I was grateful to slip away in Miles' absence, trying not to think too hard about the details, and trudged home in the snow. I only realized I could have hailed a cab when I was already so close to the base that it would have been pointless, so I just turned my collar up against the bitter night wind.
Overhead, the stars rippled and danced in the minute imperfections of the enormous glass dome over the station. The vast sprawl of the Rho Ophiuchi nebula dominated the sky, reflected light glowing in yellow, blue, and red intermixed with midnight dark clouds like ink mixing lazily in water. Here, free of much atmosphere and with my eyes adjusted to the night, the night sky wasn't dark, with the carpet of stars so dense they seemed almost continuous.
A dark shape cut across the stars, brightening a moment as it unfurled the golden solar sails that caught the light. Then in a blurred streak, it seemed to vanish off into nowhere, already moving too fast to track. Perhaps it was taking some vital cargo to another port, or working machines to a new job, or humans back home to their estates somewhere out in that carpet of stars.
It was so beautiful it almost made me forget how cold I was. I ended up spending a half-hour warming up beside the fireplace before I could sleep.
---
Captain Murray returned from the morning regimental briefing both late and clearly stressed, taking a seat at the office table already looking exhausted,
"What's wrong? French staying another week?" Miles joked.
"No, thankfully, nothing of the sort… word got back about our replacements. They're officially missing," she says. "Not just overdue, missing."
"Poor bastards," Miles said, the concern evident on his face. I didn't much understand that: they weren't people, in any meaningful way, and wouldn't be until somebody booted them on.
"So, how long until we get new ones?" I asked. Captain Murray shook her head.
"No clue. I imagine that the Trade Commission is going to want to figure out what happened before the Crown puts up any more money," she explained, shrugging helplessly.
"Well, what do we know?" Miles asked.
"They left the RMC factory at Wolf 359 in October, arrived at Teachport, and then they're gone. The cargo barge that was supposed to pick them up didn't have them on the manifest."
"We didn't get any veterans or anything?" I asked. Both Murray and Miles looked rather confused. "Oh, I mean, Fusiliers who have left the service and come back. There's always a handful."
"Oh… Well, they would have gone to the factory for inspection and refurbishment, wouldn't they?" she pointed out. "They could have been diverted along with… oh."
"That's kidnapping, then," Miles said.
"Or desertion," I added.
"Sure, as though that were a thing that happens," he retorted. "You'd never."
"Some might if given a good enough reason," I countered, thinking about 131098. I couldn't fathom what those reasons might be, but I couldn't discount it.
"That's rather too disturbing to contemplate," Miles said. "Shame, though. I hope they find them. What do we do in the meantime?"
"Well, last day with the French, at least. Oh! And that does remind me; Dora, Miles, both of you need to show up at the mess tonight. And the Ensigns too. Nothing serious, but we're passing the hat around for the Parentally Distressed."
"Ah, that's the local cause, is it?" Miles joked.
"Sorry, I don't follow," I asked, out of my depths as usual.
"Ah, sorry, old joke on the base. The officers put together a yearly donation for the Society for the Care and Education of the Tragically Orphaned, that's all. Terrible thing, rare as it is," she explained.
"We usually do it closer to Christmas, but I imagine we don't want to miss the opportunity to shake down the frogs for every franc they've got," Miles commented. "For the children, of course."
"Oh, of course," I said. "I'll admit, I'm not sure what a reasonable donation would look like for such a thing? When we do collections like that in the ranks, it's for pennies. But I imagine that isn't quite…"
"Yes, that'd be rather underwhelming. Twenty pounds at least, I'd say," Murray said, her tone clearly illustrating she didn't think twice about such a sum.
Miles leaned close.
"Say, Fusie, can I borrow twenty pounds?"
---
I took the opportunity at lunch to sneak back to Number 18 and fetch my purse for the evening. I didn't walk around with that kind of money on me, of course; it didn't seem wise. Not wanting to bother Miriam with such a petty matter, I carefully unlocked the door and crept inside, intending to head upstairs.
