《Steambotica》


 00 Recursive Lessons

    00 Recursive Lessons


    <blockquote>


    Dyson Sphere: the enclosement of a star through artificial structure with intent of applying entirety of stellar radiational output.


    ¡°Too often ye become preoccupied with the fascination of doing something. Whether this something can or, in many cases, should be endeavored towards is not the question I want ye answering. Instead, look around this broken world and realize the grandest of intellectual questions is what comes after?¡±


    - Hemet Namel, professor of Augmentational Alchemy at Hreidfl Station.


    </blockquote>


    Finite Inevitable. A mantra, a prayer, a warning: that the ending of all things not only happens, but that it will happen without fail. No other ideal better captures Nomm fatalism her inhabitants. Not properly a planet - once a thriving star - in times before memory ancients devised a functioning marvel of engineering without peer, enclosing this star in wonders. Reigning as the empirical pinnacle of scientific triumph, these Crafterions harvested solar systems for their creations throughout galaxies. The central capital of an empire treating time and space as sculpted clay in their hands.


    Then, Finite Inevitable. Unknown energies fractured knowledge, shattering understanding and unleashed aether upon Nomm. Ruination engulfed all. No longer quite a star, not completely a gaseous planet, Nomm¡¯s sphere of prodigy became dissolutioned. Some pieces obliterated, some drifted to void. Some descended into waning gravity and entered aetheric nebula to obtain orbital stability. Thousands of inert constituent satellites crashing and smashing until settling into polite synchronism.


    Truth and accuracy at forefront, the following remains supposition, though no more than the aforementioned. Whether life could be entertained in another fashion has not much bearing on what actually progressed. Regardless of unprovable theories, aether alone failed to sustain biology, leading to all traditional life expiring. Eons passed. Energies actuating from the beginning of this dilapidated age tended towards fractal possibilities, the core principle of aetherics. In short, finding no life in flesh, life found metal and evolved.


    ¡°And that, gentlebots, is the answer to life, the universe and everything...everything¡­every¡­¡±


    ¡°Please, humble persons, I beg indulgence for my grandmother,¡± said a strapping youth, his youthful bright brass perspiring oil onto a dapper striped brown and gray shirt paired with suspenders and crisp dark linen trousers. Not much of his gearing was exposed - as keeping with proper decorum - but his speech bespoke one of the Urosma colonies rather than Asylon proper. He put that speech to continued apology while resting a hand on the rusted shoulder of his elder. ¡°Grandmother years past professored historical sciences, though degradation has progressed her to nearly Recursion and she often forgets which company is kept most days.¡±


    ¡°Recursion. The death of the mind¡­the mind¡­mind...¡± Grandmother and professor, she exemplified an example of her own explained condition. Though the ancient woman sat and mumbled in her chair - rusted and weathered, leaking and creaking, too many gears visible past iron and copper and a green dress far outside modern fashion - a body could be repaired. Life, such as it was on Nomm, remained entirely upon the sentience one retained hold of. Time and information ultimately degraded that sentience until only looped memories tarried, lacking free will and thought. Death truly only arriving to those without thought, a body only a shell of cogs and alloys.


    ¡°Cannae she keep ¡®er draftin¡¯ cogger shut?¡± said a boorish oaf, mostly iron with a shovel jaw and lantern eyes, steam leaking around his thick neck a clear indication of his temperament. And despite clothing possessing both taste and fashion - an unbuttoned white silk shirt, maroon cravat nearly untied, rumpled black coat and lighter beige trousers - it only made for an uncouth gentlebot hardly fit for polite company. His size, however, looming large over the bright lad and his elder relation even while seated, made confrontation undesirable to say the minimum. ¡°Should scrap da biddy an¡¯ sell da tin fer larger gears, ye toddlin¡¯ sprocket, hyehyehye!¡±


    Cramped space might have ostensibly accommodated a sitting room [1], yet with thirteen other robotics of various sizes each trying to mind their own nuts and bolts, the room had more in common with a compression tank. In other words, there was only so much strain such confinement might retain before inevitable pressurized detonation.


    Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.


    ¡°That is completely unwarranted, sir!¡± the youth piped, his own steam leaking as he stomped forward, pointing a gloved finger quivering in high emotion. ¡°How can you even suggest such actions while lacking basic compassion? If you are unable to retract your accusations, I¡­I will need to seek satisfaction forthwith!¡±


    The finely dressed scoundrel ending his chuckling, the glow of his lantern eyes increasing illumination as he slowly scanned the others occupying their own private affairs. Glare at, really, as if challenging anyone to side with the youth.  To the detriment of robotical society at large and with a collective shame, most ducked their heads and remained silent. A satisfied smile spread across his face when his lanterns shone again on the brass youth, hot steam boiled up through his shoveled jaw. Beneath his silk shirt a turbine whirred into muffled life and gears audibly ground together with a faster clip, bulges under his coat expanding until a button popped and spun through the air.


    ¡°Did you know that clothing has only been a universal custom since the advent of Accidentally Repurposed Souls? Four hundred years ago, covering one¡¯s gears was seen as frivolous, or even less so, as the very notion was ludicrous to mechanized life. Roboticals did not understand the concept of modesty until introduced by transient Earther souls inhabiting robotical bodies. Now we take great efforts to affect clothing employing concepts from immigrated morality. In fact, life on Nomm deviated with the acclimation of Earthers. Mandelbrium is the fuel for all life within the various moons of our world, energy distilled from the fractal aether, yet cooking and preparing various flavors to inject said fuel into ourselves is a new concept, historically speaking. Even the concept of metaheurism [2] - or what is basically known as procreation - has reached new and interesting fascinations, Earthers transforming a simple idea of optimal programming integration to generate new life into something pleasurable¡­¡±


    ¡°Grandmother, please!¡±


    A few chuckles accompanied the explicit words of the elderly woman and her frantically embarrassed grandson, most simply playing off the entire affair as a good show with a touch reminding them of the looming threat Recursion hanging over all anxious youth. Closer observation would note, however, how the steam from the larger scoop-jawed blaggard cooled while he sat down without much other fuss. Even closer detection would perceive the lamps of the elderly woman¡¯s eyes were not as dim and that her speech retained nary a stutter in her final elocution. Mayhaps bright enough and eloquent enough to understand not all fights require victory through fisticuffs.


    Further ruminations were interrupted as the door to the office - wherein those seated waited turn to enter - opened, quite erasing any thoughts on talkative grandmothers and bullying men of questionable parentage. All seated perked up as a mousy clunker - in serviceable coat and tails - held up a sheet, peering at the list of names towards the next gentlebot waiting service. ¡°Miss Safie Myrlass?¡±


    ¡°Accounting present,¡± Miss Myrlass said, standing from her seat and adjusting her petticoat, making long strides to weave past other disappointed patrons. Patrons who, realizing waiting would continue in their foreseen futures, collectively kept their gears to themselves. All, that was, excepting for a dredge-mouthed lout who proved to have less patience than manners.


    ¡°Oi, lass, I hope ye dun mind me goin¡¯ fer ya.¡± The audacious kerfuffler moved without awaiting response, already making for the doorway and the diminutive attendant, his shoveled gobulation smirking in entitlement.


    However, he was not expecting a hand upon his shoulder to stop his assumptions. More worrisome to his ego, he was not expecting that hand gripping hard enough to dent iron.


