Bless Your Mechanical Heart

by Seanan McGuire

  The first emotion he remembered feeling was pride as he paraded with his fellow sentinels in the courtyard of the king’s summer palace at Carrick. Painted in the royal colors of green and gold with a crimson stripe running down the left side of the chest, they shone like gemstones in the sun. Strong and beautiful, impervious to pain, fatigue or age, unhampered by weakness or deficiency; one hundred peerless guardians of the king and all that he held dear. Five of them had been singled out, himself among them, for a special upgrade: artificial intelligence, and five members of the King’s Own Bodyguard had been assigned to teach them how to use it. The king himself had activated their programming, giving each one names to coincided with their guardsmen’s ranks: Captain, Lieutenant, Sergeant, Corporal and Trooper.

  “Call me Imrie and I’ll call you Innes.”

  Trooper’s teacher was the youngest of their number, his uniform crisp and new, his golden hair shining as bright as Trooper shone himself. After the ceremony when all the crowds had gone, the two of them stood and stared at each other, uncertainty darkening Imrie’s features as he turned to the old man puttering about with some last minute fine-tuning of Trooper’s armaments.

  “I’m no scientist, Doctor. I’m a guardsman,” he said in a worried tone. “My parents are poets.”

  The older man snorted derisively. “And my parents ran a space station canteen. Your upbringing’s immaterial. You won’t need a scientific background to interact with him.”

  “Him?”

  “We’ve given them gender designations. It’s part of their learning process. Now stop interrupting, please. Trooper has been programmed to think in human terms and communicate with human speech patterns. Your orders are to help him process the second stage sensory input he’s going to be experiencing.

  “Emotions, young man,” he explained, seeing the guardsman’s confused expression. “Teach him to understand what he’s going to be feeling. Emotions are what set humans apart from machines and what will set him apart from the rest of the Andrometalic Bodyguard. He’s programmed to ask for information and to learn from explanation and experience. Speak to him as if he were a person. Share your duties with him. He’ll do the rest.”

  “Call me Imrie…”

  “Emotions set humans apart from machines.”

  Later, walking through the palace gardens, Imrie stared out at Skara Brae’s ring of defensive satellites shining like stars in the nighttime sky. “But that’s not the whole story, is it?” he continued, more to himself than to the Andrometalic at his side. “There’s self-awareness, autonomy, the understanding of mortality; they’re harder to teach but they’re just as important. You can’t understand emotions without understanding the rest, can you?”

  Already able to recognize a rhetorical question, Trooper remained silent and after a time, Imrie smiled. “So, I guess I’ll just have to teach you the way I was taught. Do you like stories?”

  Trooper’s eyes dimmed as he processed the question.

  “I don’t know,” he answered finally, his voice rumbling through his chest and up into his faceplate. “I’ve never experienced one.”

  “Then you’re in for a treat. We’ll start with one of my favorites. It’s an ancient tale of a velveteen rabbit that yearns to be real.”

  “What’s velveteen?”

  “A kind of cloth?”

  “What’s a rabbit?”

  “A medium-sized, soft rodent with long ears.”

  “How can a cloth rodent feel yearning?”

  “How can an Andrometalic Guardsman feel anything?”

  “I’m programmed to.”

  “Good point. The rabbit’s a symbol. Its yearning, its quest for real, represents humanity’s quest for self-awareness, so it also represents your quest for self-awareness.”

  “Am I on a quest for self-awareness?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will self-awareness help me to better do my duty, to safeguard the king and his family?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will this story help me achieve self awareness?”

  “Yes.”

  “How can a cloth rabbit not be real?”

  “You sound like my nephew. You’ll find out if you shut up long enough to hear the story.” Imrie gestured for Trooper to take a seat beside him on a low bench, crafted to look like stone. “Now,” he began once Trooper ensured himself that his weight wouldn’t smash the bench into pieces, “Once upon a time…”

  Day after day, Imrie built up his lessons with stories. Trooper tried hard to understand them, but each time he thought he did, Imrie would introduce some new element or some new symbol that would change their meaning entirely.

  “The cloth rodent’s quest is about self-awareness?”

  “Yes.”

  “But it’s also about loss, love, sacrifice, and faith?”

  “Yes.”

  “And all these things lead to self-awareness and the betterment of duty?”

  “Yes.”

  “But the wooden puppet’s quest is about autonomy even though it’s on the same quest: to be real?”

  “That’s right. Pinocchio’s story is about choosing to do the right thing even when you have the freedom to do the wrong thing. And before you ask, yes, freedom is essential in the betterment of duty.”

  “Do you have that freedom?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because you’re real?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do I have it?”

  Imrie tipped his head to one side. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “Maybe not yet. But one day you will. One day you’ll have to if you’re going to be real too.”

  “So, I’m not real now?”

  “Not completely, no. Not yet.”

  “Will I become flesh as they did when I become real?”

  “No. These characters are symbols, remember? Their outer transformation is symbolic of their inner transformation.

  “Don’t worry,” he’d added, seeing Trooper’s eyes darken in what he’d learned was a crestfallen expression. “The inner transformation is what’s important. When you become real on the inside, the outside won’t matter. Understand?”