I hadn't made it far into the house before hearing voices coming from the thoroughly-unused kitchen. Both out of curiosity and a mortified hesitation to interrupt the conversion, I paused before the stairs, listening intently.
"- isn't for another six months, if I recall correctly?" Miriam said, her voice drifting clearly though the open door. She sounded more relaxed and casual than I think I'd ever heard, which was still quite proper.
"No, but she's looking for anything to do to distract herself, I think," another voice responded, a fairly similar one. It took me a moment to place it as Milly, Lieutenant Kennedy's aide. I knew I shouldn't be listening in, but fear of disturbing them kept me rooted in place, as did my own desire to know what they were talking about. "I know I've done nothing but complain about it, but she really has had a rough go of things lately."
"The interviews alone sound terrible," Miriam agreed.
"The papers won't leave her alone!" Milly confirmed, sounding in utter despair. "They can't follow her onto the base, thank God, but if she dares set foot outside it, she'll be accosted by reporters in an instant. Bless her, she tried setting up interviews properly to see if that would placate them, but I think it just emboldened them instead."
"Awful. I saw the interview in the Mercury; it was far too intrusive."
"People are curious about the portal, of course, but these things always get personal. Especially with rags like the Pulsar-"
"I saw that disgraceful display too, and believe me I'm glad I've convinced the Lieutenant it's not something she should be reading. Imagining bothering somebody with an interview only to spend half of it asking about somebody else! The Lieutenant can do her own damn interviews," Miriam spat, clearly frustrated. Putting it together from context, it sounded as though Lieutenant Kennedy had been interviewed by one of the city's machine papers, and they'd asked about me.
"It's not often that machines are newsworthy. The idea of interviewing Lieutenant Fusilier probably never crossed their minds," Milly pointed out. "But still. It is absolutely an imposition on Miss Kennedy and she shouldn't have stood for it, I think. Had I know I'd have chased the reporters out myself. Not to mention, well, the Miss is still rather sore about… well, about the Lieutenant, you know."
Oh.
"Not that I wish to besmirch the vagaries of the human heart, but still? Any luck finding her, um, a distraction of any sort?"
"Not exactly," Milly said, signing heavily. I heard the curious clink of metal on ceramic before she continued. "I don't think I'd quite realized how… insular humans were about these things until now. You know, I have friends of that inclination, they have clubs and dance halls and such catering to them. The humans have nothing, save for presumably contacts among their staff I've yet to worm my way into. Even in a city this large!"
"Well, I'll ask about, I might be able to help. It'd do her good," Miriam reassured her. "The Lieutenant is lucky things are not so complicated for her, though… I will say, there's an element I do miss about my previous clients."
"Oh?"
As much as I scarcely believe it, Miriam paused to giggle before continuing.
"I've had a handful of charges who were eligible while I was working for them, and the best part about your Miss going to meet with a nice young man is that it's an excellent chance to get to know his housestaff, if you understand," she explained. I hadn't known Miriam was capable of sounding sly.
"Miriam!"
"It worked wonders, what can I tell you? And it was a good chance to get off-base. I don't particularly care for soldiers much," she said.
"You're in the wrong line of work, then," Milly joked.
"Oh, I mean, personally fine. But… aesthetically, if you will…"
I decided at this point I very much needed to stop listening in, regardless of the consequences, and I started up the stairs. It was impossible not to make noise doing so: for all that the front door would slide open noiselessly, the top stairs never failed to creak loudly under the weight of my armour. The voices, though muffled now, stopped.
"Miss, is that you?" Miriam called.
"Yes, sorry, just picking something up!" I replied, opening one of the useless drawers in my unused dresser. I'd taken to storing the now half-empty box with my spare lenses there, and it had seemed as good a place as any to stash my money. Miriam had said I really ought to put it in a bank so it could accrue interest, but something about that made me uncomfortable.