    ¡°I think, good sir, that you will find I do, in fact, mind,¡± Miss Myrlass said in the crispest of tones, creaking his shoulder back further as she quick-stepped past and into the room. ¡°Perchance you would benefit from further lessons on historical etiquette? I am led to conjecture waiting in a queue is an Earther affection.¡±


    Miss Safie made use of the better part of valor, penetrating herself into the room while leaving a seething churl behind. Midst a cloud of generous laughter, the brusque woman promptly thrust heel against door to shut the aperture, closing off any chance of bantered retaliation. This left her with the small servant inside a narrow hallway lit with a single gaslamp.


    ¡°Yes, um¡­¡± the tiny servant said, tucking his notes away and moving down the hall in concise motion, ¡°if you would follow me, Miss Myrlass, a clerk representing the Hanhagi Dungeon Company will meet with you now.¡± Gaining more of his propriety, the servant turned smartly and bowed towards a tray waiting at a desk, fragrant steam wafting from serviceable crockery. ¡°Would the lady care for tea?¡±


    Finally, civilization! Miss Myrlass thought, though she kept polite decorum and nodded demurely. ¡°Of course. One should never conduct business without proper comestibles.¡±


    The little man nodded and brought the tray, leading towards a bend in the hallway and a stately room with the waiting clerk.


    ---


    [1] Although the occupants were seated, and this was a space occupied for the express purpose of waiting, making this, indeed, a room for sitting.


    [2] All life on Nomm is a desire to seek optimization, and the most prevalent example of this idea is metaheurism, or the combining of programs to create new robotical life. A subroutine imperative, all roboticals eventually feel the need to create life from themselves in an effort to make something better, though whether those imperatives yield the desired outcome is dependent entirely upon the quality of programs involved.

 1: Upon Which Discussions Of Price Are Entertained

    1: Upon Which Discussions Of Price Are Entertained


    ¡°The price per excursion varies, dependent upon discretion of the Hanhagi Dungeon Company and Mr. Salamarn Vonsteque, the Empire¡¯s right and honorable Minister Of Dungeon Regulation And Oversight.¡±


    Gears Above, preserve me from bureaucracy, Miss Myrlass thought silently, carefully picking up said tea and sipping upon the sweet flavor mingled with almost too much ethylene, fashionable in Asylon proper. Rather than answer immediately, Miss Myrlass savored the sharp and sweet taste, thankful to imbibe something other than watery oils as she had for six months previous.


    The clerk waited patiently, his own tea steeping near patiently clasped hands.


    ¡°I understand, and would agree with your assessment of the remuneration available, yet I have the advantage of sojourning multiple stations and delving into diverse dungeons among the orbits of Nomm. Prices may vary from one satellite to the next; however, economy dictates there be a functioning limit upon services, regulated by the demand of aforementioned service.¡± Miss Myrlass took a moment: what some might mistake as a delicate pause in the conversation for emphasis was in fact Miss Myrlass reveling in another opportune moment of delicious tea.


    The clerk nodded in satisfaction of someone who provides good tea and remained accommodating, lanterned eyes glowing a stately dim in the small yet efficient office.


    Tea savored and composure retained, Miss Myrlass concluded, ¡°The prices listed are - if I can appear indelicate and perhaps even bold - criminal!¡± Miss Safie Wollesteinkunst Myrlass, finishing both her say and tea, placed the empty white china cup upon matching saucer with emphasis, staring at the clerk as if her message were as crystalline clear purgaglass.


    Dressed to the nines despite the setting, Miss Myrlass never let frivolous things such as dangerous environs or monstrous encounters interfere with fashion. Carmine petticoat brazenly opened in the front to the upper thigh after the style of risque dancers - so as to allow free movement - laced in heavy black chantilly to modestly hide black leather Hessians - with minimal heel! - over matching lace stockings, this was the dress of a robotical woman prepared for tea or adventure in equal measure [1].


    Moving upward along her apparel excursion, Miss Myrlass might have obtained the label of hussy if her functional - yet pleasantly daring - dark golden cuirasse bodice over comfortable - if sparse - silk chemise (that left much of her waist and bust exposed), were displayed in flagrante; however, all her gears remained covered in a sensible and mod warmly reddish brown leather jacket with double breasts and high collar, preserving her virtue by two rows of buttons and a belt. The only accessories left were thick black leather gloves, a wide brimmed taupe hat with light golden ribbon, goggles made of ambiguous quintessence bronze alloy containing tinted purgaglass lenses and a belt weighed down with bags and vials bespeaking louder than the goggles that this woman was an alchemist.


    Seated across from the woman, wearing equally impeccable clothing styled in the latest of gentlebot suits (favoring a particularly elegant cream cravat peaking from his seamless wool coat), the clerk - who introduced himself earlier as a Mr. Nammerworth - took a sip of his own tea and nodded while gently reclasped his hands (more, rather clamp styled claws) over the tidy desk between them, having agreed perfectly with Miss Myrlass yet also retaining the bearing of a civil servant unwilling to budge upon principle duty. He needed not to say anything, yet his demeanor spoke to Miss Myrlass in a compelling and sophisticated manner.


    ¡°I see,¡± Miss Myrlass acquiesced, unwilling to grind her transmission yet silently projecting mental disgust. Pulling out the appropriate sixteen pounds and ten shillings from her belt - leaving Miss Safie¡¯s finances in a dreadful state of two shillings and four pennies - she placed the coins down with as much gravitas as Baron Shivor moving his bishop from f5 to h3 [2].


    ¡°Though I am disinclined to participate in willful robbery and would have much preferred patroning one of your more elegant - and profitable - venues, my purse has been light of late and it is better to work meanly by the quick than to whittle away slowly into poverty abject.¡±


    ¡°Entirely understandable, madame.¡± Pulling out a small tray from under the desk with one hand while surreptitiously scooping the coins away with the other, Mr. Nammerworth deftly filled out the Delving Permit with efficient grace bespeaking a competent imperial employee. ¡°Respectable delvers go into the Sewer more often than the papers will admit: proper cash flow persists the most deadly hazard of the occupation.¡±


    ¡°La! Isn¡¯t that just the thing?¡± Standing, Miss Myrlass straightened her coat and loomed over the desk with an impressive seven feet and seven inches (231 cm) (eight inches, or 234 centimeters total, with the minimal heel), the frenzy of the Hanhagi Depot awaiting outside - through a hall and past the sitting room - to interrupt what the adventuring alchemist had thought to be a perfectly fine moment of tea and discourse. ¡°Posh one minute, pauper the next. I think all you Dungeon Companies are the real winners in the profit game.¡±


    ¡°Quite right, Miss Myrlass,¡± the clerk replied with a smile, though a smile upon the traps of a cylindrical chromed snout had more menace than was entirely proper, standing himself up to his twelve feet (3.6 m) of articulated wiry hunched form. Bowing with exact decorum while holding out the stamped permit with a broad burnished mirrored claw, he was the epitome of elegance.


    Miss Myrlass took the permit with her own smile, thinking she appreciated a bit of menace. It was enough of a thought to turn her mood around rightly. Feeling daring, she assessed her companion and found him to be of comely bearings. She held out an arm and - fortunately, the gentlebot reciprocating - allowed herself to be be led out of the room, hallway and past the sitting room of remaining waiting attendants, into the crowded interior of Hanhagi Station.


    ¡°Your conveyance should leave shortly, best hurry if you hope for enough time to properly delve.¡± Mr. Nammerworth gestured towards the tunnels busy with queues of the rough and exotic crowds found near any dungeon environ.


