3: A Gentlebot Caller And Accommodations Satisfactory

Fortuitously, there were no other altercations for the remainder of the journey. Purely amounting in weight, Miss Safie consumed her own aggregated mass with delicious foods over three meals, two snacks and a large afternoon tea. Between the orderly repasts, she took extra care to reinforce or repair her epidermal rivetwork, adding decorative welds to give her plating a bit of style. The Chef de Cuisine himself trotted out to serve the final dish of an entire rack of lamb [1] and the two of them spoke over his various dishes with the consuming woman lavishing praise for such a diverse feast she satiated upon this journey. Owing to the nature of her mechiology [2] and the accelerations of the Catholicon, mandelbrium converted into healthy ichor inside her engines in the natural order of living roboticals. This came with a cost, though, for when the aethership berthed in one of Asylon’s ports in the early evening, the weariness of the last two days caught her in the quick. While she stood on the wooden planks of the large and busy port, all Miss Safie wanted was a place to sleep.

Which presented a predicament most conundrumal.

“I could not fain sublimating ever finding myself positioned both princess and pauper within the same moment,” Miss Safie bemoaned, glancing down at her cherished banknote. “I will not be able to transmogrify this parchment into useful coinage until tomorrow morning when banks are wont to do business. I just spent my last shilling to the porters to store my valuable crates in a tiny holding facility for the week. I have four pennies from now until nommlight, no friends to call upon in this city and my only resort appears to be to find a bench in some park and hope malicious ne’er-do-wells stop existing entirely.”

The banknote, much to Miss Safie’s irritation, did not reply.

Asylon, the Spiraled City, the Conch of the Urosma Empire, had once been a mountain overlooking a lake of golden oils. Then thousands of years ago, a crazy king wanted his castle built atop this mountain. Over thousands of years the city carved plateaus into what they discovered was a dormant volcano, each level larger than the last; turning the mountain - and the entire city - into a spiral staircase leading from the shores of the lake up into the palace of the Emperor. When Azoth Vapor was discovered and the manipulation of quintessence caused aetherships to take flight at speeds unbefore known, the city boomed because serendipitous elevation allowed multiple ports for massive freighter fleets to berth hundreds at a time. It was no exaggeration to infer that Asylon was currently the center of shipping throughout all the moons of Nomm.

Which was all well and good for Asylon, but what was Miss Safie to do? She was no parcel to bandy about the moons lackadaisic. Pacing in circles around her luggage - which was stacked neatly on a cart on the wooden planks making up the third tier dock of the city [3] - the weary alchemist scraped her bare arms and absently picked at the freshly soldered lines. A terrible habit, but one she continued onward from early youth.

“Where is even the closest park, where I would fight some vagrant for a unoccupied bench like I was some…vagrant?!” With such a need for sleep as she possessed at this moment, even her vocabulary left her destitute. Soon, she would degrade into a lower life form, relying upon - gods preserve her! - linguistical contractions.

Sitting upon her luggage, head in hands, Miss Safie removed her goggles and rubbed her lanterns, attempting to out-think her problems. It was as onerous as twisting a rusted nut, but after a few minutes the simplest - and, in her mind, unfortunately, the only - answer came upon her. Affixing her goggles back in place, she pushed her cart towards the storage warehouses her effects were stored in and used the key provided to open the locked doors of unit A23, one of hundreds lined in file through these desolate docks, the old bronze under her feet creaking singular echoes amid the refurbished minerals of the more sturdy buildings. Doors opened, all of her material possessions were set before the alchemist.

Miss Safie took a moment to bask in the eminence of all her lares and penates. Thirty-one crates all totaled, some only as minuscule as a hunting dog, the largest longer and taller than covered carriages. The porters had been tipped well and her effects were stacked in careful and precise manners, allowing only the barest of room to keep everything tightly packed within the chamber.

“I spent most of yesterday frosted in putrescence and yet here, in this twilight, I will reach my lowest point,” Miss Safie told her material possessions, hefting the traveling luggage overhead and stuffing it inside along the top, the only space available. Then, without deportment and using a complicated combination of two belts, a scarf and a rather sturdy comb, she intracted herself inside the space. Closing the doors behind was a matter of pulling her makeshift rope and tying it against her ankle, outwardly appearing untoward to passerbies from the docks, though they remained unlocked.

Finally, sprawled on top numerous crates of various size and feeling as if her bed were…a bunch of uneven crates. Truly, Miss Safie was so tired at this point she reached her rhetorical limit and did not even bother trying to find similes needed to explain her situation before a dreamless sleep remitted herself to dreamless oblivion.

