by I H Laking
In a bustle of activity, the curtain behind the counter was swept aside, and Mrs Milliard came racing out from the back room to greet her guests. She was a tall lady, imposing in her stance, with sharp features and jet black hair. She almost seemed out of place in the midst of such a dreary place, with her long-sleeved blue dress flowing to the ground. Judging by the authority in her voice, Ambrose felt she wouldn’t be out of place as a school matron rather than a storeowner.
“Oh thank heavens you’re here! I cannot believe the situation, I just cannot believe it!” she exclaimed. “How can something go so wrong so fast? Everything is ruined! I’m ruined! All my efforts, gone to waste! What did I do wrong? How did I upset him? You have to help me, please!” her voice started to break as she nearly burst into tears. Ambrose, never particularly good in situations with emotion, began his normal inspection routine, trying to not distress Mrs Milliard any further.
“Yes ma’am, we’ll do our best to help,” he began. “My name is Inspector Ambrose, and this is Detective Portland.”
Percy shook Mrs Milliard’s hand and smiled politely. “Call me Percy,” said his partner, who had more of a gift for these kind of interactions. Mrs Milliard smiled a touch, and seemed to calm down a little at their presence.
“We understand you’ve got a malfunctioning Mech,” said Ambrose. “Perhaps you could take us through the story of what’s been happening?”
Mrs Milliard nodded quietly, and beckoned the detectives to follow her into the back room. It was a small space, filled with empty pie trays and smelling of pastry. The group sat down at a small table in the centre of the room and Percy started scribbling in his notebook as Mrs Milliard began explaining the situation.
“It’s very strange, it’s like our Mech’s gone mad… as if we’ve upset him somehow.” Mrs Milliard gazed off into the distance.
“My family has owned this pie shop for generations. We were one of the very first shops to open on this street, you know. My great-great-great grandmother came up with the recipe for our pork pies, and they were instantly popular. She worked here until she was nearly ninety, but she refused to give the recipe to anyone, not even her closest relatives. Since my family had made quite a sum of money by then, she decided it would be best to teach the recipe to a Mech instead – ensuring it could never be released, and no one would ever truly know the secrets of our pies.”
Mrs Milliard sighed. “And so it was – my father organised for a Mech to be made, and my grandmother passed the recipe on to the Artisan who designed it. From the day that the Mech started cooking, no one noticed any difference, and so it’s been, year after year – until last week.”
“Is that when he stopped making the pies correctly?”
“Yes, and it just happened overnight.” Mrs Milliard pointed to a trapdoor in the corner. “I went down to the kitchen, expecting everything to be ready. The pies looked good, but something wasn’t right. I looked at him, and he looked back, but… it’s hard to describe, but it was like he didn’t recognise me, or didn’t want to acknowledge me somehow.”
Percy glanced up from his notebook. “And how would you describe your relationship with your Mech, Mrs Milliard? Are you close?”
Mrs Milliard made eye contact with Percy. “He’s our baker. I would describe our relationship as professional. We have great affection for him, but we always keep work and family separate. A Mech’s place is to serve.”
Ambrose nodded and smiled. He desperately wanted to keep the conversation on track, and a debate about the place of Mechs in society wasn’t going to help anything. “Does your Mech talk?” he enquired.
“No, he’s not designed for that. Simply industrial.” Mrs Milliard sniffed and shifted in her chair. “He’s fit for purpose, and does the job – we’ve never needed him to say anything before, but now it would certainly be useful.”
Mrs Milliard sighed, and looked at the trapdoor wistfully. “The pies he’s produced for the last few days, they’ve been terrible. Half-cooked, salty, bland. You name it, he’s doing it wrong. And we can’t just start making them ourselves; no one knows the exact ingredients or the technique!” She threw her hands up in the air, exasperated.
“That’s all that I can tell you – I have no idea why, but it’s like someone’s come in and changed his nature somehow, so that he wants to hurt us. And it will hurt us; there’s no way we’ll be able to stay open long with this problem – and with all the upset customers, who knows how much damage has already been done?”
