2: Copious Comestibles And Conversations Combustible

Aetherships are not a homogeneous group. The very name implies ships that move through aether, yet this description inadequately explains variety of manufacture. Despite the limbs and outward flourishes clothing a ship differently, their unified purpose retains a uniform application within the heart of any ship. Small or large, elegant or ungainly, they all share simple principles. First, they employ Azoth Engines, which utilize precisely measured and deployed quintessence to agitate thaumian steams in a manner akin to rapid osmosis. Agitated steam moves turbines, turbines turn pistons, pistons create mechanical motion. Simple, actually, for even wayward Earthers understand the simplistic concepts behind the workings of a joule.

If this were all Azoth Vapor did to advance science - creating propulsion engines to convey roboticals via autotransportive machines - the lives of Nomm would be made tranquil, lacking only convenient flight between moons. The thaumian properties of refined aether also derives amalgamated forms of quintessence, begetting compounds that manipulate relativistic density. It can even incite effects unknown in Earther science, a form of negative density, as if the properties of thaumian energies stretched from quantifiable finity into unquantifiably infinite directions. This negative density, when applying alloys receptive to thaumian transference, such as copper and brass, brings about fanciful properties unbound by so-called natural laws.

Such were the thoughts of Miss Safie as she transversed the gangplank leading from the depot toward the waiting aethership, scientific inquisitivity a curse long holding firm grip upon her attentions. A protracted glass cylinder, built to appear as a miniature of the ribbed brass and glass of the depot itself, the gangplank allowed the young alchemist and hundreds of others queued with her to take in the barren rock of Hanhagi. In contrast to the moon’s dead environs, dozens of aetherships either docking, preparing to dock or taking leave of the moon’s gravity to enter the aether proper among the sublime backdrop of Nomm had a life all its own, the macro ships mirroring the micro roboticals entering and exiting those ships. Foremost among them - at least for Miss Safie, was the largest of those vessels, upon whose gangplank she strode.

“The Steven Louis Robertson,” Miss Safie read from the hull of the ship. “Appears the designer was of two minds when she built the craft.” For while ships may appear different, inside they contained the same purpose, Miss Safie assured herself. The - lacking better rhetoric - fashion of a ship should not influence an enlightened woman of this modern era. Yet…

Almond in abstract dimension, the twelve hundred foot long (366 m) cruiser deployed a cylindrical alloyed bronze dirigible twice the ship’s volume to aloft it aetherborn so close to the gravitation foothold of the satellite. The steerage fins were copper, but in dire desperation of maintenance and entirely green instead of burnished orange. Only the aft force propellers showed lustre, as if the ship had recently partially refitted. Utilizing a copper hull, the brass and silver tubes ribbing the outside of the hull was entirely too excessive for a ship of this size. It gave it a strange striped appearance and frankly, in the knowledgeable yet not expert opinion of Miss Safie, this was an ugly ship.

“I feel as if I am to embark upon a journey while encased inside a satire,” Miss Safie announced, gesturing to the mishmashed hull of the ship with emphasis.

The stewardess, showing immense decorum, paused only briefly to acknowledge silent judgment upon the appalling state of Miss Myrlass’ own satirical fashion then nodding in noncommittal agreeance. “Quite right, ma’am. Ticket and papers, please?”

Grumbling something or other about the cheek of the service industry, Miss Myrlass presented her bonafides again and followed the directions given - quick march through the aetherlock and down three flights of stairs - towards her assigned stateroom. As the ship’s engines could already be heard to start actuation, the halls were mostly empty as people secured themselves for deorbit. It opportuned Miss Safie a chance to grit her teeth and quicken her pace without worry of civility, finding her room without further incident.

Closing the door to her small yet tidy second class accommodations and noting her traveling luggage properly installed, the woman released her grip on etiquette and ground gears in pain as she sloughed out of her coat, the pain of it all shorting too many circuits. Inch by inch of red leather was peeled from fractured alloys, trying to keep the haphazard rivets in place or prevent any metallurgical epidurmal decortication [1]. While she struggled with garments, one hand found the valve to dim the gaslight and then remove her goggles.

“Strumping flapcladle!” Miss Safie vehemenced sharply, hissing as she tore the last bit of coat off and regretting her thrice-cursed existential pursuit of life, liberty and financial independence.

As far as injuries the alchemist had inflicted upon herself - abusing her personal peculiarity towards augmentational applications combined with a chaotic blend of resonant alloys - she had done worse physical damage times past. Every sensor in her body was lit up with painful feedback loops that threatened early onset recursion, such was the intensity. The underlying symptom lay with the offal filth that had invaded itself inside her person. Internal engineering that allowed mechanical life was a delicate balance of precisely torqued contrivances that did not mingle well with alien constituents: hence the need for a properly constructed and sealed carapace. There was also the matter of personal modesty and societal punctilio, the common expectation one’s dynomatical apparatuses remain discrete. Nevertheless, in the privacy of secluded quarters, Miss Safie galvanized her upper lip and set propriety aside. While the splits in her chassis from shoulder to fingertips held together with dozens of bronze rivets appeared sickening and even life threatening to roboticals unaccustomed to viewing excessive exposed gearage, to Miss Safie this was her typical state of being. If motors had remained uncontaminated after such a brief alchemical actuation as she initiated in the dungeon, half an hour with torch and weld from her effects would have her arm as good as jammed biscuits.

“Twice blasted faulty hydraulical pistons, I might lose another arm and then were would I be?” Miss Safie groused, smelling sweet leaked coolant mixed with the auric aroma of her more unique fluids [2]. Thermagetic would be the most descriptive word for her arm, ichor and oil mixing into suppuration, leaking past split breaks in her patchwork plating as heat and steam wafted upwards, her transmission skelunking from unmatching cogteeth. This was no simple repair, as her radiator would fail altogether in the next day based on the alarming amount of fluids and calefaction, leaving her systems inert slag from evaporated lubrications.