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

*delicate cough*

A woman of quality rises each day when the Lady’s Maid quietly enters the bedroom, sets tea and comestibles discreetly on the end table or a serviceable desk, then slowly reveals the nommlight of mid morning so that the sensibilities of the delicate female robotical engines may adjust from the unwanted necessity of rising from a restful state to a state fortified for society and propriety.

“Gwaaah!”

Though Miss Safie wished it otherwise, there is absolutely no dignified way to awake suddenly and clank off a bed of mismatched crates onto the bronze planks of a warehouse district. Dawn broke upon the moon, giving enough light to ensure Miss Myrlass felt suitably embarrassed when she noticed herself sprawled at the feet of a gentlebot outfitted in constable’s attire.

“Never imagined I would host a social at the Tier Three docks,” the peace keeper smirked, thumbs looped through his belt and enjoying himself by all outward accounting. “Not this early in the morning, at the very least. I feel such the cad for not providing proper refreshment. Do you take your tea with honey or lemon?”

“That would depend entirely upon your tea.” Arranging herself into a frumpy seated position - entirely abandoning punctilio, though attempting to salvage it - Miss Myrlass obtained a studious look at her caller while she arranged her skirts in effort to give herself composing seconds to grapple with her current circumstantial predicament.

“It is a gypsum tea - which I find a delightful brew for energetic mornings - and either honey or lemon go well in either case.” Over six feet tall (183 cm) with broad shoulders and a narrow waist, the most striking feature about the man was his face. Not a traditionally rugged faceplating, he conveyed all the appearances of proper masculinity: strong jaw, smaller sharp amber lantern eyes, polished aquiline nose, serious brow all upon a pleasantly pale alloy plating under slightly unruly brown wires. However, when he gave an easy smile, his visage softened into something angelic, as if this were a robotical infused with grace and virtue, a kind of man who is caring yet not lacking in strength. He wore an open blue coat over a white shirt with a small cravat to account for the warm weather, breasts and sleeves adorned with the copper badges of his office [4].

“I appreciate taking a gypsum with both lemon and honey, if you please,” the flustered alchemist eventually replied, steaming lightly herself, though it was not accounting for the weather. Fiddling with her rumpled green vest, she tried and failed to peer away from that radiant smile which had nothing to do with his silvery polished teeth.

The gentlebot, producing a contraption - from a nearby attaché set on the ground - appearing to be the unholy union of a thermos with a mechanized urchin. Extended the legs out and then inserted a small crank, he spun the mechanical assistant vigorously [5]. This produced steam out of the spout to the loud tune of whirring and clanging from the device. After an efficient number of moments, he unscrewed the thermos and produced two serviceable metal cups, handing one to Miss Myrlass before pouring a hearty smelling brew into both. With a flourish, he produced spoons, a tiny jar of honey and a slice of lemon, finishing the teas and raising his cup to intake the fragrance.

Miss Myrlass sipped, closing her lanterns in bliss while the sharp flavors eased out the anxieties of her last few days. “Good, strong tea you have here.”

“I like my tea strong, with a full, robust flavor,” the gentlebot said, procuring his own moment to scrutiny over Miss Myrlass, gazing upon her with as much diligence as he consumed his tea. “Also, hot enough to rouse the transmissions. Nothing so…disappointing as a tea that cannot wake a man and dragoon him into an upright state.” Sipping his tea, he never took his eyes off the lady sitting before him.

“I appreciate a strong tea as well, though I am inexperienced,” Miss Myrlass replied, then starting and steamed as she realized what she implied. “I-I mean in the making of tea. What I…that is, I am not well versed in the tea preparing arts, only appreciating a hot cup when it is served to myself.”

“I would be more than merry to teach you the finer points of beverage preparation, time allowing,” he said, finishing his cup and gallantly - if belatedly - offering his hand. “I believe every day should begin with strong…tea.”

Miss Myrlass likewise finished and took the offered hand. The constable tilted forward in surprise, set his feet more firm, then used proper leverage to assist the woman to a respectable standing position. He did not bat a lantern as the tall woman rose a solid two feet above his own unshort head. In fact, his smile geared into a wider smirk.

“Kind graciousnesses upon you, Sir Constable,” Miss Myrlass introduced, embarrassed at her state of clothing - still adorned the outfit of yesterday’s travels - but acting nonchalant to keep a sense of propriety about herself. “I am Miss Safie Wollesteinkunst Myrlass, and I am hoping to receive your name so that I may call upon you at a future date.”

“Inspector, ma’am,” the inspector replied, casually tapping brass laurel leaves below his insignia. “Inspector Aubrey Pierre Grava, and I am most certainly at your service and willing to receive any form of calling you may dispense, though I will quite understand how you might find me an irritation in the near future.”

“An irritation?”

“Possibly even a nuisance.”