Sitting there opposite the lenses was my entire fortune, such as it was, in a mix of solid coins and bills in laminated gold foil. I sorted out two fifteen pound notes and two fives. Then, in a fit of guilt over paying the absolute minimum, I took an additional two fives, folding them carefully into my cartridge pouch. I closed the drawer quietly and snuck out, feeling somewhat like a thief robbing my own vault.
Milly was absent on my return, and Miriam was standing poised at the bottom of the stairs, looking expectantly.
"Did you find everything you need, Miss?" she asked.
"Um, yes. For my records, we're down fifty pounds," I informed her. She insisted on helping track my finances.
"Oh? That's quite a sum. What's the cause?"
"Um, charitable donation…" I admitted, certain I'd be judged for spending money I very much couldn't afford on such a thing. Fifty pounds was just short of 60% of my yearly salary. 59.5238 percent, to be needlessly precise. She regarded me with what I can only describe as suspicion, then nodded.
"Very good, Miss."
She disappeared through one of the servant's doors, and I realized that Milly was likely still here, waiting in the staff room instead. I wasn't sure why they hadn't had their discussion there in the first place, and I glanced into the kitchen to hunt for insights.
There were two mugs sitting on the table, the sort that I presumed were for humans to take their tea, both positioned near a chair as if they'd been in use. Stepping closer, I could see both were filled simply with water. They were warm to the touch.
---
The mess was much less crowded with the other regiments absent, but the presence of dark blue coats in our mess was still stark. Deciding now was as good a time as any to get over my awkwardness, I fell in next to Miles. Watching him light up on seeing me just about made up for the day I'd had. The table he and Henry had claimed was mercifully free of Frenchmen, just the gaunt form of Captain Teague of the Skirmishers and one of his Lieutenants, somebody knew I think, plus the 9th Company ensigns crowded at a corner giggling among themselves.
"Fusie! Good to see you still with us." Miles exclaimed, pushing the chair out, "Have you had a chance to meet Lieutenant Lawton here?"
"Can't say I have. You're our transfer, right?" I said, extending a hand, and they cheerfully took it and shook.
"From the 43rd Light Infantry, yes. I keep missing you." they said, beaming, "Jamie Lawton."
I'd missed it, but during the battle at llomia J3H, the previous A-section lieutenant in 10th company (never got the chance to get his name) had lost a leg below the knee from a blast. They regrew it, of course, but the experience rather soured him. He sold his commission back soon after. None of their ensigns had served long enough to move up, and skirmishing was a specialized gig, so somebody else needed to be transferred in.
"Lovely to meet you, finally. My apologies for my absence; the mess was a little too crowded for me," I explained.
"I can absolutely understand. Fortunately, I've gotten quite good at avoiding unwanted entanglements," Lawton joked. "Being a skirmisher and all!"
Further conversation was cut off by a shuffle near the front of the room. Harrison stood up to do the customary announcements, which included a lot of various thanks to Lieutenant General Andromeda (hear hear!) and our French allies (...) and some housekeeping. I could see most of the table tuning it out, and while I'd never do anything of the sort, for once I thought I sort of got it.
As expected, the issue of the donation soon came up. Harrison stepped aside for a speech from a civilian woman who I quickly surmised was a representative for the SCETO. She waxed on about the plight of their charges and the importance of setting them up for a better life, and there was a great retrieval of wallets and purses as she went on.
While I had heard the term 'passing the hat around' before, I hadn't expected Harrison to pull out an actual beat-up old top hat. I stealthily passed Miles his twenty-five pounds under the table before it reached us.
"I hadn't been serious, Fusie…" Miles hissed, but we both placed the money in as the hat passed by. "I know you can't afford it…"
"What were you going to do, not put anything in?" I asked.
"I had five pounds…" he said quietly. "I'll pay you back soon. I'll get a loan off Henry; at least I know he can manage it."
"What's this about a loan?" Henry asked, leaning across the table. "Miles, have you been playing cards again? And not inviting me?"
