish so rapid my translation software could nearly not keep up. "I was expecting it to be a little awkward, but everyone around here is acting as though if they're too Christian in my presence then I'll spontaneously combust on the spot."
"Ah, well, I'm-" I began, but clearly she'd been sitting on this and could not be stopped now.
"Do they think we don't have Christians back home? We're lousy with the buggers, if I were that delicate I'd not have survived my first December. I feel as though I'm in the eye of a hurricane of embarrassment and I don't much care for it!"
"My apologies," I began, but she was very much not having it.
"Don't you start too!" she groaned. "Sorry, no, I shouldn't be venting to the first machine I see, that's an awful habit."
"It's quite understandable, though," Théa said. Miss Grynberg just frowned at that. I found myself strangely appreciative of her very animated face; it was much easier to read than most humans.
"If it helps, I'm expecting a considerable degree of awkwardness myself. I'm not particularly given to religion of any sort, and I've never given Christmas much mind," I said. I nearly claimed this was because I was a machine, but then I remembered I was standing not three feet from a mechanical Catholic. "I'm not entirely sure I even understand the premise, how exactly God has a son, who is also God?"
"Consubstantiality? If you have a moment, I could explain to you," Théa offered.
"I think I'm good, thanks," I countered. I knew more than I let on, and in any case I'd not learn it from some programmed papist, I had my pride. "In any case, it seems to be like most holidays, a chance to dress up and get drunk."
"... Stars, I could use another drink, now that you mention it," Miss Grynberg muttered. I was about to offer to chase one down for her, but Théa was, unsurprisingly, faster on the draw, and likewise vanished around the Christmas tree in nearly a blur. The helpful, beautiful bitch.
"The worst part is, I came for Henry, not that I'd tell him," she continued, leaning ever so subtly against the wall, her resolution to stop venting having only carried her this far. "He's terribly anxious at these sorts of affairs, you understand, but he's also terrified of turning them down. I thought perhaps I could come and be a bit of a lightning rod for the worst of it. I fear I've only complicated matters. You'll not tell him, of course?"
"Of course not," I assured her. She paused, clearly thinking about how to change the subject.
"Not religious, you say? A sort of atheist, then?"
"Oh, not quite. I think there's probably God of some sort, but I can't imagine He's got time for the likes of me. I suppose you could say I'm agnostic, after a fashion. Most British machines are, I think," I informed her. "Don't have much truck with it, not my saviour and all. It was a bit of a shock to hear the French weren't the same way."
"Ah, well, you know," she said. "The English appear to think of religion as a very personal and compartmentalised thing, moreso than most Christians even, I think. If I can absolutely butcher a metaphor, you seem to think that if culture is an outfit, religion is… a hat."
"I'm not sure I follow, but then again I am very much bareheaded in this metaphor," I offered.
"Oh, so you say. But this is all, well, not normal to you, sure, but not strange either, right?"
"It's familiar enough," I confessed. Sure, it was distant and unclear to me, but none of it was new. It was just how humans were, in my mind, a view I was increasingly realising was very narrow and prescriptive.
"You see, religion isn't a hat, it's the cloth, if you understand. Take off the hat all you want, it's still woven in there. So it's very strange when they try to doff the cap to me around here to be polite, like I can't see what it'd made of. Am I making any sense? I think the drink is already getting to me…"
"... are, um…" I tried to think of a way to phrase this delicately, but I realised that was quite possibly the last thing she wanted right now. "Are there Jewish machines, then?"
"Course there are," she said, with a smug sort of smile. "We beat you Christians to it, after all."
I didn't have time to fully parse that, or ask for clarification, before Théa returned with a glass of something bubbly that Miss Grynberg snatched up instantly.
"Oooh, thank you. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a future husband to find among the guests…" she said, looking around the crowded room. "And I should track down Henry too!"
The effort to keep from breaking out into loud laughter took every bit of iron discipline I had. Miss Grynberg disappeared into the crowd, and Théa and I shared a confused glance.
"What a very strange woman," Théa concluded. "Very enthusiastic."