Miss Myrlass narrowed her lanterns, though understandably Inspector Grava would be unable to notice such narrowing from behind purgaglass tinted goggles. “Come again?”

“It is with utmost reluctance I must implement the duties of my office and insist you allow me to entertain you at the local constabulary bureau.” Though he continued to smile, there was now an effortless authority about him, and Inspector Grava gestured toward the exit with one hand.

The taller, prodigious, more hale woman managed to convey quite a bit of incredulity down on the investigator. “Insist? Might I inquire as to the charges leveled against my person?”

“I received reports last eve of a poplolly bellibone lady that might otherwise acted in vagrancy. Possibly even nefarious comportments might have taken place. Armed with tea and wits, I investigated straight way. As you are the only lady to be found within the locale…”

Miss Myrlass geared an eyebrow upward, smirking at the accusation.

“…you are the only available witness to help me find this diabolical beauty. Ergo, I cannot in conscious leave you alone in such a place or state.” The inspector’s face became absolutely farcical as he alternated wiggling one eyebrow after another in a complex facial dance.

“La!” Laughing, Miss Safie lost herself for a moment and affectionately touched the inspector upon the chest. The feel of warmth through his shirt jolted through her entire entire body. Hesitating in her touch for a long few seconds, she retracted her arm as if shocked by lightning when realization rear up into her circuits, causing her laughter to suddenly stop as if choked.

Silence settled between them, clear that both felt as if standing at the edge of a cliff, the rigorous steaming from both woman and man indication the two of them were only the slightest of motions away from impropriety.

That was very strong tea, indeed, the flustered woman thought, trying - and failing - to keep her thoughts within bounds of decorum.

“Yes, well, I see no problem in accompanying you towards your offices,” Miss Myrlass finally ground out, remembering herself and her reasons for arriving in the city, busying herself by closing and locking up her argosy. “Let us crack on and chap to it, I have a busy schedule and must be about it all.”

“Quite,” Inspector Grava said with a rough voice, shaking himself as if to recover his own wits. Silently extending his hand towards the exit, he busied himself cleaning his odd heating implement and collecting his bag. Leading the way as a gentlebot should, they marched towards the constabulary offices with measured haste.

Tier Three of the great city of Asylon had the makings of grandeur if epic scale compressed on itself and worked inside a strict budget. To be succinct, the architecture of adjacent builds defied expression compared to homelier cities Miss Safie occasioned on her travels. Great sweeping arches styled in the manner of cogs, slowly moving in time to mechanicate large elevator engines lifting whole buildings into the air or swinging bridges too and fro to traffic people about as much as hundreds of feet into the air, even at such an early hour everything seemed busy and crowded, above and below and all around. Though there was stone and steel in equal measure, quintessence alloys characterized half the building materials, giving more reflective light than commonly illuminated from the dim glow of Nomm. There were also abundant copper pipes of Vapor caterpillaring around buildings than on other moons, providing convenience to more common folk than the alchemist was accustomed to. Why, it appeared as if this city was absolutely modern.

Difficulty arose in how labyrinthine the mess of streets and walkways progressively became, there being no rhyme or reason to any narrow or winding paths. Miss Safie would have likely spent hours just appreciating particular city conveniences, requiring a search party to find her hopeless lost midst sweeping towers. Fortunately, Inspector Grava knew his city, hardly an hour of travel passing before they arrived at a squat and fortified building - an abundance of gaslight announcing its presence to the city - huddling around the tall grandeur abounding.

“My offices are in the back,” Inspector Grava said, leading past a busy bunch of bobbies and cramped desks towards a row of unassuming doors.

Am I about to be alone with this gentlebot? Miss Safie thought, discreetly swallowing in trepidation. Have I been so long from the company of red-oiled male company that I feel as if wantonly throwing myself upon him is my only recourse? Yes, Inspector Grava is fairplated, that smile connects directly to my carburetors and revs me harder with every smirk in my direction, yet perchance I spent too long secluded in my studies, perhaps this is a normal metaheurism [6] reaction to receiving male attention after a lengthy fast of roboticals with virile radiators. Or, have I become a forward hussy about to abandon all sense? On one hand I can hardly intake air - possibly from wearing an ill-fitted corset for most of a day and half - yet on another, my hands ache to discover how difficult it would be to abscond that shirt off his…I need to diffuse this situation before my body takes actions I would both regret and also desperately, desperately crave.

“If you wanted me alone to yourself, I hardly think some roadside tea enough social opportunity to allow us proper comportment. Why, I might accost you, being a possible witness to nefarious vagrants that I am.”

Miss Myrlass could not believe her mouth went ahead and said that. If she were capable, she would snatch the words out of the aether and throttled her mouth for impropriety. Therefore, despite the dark hue of her plates, the embarrassed alchemist did her utmost to imitate a bright gaslamp for all the heat transferring to her chassis.