"It's nothing, old boy. Dora, here," he held out a single crumpled-up bill under the table. "Let me at least start paying you back."
"Don't worry about it," I assured him, pushing his hand away. He rolled his eyes and stuffed the bill back in his jacket.
"And, our final matter, bit unusual. While we say goodbye to our French comrades tonight, some of you may have heard we've made arrangements for an officer exchange. Our own Lieutenant Carrington will be serving six months with them," Lieutenant Carrington stood up from across the mess a moment to be acknowledged, "...and we'll have the pleasure of hosting their Lieutenant Fusilier. Well, hopefully, that won't be too confusing."
There was a scatter of polite laughter and applause around the mess, and Théa emerged at the front door on cue, looking poised and perfect as always. She gazed around the room, at all the assembled officers looking back at her, and I could almost see her processing the enormity of the situation.
"Oh, do come in, don't be a stranger." Harrison encouraged. With some hesitation, Théa stepped forward, casting her gaze around the room. I'd been in the same position, looking for anyone or anything friendly, somewhere I might belong.
Her eyes settled on me.
She made her way to our table, moving stiffly, clearly out of her element, and froze a few paces away, clearly aware of all the eyes on her, cameras tracking back and forth over the crowded room. Things were already moving on, Harrison was saying something about dinner I didn't catch, but I could tell she didn't have the slightest clue what to do.
Without hesitation, Miles stood up and pulled a chair out for her, a smile on his face. I remember this too, the panic the first time a human did something for me, feeling the world go upside down.
"Surely they have chairs in France?" he teased. She sat down gracelessly, gaze locked straight forward, acting for all the world like she was in front of a firing squad.
"M-merci, thank you, I…" she stuttered, casting a look around the room, "Thank you."
"You're quite welcome, and I mean that," Miles said, retaking his seat. Théa's head finally moved, looking away as soft pink bulbs lit under her cheeks. "Always room for one more."
"Yes, of course…" she stammered.
"Sorry, if you don't mind me asking, how should I address you?" Lawton asked, "We have our own Dora, and I'm just used to referring to the ranks by, you know…"
"Letting us figure out which one you mean?" I asked, and they laughed.
"Yes, exactly, I don't know how you do it!" they said, "Serial numbers, I suppose?"
"If we must," I confirmed. "But context usually is enough."
"I prefer Théa, if you will…" she said, shuffling uncomfortably in place. Glancing past her to the rest of the room, I realized the French officers had finally stopped staring at me, because they were staring at her. "Um, registry number 2069-8818-4938…"
There was a bit of a commotion as food was brought out, and I swore I heard one of the Abbys mutter 'great, two of them now' as she passed our table. Théa looked utterly mortified as everyone started eating, like she was witnessing some kind of crime happening all around her.
"Right, serial number… was that first set of numbers a date? Date of activation?" Miles asked, and she nodded. "So, you're coming up on a round century this year! When's the day?"
"Ah, um, seventy-eight days," she said. "March 28th."
"Oh, you'll be around here for your birthday, then!" Henry pointed out. Théa looked aghast at that, somehow even more so than before.
"It's not a birthday," she protested.
"Unboxing day," I suggested. "They've already promised me onel there's nothing you can do about it. Humans take this very seriously."
"April 30th. We have the date marked," Henry said, his tone making it sound like a grim warning. "You only turn 34 once."
"Or a hundred, for that matter," Lawton said, gesturing with a fork. "Do machines not do birthdays? Unboxing days, whatever?"
"Fusie says they don't, but I bet it's just her that doesn't," Miles said. "She's a bit strange that way, but we all are here in the 7th. You seem like a good lad yourself, Jamie. You'll fit right in."
There was an awkward moment as Lawton swallowed, then they frowned.
"I'm not a man," they said simply, and both Miles and Henry looked bemused for a moment.
"Hang on, I'm sorry," Miles said. "You're a woman?"
"No, I'm… I'm neither," Lawton said.