“Not many palatable options before me,” the young woman spoke to the arm directly, hoping for insight from the offending limb. “The simple answer is to grind you off and build another, but I lack enough tungsten. Never mind the money, the time to construct an arm is three months and time is a commodity I might not have excess of once in Asylon.”

Shuffling to the lavatory space of the stateroom, she crouched to enter as the doorway did not allow robust roboticals such as herself much accommodation. Tapping the water, Miss Safie used a cloth to clean indignations off her arm and get a more acute inspection of the damage.

“Of course I have the other option, Mrs. Arm [3], as you are well aware, but I am loathe to expend something so valuable and substantial on something so - and I imply no offense - trivial. You are, after all, just an arm.”

Seeing a clean part of her body again and firming to the idea of being rid of the day in toto, Miss Safie finished disrobing and made use of the limited faculties provided, scrubbing her plating to a polish and scouring all remaining reminders of the defecationed detour. It didn’t stop her arm from overheating, but whether voiced out loud or not, the young alchemist already arrived to a hard accord. It was time to use her precious Catholicon.

“I yearn for future leisures when time and funds allow me to transmute more of these.” In her right hand, a large syringe from her luggage held a swirling violet liquid, the microscopic maelstrom flashing bursts of luminance into the caliginous gaslight of the room. “If this concoction wasn’t so cogging difficult to fabricate, I would have gallons in reserve, even if the cost of its use is years upon my cognition. And just my luck I need to use it before I jump into the lion’s den. This entire day has cost me hundreds of pounds!”

Truly, as Miss Safie jabbed the needle into a rubber head seal at the motor in her shoulder and compressed the plunger, the existential pain from losing money hurt nearly as much as the pain of another elixir flowing into her circulatory engines.

“AAAAAHHH!!” Miss Safie screamed, her throat smashed raw from the pain of feeling every weld in her body break at once and then reform again, her pistons bulging and tearing apart her entire body even as burst rivets throughout her chassis crawled quickly back over before too much ichor ruptured from her seals. Parts of her grew, parts retracted, the woman who had fallen on the floor and curled in a painful fetal shape looked one moment a distorted and misshapen hulk, the next an entirely different abomination as her own body attempted to expand and compress like a child squishing and squeezing a rubbery bladder to see what shapes they could malform. The difficulty with this analogue is more often than not, the child bursts the bladder, a feeling Miss Safie felt positive would happen to her this time.

Retreating into her mind, Miss Safie remembered a girl simply called Safie, playing in the calcium reeds near the river that ran past her home. Even as a young girl, she had the patchworked plating, but the rivets were painted in bright colors and loving soldered by a mother with deft hands. She remembered hating her own failing chassis, always in need of new alloys as her own body lacked the ability to properly bond with metals, transplants and grafts and the constant need to weld even the most minor of injuries. A girl hardly eight years old tripping in those corals and popping a rivet, then crying in her mother’s arms and saying she wanted to degrade into Recursion.

Little Live Wire, Recursion might stop the pain but it will also stop new laughter, Safie’s mother whispered to her, a dazzling smile causing tears to stop falling and filled with all the love a mother could give a child. A bit of hurt is worth hearing your happiness every day.

“Ha…haha…” Miss Safie laughed, smiling past fresh tears as she remembered another reason to live.

The room lurched hard enough Miss Safie bumped into the small couch next to her luggage, dissonant whines of massive Azoth Engines fortuitously drowning her loud indiscretions. The aethership was fully underway at this point. Struggling to her hands and knees, the gasping alchemist needed to determine what the Catholicon had transformed her into this time. Hanging from the back of the door was a serviceable mirror.

“Every time I use this son of a combustible dregbin, I estimate it costs me more in clothing alterations than it does to formulize the coggled concoction. I do believe I grew two inches this time,” Miss Safie lamented towards herself with her usual need to talk foregoing the want of a companionable listener, going back to her luggage and pulling out her measuring cords and note paper with ink, quill and sandbox. The following half hour was spent taking notes over how calamitously this affair would ruin her wardrobe before she had opportunity to call upon a haberdasher or seamstress.

“Upper arms, thirty-one inches (79 cm). Chest, seventy-two inches (183 cm). Bust…,” Miss Safie muttered as she dipped into her inkwell and scratched in her small hand precise notations, flushing a bit as she scribbled equations into her notes. “Never mind I’m now seven feet and eleven inches tall (241 cm), I’ll hit eight feet with my boots and that is simply intolerable. If my feet will even fit into my boots any more. I do appreciate losing two inches in my waist to strike a more feminine silhouette, but now my hips and thighs and especially my posterior are large enough people will accuse me of constantly wearing a bustle.”

Studying herself minutely, the young woman grimaced at other changes. “Most rivets have popped and half my plating needs rewelding: I will be hours under the torch. The glow to my eye lanterns increased, look to be a brighter orange, like two glowing pumpkins. I think they are now forming closer to an oval in the iris aperture, might eventually slice diagonal. And I feel…” she says, opening her mouth wide and running her tongue along silvery teeth, “…all of my molars have changed completely from flat to sharper fangs. Society will think my augmentational choices speak of liberal tendencies! Though if my estimates are correct, I’ve gained twenty-five extra stone, far more mass than any other times I have subjected myself to the Catholicon.”

Her stomach growling loud enough to overpower ambient engine noises, reminding forcefully the other side effect of her body manipulation elixir. Quickly finishing notes monitoring the effects of the Catholicon, she dashed the sand upon the wet ink and got about finding clothing that would make her at least moderately presentable for public company.