Ambrose looked around the room. There was a back door in the middle of the far wall, probably leading to an alleyway, so it wasn’t inconceivable that someone could get inside.
But to change the nature of a Mech – that just isn’t possible.
Ambrose pondered the situation. Mechs had been an important part of the Empire for centuries. Owned by those who could afford them, they had ushered in the Age of Peace, in which The Order ruled the Empire. For centuries, Mechs had formed the backbone of The Order’s power, designed to work and support humans by their very nature. If someone had found a way to alter a Mech’s behaviour it would shake the very foundations of society.
Don’t leap to conclusions. Take the case one step at a time. Ambrose collected his thoughts.
“What’s your Mech’s name?”
“Morris”
“Could we meet Morris? It’s going to go a long way to helping our investigation.”
“Absolutely.” Mrs Milliard said, as she got up and walked over to the trapdoor. “But you must promise me that you won’t breathe a word of what you see to anyone. Everything about our kitchen is kept strictly confidential, to enable us to stay ahead of our competitors.”
Both Ambrose and Percy nodded, the latter still furiously scribbling in his notebook. Mrs Milliard turned and pulled a lever hidden behind one of the pie racks. With a graunch and a groan, the trapdoor opened, and the party descended inside to meet Morris the malfunctioning Mech.
Much to Ambrose’s surprise, the trapdoor led to a large, well-lit kitchen below the bakery. The room was so large that it probably went under the street outside, maybe even reaching the other side of the road.
Percy let out a low whistle “Impress-ive” he muttered, looking over the baking utensils with keen interest.
Ambrose, however, was more focused on the reason for their visit, which now stood staring down at him: a two metre high brass Mech.
Now, every Mech is different, and Ambrose knew it was important to size this Mech up before going any further. This was also a chance for his partner to refresh his knowledge. Percy, however, was more interested in the array of various industrial cooking appliances. Ambrose decided he’d need to snap Percy out of it.
“Detective!”
Percy whirled around; he knew that title normally meant he was in trouble.
“Can you talk me through this Mech’s design?” Ambrose quizzed him.
Percy, keen for a chance to show off his knowledge in front of a lady, leapt at the chance.
“Well, as we know, each Mech is made up of three core parts. The Heavy, the Holds, and the Head. This unit appears to have been built mid-century by a local Artisan, as indicated by the use of purely brass materials on the exterior, and the human-like shape of the body.”
Percy looked smugly at Mrs Milliard, who didn’t seem particularly impressed, and rightly so; all this was common knowledge. Mechs had been around for centuries, created by humans to serve various tasks. In fact, entire subjects were dedicated to learning about Mechs at school, though most students found them dull compared to more exciting classes like chemistry, where you get the opportunity to blow things up and dissect frogs and the like. People tended to simply know the basics, as stated in Maslow’s Machinations & More:
Mechs 101.
A Mech has three core parts. The Heavy, which is the torso of the Mech, contains its cogs and copper, pipes and pedals. The Heavy can vary in size and shape quite significantly, and will normally be suited for
purpose. Some Mechs will spend their lives lifting and fixing, manually moving things around, and will have a Heavy designed for this kind of pressure. Others will simply be used for function, to teach or recite, to guide or to guard – these Mechs would be more likely to have a slim Heavy, reflecting the less strenuous physical workload.
The Holds are the peripheries of the Mech. They are the parts that enable most of a Mech’s functions. A typical Mech, perhaps designed to help in a library, might have very human Holds – two arms and two legs, purely for function. When Mechs were first introduced, Artisans built them with whatever Holds they felt were the most creative. But they soon found that people related best to human-like Mechs, and so a more standardised design was settled on. Industrial Mechs still come with more practical and unusual holds, including hooks, hammers, and harpoons – the variety is endless!