The inspector neither replied nor even turned around, though he missed a step and nearly stumbled upon hearing the forward language assaulting him in the verbal sense. Coughing, he opened one of the doors and gestured her inside.

“Oh,” Miss Myrlass muttered, collapsing a bit as she entered into the office and sat next to an rotund woman eagerly scribbling away notes at a tiny desk. Although cracked copper crinkled around her lanterns and metal fatigue along the mouth inferred this woman was older than the larger alchemist, something about how her mod hairstyle piling atop her golden wires and the daring cut of her dress spoke loudly this was a vivacious woman.

“Mrs. Bobblebiddy, this is Miss Myrlass,” Inspector Grava announced in form, though was that a hint of disappointment in his voice? “To close a report, she will answer a few questions, though she is not suspect of anything untoward.”

“Don’t need any of that formal frilly-frally here, just call me Barbara!” the exuberant woman sang out, sanding her ink and gently wafting her latest page dry. “Would you care for tea?”

“No!” both Miss Myrlass and Inspector Grava said together, pausing, then taking their respective seats, the inspector deposited his bag then shuffling his desk clutter about nervously as if only now aware of the unorganized state it was in.

“Forgive not finishing this earlier, procedures preclude me from simply asking certain questions without witness. Miss Myrlass, can you recite your name and occupation to Mrs. Bobblebiddy for her records? I believe this will suffice what is needed for the closing of my reports.”

“As I introduced to you over tea earlier, I am Miss Safie Wollesteinkunst Myrlass, though we lacked enough polite conversation to transverse towards my being a Doctorate Alchemical. I am currently between occupations, as I just yesterday completed journeying from Hreidfl, where I finished my eight years of study and hope to make a name for myself here on Issere.”

“Ooo, I’ve never been off moon, and Hreidfl is currently such a far orbit away,” Mrs. Bobblebiddy bubbled, leaning forward and spilling her blond curls over the surprised alchemist’s arm. “The Draugra are so secretive, how did you…”

“Mrs. Biddybobble!” Inspector Grava interjected with a familiar tone.

“Bobblebiddy, or just Barbara,” the secretary replied automatically, scratching professional notes.

Turning towards Miss Myrlass, the inspector’s lanterns pleaded for this all to be over. “Do you have any resonance specialties?”

“My focus of study is Exponential with a generous aptitude in ichor application, and I am also a midling accomplished cogwork engineer with augmentational leanings. Which is to say I have a thorough understanding of the complex quintessences related to or reacting from crystalline morphology and other living system manipulation, coupled with the skills necessary to fabricate usable mechiological manipulated apparati.” Miss Myrlass found her continued proximity to the dashing inspector distracting, reaching up to fix her hat in a nervous gesture only to realize her hat and gloves were still with her luggage. Huffing, the frustrated woman settled on recrossing her legs to ease her anxieties. “Lacking sufficient personal benifaction from time to time, I also have some skill in obtaining quintessence for profit in various dungeons.”

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“An Augmenter, then,” Inspector replied, though in his secretary’s direction as if to help her move this along, which completely flew over the excitable woman.

“I have meant to get refitted for some time,” Mrs. Bobblebiddy commented, bringing her pen to her lips and absently dribbling ink on her mouth. “Nothing too ostentatious, something understated yet practical. Like maybe wings? I see Tengu chaps flapping all around the city and I think that would be terribly useful…”

“Bubblebara!”

“Just Barbara.”

As the inspector resignedly set his head on his desk, Miss Myrlass smirked and couldn’t help turning the screw. “I can see the stress is getting to you, Mr. Inspector, bad for the transmissions. Perhaps there is some way I could…ameliorate your distension?”

The poor man actually groaned.

Miss Myrlass took pity and blithely continued onward. “Nothing else much left, you caught me in a compromised and possibly delicto state, though it was more because I was in desperate need of money and couldn’t possibly see any other intimation to finding a way to pass the night.”

*gasp!*

The inspector shot up, his own face steaming as he hurriedly tried to diffuse his excitable assistant. “There were no shenanigans involved, Miss Myrlass was only in an awkward sleeping arrangement and I was sent to investigate whether she needed assistance.”

*double gasp!*

“This is becoming intolerable,” the flustered alchemist muttered, wishing for a fan and settling on cooling herself with her flapping hand, the room fallaciously much smaller than moments ago and factually a great deal hotter, Mrs. Babbletiboo’s lanterns wide as saucers over the saucy implications neither individual seemed capable of explaining proper.