"She's going to run quite roughshod over poor Lieutenant Turner, I think," I observed, and Théa nodded knowingly.
"Perhaps he likes that sort of thing."
Finally, now, the laughter caught us, and we shared a private moment at the corner of the room.
---
Sure enough, the official party after that turned out to be something of a drag, as you'd expect an official function. There was a quiet dinner at a long table where Théa and I eventually managed to distract ourselves by attempting to guess what, exactly, the various foods around us were, with Miles as judge; we both scored very poorly. The Lieutenant Colonel gave a little speech about the year and the importance of the season, with the occasional nervous glance toward a Miss Grynberg who was clearly too far into her drink to notice.
As dinner concluded, Miles clapped my shoulder and indicated toward the door. Already, there were a number of young officers there pulling on their coats, disappearing out into the cold gloom. We collapsed into the back of the cab with a sigh of relief, Miles giving the driver instructions and seeming to melt into his seat.
"How are we doing, girls?" he asked, his voice muffled slightly by his upturned coat collar.
"I am quite alright," Théa said politely, then she looked at me and realised this was not a moment for polite dishonesty. "No, I am bored out of my casing and very much ready to be done with being sober."
"Absolutely, yes," I agreed enthusiastically. "Miles, you said there would be music, right?"
"Bryant collects music cylinders, as a hobby," Miles assured us. "He has a selection, and you're free to browse. You have control over music for the event, I have his word on it."
Oh, that sounded heavenly. It would be perfect; I could get direly polluted to work up the courage, and perhaps Théa would herself be too far gone to realise what an utter mess I am. As my sorts of plans went, it was strategic brilliance, and I spent the rest of the trip refining the details down. I'd never, personally, taken this sort of initiative before; it had to be perfect.
The carriage arrived, and I could tell before I even reached the door that this was a very different sort of party. There was the music audible even here, and from the closeness of some shapes in the windows I surmised the event was very much unchaperoned. My step slowed as the magnitude of my out-of-placeness hit, but then I felt a steadying hand on my back. Miles, pushing Théa and I along.
The door swung open, a red-faced Lieutenant Foster grinning behind it and beckoning us in, practically tripping over himself to welcome us in and take our coats. A job that would normally be handled by his valet, I thought, but clearly the machine had been given the night off. There were, I noticed, still machines about, cute little Abbys moving along the walls with drinks and such, but I had a feeling they were not the usual house staff.
There were perhaps a dozen young people present in the sitting room, a mixture of red uniforms and civilians of similar age. Some I had seen at the official party, but others had clearly been here a while and must have skipped it. All of them had drinks in hand, and the room was filled with a cloying mix of smoke from pipes and cigarettes.
There was indeed an automatic orchestra mounted against the far wall, with a shelf of music cylinders, but the speakers were currently belting out the backing instrumentals to a song that a pretty civilian girl was playing out on an upright piano tucked into the corner. This appeared to be primarily for the amusement of the fresh-faced ensign leaning close with a dopey smile on his face. It was quick and lively, and I got the feeling it was the start of a song familiar to everyone in the room.
"I suppose the cylinders shall have to wait?" Théa observed glumly. I spotted an opening as a couple left one of the cushioned loveseats along the wall. It'd be a tight fit, but could that be a bad thing?
"Music's music, Lieutenant," I declared, half-pulling her along to the seat. "Let's enjoy the show. Miles?" I turned, but he was already gone, off talking to somebody presumably. Probably one of the Abbys, I bet! I could hardly believe the man. Ah well!
We sat, the chair creaking slightly under our combined armour, just in time for an expected treat as the woman began singing. Singing! A few others joined in, mostly drowned by the laughter and cheers all around, and I caught few of the lyrics through the commotion, but I gathered the song was about a woman waylaid by an handsome alien pirate. It was surprisingly suggestive, which I suppose accounted for the tone in the room. I laughed myself, swept up by the absurdity and embarrassment and the already settling blissingful tide of notes.