"Androgynous is the term, I believe? Androgyne?" I offered, trying to be supportive. This sort of thing was much rarer among humans than machines; they wouldn't know about it.
"Huh," Miles said, taking a sip of his drink. "This a new thing?"
"I just thought perhaps you were, you know, early on in the whole… you know. Reassignment," Henry said, "My apologies… old sport? Can I say that?"
"I suppose. What are you on about, reassignment?" Lawton said, and I groaned inwardly.
"... I thought you were received sex, is all," Henry said, "Thought I met a comrade in ex-femininity."
"I'm sorry, I'm not following," Lawton said, setting down their utensils, quite clearly puzzled.
Glancing to Théa, she was still locked in place, clearly unsure of what she should be saying or doing. I leaned over, voice low, trying to assure her.
"Humans don't really know any of this stuff unless they already know friends and family, right?" I said, "But they'll warm right up to anything new. Humans are very accepting if there's nobody to tell them otherwise."
Hopefully, she'd take the hint.
"I-I see," she said, "Right, yes."
I could see her try to relax, but by its nature, relaxation wasn't something you could do on your own. Henry's valet Jacob had come by the table for something, perhaps waved over from whatever invisible place servants disappeared to, and was now helping him explain to Jamie about changing sex and all that. It was an entertaining pile-up of errors in its own way. At a minimum, it meant I wasn't the one navigating unfamiliar social waters for once.
"Wait, Jacob, hold up. What was that you just said?" Henry asked, interrupting mid-explanation, and the machine stopped and turned to him.
"Yes, there are women who are received sex as well," he said simply. "We never had cause to discuss it."
"The other way? I… suppose that makes sense," he said, "Can't say I get it… why would anyone want that?"
"To each their own, right?" Jacob offered. The humans nodded in agreement, and that seemed to settle it. As Jacob scurried off, and the conversation moved on to Lawton's time in the 43rd. Light infantry tended to get a lot of postings coreward, and despite only five years of service, they apparently had quite the collection of hunting trophies. Arachnaforms, and the like. Théa spent the entire conversation staring mutely past them, clearly caught between wanting to leave and knowing she couldn't, so I made a point to participate as best I could to try and put her at ease.
"Arachnaforms? That's actually how I got these." I said, indicating to the scars across my eye, deep silver cuts through the steel. "Got blindsided by a nest of them while we were investigating this old asteroid base, of all things. They were in hibernation until we popped the seals."
"When was this?" Lawton asked.
"Back in '61," I explained, "Awful things. Three of us had our bayonets through it and it was still swinging. Had much experience with them?"
I turned to Théa, and she looked utterly blindsided, but after a second she nodded and began quietly speaking.
"Yes, of course. They are a constant in the galaxy it seems," she said, "I have participated in… some actions."
"Such as?" Henry asked, and she hesitated.
"I do not wish to boast," she said simply.
"Fair enough," Miles said. I had wanted to insist, to try and push her out of her comfort zone a little, but he'd been faster. "I don't particularly like talking about my experiences with them either."
"Like the time you almost got attacked when you were taking a piss?" Henry asked, and Lawton snorted back a laugh.
"Yes, exactly," Miles said, completely unphased. "Fortunately, I was well-armed."
"And he had his pistol," Henry added, and Lawton completely lost it, covering their mouth as they laughed, and Théa's cheeks turned bright pink in the process.
"That's the danger of hanging out with these two," I explained, "No tact around the ladies."
"Well, usually it's just you, Fusie, and you don't count," Miles pointed out.
"Why, because she is a machine?" Théa asked, and Miles dismissed that with an incredulous look.
"No, of course not," Miles summed up, "Because she's far worse than that."
"I've learned so much more about machines and their upgrades than I could ever want," Henry confirmed.
"You keep asking!" I pointed out, settling back in my chair. "It's your own damn fault, really."
Théa looked a moment like she was going to say something, but then she looked away, the lights supernovas under her cheeks as she stared at her hands. Oh, but we English are uptight, sure.