    ¡°Thank you for your assistance, Mr. Nammerworth,¡± Miss Safie effused as she strode away, the lithe robotical kissing her hand before she flung back her appreciation merrily in a jaunty wave. ¡°I shall return anon and see if you have any more of that delightful tea ready.¡±


    From the time it took to gait across the massive open space of the depot - weaving past and through the throng of roboticals busily about their own business - that elative boost waned and Miss Safie¡¯s faculties returned to their even presentation of a woman who brooks no nonsense and is a broker of sensible conversation. She ascertained her proper placement in the mill of roboticals, stately placing herself behind the waiting clankers to sojourn posthaste. Her new and current queue shorter than the other twenty-five various dungeons Hanhagi boasted, the wait still gave her time to admire the largest depot she had every been to and, by reputation, the largest collection of dungeons within the moons of Nomm [3].


    Enclosed entirely in purgaglass ribbed with alloyed copper in a massive half-cylinder, the Hanhagi Depot had a stunning view into the aether from the surface of the otherwise barren plate. Lacking readily available sources of raw quintessence - the building blocks of all alchemy reactions - Hanhagi would be just another unremarkable platform amid hundreds of satellites orbiting the brown gas giant of Nomm. Excepting, of course, that centuries before aether explorers discovered a wealth of dungeons underneath the surface. Soon, the largest delving enterprise in all the moons began and helped form the backbone of the Urosma Empire. Issere - the station holding the seat of the Empire, the great city of Asylon - was quickly assembled and from that grand station an empire emerged. This prosperity drove Urosma innovators to discover the alchemical inventions in their aetherships that enabled swift travel through the aether between moons, which in turn led to the empire conquering divided roboticals before they could realize they were even under attack. In short, Hanhagi Station was the beginning of the unification of Nomm, whether that be for good or ill.


    All this properly relegated to history. The Empire remaining the strongest among the moons of Nomm, yet stifled in the last hundred years as they spread out too far. Colonies have grown bold during this time of laxity. As a woman raised up on one of those colonies, Miss Safie understood this more than most and her loyalties were more complex than the typical citizen of the Empire.


    Shaking her head to clear thoughts better left in maudlin moments, Miss Myrlass presented her permit to the receptionist and filed into a narrow traincar with the wheels and tracks suspending the metal box beneath, the ground quickly falling into black abyss below. The car only became half full before stewards closed the doors and a high pitched whirl of modern Azoth Engines charged the alchemical steam inside the copper pipes and used that agitation to create a reliable propellant for the turbines connected to the main pistons. From the time the conductor actuated the quintessence and the car lurched forward, it was only half a minute and with distracted wonder, Miss Safie desperately wanted to know how the engine could transmute quintessence into the steam so quickly without rupturing piston casings.


    ¡°Pardon me, Milady?¡±


    So distracted was Miss Safie that she entirely disregarded the first two attempts of conversation made by the young girl sitting across from her in the car. When she finally discovered the attempt of confabulation being made, she stifled rudeness and turned her attention towards the inquireress in question, displaying a visage of someone politely receptive to dialogue.


    ¡°I am sorry to seem forward, but might I ask about your alloys?¡± the girl inquired, her masculine overalls and soot stained aluminum face making it clear she worked in brownsmithing more than delving, though a brace of pistols belied the stereotype. Red loose circuited hair trimmed short under a tweed cap, her unfortunate upbringing the likely culprit for her crimes against fashion. The faux pas of asking about one¡¯s chassis could more easily be forgiven when faced with a woman wearing trousers!


    The question, regrettably, was an old hat and with much effort Miss Myrlass resisted a petulant sigh. Better to answer than sit out an entire trip in rudeness, though hopefully enough jargon could dissuade further questioning. ¡°I am a augmentational alchemist of some skill, which accounts for the molybdenum-copper-tungstun casing most prevalent about myself.¡±


    ¡°Oh,¡± the girl stated, her brow crinkling as she fiddled with a tiny brass cog sticking out of the plating next to left temple, her irical lamp expanding and proving the girl possessed a simple augment installed there herself. ¡°That would give account for your proportionally significant mass and...¡± the girl firmed her lips and unconsciously touched her own petite chest in recognizable self-consciousness, ¡°...exorbitant schemacle framework. Not to mention your...um...?¡±


    ¡°Rivets?¡± If Miss Myrlass had not had the benefit of twenty-six years answering these questions a hundred upon a hundred times, she might have grown irritable. Really, it was the height of gauche to talk about one¡¯s gears without first being properly introduced and having had opportunity to call upon the person at least two or three times for tea. Nevertheless, her old governess would lash her into scrap for even thinking of sinking below the high water mark of decorum and so she galvanized her upper lip and plunged right into the breach.


    ¡°As far as medical mechanics ascertain, I have a problematic condition,¡± Miss Myrlass smoothly lied, tracing one of the recent cracks of thick welding transversing the left side of her face. ¡°This condition prevents my programming matrix from aligning with my metallic body fashionably typical to robotical society. Combating this condition necessitates periodically replacing my chassis with patches and scrap metal, creating the patchwork mosaic not just on my face, but throughout my body.¡± As if in emphasis, Miss Myrlass rolled up her coat sleeve and lifted one large dark arm corded in thick wiring under rough rivet lines and a myriad of alloys through each plate, though they all generally lent themselves to a darker color, as if she were carbon cast.


    Perhaps realizing how very rude she had just been, the other girl leaked enough steam to slough away the splotchy oils on her face, shaking her hands frantically. ¡°Forgive me, I did not mean to pry.¡±


    Indulging the inevitable sigh, Miss Myrlass reached across the narrow space and rested her hand lightly on the girl¡¯s knee. ¡°Think nothing of it, everything is pink between us, Miss...?¡±


    ¡°Lilli, Milady.¡±


    Further conversation ended as the Azoth Engines lowered pitch and the car crawled before jolting to a sudden stop and stewards opened the doors. Other occupants of the car - who, truth told, hung on the conversation with much aplomb, delvers being almost as gossipy as peerage spinsters - left without seeking further inquiry and got about the business of delving. Miss Safie and the young redhead did likewise.


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


    Fashion, often the dictator of a woman¡¯s life, had thus far in history said nothing about the exact form of dress one should wear while chest deep in muck most foul.


    ¡°I...I...¡±


    Throughout the years, family, friends, acquaintances, desperate servants and even more desperate bureaucrats have attempted to render Miss Safie Wollesteinkunst Myrlass speechless upon one time or another. If only they had known the solution to their conundrum lay in unsure footing, a fall into tarry black vileness from which a gurgled baptism echoed through the otherwise empty passageway. The stench alone had given the stout processors of Miss Safie a fierce trial, yet upon finding the actual substance invading her every aperture, there was never nor would there ever be a comparable experience.


    Frankly, if she were of a lower upbringing, she might have unleashed some debase profanities for all the dungeon to hear.


    Finding purchase on the lip of the circular tunnel and pulling herself out with undignified schlorping, Miss Safie rolled onto the narrow path running along the side of the tunnel with such base manners that only being alone here would she allow herself the slip. The actual happenings of her past minute set fully upon her mind and with violent need, she rolled to the side and heaved - without any propriety - the contents of her stomach onto the cold stone. Her weakness continued until Miss Safie was entirely sure she had emptied even the hard tack she breakfasted sometime last week, hot acids in her mouth still a better taste than...Miss Safie desperately thought of something else.


    ¡°This...was my favorite...petticoat...¡± Miss Safie lamented, moving herself into a sitting position and surveying over the horrid state of her clothing. Attempts to dislodge offending gunk proved hopeless, as if it were an grotty relative stopping for luncheon and then insinuating themselves to stay for three weeks. Everything was ruined and only her sealed vials and goggles appeared worth saving. Maybe the boots, but time would tell.