Théa was blushing. I found myself staring, even as the song came to an end to the applause and cheers of everyone around the room. The girl at the keys beamed as people began calling out other suggestions. Most were lost in the din, but I heard a few clearly, "The Lost Prince", "Bawdy Jack" and "The Astronautess."
"The Astronautess?" the girl exclaimed, sounding utterly scandalised. "Who suggested that! Good sir!"
"So you know it then!" Miles called back from the edge of the room.
"I shant say!" she returned, before snatching the fluted glass perched precariously atop the piano and throwing it back. She tapped a control on the note screen and the backing music changed to something faster, with strings and harp, and she started playing.
"Well they say the stars are no place for a girl, to leave those things to the boys!" she sang, affecting what I could only think of as the cadence of a machine textile worker. "But I to meself I'd give it a whirl, so I'd hatched meself a ploy. I can't tell you nothing about rockets, but there's one thing I know; if there's nothing but men up there in the void, I'd have 'em all to meself!-"
The song, it appeared, was not about space travel at all. The rockets were metaphorical. Théa's mortified laughter was nearly as intoxicating as the singing, as she leaned against me and shook her head in disbelief.
"You English do know how to have fun!" she cried. "I'm so glad for you."
Now, Fusie, come on. Imply something. Make a move.
"W-well, I-" I started, and all confidence fled. "Yes, I suppose they do. We do. Fun." She shoved playfully at my arm, and before I had a chance to recover, Miles appeared on the other side of the couch, replacing whoever had been there before. He had a drink in either hand.
"Sorry about the cylinders-" he began, and we both waved him off desperately. "Right then. Enjoying yourselves, I see?"
"Do you know, heh, Fille de la Ville?" Théa called to the pianist, interrupting herself with her own nervous titters.
"Can't say I do, Miss… oh!" the girl said, clearly only just noticing the two of us. "I wasn't aware we had… is this the machine Lieutenant? One of you?" I raised a hand. "Andrew's mentioned you!"
"Only good things, Ensign?" Miles said mock-sternly, quick to my defence. The red-faced ensign nodded perhaps a bit too quickly; I imagined he'd be swaying on the spot if he weren't propped up against the piano. Miles gestured to the two of us and clearly decided the entire room needed to know. "Yes, the Lieutenants Fusilier, original and French!"
"I should think I'm the original, I've been-" Théa began, but she was cut off by the toast around the room as everyone rejoiced in the redundant excuse to drink more. The girl began playing again, unprompted, and I leaned back in the chair and just let the music wash over me. I'd blown it, but the night was still young. Or at least, it didn't feel that late.
I suppose I needed the excuse to properly relax in any case. Miles and Théa talked beside me, the conversation muffled and seeming distant as I drifted away on the pretty voice belting borderline-obscene lyrics. The girl stopped playing eventually, and Théa shot up to the cylinder collection before I could stop her, a curious Miles in her wake. That was alright; whatever she chose would be fine.
A lively, simple waltz started from the automatic orchestra, which was apparently taken as an excuse by all present to turn the cramped sitting room into an impromptu ballroom. Théa sat back down, her eyes alight with excitement, but no sooner had she done so than Miles pulled her up by the hand.
"A dance?" she asked. "Are you sure?"
"My reputation is already in tatters," Miles assured her. "May I?"
Théa gestured to proceed, and the two of them swirled off. Absurd, the both of them. Everyone stared at them once they noticed, of course, but… but only for a moment, just for long enough to register what they were seeing. Of course, this was a place beyond the rules anyway. The girl pianist lead her dance toward the hall I knew led to the kitchen, clearly with some intent, before pointing out to her dumbstruck ensign something above their heads. A small green leaf… mistletoe, I supposed. I'd never seen one, but from the way he pushed her back against the wall, their lips locked together, I could infer.
Now there's a plan. When Théa finished her little dance with Miles, I could ask her myself. Would people stare? Of course they would. But just for a moment, of course, the same way. It might even be less scandalous. To each their own, they'd think, and go back to staring at each other as I made my manoeuvres.