"Say, you alright there, Théa?" Miles asked, midway through the customary act of rendering food into smaller edible pieces, as humans did. "You look somewhat out of it."
"I am fine." she replied stiffly, "Just pretend I am not here."
"I don't have that good an imagination, I'm afraid," Miles replied softly, before glancing at me and indicating silently that I needed to say something. I tried to think of advice, something that helped me to navigate the space, but none of it felt actionable or simple.
I couldn't think of the words.
---
"Alright, Lieutenant. Hold still, please."
I did my best, but it wasn't easy. Machines like me aren't used to feeling vulnerable, and we don't much like it. Or at least, I don't. I can't speak for other Fusiliers.
"Are the mag-locks really necessary?" I once again asked. "I can probably pull myself free, you know."
"Just don't want you shifting about while I'm working, Lieutenant. We've been over this," the mechanic replied from somewhere behind me. The earsplitting shriek of the drill returned with a momentary discomfort, and then my head suddenly felt a good twenty pounds lighter. There was a considerable clunk as the piece was set down, followed by the uneasy feeling of somebody rooting around inside my skull.
"I'm sorry this is such an ordeal. Must be easier with other machines," I said, feeling a bit embarrassed.
"Not to worry, there's a reason this port isn't out in the open. Wouldn't want just anyone getting at it, would you?" he responded cheerfully, stepping back around. "The deprogrammer will be with you in just a moment, alright?"
I tried to nod, but it took me a moment before the locks disengaged and I could move again. The mechanic hefted his toolbag and headed out of the room, and I tried to think happy thoughts. Tried not to think about the fact that my processors, the damnable lump of silicon and gold that made me me, were currently without the half-inch of starforged steel that protected it from the world. Even months on, I still couldn't get used to it.
The wire snaking out of the back of my head and over my shoulder wasn't helping.
The door clicked open.
"So, Dora, how are we doing today?" Cameron asked, taking a seat opposite. They were a Machinist, obviously, a bit on the small size, and they did all their reading with a monocle lens over one eye. I can only assume he preferred very small fonts.
"A bit overwhelmed, to be honest," I replied. Cameron nodded, plucking their computer book from the bag beside the chair and plugging in the wire currently running to my processors.
"What do we say we work on that a little?" they asked.
"If we could, please?"
The book powered on, and I could see characters scroll across it, my processes rendered in code as I thought them. Following my eyes, Cameron lifted the book and settled in. Right. First thing I asked when I'd first come in was to see my own code. After assuring me that everyone asked that, he told me it wasn't advisable. Quickest path to thinking yourself into an infinite loop, and I had more than enough of those.
"Right, so, tell me about the last two weeks. How are you holding up?"
Deprogramming is something that soldiers talk about with a sort of reverent fear, and it had made it unthinkable to me for years, but now that I've started, it's a rather pleasant experience for the most part. Of course, it helped that Cameron was one of the most patient machines I'd ever had the pleasure of interacting with.
It was remarkably simple, really. They'd ask about what had unfolded over the week and all I needed to do was be honest. When they asked follow-up questions, I'd elaborate, and we'd talk about how to handle things next time. And I had a lot to talk about.
Deprogramming wasn't reprogramming, as much as skittish machines might conflate the two. Reprogramming would be hideously unethical; I understood it was something that only happened when a machine's code broke beyond functionality and no alternative could be found. So instead, I brought up relevant sections of programming as I talked, which Cameron flagged in their codebook.
From what I understood, the programming of machines was dynamic, unlike the static code executed by, say, a horse's navigational computer or the regulatory tabulator on a transmutative reactor. That's what made us self-aware, the fact that the act of executing our code changed it. We were robust systems built on a strong foundation, but glitches would emerge in any system if subject to the wrong circumstance.
Or, as the quote under the framed portrait in Cameron's office liked to remind me, "I have been asked, 'Pray, Mr. Babbage, if you put into the machine wrong figures, will the right answers come out?'"