********************

The Steven Louis Robertson was one of a small fleet dedicated to transporting people and goods between Issere and Hanhagi. Having so many valuable dungeons nearby would be an utter waste if there were no means of conveyance between the Dyson Detritus. According to journalists who made dungeon trends their business, it was estimated that a full twelfth of all dungeon material from a thousand different diverse dungeons in all the hundreds of moons came out of Hanhagi. The satellite orbiting Issere wasn’t some blithe tourist spot or a lighthearted mining enterprise casually harvesting the occasional trinket of quintessence for lowly hedge alchemists, this was the foundation an empire built itself upon.

Taking this into consideration, the Robertson could well be thought of as their ferry flagship, an ugly behemoth to be sure but the amenities were on a far higher shelf than would have been offered by some scow for a few shillings. Private staterooms with personal lavatories were only part of the package, the real draw being the first rate dining halls with light entertainment available to all passengers. A touch of class to a group used to living their middling lives without thought of manners beyond simple common courtesy.

To those who knew her, Miss Safie exuded the aura of a penny pinching spinster, counting each and every coin in a manner bordering on miserly. Which meant when she spent her coin on something extravagant, her acquaintances often became absolutely befuddled over perceived opulence. However, it wasn’t that Miss Safie was frugal, but rather that she calculated costs. A lesser ship would treat her expensive cargo with unsatisfactory care, thousands of pounds contained in crates secured underneath her feet in the hold, properly tagged and insured. What good would it do her to arrive at Asylon with irreplaceable freight damaged beyond repair?

More importantly, the meals were provided upon this day trip to the capital. Eyes alight behind tinted goggles, Miss Safie couldn’t stop from licking her lips while redolenting the mandelbrium breakfasts around the hall.

Thirty-two pounds? Miss Safie thought, totaling prices of three meals and various snacks that followed. It cost me thirty-two pounds to charter this trip. I’ll eat that in the appetizer alone.

“Madame, might I have your name?” the Maître d'Hôtel asked, standing behind a thin lectern with large feathered pen in hand.

“Miss Safie Wollesteinkunst Myrlass, Doctorate Alchemical.”

The waiter checked his book, nodded and extended his hand with a whirling flourish towards the hall, bowing politely to her while subtly gesturing towards a lad scampering from behind the arch leading down some small steps into an open room tastefully decorated in quartz and gilt brass. “Barnabas here will attend, and welcome to the Café Auguste Antonia.”

“Morn’n, mum,” the boy greeted enthusiastically, though he quickly quelled under the withering glare of the Maître d'Hôtel and put on a more austere mien, bowing properly and trying again. “Pardon myself, ‘tis my first time serving passengers proper. If my lady would follow me to her seat?”

Miss Safie smirked, affably following Barnabas and fixing her hat to sit better upon the untamable bundle of thick black wired curls. A small topper, the bit of millin was dusty roseate with a crimson bow and sat upon her hair wire nest more as ornamentation than any form of nommlight protection. Though not quite to the pink, the young woman ensemblized an outfit appropriately mod and only the most discerning or couth would place her fashion below water, a difficile feat under her proportionally challenging circumstances. Arms too burgeonous for any sleeves, Miss Safie settled on a white alencon vest layered atop celadon green wool that stretched over the hips paired with a corset missing most of its boning to account for fit. Though baring her shoulders, the effect was softened with long white gloves coming up to her biceps [4]. Forgoing bustle, her crimson and cream striped petticoat had once been a serviceable evening gown affair in three layered ruffles, but newly accrued height followed by quick seamwork had it hanging more like a summer Visiting Dress, showcasing recently shined white boots that pinched toes but otherwise functional. The entire approach was brought together with a neck scarf tied as an overly large open cravat, which was in line with the extravagant tastes of Uautet and helped distract from obviously strained seams the recently grown alchemist experienced with her current ill-fitted clothing.

“Here ya go!” Barnabas flourished happily, pulling out a chair towards the port side of the ship and within a few feet of the large parlour style windows keeping the cabin free of dangerous radicals floating in the aether between moons. Remembering himself, he flushed a bit and added a quick “ma’am” at the end.

“Absolutely delightful, Mr. Barnabas,” Miss Myrlass replied, stumbling a little as she sat herself and allowed the boy to act the gentleman, her new centers of gravity irksome problems. She would be adjusting her spinal torque in the next week otherwise face a bumbling gait. She also only barely fit within the confines of the chair, her hips squeaking against the armrest of brass wrought workings making the experience seem more like an outdoor excursion than intimate dining. “Might I inquire over the menu?”

“Certainly, um…”

Taking pity on the poor lad - who was flustered over inexperience or exuberance, Miss Myrlass was unsure which - she gestured towards a bit of paper sticking out of the boy’s breast pocket, a likely culprit, smiling daintily as she adjusted goggles to fit better over her faceplate.

“Right!” Pulling out the paper, Barnabas scrunched his face as he read down the list of items. “We have a bunch of great stuff, the dish of the day is…”

“Forgive my rudeness,” Miss Myrlass interrupted, suddenly too hungry to care for niceties, “but I am terribly famished, so I will cut to the quick and arrive at the conclusion: yes.”

Barnabas blinked, unsure what the imposing lady meant. “Yes?”

“Yes. As in, I will take an order of everything on your menu.”

“…everything?”

“Indeed.” If Miss Myrlass had thought to bring a fan, she would have snapped it open to appear discreet while covering her face. However, no amount of discreetness could blanket a woman ordering a gluttony of food.

*gulp*

“When you say everything…?” Barnabas was a bit lost, fearing a whipping if he returned to the Maître d'Hôtel for obviously getting such a simple order wrong. There had to be a mistake, who would make an order of everything?