"A bit of an absurd question, um… miss?" a voice said, just audible over the music, and I was shaken from my daydream by a pretty housemaid standing nearby. "Lieutenant?"
"Lieutenant is fine," I stammered. "Yes?"
"Can I get you anything? I'm not exactly sure of the protocol here," she replied.
"Thank you, but I'm alright," I replied. "Wonderful music, isn't it?"
"I have my filters on," she replied simply. "But I'm sure it's lovely."
Oh, right. Of course she did. She wandered off, and I turned back to find I could no longer locate Théa and Miles. They'd wandered off, I presumed, maybe to get a break from the music. It was a bit much, perhaps they'd be back soon. Or perhaps it was simply Miles getting a drink.
I waited for a very long minute, and then decided I ought to find them. I didn't know anyone else here very well, and I felt very lonely and awkward without them. I ducked into the various rooms around the sitting room, which unfortunately included interrupting the ensign and the pianist in the kitchen, but despite a table full of guests playing cards and another where Lieutenant Foster was standing on a chair in the middle of some foolishness, I didn't spot either of them.
I couldn't imagine they'd gone outside into the unreasonable chill, so I set up the stairs instead. Recalling the layout of Number 18, perhaps they'd retreated to the relative quiet of the study. Or Miles had found Lieutenant Foster's good drinks, knowing him-
I stopped by the guest bedroom, hearing voices on the other side. Familiar voices.
"- Ah, but Miles, who will notice!"
"I can't imagine! Now, ah… dear, dear, I appreciate the-"
"Mmhm?"
"I appreciate the enthusiasm, but you are still armoured, perhaps I should be on top?"
Utterly mortified, I backed as quietly as I could away from the door, headed back down the stairs, and resumed my place at the couch. I felt like I was doing my best to be a statue, even in motion, so nobody could possibly notice me.
The music was nice. It would help. Stupid, stupid, stupid machine. I'd said nothing, done nothing, and of course she'd never so much as noticed me. Why would she? Miles was right there, and he was so damned charming and nice and much more appropriate, as these things went… I'd been so fixated on her little gestures that the very much more obvious possibility that she was simply being kind to me was overlooked.
When did I get so desperate as to get this stupid? I'd gone decades alone, with nothing but my work, and while I could not say I was fine for it, here I was five months into my commission having built up the continental mannerisms of a woman who probably felt nothing for me into my one chance. But it was, wasn't it? She was the only machine in the galaxy on my level, or near enough to. What other chance did I have?
… And that was a lot to put on her, too. Did I feel for her, or was I simply grasping for what I thought was the only lifeline out of loneliness? This was all too much for my drunken processors. I ought not to think about this. I ought to put it behind-
I was shaken from my thoughts when the rest of the couch was roughly occupied by one of the dancing couples, out of breath and laughing. A young man, accompanied by the statuesque Lieutenant Howlette of the Grenadiers, who had clearly been pulling him about the dancefloor. I was apprehensive; I'd always got the feeling she disliked me.
"You enjoying yourself, Dora? I feel like you've just sat here," the Lieutenant asked.
"She has, hasn't she?" the man replied. "Oh, right, I'm Roger, Jane's-"
"Take a hint, man, ask her to dance!" the lieutenant whispered loudly, shoving him toward me slightly.
"Oh, no, I couldn't-" I replied, barely able to process the sudden shift. "It just-"
"I wouldn't mind if Jane doesn't," the man replied. I began to protest, and then Lieutenant Howlette burst out laughing.
"Wait a moment! The ball, in August, the Duke's!" she exclaimed. "I forgot, that seamstress, right?"
"... yes," I said. She smiled broadly and quite nearly shoved Roger off the couch to switch places.
"I knew it, I knew it!" She paused, the drink clearly having the better of her. "You'd prefer to dance with me, now wouldn't you?"
"I…" I stumbled, "Well…"
"Sapphic, I knew it!" she exclaimed, perhaps a bit too loudly. "To each their own, but I can't say I… hell, would you like to?"