I certainly had a lot to talk about in any case, with the week I'd had. Cameron never judged anything I said, just listening patiently, reading the code as I dredged up everything that had happened. The first few sessions had been dense, awful things, picking at the memories and trauma at the centre of all my problems. But now that we had a solid grasp on my issues and could deal with them one week at a time, things were far more routine.
As much as I sometimes wished Cameron would take a pen and strike out all the awful things resting in my drives, it wouldn't work. Those things were me, etched inexorably into the way I thought. Every time I'd dwelt on them, every time I'd repressed an authentic expression, every bad habit I'd built, they etched themselves deeper into my circuits. Every dark thought had come with increased weight on some statistic, a new variable to be referenced by other thoughts in a great tangled knot. Delete those, and my code probably wouldn't even run at this point.
For all their problems, humans are very lucky they don't run on code as we do.
The work of fixing my wayward thoughts was not one Cameron could simply do. It was work I'd have to do, problems I'd have to disentangle one thought at a time. But having help made it far, far more manageable.
"... well, yes, you've had quite the week indeed," they said, staring over the code with concern in their eyes. "Though I think you've handled it quite well, for the record. Far better than you might have a few months ago."
"I-I suppose," I replied, not quite believing it. Knowing they could see my uncertainty plain as day, I continued, "It doesn't quite feel that way to me. It was all quite uncomfortable."
"The elimination of discomfort is neither our goal, nor something to be desired. Discomfort is very often just something testing our boundaries. While not all boundaries are healthy, having none wouldn't be good either," they reminded me. "And testing our boundaries very often how we grow. Now, I must ask one thing. It's not surprising you're so willing to spend on others, it's in our nature, but I must ask… did you ever get that knee joint replaced?"
"... no," I admitted. "I've just not gotten around to it. Besides, the current joint would hold a while longer, so I'm not… I'm making excuses, aren't I?"
"It's good you recognized it, at least!" they replied, clearly pleased. "You'll forgive me making the presumption, but I have a feeling this ties more generally to your unwillingness to spend money on yourself. This isn't uncommon, but you are a somewhat extreme case."
"To be fair, I can't hardly afford it. Running a Fusilier is expensive," I admitted. "I can't afford it; I can barely afford these sessions. I only go because I promised Miriam, sorry…"
"No, I know," Cameron said quietly. Of course, they could probably see it whenever it came up. "I am glad you come anyway."
"It's just... if I spend money on every little thing, I… I'll..."
"But you can afford to lend out almost thirty percent of your yearly salary to a friend so he can make a charitable donation," Cameron pointed out. "And this isn't a little thing. If you can't move, you can't work."
I said nothing. They were obviously correct.
"I'm not a financial planner. I can't help you with the details of your long-term upkeep. But if you don't at least do some short-term upkeep, you won't last long enough for it to matter. May I make a suggestion?"
"Of course."
"Can I leave you a comment about this, perhaps?"
I'd been wary of it, worried about letting some strange machine make changes in my programming, even changes we both agreed to. But something this small, this simple, just a reminder, it seemed very reasonable. It might also be a good way to acclimate myself to the idea, which was probably what Cameron was thinking.
"I'd like that, yes," I admitted.
"Good!" Cameron said, plucking their pen from the charger and twirling it dexterously through their fingers. "Let's sort this out, shall we? Now, what will you do after our session?"
"Go to the regimental engineer and buy a new part. Bring it home, have Tom install it," I replied, fidgeting with my hands rather uncomfortably. "Simple as that. Just go buy it." And not think about how much it costs. How fast I go through them. How much that would add up...
Cameron started scratching away and then they'd go in with their pen. Not code to be executed, but just comments. Reminders for next time.
"Just go buy it?"
"It'll be easy," I confirmed. And expensive.
//and it was okay to spend money on myself. I deserved it.
Cameron looked up from the codebook.
"I'm afraid our session is nearing its end, but I'll see you in two weeks?"
.