“Take your slip of paper, hand it to the Chef de Cuisine, explain there is a hungry damsel who is ravishingly peckish and of stately stature desiring to sup upon the entirety of the breakfast menu with a majority complement of lightly seared minerals. Now, this noble kitchen executive might blanch their circuits and ask you such things as are you completely in confidence she asked for everything? and perhaps she meant to ask for bearnaised pyrite? Your reply will be that it is unlikely I shall have my fill of food unless this sturdy and serviceable table is groaning under the weight of victuals. Then, in fair warning, you should probably announce to him that this mademoiselle and her appetite will be returning for lunch and dinner.”

The boy gulped again, fully realizing the lot he’d been served today. He stood frozen, circuits apparently gone into shock.

“Buck up! Strapping youth like yourself, does the carburetor good to have a task bestowing character.” Pulling the sealed note out of the sleeve of her glove, she slid it across the table along with two shillings she flourished out of what looked like the thin air [5]. “I also have need to meet with a Mr. Fafnir, whom I am led to understand has taken charter upon this vessel. Please convey this letter to him. After my meal and meeting, there are another two shillings in it for yourself.”

Proper capitalism infected the boy, enthusiasm returned the polish to his plating. Letter and coin disappeared as if disapperated by their own magics while he grinned chipperly towards his benefactor. “I know the gent, used to carry his bags ‘fore my promotion, he’ll get the note. An’ if’n there’s anything else ya need, be sure to call for Barnaby.”

Miss Myrlass smiled her thanks and the boy was off at a run, likely wondering if there were any other jobs this large dark-plated woman could have him do for a few more bobs.

Settling in, Miss Safie downshifted the rev in her motors towards a relaxing torque while the chatting patrons and a skilled string quartet in the corner played a subdued version of a song she recognized came from Earth, the tune a familiar one about a girl who punishes evil but keeps getting distracted by mysterious florists. After a day of fighting, filth, painful transmission, artificially energized despite heavy weariness, the young woman sighed as the phantom pains in her arm finally faded and she could sit for a moment in peace.

Her mind wandered to introspection as it was want to do. Soon to feast upon repast most hearty, she thought towards the process upon life circling the failed solar known as Nomm. Rather, there would be no thought, if not for sciences introduced by various Earthers over past ages. Lacking flesh and blood, it did not stop roboticals from living in their unique manners. Instead of meat, metal; instead of blood, silicone lubricant; engines burned mandelbrium infusion of common materials, mostly mineral, which in turn became the thaumian rich nutrition commonly designated ichor. Water and nitrogen thinned into ichor through a robotical’s radiator to become coolant. The internal systems of a person continued existence with the energy farmed from aether and mingled with essential minerals and elements to create what is commonly known as food. All because some Earther times past looked upon a steaming granite slab and called it a steak.

This confusion of language continued into all aspects of life on Nomm’s moons [6]. Clothing was not made of cotton and wool, at least not in the molecular identity between the two worlds. The silk of her corset was a fibrous collection of aluminum shavings bound in an epoxy that was harvested from spidery creatures known as skyrantula: roughly the size of a cat, platted in dark bronze and known for creating massive webs in deep forests. They were called spiders because they reminded Earthers of terran arachnids and it was called silk because it likewise reminded Earthers of the same. Even trees were not as such, their growth a thaumian induced cogwork that lacked the circuitry for sentience, long and tall and typically harvested for their thick metallic plating. It would forever be the curse of Nomm that nothing become uniquely their own, the most invasive disease being ideas.

Stolen novel; please report.

“Oi, lads, I dinnae ken this freighter let fustiluging siùrsaches parade ‘round de decks wit’oot so much as a dramfeckable by-yer-leave! Ha!”

Having never been called a fustiluging siùrsach, it took Miss Myrlass a time to realize the ruckus three tables over was offensive at her expense. In fact, she had only caught the latest in what had surely been a string of obscenities slung her way, only paying attention near the end because the rest of the offending table cachinnated with such insulting gusto that many of the other late morning patrons were muttering indiscreetly.

“Honestly, if crassitude is the only skill you possess of any measure, not only do I find you lacking in proper profanity - for I am sure a primitive automaton flinging its own incoherent screams could articulate verbal invectives with more bite than you - but I dread to know what else about your person fails to measure up. If, indeed, up is the measurement applicable.”

Had Miss Myrlass spent three weeks constructing an apparatus allowing her to pull a lever, which turned a goldbergian mass of cogs, releasing steam and ending with a hand slapping the rusted braggart across the face, it would have had less of an effect upon his countenance. The wit of this bluestocking woman was in high form. Which is when the distractedly smug Miss Myrlass remembered where her sensors had heard such hebetudinous dialect: earlier, outside Mr. Nammerworth’s office, it was this iron blaggard that nearly accosted the lad and his knowledgeable grandmother.

Crinkling his face in confusion - glowing a touch in displaced heat, the empty bottles of strong spirits near him explaining his state more than some form of embarrassment and offering nothing new to his reputation - the broad man barely fitting into frock and vest, limp cravat askew, it appeared as if he remembered her as well in that moment, grinding into a flustered silence. Other patrons in surrounding tables were faster on the uptake and clapped tables in appreciation, some even letting out appreciative chortles by and by. Which warmed Miss Myrlass to the quick, knowing her japes did not pass by the entirety of the dining room.

“Though I am inclined ta give ya da deservin’ thrashin’ a verminal imposter the like of ya is, I just put on eh new pair o’ gloves an’ I wun’t wanna dirty them wid somethin’ so clearly reckin’ of da Sewers, hyehyehye!” The crowd around the man cheered at what they all felt was a hard zing in the fight.