“And I believe we have everything we require,” Inspector Grava announced as he stood and clapped hands. “As it is clear you lack proper accommodations, I would recommend my own modest lodging…”

“Mr. Aubrey!” Mrs. Bobblebiddy shouted in absolute scandal.

“…but I believe you better served housing with Mrs. Blibbybottle as I know she has spare room,” Inspector Grava finished with grit teeth. “That is, at least until you can obtain something more serviceable for your needs.”

“Oh, that is perfectly acceptable, and with my oldest - Bellamy - married and moved out, Bronson and I would love hosting you in our home.” The roundish matron practically leapt off her chair and hurled herself into an intimate hug with the shocked Miss Myrlass. “Always more fun with a full house. Things might be a tad tight, but friendship is the best of rewards.”

Open mouth agog on the surprised alchemist’s face, Miss Myrlass couldn’t help rising irritation at the return of Inspector Grava’s smug smirk.

“I’ll leave the details to you two ladies,” the inspector said as he dashed out of reach and through his door, calling back from the aperture. “Let me do the honor of hailing a phaeton for you so you can settle in post haste!”

That infuriating man! Miss Safie internalized, succumbing to the pressures of this rather forceful matron babbling before her and accepting she would be living with this woman and her family.

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

It was almost lunch time.

“Why do you wear goggles indoors?”

Holding a vial up by small tongs to the flickering light of the gas burner, Miss Myrlass absently replied with mostly truth while trying to judge if the concoction she brewed had a blue or violet hue to it. “I suffered a malady while young and my lanterns are now sensitive to bright lights. Also, it is good practice to protect one’s optics when dealing with volatile compounds.”

“Why are your plates patchy and welded up, like a quilt? Did you get hurt?”

“I have a condition. I don’t heal like normal people, so I replace my chassis and other parts from time to time.” Deciding it was not quite the intensity of violet desired, she brought the vial to the burner and added more flecks of crimson powdered quintessence.

“Are you really an alchemist?”

“That is a compelling question,” Miss Myrlass replied, achieving the proper amount of transmutation and looking around for her prepared pellet. “Anyone with sufficient knowledge can practice alchemy, ergo, can become an alchemist. I, on the other hand, am a Doctorate Alchemical.”

“What is that?”

“Most alchemists know only enough to mix their brews and follow simple instructions. Because I studied for years the precise knowledges of the Great Work, I am more capable than most in formulating new recipes and determining the underpinnings of each and every thaumatic process.” Scrunching her brow, she felt a touch of panic that the pellet she searched for had somehow gone missing. Turning to her audience, she gave them what she thought was an acerbic glare.

One of the Bobblebiddy brood, a child of three years - looking decidedly shamefaced - stepped forward and took the bead of lead out of its brass mouth and deposited the oozy item onto the desk Miss Myrlass worked from.

“Children! You absolutely must leave Miss Myrlass alone!” cried a voice from downstairs in the kitchen.

“Yes, Mrs. Finklefar!” the chorus of children replied with enough force to flake paint from the walls.

Inside the tiny room barely able to contain four beds stacked on top of each other, two desks and a serviceable wardrobe, somehow Miss Myrlass found herself party to eleven Bobblebiddy children during this midday. These were just those young enough to stay home and learn their primaries from the frazzled governess, Mrs. Finklefar. The other seven children old enough to work or seek higher education would join the family for dinner, though that didn’t account for the oldest son who recently married and moved out and another two daughters likewise married and gone.

In utter disbelief, during the carriage ride Mrs. Bobblebiddy shared with her reluctant new tenant, the fertility goddess confided that she was pregnant again. With triplets. It was enough to keep Miss Safie steamed while they visited the bank to commerce her note then return to her storage to acquire luggage and other odd effects, such as some alchemical equipment.

“You heard Mrs. Finklefar, time to scoot!” The current leader of the fecund spawn - a ten year old Tsusayùtù girl named Briar with beige wiring covering her exposed plating as a soft coat, canary yellow lanterns and floppy bronze ears - rapidly beat her leporidae styled foot and took charge with more maturity than her age belied. The somber girl folded her paws over a sturdy and faded blue dress that acted as something of a uniform among the children - all attired in old clothing either too large or too small for themselves - while Briar’s stiff whiskers twitched in the direction of the exit.

Though they all grumbled and groaned, the children - in equal measure mixed between blond wired roboticals and various shades of fluffy furred and long eared rabbit aspected chassises - obediently filed out of the room and closed the door behind them, leaving Miss Safie alone with her alchemy and a sense of relief. Aside from a brief respite that morning to account for her constitution and to outfit herself in something more appropriate for work than socials [7], the alchemist was reminded children are naturally curious of the new and she was the newest idée fixe to come into their orbit. This gave her no anxieties, however, as she enjoyed the company of children and absently answered their questions while preparing transmutations.