Finally, the third and most important part of the Mech is the Head, made up of the visualisers, receivers, and the grate. These, like the Holds, have been refined to become more human over time. Visualisers, however, have remained untouched. Big, black and bulbous, the eyes never blink, never close, and always shine a little from inside. The Head is also where Artisans express themselves, for an Artisan is more than a mechanic – he is an artist. It is not uncommon to see beautiful, varying lines carved around the Head in strange patterns, or thoughtful messages carved in cursive text, sometimes encrusted with jewels. The markings of the Head are the signature of the Artisan, but inside the Mech lies the most amazing aspect of all.
If you were lucky enough to put your ear up close to a Mech, you would hear a whirring noise, humming from inside its metal case. And if you put your hands upon the Heavy, you would feel a gentle pulse. That is because inside every Mech resides a Life-Spark, the essence and mystery of every Mech. Life-Sparks were discovered centuries ago, around the time of the creation of the very first Mech. The origin of the Life-Spark has remained a source of constant rumour and suggestion. Some think that deep below the earth there is a giant Life-Spark, and that every Mech contains a piece of this larger whole. Some people view the Life-Spark as a creation of Mechs themselves, occurring due to chemical reactions of metal and glass and such. And there are even a few people who claim the Life-Spark doesn’t exist, and is simply a myth designed to make Mechs seem more human. Whatever the truth, one thing is clear: sometime between the Mech’s creation, and when it is put to work, something in the Mech comes to life. From that moment on, the Mech instinctively know its calling, its personality, and its creator. This is the mystery and magic of the Life-Spark.
Percy seemed to realise he wasn’t impressing anyone, so he quickly returned to scribbling notes. Ambrose rolled his eyes just a little, and proceeded to size up the Mech.
Morris was tall, and had a human-like form: one Heavy, four Holds in the shape of arms and legs, and one Head. The Head was in a neo-classical shape, with a round front that tapered off at the back, leaving the Head looking like an egg balancing sideways on the Heavy. The Head had a solid grate which didn’t appear to move. Without speech, the case would be more difficult – but there were still good places to start. Ambrose stepped forward.
“Hello Morris, my name is Inspector Ambrose. Would you mind kneeling for me, please?” he asked as he approached the brass Mech.
Morris tilted his head slightly, as if thinking about the request. He shrugged his shoulders, and knelt down on one knee. Ambrose leaned in to inspect the body. Morris was clearly an old Mech: scratches and dents seemed to cover the solid brass panels that formed his body. Ambrose placed a hand gently on the Heavy, and focused. After a while he recognised the faint throb of a life-spark beating inside the Mech. Nothing was irregular, as was normally the case for a stressed or unstable Mech. Curious. He moved his hands onto the Head.
“What are you hoping to find?” quizzed Mrs Milliard.
“Morris had been built at a time when Artisans were etching the names of their Mechs into their Heads as they built them,” said Ambrose, as he ran his hand under the grate on the Head, and around to the back, just above the Heavy. There he found what he looking for. He could make out letters very faintly, but the name had taken a battering over time – which seemed odd for a simple Mech that never left the kitchen. Ambrose traced the outline of the letters. O... R… I… S.
Ambrose stepped back. “Thank you, Morris, feel free to stand again.” Morris once again tilted his head as if considering his options, and then resumed his place, towering above the kitchen. Ambrose decided to try a few questions next.
“Morris, are you happy?”
The Mech nodded.
“Do you remember the secret recipe you were taught?”
The Mech nodded a little more enthusiastically.
“Have you forgotten how to do your job?”
The Mech shook his head.
Ambrose was puzzled – this didn’t add up. A happy Mech, a stable Mech, and yet… a Mech that didn’t do its job. The only thing to do now was to look for a fault in the original design.
“Who was this Mech’s Artisan?” Ambrose asked Mrs Milliard.
“Archibald Aurelious”
Percy stopped scribbling for a minute and looked up. “The Archibald Aurelious?”
Mrs Milliard nodded.
“Well at least we won’t have any trouble finding his workshop.” Ambrose muttered under his breath. He turned around to face Mrs Milliard.