Still brimming from her recent elixirial injection, bandying words with a witless carbunkle remained an amusing distraction while waiting for morning comestibles. Turning her head, Miss Myrlass scanned the café and took the room in, for understanding one’s environment is the art through which one wins wars. Later in the morning than a proper mealtime for working individuals, no more than fifty sat and leisured themselves in a room that could hold hundreds. Men and women in equal measure - as delving was for skilled adventurers, holding in equal measure between the sexes - light brass plates and dark wired hair commonly associated with native Isserians held an easy majority. A few fey-framed folk in silvers and gold from Némriu, a pair of winged and multi-limbs hailing from the mountains of Tianzho, a single woman sipping tea in the corner with more bulk than Miss Myrlass had by three times, likely from the breadbasket of Aiara: this close to Asylon, a typical mix of cultures. And while the cut of their fabrics might have been modest or frayed, the group as one were enjoying the commute between planets with a touch of class and nothing more.

Likewise, as the hungry alchemist had noted before, the expansive open room was crafted with the medium tones of quartz and highlighted with what she now noticed was an infusion inlay technique of polished brass rather than the gilding she assumed earlier. Warm elegance of simple flora patterns were contrasted with tall rectangular windows sealed firmly in place to the hull’s copper opposite. This gave a person equal opportunity to feel intimate in a closed room lit with dusky gaslight then face in the other direction and behold Nomm, moons and the glorious expanse of the ribboned starlight known commonly as Enil, or the Sky River.

“Little man, I am in more threat of harm from a bowl of overcooked resin than I would be from a rantallion such as yourself.” Scooching her chair to face the offender, she obtained unobstructed view of him and his companions, warming to the game of insults and enjoying the light sport. “Sincerely, if I thought you understood a more educated tongue, I would continue to trade our verbal barbs until at least my refreshment arrived. Ergo, as a courtesy to yourself and obvious mental deficiencies, I shall speak to you in the speech you ken understand, you flaccid-neckpiece, bear-face, stew-fuddled, klype-drepe-bachle, gethur-upin’-blate-maw, bleetherin’, gomaril, kayrin, oaf-sniffin’, staunir, nyeff, palookie, shen, purga-drinking, soy-boy shilpot, mim-moothin’, sniveled, worm-nosed, hutten-blaigh, vile-stoochy, kally-breke-Tattie!”

“Enough!” The coolant sodden gascon pushed off from the table and heaved upright, lumbering around and thrusting his rust-spotted iron jaw down into Miss Myrlass’ face, his breath inebriated sufficiently to transmute an entire vat of gold into sludge. “Yer addressin’ Cormag Fine, da heir o’ Corbin Fine, Viceroy o’ Némriu. Me an’ my kin ‘ave slagged fightin’ da Móraiġ hordes fer generations an’ I detest da fetor o’ some gadget’s ginmhillte sittin’ ‘mung decent folk likin’ it were a person. Dun think yer togs ca’ hide what yer really are, uile-bhéist.” To emphasize his point, he smudged a greasy gloved finger onto one of the tinted lenses of her goggles, pushing her head back slightly.

Miss Myrlass did not reply immediately, understanding the rules of the game had changed. It was the reason she kept herself as attired as possible, her inability to bond metals to circuits was thought to be a case of monstrous parentage rather than a simple autoimmune disorder. Years insouciant passed since she had heard the old insults, and with some regret she found they still stung. A few chairs in periphery scraped as honorable gentlebots likely sought to defend a maiden’s honor, but the young alchemist quickly held up a firm hand, silently forestalling violence done in her name. For, while it warmed her to know there were men of character on board this ship, as she took out her handkerchief and cleaned the offending grease off the tinted goggle, this was her affair and it was her pride that dictated actions now.

Truly, it took a bit of effort to keep from smiling and giving the game away as she stood, looming two feet taller than the noisome bit of robotical scoria.

“I have not premiered opportunity to become learned in the Némriuian dialect, though I am sure the Sídhe words had rough meaning, sprinkled as they were among whatever you pretended to vocalize in imitation of a common tongue.” Miss Myrlass did not back down, stepping forward and forcing Mr. Fine into a clear space between the tables. “Instead, I shall respond to your assault upon my character conveyed through your manner and tone. It is the unfortunate lot that I have learned to expect this reception.

“Or,” Miss Myrlass emphasized with a quiet pause, removing her gloves and hat, clenching her fists hard enough to rev her engines, her wiring glowing hot as steam escaped her joints, “you are simply daft. Your bigotry has no dictate upon my worth and I cannot control your own infantile concepts of offense. Therefore, since words lack an ability to bring about sufficient corrective alacrity at this point - and because I am without second, traveling alone - I am going to have my satisfaction this instant and then use your limp body as a footrest while I enjoy what smells like a delightful breakfast.”

*Dun dun DUUUN!*

Both Miss Myrlass and Mr. Fine - and, indeed, the entire collected audience in the room - paused to turn and look at the forgotten quartet. Having just finished playing those three ominous notes, tension broke and patrons clapped tables while others passed coins as the betting started. A few others moved furniture around to clear a space. Fights among delvers were just another way to pass the time, no sense in missing out on choice entertainment. Picking up on the mood, the strings got to work with a song in a faster tempo and a complex counter-harmony [7].

“I will speculate ten pounds on my victory!” Miss Myrlass cried, slamming some of the last of her coin onto the table to the reply of cheers, ratcheting her neck while girding her petticoat up to give herself range of motion, though it left her boots - and some lace stockings - scandalously exposed.

Oddly, for all his bluster, Mr. Fine became unloquacious, only removing his coat but keeping his ruffled white sleeves down and dark gloves on. His silent glare should have given Miss Myrlass hesitation, but she was too keyed up for obvious cues and only waited for sport to begin. Seconds ticked on the clock, he appeared ready and Miss Myrlass took that as indication to begin.