She was, nevertheless, happy for the current privacy and finished her efforts by dropping the pellet into the properly violet concoction contained in the vial. This actuation could sometimes act aggressive and…capricious.

“One of these days, I am going to drop this thrice-cursed foozle-riddled lump of dreck into the swirling storms of Nomm and rid the moons of his, his…

*bcklbbpff!*

Alchemy is simply taking scientific steps upon materials to create a specific effect only available with thaumian energies. The multitude avenues of steps, nearly infinite combinations of materials, however, lead to an incalculable number of effects. Even her own chosen field of Exponential Resonance produced a broad number of avenues of study, yet it was only one of thousands of known Resonances, with thousands more theoretically undiscovered. Which is why the most valuable thing an alchemist owned or obtained were reliable recipes.

Using one hand to clear away crackling smoke in the air, Miss Safie upended the vial onto the desk and waited for her actuation to congeal.

“Six months!” a tiny mouth shouted, the resin gloop forming slowly from a puddle into something more anthropomorphic. “Ya keep me derendered for six gummin’ months, then just as I’m ‘bout to finally see some action, I’m eaten by a toddler? At least when I was retained by yer uncle, I expected some class.”

“My uncle left you in a locked iron box for thirty years sealed behind two layers of brick and an unflattering painting of my grandmother, who disowned him.” Miss Safie placed the empty vial back in her case and began arraying her quintessi in a semi circle around the blob. “If I had not found uncle’s notes mentioning your location, you would still be there. Now show that you have minimal use to me and I will forgo feeding you to an overly large aether wyrm.”

“Oi, I’m not some ninny-hammer whirlygigging about fer me own good: I need incentive, not invective.” The blob cranked out stubby appendages and settled into its hideous pile of mishappen cogs and wires - as if a pocket watch was smashed into pieces and bloated into a diseased pustule given life - a stunted eight inch goblin of a thing, bulbous olfactory protrusion sniffing the air. “Smells like we’re in Asylon. Tell ya what, let me see if there’s still that little Menagerie on Soap Street, won’t be a jiff…”

*blap!*

“Our contract is not one where I accord you every whim, Mr. Barrowman. Especially not to unsavory derelict houses of public amorality,” Miss Safie said sedulously, scraping off excess congealed oils from having squanched the living abscess into a splatter on the desk. “Homunculi such as yourself are uncommon but not irreplaceable. However, I am not against you practicing legal and frugal leisure after the current task is completed.”

“Bask-nasking willo-nani-looloo woman!” Mr. Barrowman cursed, building himself back into his disgusting self faster than before and shaking a tiny fist at Miss Safie. “I’ve served eighteen generations of alchemists an’ I’ll serve a hundred more after you are scrapped rust! I’ve forgotten more about the Great Work than you’ll ever learn! I am the Incomparable Barrowman, king of…”

Miss Safie raised her hand, giving the diminutive creature a stern look, halting him mid rant as he held up clampy hands in surrender.

“Right.” Picking up a pin lined with wire, cogs and a small gem affixed to the head, Miss Safie gave instruction as she twirled the casing of her goggle to magnify while absently manipulated her tiny spiralgimlet. “An auspicious individual cliented myself to locate an obfuscated source of powerful expo-tangent resonance. Time, as you would do to remember, is ticking past the upcoming deadline, and thus I need to accomplish this task with alacrity. An ocular ophthalmic augment will, I believe, validate the voucher, allowing me the best means to locate this anagnorisistic device. I shall prepare the mechanicals while you work on proper transmutations.”

Mr. Barrowman grumpled incoherently, but it went unheard as he engaged about the business of turning distilled quintessence into alchemical transmutations ready for actuation. For all his lip, the aged homunculus retained the knowledge and skill of a hundred alchemists and it was as much his tutelage as the esteemed master alchemists of Hreidfl that brought the young Miss Safie to her level of expertise. Despite the difficulty in incentivising Mr. Barrowman with temptations such as erotically erected puzzles, she had never regretted opposing the advice of her late uncle’s notes and digging him out of that wall.

Cogwork - a specialty of brownsmithing - broke down into three over-arching practices, generally. The most general belonged to artifacters, those people who lack significant training and work on unsentient engines or mundane items. That is not to say they are unskilled, only that there is a world of difference between a gimcrack and something of substance. Aether engineers appear next in line, many found within the bowels of a ship cutting through aether between moons. They are the backbones that keep empires above water and only another engineer truly appreciate the difficulty and intricacies involved in their careers. Though they work in unsentient engines just as much as artifacters, their application of Azoth Vapor in its most volatile state is very much the thing between a cooking stove and a ship’s turbine. The last are the augmenters, those who combine brass and copper with quintessence and the robotical body to create powerful Clockers - a robotical built up beyond original personal specifications - such as the surprising Mr. Fine. It is one thing to mechanically repair a body and another to make a person into something more. Also, rare, statistically speaking throughout all the moons of Nomm. In a city as affluent as Asylon, one in twenty individuals would have some form of augment installed upon themselves and therefore need a plethora of skilled professions to install and upkeep those intensifications.