"What?" I said, utterly lost.
"Dance! It could be fun!" she exclaimed. "I don't know, I've never of course, but you look so glum and I'd bet we'd turn a few heads. Think of the rumours! Roger, you wouldn't mind terribly?"
"I have no idea what is going on," Roger admitted, quite dishevelled. "Dance away, my dear?"
"Now, hold on, I-" A litany of protests presented themselves, one after another, from "No-You're-Human-And-Are-Clearly-Just-Drunk" to "I'm-Still-Processing-Théa-And-Miles" to "I-Never-Really-Got-On-With-You", but it was as though all the protests converged violently other at the intersection of my speaker and all that emitted was the muted crash of their impact. "I…"
"Come now!" she insisted, grabbing me by the wrists and attempting futilely to pull me to my feet. As the twisted wreckage of my protests settled, a new and powerfully intoxicated thought drifted through my circuits. Why not! If Miles and Théa could go fuck in the guest room and young ladies sing wild songs and ensigns kiss under the mistletoe, then Lieutenant Fusilier could dance a drunken waltz with a heterosexual woman she didn't much care for and all would still be right in the morning. Why not! Why not!
I stood, held out an arm, and stood up as straight as my inconsistent balance would allow.
"Lieutenant Howlette, would you care for a dance?" I asked, as formally and poshly and humanly as I could manage.
"I would be delighted!" she announced, pulling herself right up close to me with the sort of bravado one can really only manage when it's up in the air if you'll remember in the morning. "So, who leads, how do you determine-"
I led, of course. It was strange and awkward and ever so much fun, tripping over one another's feet, laughing away the embarrassment. I didn't exactly know how to waltz, and if she did she'd left that knowledge behind three drinks ago. It was still undoubtedly exciting, to be pressed so close to this blonde amazon, my hand around her waist. Why not!
"Now don't you pull me toward any mistletoe, Lieutenant," she said, the first time in the conversation she sounded deadly serious. I had no intention, I could think of nothing more tasteless and untoward in this moment, but I gave the slightest pull in that direction just to mortify her. The look of shock was delightful.
"You've nothing to worry about, I'm not much of a kisser," I mocked through unmoving lips, as we swayed to the final notes of the song. She broke away a bit too fast, her discomfort finally outracing her boldness, and I felt a thousand feet tall standing in the middle of the sitting room, scanning the eyes turned my way. Let them stare, why not! They always did, so let them stare at a Lieutenant Fusilier who didn't care what any of them thought.
I settled on one pair of eyes, one particularly shocked expression, on a woman halfway out of her coat at the door. A woman in the blue and red jacket of the Royal Artillery, dark complexion, beautiful waves in her hair.
Wonderful chapter! I adore Fusie's (eh) reactions and musings. And I see that a familiar face approaches.
By the way, does that mean that golems exist in some form or another in this universe? Or am I misinterpreting Miss Grynberg's comment? And if not, is it a point that you think will be explored in the future, or just sort of a neat world element.
Anyway, really amazing work once again, this series and this world is possibly one of my favourite ever.
By the way, does that mean that golems exist in some form or another in this universe? Or am I misinterpreting Miss Grynberg's comment? And if not, is it a point that you think will be explored in the future, or just sort of a neat world element.
Anyway, really amazing work once again, this series and this world is possibly one of my favourite ever.
- Location
- Under your bed
Hmmmm
I think i know who this is even if I can't remember her name
Lieutenant Kennedy, I think? That's the only artillery woman we know in Dora's regiment. It's been a while since we've seen her.
- Pronouns
- She/Her
poor Fusie. At least she had some fun at the end.
- Pronouns
- She/Her
If that young woman and her maid carrying the leather cases are who I think they are, then Dora would likely have an entirely different reason to be flustered it their presence. 
Kara is a delight and I'd love to see more of her. I can't quite tell if she means they beat the English to the whole machine thing because she's Jewish (Golem) or because she's Polish (Rossum's Universal Robotics).