  “No.”

  “Well, you will. That’s how it works for all of us. It’s like… hm… Right, you’ll enjoy this story, I think. It’s about a girl with three guardsmen, an android made of straw, an android made of tin, and a DNA-enhanced lion who all feel they’re missing something different but vital: empathy, intelligence, and courage, when what they really lacked was the confidence to see that it was their strongest feature. They didn’t know it, they had to experience it, and when they did, they were changed on the inside, they became real.”

  Trooper tipped his head in what he’d chosen to represent as his suspicious posture, but stood patiently, waiting for what sounded like Imrie’s strangest tale to date.

  “Right,” the guardsman began. “The Wizard of Oz. Chapter one: The Cyclone.”

  “What’s a cyclone…?”

  When he wasn’t telling stories, Imrie, with Trooper at his side, stood guard in the king’s council chamber, or followed His Majesty on procession across the five worlds that made up his realm. They toured stadium-sized hydroponics gardens and vast artificial lakes, inspected factories the size of small cities, satellites that nearly dwarfed the planets they orbited, and airfields that stretched for miles. Everywhere they went, the King’s Own Bodyguard, both human and Andrometalic, paraded before the people, the uncontestable symbol of their sovereign’s untarnishable glory, and everything they saw gave strength to their belief in the realm’s enduring prosperity and peace.

  The Anean attack caught them all completely by surprise.

  The king and his family were summering at Carrick when the sky rained with fire. Led by His majesty’s cousin, the Duke of Arlyll, the Bodyguard fought a rearguard action to get them safely off world. Twenty of their number fell in the attack. Nineteen more fell in the subsequent counter offensive, including Sergeant and his guardsman. The
king set up a new council on Skara Brae’s sister world of Din Eifyn, and committed half a million troops and ships to the retaking of his capital. The enemy sent double that number to keep it. The first offensive lasted eighteen months and when it was over, Skara Brae was still in the hands of the enemy.

  Crouched in the wreckage of the summer palace, Trooper turned, his eyes dim and clouded.

  “Imrie? The Duke’s not moving.”

  Year followed year, and ships followed ships, each offensive lead by the king’s uncle, cousin, brother…

  “The enemy’s hold on the west is weakening, Majesty. One more offensive will see it done.”

  “The enemy has brought up reinforcements but I’m confident that a few hundred ships more should see them pushed back, Sire.”

  “The enemy holds the southern continent, My Liege, but we’ve secured the east. One more offensive…”

  Each one failed. The Bodyguard lost ten, then twenty, then thirty. Lieutenant fell protecting the Earl of Donnaught, Corporal fell protecting the Viscount of Hahll. When the king’s heir was old enough to sit in council, His Majesty himself led the fighting only to take another forty Bodyguards with him into death.

  More years followed years. When not on the front lines with their royal commanders, Imrie and Trooper stood guard in the new King in Exile’s council chamber listening as he planned his own assault against the enemy.

  And stood as his heir took the throne without Captain by his side.

  “We’ve secured the west, Majesty, and the enemy’s hold on the east is weakening. If we strike now…”

  And still more years followed years. Another king went to Skara Brae and another heir took the throne. Imrie’s golden hair grew dark, then lightened first to grey and then to white while Trooper’s regal colors dimmed as his armor plating became chipped and dented from battle after battle. Imrie still told stories, but now he told them as Trooper pushed him in a wheelchair along the garden paths of Din Eifyn’s largest infirmary, and the Andrometalic stood guard in the council chamber without him.

  One evening, he sat by Imrie’s bedside with the retired guardsman wrapped in thermal blankets to stave off a chill only he could feel. Trooper’s eyes were unusually dark and after a time, Imrie worked a hand free to touch him on the arm.

  “What?” he asked, his voice a shadow of what it had once been.

  “Nothing,” Trooper answered, his chest rumbling with the lower, rougher timber his own voice had taken on in the last few months.

  Imrie gave a weak snort. “I’ve known you all your life, Innes. Something. What?”

  Trooper met his gaze. “The king is going to Skara Brae.”

  Imrie’s face twisted in distress. “So young,” he murmured. “He’s just thirteen, isn’t he?”

  “Yes. But he has a brother and a sister old enough to hold seats in council now and his commanders report that we’ve secured much of the north including Carrick and five of the eight defensive satellites. They say the people have risen in revolt throughout the south. They say they need their king to lead them. One more push will see it done.”

  “You don’t sound convinced.”

  Trooper’s eyes darkened still further. “I’ve done my duty in the past and I’ll do it again.”

  “But?”

  “But I’ve heard it all before.”

  “And?”

  “And the king will do his duty. If his commanders say they need him, he will go.” He broke off, clenching one metal fist in a helpless gesture. “And if he goes, he’ll die. Every king who goes to Skara Brae dies,” he added quietly.

  “There’s no such thing as Fate, Innes,” Imrie replied in a sharp voice.

  “But there is such a thing as attrition, Imrie,” Trooper retorted. “There are no more Andrometalics left to safeguard this king except me. I’m the last.”