Piecing together right ratios of gears to sprockets to engines to wirings - all on a brass pin four inches long and no wider than a rivethead at the widest - is extremely minute work. Augment assembly is not for easily distracted roboticals, as the slightest mistake transmutes wrong ratios of thaumian energy transferring towards incorrect destinations. At best, this means the augment misfires actuation. At worst, malfunctions lead to catastrophic and deadly failures. It only takes watching someone collapse into themselves from defective density augments once to convince budding alchemists the gravity of their desired professional pursuits.

“Heh, gravity. I will requisite a way to use that sometime in the future.”

At some point in the hours focused on bits of metal, a magnanimous Bobblebiddy child silently entered the room and left a plate filled with sandwiches and tea. The tea became cold but Miss Safie drank it anyway while devouring the simple but hearty fare when she realized the food was there [8]. She also took note of Mr. Barrowman’s progress as he had three different brews alternating on the small portable gas stove to have them reach proper temperature and distillation simultaneously.

“Excuse me, Miss Myrlass? You have a caller waiting in the parlor.”

“Thank you, young Briar, I shall attend momentarily,” Miss Myrlass replied, scrunching her face as she finished the final ratchet and got up, cracking stiff joints in a crickalanche that would give mechanics the vapors. As she sorted her body [9], the woman struggled to keep her balance from the shifts in her weight placements catching her off guard, steadying herself with the desk.

Sorting her wits and wiles - and adjusting her goggles to appropriate magnifications - Miss Safie strode to the door with purpose, wondering in the moment who could possibly call on her at this residence. “Keep at the augment, Mr. Barrowman. I have an intimation trouble discovered my locus and we might have less time than I originally intimated.”

“Don’ do anything I wouldn’t do,” the engaged homunculus replied, leering in his master’s direction before upending iron flakes into a brown liquid.

“The things you would not do constitute a rather brief account.”

Though roomy enough to aggregate a hostel rather than family home, the Bobblebiddy Estate was a modest affair in the middling section of the third level of the city. To rationale living in such a narrow lot, the house tottered seven stories in the air and wedged between rows of similar buildings. It gave the borate paneling painted pastels a feeling of tall claustrophobia, yet it mostly meant Miss Safie shuffled sideways in a most undignified manner to step down four flights of stairs.

“Ah, good afternoon. Mrs. Myrlass, I presume.”

When Miss Myrlass entered the parlor, she was greeted by a dumpy fellow in bowler hat and unimpressive grey wired goatee. Monocle in burgundy vest pocket and leaking enough oil over aluminum plating in the heat to require his depersperation efforts hindered by an already saturated handkerchief to spread his personal moisture around more than wick it away. As the alchemist attempted to ascertain this unknown person, she found it rather astonishing that while he appeared robotical in body and shape, his mannerisms were such that she would be forgive for mistaking him for a rodent [10]. He forwent seating at the tweed couch and instead paced around the small brass table situated in the center of the carpet.

“I am known almost as such in some places - adjusting slightly to account for my spinster status - though you have the advantage of me,” Miss Myrlass said, coming around and bending a small curtsy.

“Apologies,” the man said nervously, trying again to manage abundant swelter with the damp rag, removing his hat and fidgeting. “I am Mr. Silas Trevorfore, and I stand for the local representative of the Royal Union Of Alchemical Sciences. It has been intimated that you, Miss Myrlass, within the boundaries of the city of Asylon, plan to practice alchemy commerce. Am I correct in this avowal?”

Miss Myrlass frowned, huffing in displeasure. “My business is my own, and I was not under impression that it was illegal to practice alchemy within the free air of Urosma.”

“Of course, of course. Anyone is free to transmute to their heart’s content. It is only the concern of the Union that when those transmutations actuate that it is within the strictures of common regulation and the law.”

“Are you saying I can make anything I like, but if I want to do anything with what I make I would need your permission?” Miss Myrlass leaned down and gave her best glare as she finished stating this upon the man.

Despite his manner and state, the little rodent stood solid ground. “Not at all. It is only that the Union is subject to the emperor, who is subject to the people. The Union cannot protect the people unless proper documentation is provided for all alchemical processes.”