    ¡°An hour into this delve and already I¡¯m over a hundred pounds in the hole. I always wondered if the gods hated me. Thanks, Mne Osi,¡± Miss Safie offered the prayer with as much sarcasm as she thought allowable when talking to one¡¯s patron deity. No sense inviting further godly wrath if it can be avoided.


    Grumbling other words a lady has no business knowing, Miss Safie hoisted upward and let her practical mind take over while striding further into the Sewer¡¯s sewer. Sitting in a puddle of offal was not going to clean her clothing nor would it turn back time to before she entered this dreadful dungeon. It most certainly would not put hard coin in her pocket. If this trip could become salvaged, she would need to tighten her belt - which she did, the act rousing her stator coils - and crack on!


    Delving was not - on the surface - a difficult occupation. Find a dungeon, harvest quintessence, make a profit. Most delvers provided satisfactory vocation finding reliable quintessence the dungeon manufactured and sold directly to factories or to one of the wholesale Companies distributing various alchemical resonances for a small fee. A skilled delver obtains a reliable living wage, though sweatfarms were becoming more common as Companies realized profits in mass producing cheap quintessence.


    ¡°Which, at least, I can say I am dealing with sublimer and more profitable gathering of quintessence.¡± Miss Safie knew she grumbled over nitpicky semantics. However, discoursing confabulation often cooled her cogs and keep steam at even temperament, no matter how inane the topics discussed with herself became. ¡°I could be gathering basic mandelbrium for base consumption. I am no mere food monger, though there is nothing the matter with those farmers who reap sustenance for robotical society. And there is little difference between materials, rudimentary speaking: both are derived from aether, only refinement and application separating the two into distinct categories. I endeavor to work through a different sphere, seeking fractal energies of quintessence to further alchemical scientific progress rather than mandelbrium for gastronomical convenience.¡±


    Ruminations completed and steam pacified, as far as dungeons went, this Sewer was unpleasant but lacked the danger typical of such environs. Miss Safie expected more in the way of danger. Mostly thus far consisting of tunnels cross-crissing beneath the station, the occasional fey torches illuminating just enough of the ground to inform a delver¡¯s senses that they were, indeed, trudging next to a river of poop. Or in it, depending upon available footing, apparently.


    Regardless, though the smell and slime were beyond ken, Miss Safie was optimistic this dive would prove profitable. However, in practical application, obtaining quality quintessence might prove more difficult than optimism might overcome, as she soon learned.


    ¡°Sir, I find it unfortunate to have invaded myself into your home, yet I cannot bring myself to recommend your accommodations.¡±


    ¡°pllbllphbble!!¡±


    Towering above Miss Safie with twenty feet (6 m), rising out of the muck where it made its home, pseudopod appendages waving angrily about as it cacophoned through the tunnel out of a mouth more akin to a lamprey¡¯s gristmill large enough to scrap Miss Safie whole, a glowing purple worm with translucent carapace plating - as much as Miss Safie could discern underneath black tar - made itself know and appeared to be either territorial or hungry as wobbling stalks whirred dark lanterns in her direction.


    ¡°Right, no pish-poshing about, down to business.¡± Stepping back to give herself room while removing her gloves and slipping them into her belt, Miss Safie shucked out of the arms of her coat with practiced ease, baring her naked shoulders and arms to the humid and odorous air. If a gentlebot were present, he would have found the state of her dress unsightly with such gearage visible, but secretly he may have also been harboring feelings of inadequacy. Miss Safie Myrlass could be called many things, but weak or dainty was never going to fit the woman. She possessed the horsepower and torque of at least ten capable gentlebots and the significant chassis to support so much drivetrain.


    Any lady, on the other hand, would have had feelings of inadequacy for entirely different reasons [4].


    Although tall compared to an unaugmented robotical woman of common alloys, tall doesn¡¯t give proper scope. Miss Safie was massive in the way 1812 pounds (822 kg) of exaggerated feminine proportions could fit into a frame only seven feet and seven inches (231 cm) of height would accommodate. With coat and skirt, her appearance softened and belied the dense clockwork underneath crisscrossed in thick wires and the patchwork of her riveted plating. It was no wonder strangers often mistook her for some radical amalgamation between a dungeonous behemoth and an erotical evocative shamble of scrap.


    ¡°I am unsure of your exact resonance, yet I figure under all your muck you have the heritage of a form of widget. Shouldn¡¯t have too much trouble dismantling you without any untoward abolution [5].¡±


    The worm didn¡¯t care to chat or even give proper introduction, falling forward with a tsunami of sludge and a ground shaking crash towards the woman as she dodged out of reach - only getting her boots wet with some more gunk - and pulled a vial out of her belt. This vial appeared simple, having a blue viscous liquid inside and corked with an inch of hard wax, yet when Miss Safie flicked her thumb on the wax, simultaneously rotating her forearm open and jamming the chemicals into place, closing her arm and activating numerous augmentational protocols.


    ¡°Grr!¡± Though a unique practitioner of her own brand of alchemy, it didn¡¯t change the fact that she was flushing her hydraulics with powerful tonics that shifted her gears, thaumatic energies expounding in ways no robotical was ever able to naturally convert. Simply stated, it hurt. Pain was the first price Miss Safie paid for scientific acumen.


    *crckrrggwwwwwWWW!!*


    Pistons split her chassis plating, her left arm manufacturing pistons and wires and gears chaotically as a massive collection of parts threatened to tip her sideways in mass and size. Her arm quickly grew longer and more complex than her entire body, an asymmetrical monstrosity glowing bright red in the dim lights as alchemical materialization generated massive amounts of heat on every sprog and bolt, gouts of steam attempting to mitigate the damage to her framework. Her forearm continued to spin faster, devouring her hand and malforming into a proper turbine, electrical arcs discharging along the walls from the building energy.


    You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    The worm continued its unforgivable rudeness by not standing and waiting for the young lady to finish her transformation. Jaunting two steps back, Miss Safie shot forward to leap across the center of the tunnel as the fast worm slithered along her recently vacated side of the tunnel, the creature snaking close behind. Quick succession, both tried for dominance in their brutal fracas. The worm was more quick than the alchemist would allow credit, a pseudopod expanding chainsaw teeth to chew into her plating while tossing Miss Safie into the wall from a glancing blow. The alchemist ground her transmission and shifted to her final gear, keeping pace, running along the side of the beast. Ichor and oil burst from sprung pipes inside the robotical woman, weakness threatening to drop her to the ground as her systems were unable to cope with further strain, visceral sprays igniting from split and sparking wiring near her shoulder. Yet, despite weakness, despite failure opening jaws and threatening scrapous oblivion, Miss Safie grinned brilliant silvered teeth and her purple lamps shone brightly through her goggles as she reveled in prescient triumph.


    ¡°I find your conduct unbecoming a gentlebot!¡± Miss Safie shouted, leaping onto the back of the worm and thrusting her left arm forward, brightly luminescent turbine cackling with charged resonance. Her protocols discharged the gathered energy once connection with the worm¡¯s carapace completed, fractal transmutation actuating to the sound of a hundred lightnings thundering through the tunnel, striking the beast as if an entire storm cloud released its electrical payload in only a portion of a second.