  “Then you’ll have to make certain that you’re enough to ensure that this king doesn’t die. Promise me.”

  They stared at one another for a long time until Trooper finally nodded. “I promise,” he said, “but may I ask you a question?”

  Imrie gave a hoarse chuckle. “For decades you’ve been interrupting my stories with questions,” he noted. “This is the first time you’ve ever sought permission. Either you’re finally maturing or it’s about a very sensitive subject.”

  “I think it must be something everyone else already understands because no one else seems to be confused by it.”

  Imrie grimaced. “Everyone else may still be confused by it; they’re just not saying so,” he scoffed. “Ask.”

  “Why is it so important that we return to Skara Brae?”

  “It’s our home world and it was taken from us.”

  “Yes, I know that, but why is it so much more important than everything else?”

  Imrie’s brows drew down. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “On Skara Brae, the king and his councilors governed the realm,” Trooper explained. “There were many things that needed their attention and many things were important to them: trade, taxes, education, law. But now, although all of those things still require their attention on four of our five worlds, council gives them very little heed. I understand that Skara Brae’s important, I just don’t understand why it’s more important than everything else.”

  Imrie frowned, clearly considering his words carefully. “Do you remember what Dorothy said to the Munchkins?” he asked finally. “It wasn’t Kansas she was anxious to return home to, it was her family. We left many people, many families, behind who are now under the rule of the Aneans. It’s not Skara Brae that’s important, Innes, it’s the people. They need their king. They look to him to return and reunite us as a family and the king looks to his council and to us to help him do that.”

  “Like Dorothy looked to the others?”

  “Yes. “

  Imrie closed his eyes, clearly exhausted by the speech. The two of them sat in silence for a long time until the room darkened into evening. Then finally Imrie stirred.

  “It’s nearly time, Innes,” he whispered.

  Trooper just shook his head.

  “You can’t deny it forever,” Imrie chided gently. “You have to face it eventually.” His face grayed. “Sooner rather than later, I’m thinking.”

  “I don’t want you to die, Imrie.”

  “Everyone dies, Innes. You know that.”

  “I’ll fetch the doctors. They’ll make you better.”

  “They’ve been and gone. It’s just us now until the end.”

  “But who will tell your stories if you die?”

  The timber of Trooper’s voice was so plaintive that Imrie managed a weak smile.

  “You will,” he answered. “That’s how it works. But I might have one story left. Just one.” He struggled to keep his eye from closing. “Have I ever told you the tale of the Happy Prince?”

  “Many times. It’s about sacrifice and compassion, of choosing duty over self-interest and so it’s a story about autonomy.”

  “It’s also a story about understanding mortality; about accepting death.”

  “But the prince didn’t die until the very end.”

  “No. But the story’s not just about the prince, it’s also about the swallow, remember? She could have left him any time, gone to Egypt and been safe. She should have, but she chose to stay. For duty….” He began to cough. “And for friendship.”

  Trooper lifted him up at once, pushing the pillows down behind his back until he managed to catch his breath.

  “Now, no more questions,” Imrie gasped. “Let me tell this one, last story and we’ll see if you can understand its final lesson, all right?”

  Trooper nodded and after a moment, Imrie began.

  When it was over, they sat quietly together, without speaking as the hours passed and Imrie’s breathing grew more labored and then more quiet. When it finally ceased all together, Trooper rose and silently left the room.

  He accompanied the king to Skara Brae the
next morning and as the ship became a burning beacon in the atmosphere, he fought his restraints to reach the controls that would detach the escape pod and send it to safety.

  The Covenant hit the ground a few moments later, its wreckage spreading for a mile in every direction as the King In Exile returned to his home world.

  “Majesty!”

  The first emotion he felt when he repowered was panic.

  “MAJESTY!”

  And the second was relief as his internal com crackled. “I’m here.”

  Trooper surged up through the ruins of the bridge, scattering pieces of flaming debris into the air. Using the com as a tracker, he scrambled over the piles of twisted metal and wire until he came to a great slab of burning hull laying across the escape pod. Catching hold of it, he hurled it away, uncaring as the flames scored across his hands and arms.

  “Are you injured, Sire!?”

  “I don’t know. No, I don’t think so. But the controls are fused. I can’t get out.”

  The pod’s door was melted shut but Trooper gave it no more heed than he had the hull, ripping it free and breaking one of the pistons in his elbow in the process.

  The king squinted up at him from a tangle of safety netting and insulation. “Thank-you Guardsman,” he breathed.

  “There are no survivors apart from ourselves, Majesty.”

  Standing on a jagged piece of helm, the king surveyed the crash site with a shocky expression, his young face pinched and ashen. “The entire crew?” he asked.

  “Crew, troops, Bodyguards. I read no life signs apart from your own, My Liege.”

  “They said we’d secured the north and all but three of the defensive satellites.”

  “Yes, Sire…” Trooper considered and discarded a number of responses then settled for: “I guess it wasn’t enough.”

  “No. I guess not.” The king swayed, then righted himself. “We should… we should see to the bodies,” he said.