Teeth grinding to prevent her from saying something that might get her arrested, Miss Myrlass leaned back and folded arms in a frustrated manner, trying to think through the process. The very idea rankled her, bringing her radiator to a boil, and she needed to solve this predicament if she were to accomplish her list of goals in this cesspool of bureaucracy. Minutes passed in silence before she came to any accord.

“If this were a matter of licenses, I would have received warning in the post,” the alchemist mused out loud, starting to put things together. “If I had accomplished anything illegal, I would be arrested rather than conversing. You, Mr. Trevorfore, are not here on a social call, nor are you arresting or delivering warning. What, exactly, do you want with myself?”

“Ah, it is gratifying to meet someone perceptive, for once,” Mr. Trevorfore said with a thin smile. “Yes, I believe if you would accompany me to the Union offices, we can sort this out in a jiff and you can be about your concoctions brewing upstairs.” He bowed with more elegance than heretofore shown - his oily sheen also evaporating as if part of an act - leading towards the door. “Your carriage awaits outside.”

Biting her lip and idly itching her welds, Miss Myrlass nodded and quietly strode out to the street where a black covered carriage loitered. Only hesitating for a titch, the alchemist stepped in and settled herself within the dark interior, her lanterns slow to adjust before the door closed and left her in obfuscation.

“Howdy, Saf,” Zebulon Culls spoke from the shadows across Miss Myrlass’ seat, puffing from that ostentatious copper pipe he always smoked from. “Glad you could join us.”

Realizing too late the trap ensnaring her, Miss Myrlass attempted to exit the car post haste, but two goons she missed in the gloom beat her with chained saps and after a few seconds of struggle, one lucky blow clocked her temple, shutting the large woman’s circuits down before she could properly scream.

—

[1] Lamb being a creature hailing exclusively from the breadbasket moon of Aiara, where the sustenance material mandelbrium is harvested in most abundance and where life - of all robotical sorts - flourished. Named lambs by transplanted Earthers, this creature is known more for its steel filaments alloyed with carbon and silicone in a manner allowing for stretch and give, the material commonly mixed with resins to create fabric. They are also, as Miss Safie would note, delicious.

[2] The processes by which robotical life differentiates from unliving mechanical methodicals.

[3] Out of eight tiers, making this slightly higher than the common folk of the city’s lowest levels, higher than the poor slums at the bottom and yet not quite high enough to enter society proper.

[4] An open book stylizing the principle symbol of Asylon overlaying the starburst of the Urosma Empire.

[5] Despite modesty, Miss Safie found her processors dwelling upon other vigorous pursuits, transmissions shifting into a higher gear against conscious will.

[6] Metaheurism, or the natural urge for roboticals to procreate, is a program found in all adult circuitry wherein a protocol is put into place overriding other hierarchal needs so that there can be a merging of mechiological between two compatible individuals, leading to the optimization and creation of new programs and robotical life.

[7] Her options limited to what she could fit into instead of what she would prefer. Today’s ensemble began with a single piece harlequin green dress normally loose to account for mechiological dilations surrounding muliebrous indelicacies. However, the cinched slit in the back was eight inches longer now, a few of the buttons in the front undone and the placement of the black slip meant walking long distances becoming inconvenient or indecent depending on pacing of her puce sandals. The sleeves of the dress were not accommodating, so after picking out the stitches and quickly applying borrowed black lace, the peevative woman found a billowy white long sleeved blouse to wear under the dress and - because the collar was done in a more masculine style - allowed for a floral silk neck scarf to give her an adventurer’s flair. Her usual bronze and tinted goggles and a pair of serviceable thick leather gloves put her nearly to the pink.

[8] Sandwiches were heavy with spiced goat metals, talc and mica, stacked between freshly cooked naan and having the most delightful sauce. The tea had a sour fruity flavor sweetened with honey she was unfamiliar with and Miss Safie made a mental note to obtain the recipes for herself when time allowed.

[9] Causing her to wince in irritation when her left sleeve split along the triceps as she stretched her arms superior-posterior. Apparently, her puffy shirt was not capacious enough.

[10] To clarify, she pondered on his mannerisms and not on his actual composition, as she had many acquaintances in the Castoria, Erinace and Izu [11] frameworks.

[11] All sentient roboticals are the same species, as classified by Earther nomenclature. However, the variety of chassis, motors, number of limbs, size and sometimes entire composition of one robotical to another is so radically different as to make someone of limited processing power unable to fathom they are all of the same. As metaheurism creates based upon filial lines, similarities often clump by geography. These grouping, or races, are described by what kind of thing they appear to similar to. Izu, for instance, have a hunched back, long snout, strong teeth, thick tail and are known for joint articulations. They group with the Castoria and Erinace forms because all three of them typically descend from the Dahoé Nah moon and unfairly called the rodent races because of their similarities to terran rats, beavers and hedgehogs.