The burly woman was not unfamiliar with pugilist arts, known to dabble both between friends and in light competition. Though more expert in alchemical combat, her physique and potency lent her well even against girthy opponents. And although she had gained some minimal instruction, she had never required further training before today.

It was with a great deal of surprise, then, that when she threw what should have been a knockout haymaker towards the rusty jaw of her opponent, Mr. Fine caught her hand and arrested all momentum.

*clrnk!*

I may have made an unfortunate error, Miss Myrlass thought, knowing the difference between hitting iron - which she had expected - and quality alloy - which broke axles in her knuckles. The breadcrumbs of understanding were all there if the woman had sensors to pick up the input that this was not just a layabout scoundrel, but rather an entitled member of the peerage familiar with military combat. In other words, one with means and motive to outfit their body to the peak of augmentational capabilities.

“Yer gonna regret shewin’ yer face, lass,” Mr. Fine whispered, slapping his chest and causing a slow wail to build in pitch as two smoke stacks emerged out of his back and tore his shirt off his body. Torso sculpted out of hardened copper and electrum, pistons and cogs whirling in time to a central furnace waking up to a full steam, his augments clearly in a class far above Miss Myrlass’ own. Well constructed augments, as he proved by closing his mechanical hand unremittingly, forcing Miss Myrlass to her knees with a gasp of pain. To give proper scope, in that moment, staring up into his burnished lanterns and cruel smile, Miss Myrlass felt as if she stood in the middle of a locomotive track and held out her arms to futilely stop an oncoming train.

It occurs too late upon discernment that I am opponented against odds transcending my capabilities, Miss Myrlass thought with more stubbornness than sense. Would that I kept better reign on my temper, as this is my routine most common. La! Better to die valiant death than suffer cowardly ruination!

Pain was an old friend. Forcing herself to ruminate logically, she inspected closer at the torso in front of her, heat from his engine smelting her lips. It was a work of art, put together by a master cogsmith. She would have loved to dissect Mr. Fine and ascertain if she could recreate the various articulation points, discover the torque limit each could withstand; however, at the moment she had ten pounds riding on this fight and academics must need be put aside for more urgent affairs. Tracing around the armpit underexposure, she determined his hand articulations were controlled by pneumatic pistons rather than a traditional - and more reliable - pulley system regulated through hydraulics. All that was left was proper elocution in reply to his vituperation.

“I believe my face is perfectly showable,” Miss Myrlass sassed, throwing her left shoulder back to pull her truculent adversary towards her while swinging her right elbow around in a sharp maneuver directly where his arm pistons stored compressed steam. “But better to be a girl without a face than a man full of hot air!” Her witticism punctuated when her elbow punctured the casing and a riot of Vapor spilled out, throwing the two combatants apart. The crowd gave appropriate applause.

As the steam hazed the room and filled with the octarinian odor of Azoth Vapor, Miss Myrlass struggled to her feet and flexed her hand to assess damages.

“Elbow needs a new plate, but I can worry about that later.” There was enough Vapor in the room that breathing it in was causing Miss Myrlass’ sensors to tangent [8]. Scanning the floor, her goggles an advantage as they protected her lanterns, there would be nothing to see for another bundle of seconds until the thaumian density dispersed through the ship’s air ducts. “Right now I am concerned my banter has grown stale. Man full of hot air? Really, I find that more depressing than impotent tea.”

Despite her own whimsical monologue, Miss Myrlass worried. Augmented as he was, Mr. Fine proved far stronger than even her own significant transmissions could moil. And though she might have disabled one of his arms, the fact the room was quiet - excepting only the quartet, playing a low and tense tone currently - told her he had sealed the leak in some fashion and only the gods would know what other contraptions were secreted about his robotical person. In short, without alchemical advantages, this fight was going to end badly for her unless she could discover another inspirational advantage.

Miss Myrlass’ height, outward thrusting corset and extravagant cravat were her undoing, all conspiring to prevent her from perceiving her lower environs. Coming from a lower stature, before the wary alchemist could even register the man crouched beneath her, his working shoulder rammed into her abdomen with enough direction and force to fling her fifteen feet (4.6 m) into the air and crash her against the durable purgaglass separating the room from empty aether. With a launch estimate of about 4600 newtons [9] into her abdomen and up into her diaphragm, she had no air to intake when she hit the glass, giving opportunity to hear minute cracking of glass over the tangency in her sensors. Truly, if she had been less dense [10] and her body more in line with traditional robotical construction, this shouldercheck would have been scrapped a lesser chassis. As it was - gravity reasserting itself while she slid down the glass - her lanterns went dark from shorted concussion, lack of air intake and general metal fatigue.

“Not jus’ yet, lass.” Unsure of the motions betwixt then and now because of faulty sensors, Mr. Fine caught her around the throat and held her up by pressing her into the glass, more faint cracks stating he was only a slight pressure away from exposing the entire compartment with chaotic aether.

In a weird place that minds go when held up by the neck after being flung across a dining parlor, Miss Myrlass wondered - as much as she could wonder while trying to imbibe air into her motor combustions - if Mr. Fine knew her name was Myrlass and whether he was calling her the diminutive pronoun of lass or whether he was shortening her name in a tone far too familiar as ‘lass. La, thoughts for another time while she gave up struggling and felt her processors cycling off.

“Let her go.”

Miss Myrlass didn’t have the wits to discover whom it was that spoke, yet the smooth deep diction of a cultured tongue cracked through the malice of Mr. Fine like a whip to a rowdy horse. His iron and rusted face - what she could make out through dissipating steam and her own blurry vision - took on the look of a petulant child trying to resist but succumbing to a parent’s adjuration nonetheless. That phrase projected such gravitas that the quartet stopped playing and a true hush fell over the room. For a brief moment only those words hung in the air, and they had sufficient power that with colossal reluctance, Mr. Fine released his hold and backed away, letting Miss Myrlass fall to the floor, gasping through her bent pipes.