I would make a bet that Miles and Thea were in fact up to some sort of drunken foolishness, but it wasn't anything sexual. This has awkward misunderstanding written all over it.
Also. I knew it! I knew Kennedy would show up!
Kara is a delight and I'd love to see more of her. I can't quite tell if she means they beat the English to the whole machine thing because she's Jewish (Golem) or because she's Polish (Rossum's Universal Robotics).
I would make a bet that Miles and Thea were in fact up to some sort of drunken foolishness, but it wasn't anything sexual. This has awkward misunderstanding written all over it.
Also. I knew it! I knew Kennedy would show up!
- Location
- Soviet Canuckistan
Fusie's timing is abysmal. Still, hopefully she can manage to salvage something from this.
samdamandias
Apprentice Plane Wizard
I can think of perhaps two people they might be. Whom do you suppose they are?If that young woman and her maid carrying the leather cases are who I think they are, then Dora would likely have an entirely different reason to be flustered it their presence.
R.U.R. is Czech, not Polish. But I think Prague (again, Czech, not Polish, but I am not up on my maps of Napoleonic Europe) would have some excellent factories for Machines.
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Jane and Marie from Maid to Love You.
(facepalm) How did I miss that.
- Pronouns
- He/Him
Hakazin
Serpent Admirer
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Dora, you useless metal lesbian.
Honestly, that could be the subtitle for the entire chapter.
10ebbor10
DON'T PANIC
- Location
- Present
Thea In the Land of the Useless Brits.
- Location
- Ottawa
- Pronouns
- She/Her/Whatever
it is in reference to golems, but its ambiguous (and irrelevant) as to whether its true.
Also its nanowrimo and i've moved to a better living situation so expect more updates!
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Poor Fusie? (...well, okay, yes, considering her unfortunately-aimed infatuation. but from my ... admittedly biased ... view of things?) Poor Diana.
I mean, a benefit of seeing into Dora's perspective is that we know she's not intentionally causing harm or exacerbating it ... but, speaking from some experience, the distinction between "actively twisting the blade" and "blundering directly into it" is a rather fine one for someone in Diana's position to try and make. Especially when she's still keenly hurting, and the (unwitting) author of those woes just got done quite publicly dancing with another human lieutenant, who they usually don't get on with (and, knowing Dora, she probably hasn't been great at keeping that sentiment as subtle as she might hope/imagine she does).
I wouldn't be surprised at all if, in that moment, there's a little Taylor Tomlinson in Diana's head going "...okay, is it fucking me?!"
I mean, a benefit of seeing into Dora's perspective is that we know she's not intentionally causing harm or exacerbating it ... but, speaking from some experience, the distinction between "actively twisting the blade" and "blundering directly into it" is a rather fine one for someone in Diana's position to try and make. Especially when she's still keenly hurting, and the (unwitting) author of those woes just got done quite publicly dancing with another human lieutenant, who they usually don't get on with (and, knowing Dora, she probably hasn't been great at keeping that sentiment as subtle as she might hope/imagine she does).
I wouldn't be surprised at all if, in that moment, there's a little Taylor Tomlinson in Diana's head going "...okay, is it fucking me?!"
- Location
- Ottawa
- Pronouns
- She/Her/Whatever
update coming but in the meantime
View: https://twitter.com/open_sketchbook/status/1588160215911997441
View: https://twitter.com/open_sketchbook/status/1588160215911997441
10ebbor10
DON'T PANIC
- Location
- Present
What genre is a book about a robot, living in a different kind of historical england, experiencing some kind of trans metaphor.
alternate trans-istory
- Location
- Minnesota
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Very excited for more of this!!
I feel as if this is the author of the series of essays in the paper, probably?
I feel as if this is the author of the series of essays in the paper, probably?
- Pronouns
- She/Her
- Location
- Minnesota
- Pronouns
- She/Her
I wasn't sure they'd ever been on this station? I don't recall a scene with them carrying luggage through the snow or anything, and besides it doesn't seem like something that Ms. Polestar's other servants would tolerate. It has been ages since I read though, so I might be forgetting!