    Though insulated from most of the effect with manufactured resonance - part of the reason for the alchemical manifestations of increased size along the arm, not only to account for necessitated capacitors - the secondary heat caused from such a reaction boiled the liquid offal and melted her entire appendage into a fused mess of metalics. The original transmutational energies already dissipating through abolution into the air with black steam, whole parts flaking from her arm and shoulder to dissolve into rusted dust before landing into the muck. This left her arm with roughly as much size and mass as she possessed previous to actuation of her alchemy, though blackened and useless as it was now she likely could not even sell it for a single plate of tin. It was with only a little bit of satisfaction that her teeth remained grit in a hearty grin from having shouted such a great pun before landing the finishing blow.


    ¡°Hehe, conduct.¡±


    Though a short battle, the ruined state of her left arm made Miss Safie wish she had brought her welding kit with her on this delve, golden ichor and brown lubricant oozing freely out of the exposed gearing. A grotesque collection of pistons, hydraulics, wiring, cogs, rods woven around her skeletal framing - which, if she were entirely honest, had both seen better days and needed rechroming if she wanted to avoid corrosion at her young age - her entire left arm and parts of her left side missing enough plating she contemplated again whether she should convert to a denser alloy.


    Taking a riveter out of her belt pouch, she crudely got busy with the work of roughly closing her chassis together and meanly keeping her insides inside instead of open to the outside, hot bolts brazing together and ichor dripping hotly onto the stewed carcass of the worm.


    ¡°Hope this worm is valued a couple hundred pounds after I drag it back to the depot and extract its quintessence,¡± Miss Safie stated heartily as she finished her rough mechanicery and took out a glass bottle hooked to a rubber tube and a needle, poking the needle into her undamaged right arm past a cleverly disguised weld and sighing as an influx of ichor hit her pipes. ¡°I would be absolutely distressed if this outing could not even cover the cost of silk stockings.¡±


    Miss Safie paused, taking in the size of the beast and slowly pulling out the compact coil of rope she kept on her person interwoven with purgahardened copper for such occasions. The hardy woman was a capable force of physical prowess, yet there sank into her a depressing understanding of weight ratios as she compared her eighteen hundred feminine pounds verses what appeared to be twelve tons (10.9 mt) of buoyant but otherwise inert slag. Twelve tons of monster that would likely only transverse with her towards the surface if kept within the river of awful and dragged by someone equally submerged in said awful.


    ¡°¡­beallucas,¡± Miss Safie swore.


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


    ¡°The Great Work, otherwise known colloquially as alchemy, is the scientific application and manipulation of the native energy of the world of Nomm. Thaumatic dynamism, understood in theory, cannot be directly observed, though its effects prove quantifiable. Like an invisible and untouchable bottle of oil: we know the oil is contained in something, we know this something has properties, we just cannot interact with it and know it exists by what it does, not what it is. The current scientific minds reason thaum is a form of energy that is not atomic, but rather exists in a type of fractal amplitude that engulfs matter, creating the fundamental building blocks of alchemy: quintessence, or thaumian energetic substances. It is also found in unaltered states within mandelbrium, but that is a discussion of an entirely different magnitude.¡±


    ¡°Very fascinating, I am sure, but¡­¡±


    ¡°Nevertheless, this is why aether - the semi-liquid, semi-atmospheric material surrounding Nomm, all the hundreds of moons and out beyond the furthest orbits to 700,000 miles (1,126,541 km) from the gaseous surface of our planet and star together - is both the reason for thaumian energy and what makes it impractical for quintessence distillation. Forgive me, I mean resonantial distillation, or distillation retaining the transcendental properties unique between differing forms of quintessence. Distillation of aether is a common practice, creating Azoth Vapor - what the common layman calls Alchemical Steam - and further distillation led to the discovery of ichor in the year 856 of the modern era, only 72 years ago, which greatly improved the lives of those utilizing augmentational alchemy. La! I am getting off track.¡±


    ¡°Completely understandable. Now if we could¡­¡±


    ¡°To truly understand the costs and gains of the aetheric sciences unique to our world - unlike the mundane sciences throughout most of the know universe, such as on Mother Earth - I should briefly overview how the science of alchemy revolves around three core principles: distillation, transmutation and actuation. Specifically, the distillation of quintessence, utilizing quintessence to initiate transmutation into manageable material and activating those compounds for myriad effects. Distilling my explanation further, like the alchemist that I am - for I truly have a tendency to expound a novel when a note would do - alchemy is about taking thaumatically charged material, using knowledge and experience to determine the resonance of the thaumian energy, transmuting that material into a usable quintessence, then actuating the quintessence by properly applying Attraction Principles in a manner either subtle or explosive. This, of course, is not even going into the fundamentals of Abolution Nullification when talking about opposing resonances¡­¡±


    ¡°Madame, will you shut your clanking box?!¡±


    For a moment, a hush hung inside the large depot of Hanhagi, the general sensibilities of hundreds gathered there collectively having their very processors slapped with the robothropomorphic personification of Indignity himself. A few rugged delving gentlebots gasped. One girl running the adjacent counter actually swooned. In this modern day and age of refinement and class, such language simply was not tolerated by decent folk [6].


    Realizing instantly his mistake and the volume at which he shouted, the silver wire haired and rotundal man in charge of the collections counter coughed delicately into a gloved hand and fiddled with his cravat until it was nearly undone. Nevertheless, he pressed on as if he were not just the height of rude. ¡°The Hanhagi Dungeon Company appreciates that your skills as an alchemist are founded on a thorough education and provide a service of sterling quality. Your distillation appears satisfactory in every obvious metric. However¡­¡±


    ¡°However?¡± Miss Myrlass practically growled, her steam rising as she leaned forward onto the counter, the resined lip under her clenched hand creaking from restrained grasp.


    ¡°You are not, Miss Myrlass, a sanctioned member of the Royal Union Of Alchemical Sciences.¡± The man whirred his hands as if to show there was nothing he could do, though lubricant trickled down his copper plating. ¡°Any quintessence we receive from you would lack the necessary documentation certifying the quality of the distillation. Without these credentials, how can we explain with exactitude the material our customers purchase is met with any form of standard? The Hanhagi Dungeon Company gives its most humble regrets, but the Widget Resonant quintessence you have expositioned is only worth sixty pounds.¡±


    All things considered, Miss Myrlass showed remarkable restraint.


    *crack!*


    The resined lip for the counter broke off, splintering around her fists as the pieces clattered to the floor.


    ¡°I have never needed permission of the Union to sell quintessence in any of my previous delves,¡± Miss Myrlass evenly stated, looking down and calmly shaking splinters out of her muck-ruined glove. ¡°If I were on Daho¨¦ Nah or Tianzho Terminus it wouldn¡¯t be an issue. Even the master alchemists of Hreidfl Station do not require any such paperwork to barter quality craftsmanship. In any other orbit I could demand three-hundred pounds and be thought of as the poorer in that bargain.¡±


    ¡°If you were anywhere else, I would agree.¡± The elderly collections agent appeared to have regained composure and calmly smoothed his ruffled wires. ¡°You are, however, on Hanhagi Station. Decorum and adherence are more important here than in other less refined moons.¡±


    It took Miss Myrlass¡¯s entire tenure of finishing school embedding etiquette deep into her soul to keep her from reaching over the counter and punching the crooked brass teeth of the collections agent down his tin gullet. It took considerably more effort to set the robust five gallon (19 L) jar containing her daily catch and distillation of quintessence carefully upon the table, choking on her pride as she accepted the light valise filled with not enough coins. Sometimes, no amount of haggling could negate the omnipotent oppression of monopolizing corporations, nor could a robotical actually breakfast on pride.