“…good fight…*cough*…next time…try not to…give up so easily, you pansy.” Mr. Fine might have been angry - or not heard her entirely - but either course, he left Miss Myrlass and the room behind him as he strode out without another word. Coins changed hands yet otherwise the room appeared unaffected, another day in the delver life. Possibly an abrupt end to an otherwise prominent altercation, yet the community of dungeon workers were accustomed to brusque alternation.

Free to enjoy her bent and rent body by herself, then spitting up a depressing amount of ichor out of her mouth, Miss Safie hobbled back towards her table, now pleasantly heaped with mounds of food while she tied a handkerchief to staunch the oily injury at her elbow. It was enough to make her forget about the missing ten pounds that had left without so much as a parting word of farewell.

Well, almost forget.

“A bit rash, do you not agree?”

Surprised, Miss Myrlass paused with a massive piece of fatback halfway to her mouth, the tiny fork barely able to hold the still sizzling victual. Seated on the other side of her food - entirely outside of her attention as hunger held her rapt like a cobra to a charmer - sat the most pink dandy she ever acquainted. Black topper, grey evening suit with tails, pants in the older fashion with cream stockings up to his knees to show off rounded calves, large copper buckled shoes shined to a mirror gloss, ornate cane and other posh accoutrements. His gloves alone looked to cost upwards of a hundred pounds. The strangest part of his ensemble was a dramatic mask of a wolf covering his entire face, styled as a laughing lupine. The bare plate above his cravat matched the silver of a chain around his neck wrought in alloyed sterling and osmium, only a few blue links visible before disappearing into his vest, matching long perpendicular ears clearly labeling the man as a Sídhe.

“I believe my seeking satisfaction justified,” Miss Myrlass replied primly, taking a more subdued bite of her victuals despite gnawing hunger. “A person’s character is only worth what one is willing to stand up for, and though it might sound trite, Mr. Fine’s insinuation that I lacked robotical sentience is an affront to my parentage. In a game of insults, I am willing to play so long as the rules abide upon my person and my person alone.”

“I was directing my remarks towards your parting…repartee.” The man in the wolf mask leaned forward, casually spinning the cane while idly glancing around the room. Though clearly of Sídhe heritage, he lacked any hint of accent and spoke in the Isserian tongue. “A person’s life can be made infinitely difficult when mocking the peerage.”

Unsure how to take the remark, Miss Myrlass all too well realized she was having another battle of sorts, noting this stranger’s voice matched the one commanding the son of a lord and was obeyed. Finishing porcine harvested strips, she moved onto a layered omelet that smelled of curried cobalt. “Then said peers should act in a manner unsuited to mockery.”

Though the stranger let her finish her omelet, moving towards the next course of crumbly cakes smothered in butter, Miss Myrlass noted the thoughtful mien he posed, as if ruminating over a decision he was wont to make. Playing to the tone, the famished alchemist continued diligently consuming the meals laid before her and do so in a methodical manner. Whatever game she now played, silence would likely win it more than opening her mouth at an inopportune moment.

Her desire to keep silent lasted not even a whole minute.

“Did you know that on Earth, there was once a king who created an entire church just so he could marry six women?” There was no excusing it, this woman could not keep silent if her mouth were welded shut. “Can you imagine? The Church of the Divine Harem, I think it was called. Enough crinoline to scaffold an entire cathedral so these poor emasculated men can spend the rest of their lives raising forty children apiece. I wonder if I were ever royalty, could I make a Church of the Divine Muffin? It would be both enlightening and delicious. Which reminds me, would you like one of these muffins? I think the ones over there are gallium nut and I don’t think I’ve ever tasted something so moist.”

“You have a divine gift, that is clear to anyone within listening distance of your tongue,” the stranger commented, though not unkindly as he fingered the blue metalled chain at his silver neck. “I believe I understand how you convinced Jebediah Nammerworth to redress my current quandary. All I need do is have you talk at the problem and it will capitulate in sheer self-preservation!”

“Ah, I should have realized it from the mask, Mr. Fafnir.” Miss Myrlass bowed her head in polite introduction, finishing her muffin and moving onto another omelet more cheese than egg [11]. “And I shall be pleased to verbally vicissitate any problem you have towards your favor, if for nothing more than the challenge of dueling on the field of rhetoric.”

“Only were it so, that words have the power we wish them and the world would be a more orderly place. Nevertheless, I believe your unique skill in the realm of resonance is the requisite competence needed for the task.”

“To what end?” Miss Myrlass asked, shuffling her empty platters around to attack what looked like a whole roast. “There are plenty of Augmenters in the city and my skills surely cannot compare to veteran craftsmen.”

“There is within the confines of Asylon - holding twelve million souls - a unique yet powerful object emitting a particular form of resonance. Whether a branch of Vitality or nearby tiered, it is both very powerful and also shielded from being found through any means either alchemical or divine. Your commission, if you are amenable, is to find the object and return it to my possession.”

What a world of coincidence we live in, Miss Safie Myrlass thought, polishing the roast away and moving onto the last few dishes available to her. This entire time, aside from playing with his cane or gesticulating in the way people do when articulating, Mr. Fafnir gave no outward physical emulation towards anything other than calm cavalier.

“It was insinuated to me that you would need a certain level of discretion on top of expert workmanship. I can promise a certain amount, as I am a discrete woman, but I am likely limited in my abilities as an investigator as that is not my chosen field. Ergo, while I believe myself capable to the task, my methods would incur a sum of no small means.”