“Alright, we’ll go back to the source. Most likely something was missed in the planning stage. We’ll also talk with some other shop owners on the street to see if they noticed anything suspicious. Give us enough time, and I’m sure we’ll figure this out. You may need to stay closed for a while, however.”
Mrs Milliard’s face dropped. “So there is to be no fix tonight?”
Ambrose shook his head. What is she not telling us? Mrs Milliard looked at Ambrose, tears welling in her eyes.
“I simply cannot wait so long, Inspector,” she said.
“Why not?”
Mrs Milliard sighed. “You see, I had planned to sell this business – the paperwork is signed, the deal is done! I am due to hand over the keys to the new owner at midnight tonight. If I cannot provide the secret recipe, then the sale is worthless. Only Morris knows how to make the pies, I cannot do it myself. And I have already taken on so much debt – I will be ruined and forced to sell this whole place for next to nothing!”
With that, Mrs Milliard burst into tears, the stress of the situation clearly taking its toll. Ambrose, once again confronted with far more emotion than he generally appreciated, weighed up the scenario silently. Percy stopped writing and went over to reassure Mrs Milliard.
Things were now beginning to make sense to Ambrose. This was not an incident taking place out of the blue. No, someone must have changed something here to try and ruin Mrs Milliard. But what was the motive? Revenge? Money? All of these things could cause someone to do terrible things but… what exactly had been done? All that was in front of Ambrose and Percy was a happy Mech that had stopped doing his job correctly.
Ambrose snapped into action. “Very well, we’ll move quickly. I am sure that someone is trying to ruin you, Mrs Milliard, but how I cannot say. We’ll interview the other shop owners now, and visit Archibald Aurelious’ workshop as quickly as we can.” He locked eyes with Mrs Milliard.
“I believe we can solve this case, and solve it quickly. We will not rest until we uncover the truth. Come, Percy, let’s talk with some of the other shop owners.” With that he turned and left, with Percy following close behind.
Ambrose and Percy pushed their way into the buzz of Trump’s Teahouse. This particular teahouse was located just down the road on the opposite side of the street from Mrs Milliard’s shop. It was now lunchtime, and in lieu of getting their regular pie from Mrs Milliard, many of the locals were now crammed into Trump’s, looking for a bite to eat.
Thankfully, despite the madness that was ensuing, several local people had agreed to meet with Ambros
e and Percy to discuss the present situation. As the detectives made their way to a table in the corner, they could overhear the wild rumours flying around the room.
“I heard they’ve gone mad and started serving up horse meat, that’s why the pies are so bad now,” said one man as he munched on a pastry. “No, no – their equipment’s just broken, I hear they’ll be open again this afternoon,” replied another man as he stuffed his face with a lime tart.
“Mrs Milliard’s gone insane!”
“It’s a sign of The Eight! The end is near!”
“Horse meat! Can you even eat horse meat?”
And so the rumours passed around the teahouse. Ambrose sat down at the table, which was quite cramped owing to the fact that four others were also squeezed into the corner. Percy somehow manoeuvred his way in to bring the total ensemble to six.
Mr and Mrs Trump, the owners of the establishment, sat in one corner. Both were portly and short, grubby from the business of the day. They had been working in the area for a number of years, with mixed success. Mrs Trump was known for her stern manner and outstanding tea collection, whilst Mr Trump was known for falling asleep constantly, and for getting yelled at by Mrs Trump. At the moment he appeared to be attempting the former, and was likely to soon be indulging in the latter.
Beside Mr Trump sat the balding and somewhat bemused Mr Button, the local tailor. He was wearing his white shirt and pinstripe waistcoat, and sported a moustache that was neatly trimmed to the sides of his wide mouth. He seemed to not be enjoying all the commotion.
Finally, next to Mr Button sat Bernie, part of the local residents association, and a well-known pickpocket. He was clearly fidgety in the midst of such a large crowd of potential “business”, but was managing to keep his hands firmly on the table whilst members of the C. P. F. were present.