    Walking away, Miss Safie shuffled over to the departures counter on the other side of the depot and handed over half of her newly acquired wealth to pay for her passage on the next aethership leaving to Asylon. Only a day¡¯s travel, the exorbitant cost was not for her person but rather for the crates she had been hauling on aethership to aethership since she left Hreidfl six months ago. She was hoping today¡¯s delve would have provided her passage as well as some spending capital when she arrived in Asylon proper, but now it had become more apparent that finishing her journey and establishing herself as an independent alchemist capable of both vim and vigor was the urgent action.


    ¡°As Asylon does, so follow the aether moons,¡± Miss Safie whispered the old saying, having found a lone bench and leaning back in the undersized seating to glance up through the purgaglass ceiling of the depot. Though personal sensors had become blind to her current vapors, others kept far distance though they did so politely. It gave Miss Safie a moment to dwell that no matter her own misfortunes, roboticals of all types experience misfortune. Ever a business reliant upon fortune as much as diligence, delving brought all the ups and downs of a lifetime into a single day. Stated with veracity, at some point or another many of the other delvers passing far from her bench with small nods in distant greeting likely did so with empathetic understanding instead of pitiable sympathy.


    Emerging from ruminations back to herself on a bench looking up into bright nommlight, Miss Safie slumped as the weight of an unsure future pressed, forcing perspective towards her goal. Even through goggles and glass, 17,000 miles (27,358 km) of aether, the orbit aligned at that moment to display the bulbous hulk of Issere phased in night against the day of Nomm¡¯s layered browns. Miss Safie thought she could pick out Asylon¡¯s layered cogwork itself, knowing from maps how it would be next to the Golden Sea and surrounded by a Bismuth Forest. Aetherships of all shapes and sizes would swarm and congregate, the city the beating heart of an entire empire. Whatever her personal politics might be, it was sure to be impressive in full nommlight.


    ¡°Tea?¡± Mr. Nammerworth offered, carefully emerging from behind Miss Myrlass¡¯ seat.


    The smell alone wafting from a white cup on matching saucer was an injection of joy, lightening moods and erasing the past ten hours of delving, fighting, struggling to haul the carcass back to the train system and then working for over four hours using the antiquated and inadequate public distillery to refine the quintessence before presenting a perfect product only to have all that work amount into a pittance. Truly, the ruinous state of her attire, her chassis caked in filth so fetid, the odious bouquet¡­it was a miracle others approached within a hundred feet (30.5 m) much less come baring steaming ambrosia.


    ¡°I must admit, if at this time you proposed marriage in recompense for this cup of tea, I would be inclined to accept and begin shopping for appropriate dress.¡± Miss Myrlass made to remove her glove, but the distressing properties of the black tar of the Sewer had hardened into a second skin covering every surface of her, even down to her most intimates, preventing gloved egress. Likewise, removal of said glove would require her left arm and hand to be in working order, the worthless hunk of metal carefully covered and arranged to camouflage her actual state. Regardless, removing her glove to save the white cup proved fruitless and so with delicate care, the weary alchemist attempted to prevent as much contamination as was physically possible while taking a sip.


    Ah, bliss, Miss Myrlass thought.


    ¡°Would that I were available - and possibly twenty years younger - I would have attempted such a daring proposal,¡± Mr. Nammerworth bantered, chuckling with his long snout and carefully easing his lithe bulk beside her into the bench with nary a clank, sipping his own cup of tea. ¡°Mrs. Nammerworth might have something to say if I were to become so forward.¡±


    ¡°I would not wish to presume, though I imagine in my mind a robotical like yourself over twenty feet (6 m) tall ejecting fire and holding a rolling pin, threatening you with domestic punishments unseen in any moon,¡± Miss Myrlass chuckled, the absurd day she has had having driven her processors to hysterics.


    ¡°Silver alloyed, actually, and hardly five feet (1.5 m) tall. Though the rest of it is the spitting image of my Katsurba.¡±


    ¡°La! I would like to someday meet such a woman.¡±


    The two of them fell into easy silence, perchance both equally at home either in conversation or companionable lulls. The Earther clock [7] prominently displayed the time of three o¡¯clock overhead the entire station, the early morning making for a sparse gathering of anyone. A time of contemplation, before the day woke up and started properly.


    ¡°I asked around to some roboticals I know,¡± Mr. Nammerworth said casually, pinching a bit of graphine into his glass from the stick on his saucer. ¡°The name Safie Myrlass is not unknown. Doctor Alchemical, recently graduated, the Ichor Alchemist you are called in some orbits. I even found a copy of your treatise on the marginal applications of Exponential Resonance and - though I have only started into the paper - I believe your insights to have truly remarkable ramifications.¡±


    ¡°That thesis and eight shillings can purchase me a sandwich on Hanhagi,¡± Miss Myrlass replied with only a touch of bitter.


    ¡°Quite right, though I do not believe you are planning on staying in Hanhagi to, how shall I put it?¡± When Mr. Nammerworth loomed, twin lanterns past rows of rather sharp teeth in his maw shining with natural menace, it causes a touch of fear¡¯s thrill to speed the turbines, Miss Myrlass feeling something in her chest. ¡°Purchase your next sandwich.¡±


    Thrilling though Mr. Nammerworth¡¯s looming was, he was a married gentlebot and so Miss Myrlass elegantly replied with a raised brow, having caught his meaning.


    ¡°To wit, then.¡± Mr. Nammerworth shifted his mien - the bench creaking from his weight combined with Miss Myrlass¡¯ own considerable - taking on the mannerisms of business rather than the countenance one keeps in a pleasant social. ¡°While my obvious employer is the Hanhagi Dungeon Company, I also represent certain interests who look to commission roboticals capable without ties to the Union or other guilds.¡±


    ¡°I attest to the appeal such a merger of commissioners with commissionees such as myself is, in fact, the very sprocket I¡¯d want in my camshaft, yet I cannot think offhand of any reason such an arrangement would be made excepting for deeds nefarious.¡±


    Mr. Nammerworth nodded, likely having come across such concerns before. ¡°I prefer to think of it as a need for discretion. The Union especially has many rules and regulations and all the paperwork, it is a wonder any alchemy gets done at all in Urosma. The robiticals I represent are more concerned with results and they enjoy certain anonymity. Discretion, I might add, that comes with significantly larger purses than sixty pounds.¡±


    Miss Myrlass pouted her lips to keep any excitable steam escaping, thinking about the proposal set before her. Once upon a youthful exuberance, she might have dallied upon a chance such as this without thought or pause, leaping off the prow and then only wondering if the safety cable was attached. Nevertheless, this child she remembers grew up and felt the sting life can inject with the tragic poison of experience.


    Warily, the young woman set down her tea and resisted the urge to wince from the pain still radiating from her arm. ¡°Why me?¡±


    The question had a lot of meaning hidden inside, wrapped about with only two words to convey all that needed to be asked. Mr. Nammerworth, fortunately, as he had thus far been able to, garnered it all and gave his answer with appropriate gravitas. ¡°I remember my grandfather explaining to me that life is a journey we take again and again throughout our orbits around Nomm. We start in a place of safety and familiarity, living with the only worries of the immediate and inconsequential kind. Eventually we find a need to leave our safe places, either by choice or necessity. Sometimes a robotical ignores the call and lives their life without ever going on a journey, but these souls stagnate and become less than scrap in their efforts to hang onto safety. Regardless, whether by need or want, we leave and begin our journey.