Mr. Fafnir said nothing, reaching into his coat and producing a folded banknote. Passing it along, Miss Myrlass kept her composure when reading the five hundred pounds promissory, though only just.

“A brokerage for your services, nine times that upon delivery of the object.”

Even with goggles affixed to her face, hiding her widening lanterns and a deeper glow inside them, it was clear from the way she dropped her fork and equally unhinged her mouth that the sum was surprising to her. With that money, she could…

Well, she could do a great many things.

“Do we have an accord?” Mr. Fafnir asked, as if he didn’t already know her answer.

Recovering decorum, Miss Myrlass finished her plate and meal - using her soup spoon like some unlettered heathen - and took her time to dab her lips with the provided napkin. A lovely juice made from tart alkaline provided a refreshing desert and it was with satisfaction that the alchemist realized she was only a bit peckish instead of ravenous.

“I must admit I had been thinking upon Mr. Nammerworth’s proposal since I received it yestereve and I had every intention of turning you down.” She held up her hand to forestall comment, continuing. “Though I knew nothing of your venture, I have my own task I must be about and my own reasons for coming to Asylon and time is pressing. I intended to decline gracefully, though, for I think highly of Mr. Nammerworth and would have likely pursued other business with him and yourself at a near future date.”

“However?” Mr. Fafnir asked, leaning forward and clasping his hands [12].

“Nothing is so painful to the robotical condition as a great and sudden poverty.” Miss Myrlass spread out her hands and smiled, the note firmly clasped between her fingers it was clear she was not willing to part with it. “My condition has suffered dwindling pennies and if I believe myself to be successful, I must detour myself upon your task. I wish it were for some grand idealism I sought to assist you, but idealism is hard to eat and doesn’t purchase new boots.”

“Hopefully, some day we can all live in a world without the onus of money.” Mr. Fafnir stood gracefully, leaning forward as a gentleman and taking Miss Myrlass’ extended hand before bowing in the old court style. When he took his hand away the lightly steaming woman realized she had a card in her hand, the script golden and flowing. “Convey this to the manor of the Marquis Barakul and present it when the job is complete.”

Taking his leave, Miss Safie decided to do the same as she was not feeling much the thing at the moment. Gathering hat and gloves, the injured woman only wobbled a titch from chassis trauma and unsteady balance. Though taken hours previous, the Catholicon would continue to bolster her system for hours yet, though in a less dramatic fashion than the initial reaction. It was entirely feasible she would retain no lasting injury entirely from her recent violent encounter. And if it were not for the fuelic needs of the elixir, the weary weight of the nascent week would lull the exhausted woman to bed and she would sleep the entire day away. Nevertheless, raising chin and marching towards the door, Miss Safie planned the rest of her trip appropriately.

“Here are your shillings, Mr. Barnaby,” Miss Myrlass announced, producing three of the small coins in her hand to the jealous onlooks of the other boys gathered to wait on guests. “The two as promised and another on top of that to alert me in a few hours for lunch and reserving a table with equal amounts prepared. I will retire to my stateroom until then and rest from a vigorous morning constitution.”

“’Twas a good showing, mum.” A glare from behind the front lectern brought on a polite cough from the boy as he took the coins and bowed. “I mean to say, I will call upon you at meal time and have everything prepared properly.”

“Excelsior!” Miss Safie strode out with as much dignity as she could impose, only hunching the minimum amount from the pain in her abdominal cavity. The rest of the voyage would require as many facilities as she could muster if she were to encounter any other braggarts secretly hiding powerful augments and a proper meal trumped any thought of skipping the social dining experience over a malady of excessive fumes.

—

[1] Not to be confused with maternical epidural demarcation, or the act of relieving annealing pains while traveling between countries, birthing metaheuristized roboticals something that should properly be performed in a singular locale.

[2] She had hours ago become nose blind to the more odorous stench of her recent misadventure, sensors capable of bulling through the remaining sewer.

[3] For how else would you call an arm wed to the body than by the married modifier? And as it is a woman’s arm, it would make less sense to apply a male modification, though the gender confusion is both awkward and confusing.

[4] Some alterations allowing them to actually fit over her newly engorged thews.

[5] A bit of stage illusion, nothing more, though more than one common individual had attributed her fun bits of social entertainment for the doings of nefarious alchemical processes. Which is absurd, for while Miss Myrlass was likely capable of producing a similar effect using thaumian means, it was both not within her studied specialties to deal in metallic manifestations and therefore the prohibitive cost would take transmuting a pair of shillings out of nothing well into the realms of hundreds of pounds. Like all things, whether something could be done was much different from whether something could afford to be done.

[6] Once again, even the very name of the broken pieces of ancient technology being called after orbicular satellites is a matter of traditional borrowed linguistics rather than being factually accurate of the concaved bits of shell remaining from which the roboticals of Nomm dwelt upon.

[7] A recognizable tune commonly known as I Stand As The Triple Curled Man.

[8] The sensors of a robotical are delicate machines, and when overloaded they on occasion cross improper signals, the effect known as a tangent or being in a state of tangency. Cognitive disorder is usually the case, followed by unconsciousness so that the robotical systems can reboot.

[9] This only accounts for the force necessary to hurl nearly twenty-two hundred pounds (998 kg) of discombobulated alchemist fifteen feet (4.6 m) in a period of a second accounts for the initial force required, but the actual impact into the glass would be closer to 2500 newtons and spread out over eight feet as she hit it flat.

[10] In more ways than one.

[11] Not the dairy products common among earth, yet both derived from the material output of stocked creatures. For purposes of nomenclature, the parallels are adequate that many Earthers and linguistic scholars have an accord. The group most frustrated with the disjointment of language is the culinary practitioners themselves, as there is no ova nor lactate to be found in either component.

[12] Careful to avoid the stacked and empty plates piled around himself.