    ¡°The journey, as my grandfather puts it, can have many twists and turns, yet mostly it is about what a robotical becomes that is important for when someone returns back from what they left. The familiar is now changed because you are changed, what was once safe and familiar is different and possibly hostile. This is not a bad thing, because the importance of a journey is the becoming, not the once was. Eventually, this changed refuge will have its own journey of itself and become safe and familiar, bringing the journey back to the beginning, possibly prompting another journey to come.¡±


    ¡°Are you saying this is the beginning of my journey?¡± Miss Myrlass asked, folding her arm under her breasts and wincing as she felt a building pressure along her left side, likely a complication from her rough repair work in the Sewers.


    ¡°As I mentioned, I asked around. Eight years of apprenticeship in the deep mountains of Hreidfl under the impressive tutelage of Hemet Namel, your delving record shows sixty-seven successful dives, you have four papers published in prominent journals. Safie Myrlass is not some Jenny Do-Nothing, she¡¯s a high water bluestocking and I expect great things.¡±


    ¡°Nevertheless, you feel that I am at the start of my journey, that I must choose whether to remain safe or to become bold?¡± Miss Myrlass finished her tea and set the cup aside.


    Mr. Nammerworth smiled, nodding his snout as if the woman has scored a deserved point. ¡°No one ever discovered the true mettle of their character sitting at home, so to speak.¡±


    One of the stewards of the depot passed by, ringing a bell and holding up a placard reading the times of aethership departures and arrivals. Miss Myrlass found herself surprised when she opened and checked her pocket watch and noted her ship would depart in only a matter of scant time. Before she could stand, Mr. Nammerworth acted the perfect gentlebot and stood before her, offering his refined claw to help her to her feet.


    ¡°I make no promises, for I am an old spinster and hopefully a wiser one than I have had opportunity to show in past times, yet I admit I am upon a journey and I am in need of capital. Character development can take a second string cello to gainful employment, as far as I am concerned.¡±


    ¡°I would honestly think less of your character if you did not perform due diligence.¡± Reaching into his coat, the taller robotical pulled out a sealed note with care and handed it over. ¡°This is a letter of introduction to Mr. Fafnir who will be riding with you on your trip to Asylon, which should give you a full day to decide whether my proposal has any merit. Regardless, it has been my esteem pleasure to meet and entertain a woman such as yourself, though I hope you understand me forgoing kissing your hand until when next you have opportunity to call.¡±


    ¡°You shame me,¡± Miss Myrlass teased, smiling, though the reminder she was covered hat to boots in offal made the desire for a bath a physical need at this point. ¡°I do not know how long my immediate business in Asylon will detain me, but I shall most certainly call upon you and your wife in a near future date. I simply must meet the better half of the premiere gentlebot of Hanhagi.¡±


    ¡°The pleasure would be ours,¡± Mr. Nammerworth said with a short bow. ¡°Now go, you will want to be settled before the ship leaves berth into the aether.¡±


    Clutching the note, Miss Myrlass stepped back and waved, turning and striding away.


    Having time enough to perform a few tasks, Miss Safie stride towards the concierge for direction before making her way towards a public Constitutional. Sore and weary from sudden expenditure of an alchemy such as she used earlier today brought pain and injury. However, more important than even a distress of the motors, Miss Safie¡¯s state of dress could only be described as¡­as¡­


    Miss Safie paused, glancing downward upon herself and huffing out steam in complete befuddlement. There really was no acceptable simile for the situation, her fashion unbecoming of any company, polite or otherwise. Firming herself and adjusting the remnant of her corset for modesty¡¯s sake, she made due with her constraints on funds and time and went about the efforts of minimal washings from the public areas, turning her clothing from saturated in feces to only mildly stained and utterly wet. Her injuries remained, but the alchemist resigned her minimal efforts and would forthwith deal with whatever the mechanic¡¯s due came out to be.


    She spent time in introspection, drawing herself to consider the offer before herself. Coin she needed, yes, and even more importantly it sounded as if influence were part payment of due. Influence she needed desperately on the part of her own goals, making the offer doubly tempting. Yet it also felt as if this embroiled her into a world of intrigue - for a gentlebot such as the esteemed Mr. Nammerworth would not lightly bandy about offers such as he presented without there being a certain amount of complexity to the deal. This troubled Miss Safie most of all, yet what choice did she have at this juncture? None good.


    Finishing, the large woman adjusted less filthy yet still immodest clothing about herself and made pace towards the exit of the depot. It was only with the slightest of worry that the pressure under her chassis continued building and the telltale signs of broken gears warned her that she might have less time than she had first thought, lengthening her stride to the queue of her aethership.


    ¡°Let us see what kind of journey Asylon has in store for me,¡± Miss Safie said to herself, presenting ticket and papers to the first checkpoint before embarking outside of the depot towards her ship and onto the final step of what has been twelve years of her ambitions almost in reach. And, possibly, the start of a journey, the young alchemist taking out and fingering the simple wax seal on the note in her hand, a reminder that there were interesting choices to be made on this journey.


    ¡ª


    [1] No bustle, but a woman of quality must needs make exceptions to fashion when one is held in the firm grip of practicality.


    [2] For those uninterested in the Game Of Kings, this single move is still bandied about as the greatest upset in the history of cerebral sport. To wit, Baron Shivor - in high position to draw - sacrificed a bishop for seemingly no gain, yet mated in five moves. Known as Shivor¡¯s Bluff, it is synonymous with sacrificing something of great worth so that ultimate victory can be obtained.


    [3] This usage of the descriptor moons is a semantic misnomer. While technically true, in the sense that the orbiting celestial bodies rotating around the lackluster solarity of Nomm qualify them as moonal satellites, they are not spherical nor possess any other quality of similar astronomical bodies. As broken pieces of a derelict Dyson Sphere, the moons of Nomm have more in common with artificial detritus resembling broken shells of an egg than proper moons. However, the common vernacular, while often imprecise, is still common and many of these flotsams of a bygone era retain the name of moon.


    [4] That, or sympathetic back strain and a desire to invest in more significant tracts of land.


    [5] Abolution: the alchemical remains from performance or transference of reactions caused when opposing resonances coalesce. Can sometimes create unstable or unwanted effects ancillary to the primary reaction, thought experienced alchemists harness even these weak and unpredictable results, abolution the principle component in the creation and hardening of purgaglass.


    [6] Outside of the banter when one was engaged in deadly conflict, of course. Even then, this language would be more blunt than even the most dastard of villains would sink into.


    [7] Time on Nomm, on any moon or station or satellite of Nomm, was precisely dictated by Earther clocks. Lacking day and night cycles or common yearly orbits between places, all of Nomm universally followed the same twenty-four hours as Earth, regardless of where over Nomm one found oneself. This meant all clocks required immense precision and required an alchemical rapport with a central clock, currently maintained on Hreidfl Station.

 2: Copious Comestibles And Conversations Combustible

    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 Ma?tre d''H?tel 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 Caf¨¦ Auguste Antonia.¡±


    ¡°Morn¡¯n, mum,¡± the boy greeted enthusiastically, though he quickly quelled under the withering glare of the Ma?tre d''H?tel 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 Ma?tre d''H?tel 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.


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    ¡°Oi, lads, I dinnae ken this freighter let fustiluging si¨´rsaches parade ¡®round de decks wit¡¯oot so much as a dramfeckable by-yer-leave! Ha!¡±


    Having never been called a fustiluging si¨´rsach, 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 caf¨¦ 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 N¨¦mriu, 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¡¯ N¨¦mriu. Me an¡¯ my kin ¡®ave slagged fightin¡¯ da M¨®rai? 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-bh¨¦ist.¡± 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 N¨¦mriuian dialect, though I am sure the S¨ªdhe 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 S¨ªdhe.


    ¡°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 S¨ªdhe 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.


    ¡ª


    [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.

 3: A Gentlebot Caller And Accommodations Satisfactory

    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 attach¨¦ 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.¡±


    This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    ¡°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 Tsusay¨´t¨´ 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 id¨¦e 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.


    ¡ª


    [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 Daho¨¦ Nah moon and unfairly called the rodent races because of their similarities to terran rats, beavers and hedgehogs.

 Saying Goodbye To Everyone

    Sometimes people leave you


    Halfway through the wood


    Do not let it grieve you


    No one leaves for good


    You are not alone


    No one is alone


    You''re not alone


    There''s no doubt


    Your gift isn''t futile to be


    If we''ll be united


    We''re stronger together


    We always have the high hope


    Not all for one but one for all


    Take my hand


    And lead me to salvation


    Take my love


    For love is everlasting


    And remember


    The truth that once was spoken:


    To love another person is to see the face of God


    * * * * * * *


    How does anyone write a final goodbye? I''ve done this a few times now, so it should be easy because I have experience. I wrote one years ago as a teenager, I had one prepared for Spouse before I did dangerous work in Asia, I wrote a few while spending months in the hospital. Parts of those are here, making this more of a goodbye medley than anything.


    I keep coming back to music. It is a major part of my life. At one point, I was on track to become a professional singer, receiving a lot of training while I was young. Things happened, I moved in a different direction. And while I might not have stayed with music, music stayed with me. Whenever I couldn''t find the right words - which was often - I tried to find the right song. An emotional connection expanding on linguistical scope. I picked a few songs above, and I think they bring together what I am feeling, or what makes me...me.


    I hope people are able to follow this. Anyway, buck down, because this isn''t easy for me.


    Hi! I''m Ai Love. Love Love in the Queen¡¯s English, because I promise I am not a robot bent upon world subjugation through smut. Just Ai is fine. At least, that is what I am calling myself. And maybe I AM Ai, right now. Ai is a persona, a freedom I never explored before. At the core, Ai is every part of me without the restraints. She doesn''t have to worry about upsetting people, about hiding behind another persona I now accept I have. Because who I really am isn''t what people IRL see either. If I am honest with myself, maybe less than ten people know me. Some of those know me IRL, some know me as Ai. Ai is bombastically lewd, IRL me is quiet and reclusive. Who I am is somewhere in the middle, and only recently am I discovering who that person is.


    Probably someone I''d like to meet before I die!


    ...too soon?


    Yeah, I am going to crack jokes. As I said, this isn''t easy for me, and we are all going to be a lot better off if I shove the gloomy out.


    ((cut to Monty Python))


    "Get on with it!"


    If you are reading this, it means I have died. I knew this was coming for a long time, though I haven''t always accepted it. I have a condition, and it is a ticking clock. When I was hospitalized over a year ago, it became apparent to me that time was running out. I made arrangements with family and close friends, and that is the reason you are reading this right now.


    Which leaves me with a conundrum: what exactly do I say? This is the crux of it, and I am struggling to find the right thread. If the following seems jumbled, well, then at least it will be familiar territory. Bite my overly complicated exposition, Dumas!


    Thank you, everyone. I found a way to connect to people, to present a part of me unseen, not even by myself. In a way, it was healing. I have tried to live a good life, but my addictions control me. They cost me two promising careers, they nearly cost me my marriage, they strangle me, they overshadow everything I have done or do. And then I wrote a book and let it all out. I put on a mask as Ai and confessed my perversions. At times it felt like I was vomiting the filth of my life for the world to see. This freedom gave me amazing relief. I hungered to hear what people thought about my writing, I wanted to know their own secret lewdness.


    I am not perfect, and I''ll admit my faults. Like a listing boat, I went from one extreme to the other. There are those I made uncomfortable, and I ask that they forgive me. My problems are my own, not another''s. For a time, I delved into that perverse side of myself and reveled in it.


    At the same time, I enjoy writing. I have written a lot over the years, sometimes as an author, sometimes as an editor. I published books, exposes, articles, scripts and professional outlines used for other publications. Yet when I wrote as Ai, there was a sense of giddiness I never experienced from anything else. A tickling that penetrated deep inside. The ability to say what I really thought. Which was a lot of bad jokes and explicit crudeness. And maybe a bit more. I''ll give an example.


    I am a suicide survivor. I have scars from the experience, both physical and mental. It is a hard thing to put into words. I have had trouble talking about it for decades, even to therapists, even to Spouse. There is a lot of baggage attached, my reasons and feelings about it. Then it became easier. Not because I said anything, but because Honoka did. Like lancing a pustule, when I wrote in fiction I eased the pressure of my own infection. I think, given more time, I might have become a complete person, merging Ai and IRL to become myself.


    This is a roundabout way of getting to the point, but the point is discovering I was not alone. Yes, I have God and Christ with me since I was a teen. I found and married Spouse. I have the nieces and nephews, I have a few close friends (though not many, and many less today than years ago). However, have you ever stood in a crowded room and felt alone? Who I am left me feeling alone, depressingly so. How can God love someone who is constantly thinking of explicit material? How can Spouse love someone who is constantly thinking unclean thoughts? Who can possibly love someone so filthy?


    Which is why I am grateful for all of you. You reminded me that I wasn''t alone. And so I will leave you with the same lesson:


    You are not alone. No one is alone, not in the way we perceive. If you see no one nearby, then search for God because He is holding out His hand to you, never demanding, only waiting. And in life, people are the same. You might not see their hands, but everyone - friend or stranger - are also reaching to connect. All you need to do is give instead of expect. The only way to connect with anyone is by giving without anticipated reciprocation. Just give, and then you will be holding someone''s hand. Or Someone''s.


    Ultimately, I wrote it out for all the world to see. I didn''t name the series by accident. Honoka could only become more when she gave, a process I called Harmonizing. Yes, explicitly crude, but the metaphor is there underneath REALLY bad jokes. Becoming Monsters isn''t just a title. What exactly was Honoka becoming? Monsters are those around us all who feel filthy, who feel depressed, who feel alone. Like me. Only by giving to everyday monsters around us do we become better, not by taking. Honoka Harmonized with those she loved. She took upon herself the monsters she loved by giving herself. She became an empathetic monster. The monster Honoka became helped her grow into someone more (yes, literally: I said it was a metaphor!) Or, in other words, loving those around you will help you realize that, in fact, you are not alone.


    I want to do more, I want to write more. I have so many ideas in my head it hurts, yet my weakness is stamina (ha!). Too many ideas, not enough hours. I want to finish Becoming Monsters, but I guess I never will ((NOTE: delete if finish BM)). Oh well, I''ll finish it in Heaven, if God will let me. I bitterly regret never being capable of having any children while alive, but hopefully I''ll have them in the next life. If not, I''ll see if there are any job openings at the Celestial Daycare. Look for me where the baby angels are, I''ll be squishing cheeks for eternity.


    I love y''all. I have a few other personal messages I am writing out to others, but not everyone is getting one of those so don''t feel bad if you missed out. I truly do love each and every one of you. When y''all get to the Kingdoms of Heaven, I''ll show you around, maybe sit down and play a game of WH40K or MTG. It''ll be fun!


    I love you, Spouse. I know I am a mess, I know I am a hassle and a half. I am grateful that you love me despite me being me. I''ll see you soon (though hopefully not too soon!).


    Keep Harmonizing!


    Goodbye.