Once

by Elisabeth Grace Foley et al.

  Even if there were no formal contract, he was the governor of all New England.

  No doubt he had his ways of making his opponents suffer.

  She picked up the smallest pair of pliers and turned it over in her hands.

  Nothing. It was too late to do anything to avert her fate. Even if she could somehow get out the window, and it looked too small, the governor knew where she lived. It probably looked far worse to run away than to stay and face up to her dishonesty. At least in a face-to-face encounter, she could beg for mercy.

  She put down the pliers and cried again.

  As the sunlight dimmed, electric lights flickered on above her, illuminating the space in an orange tint that caused the heaps of junk to cast faint shadows. Maybe she should just try to sleep.

  She heaved a deep sigh and started to lie down.

  A cranking from across the room caused her to jerk back to a sitting position, heart racing. At first she couldn’t determine the source of the sound, but once her gaze had darted around the room for a moment, she saw a small portion of the wooden floor lifting up as if on hinges.

  A trap door.

  She pulled her feet up off the floor and hugged her knees to her chest as a hand pushed open the door. A head poked up into the dim light and she gasped.

  The head was bald, except for a fringe of dark gray hair around the edges. It was smudged with grime, and when the body followed the head out into the room, she saw that the man was the size of a child, but disproportionate. His head and torso seemed mostly the right sizes, but his legs were so short he had trouble stepping up out of the hole. His clothes were rough and plain and wrinkled so thoroughly she doubted they had ever been otherwise.

  But none of those things were what horrified her. No, what caused her heart to pound was the man’s right eye.

  Metal and glass covered the eye and a few inches beyond it, and wires protruded from the back of his head somewhere to connect to the device, which shone a mild red light where the eye itself should have been.

  The red blinked off and on in concurrence with the blink of the other eye as she stared.

  III.

  For the First Time in Forever

  She’d never seen one up close. How could an altered human get into the governor’s palace, of all places? She was pretty sure they weren’t even supposed to be in town, really. Not here. And not many other New England cities, either.

  And here she’d thought that she, as a Virginian, was above such prejudices. Now, however, she wasn’t sure which of the day’s happenings she was more ashamed of—agreeing to go along with her father’s risky charade, or the fear that gripped her heart at the sight of a man enhanced with wire and metal.

  The red eye continued to watch her as the thoughts zipped through her brain.

  “Y-you shouldn’t be here,” was all she could stammer, pressured by the silent, blinking eye.

  “Should you?” he replied. His voice was hoarse, but steady.

  Her conscience kept her silent in reply.

  He just stood looking at her for a moment, then walked over, navigating the piles of junk around the room without looking at them, and approached her. She just stared, heart still pounding.

  Then he reached out and laid a hand gently on her arm. It felt just like any other hand, warm and calloused.

  “Why are you crying?”

  She still half expected some hint of automation in his voice, some alteration. But there was nothing but plain, simple humanity.

  She hesitated.

  He pulled his hand away and just kept looking at her, waiting.

  “It’s just such a mess,” she finally sobbed, and she told him the whole story. Who she was, what her father had done, how she had gone along with it, how by morning the truth would be out. She was a fraud, and would be sent back home, back to the work and cotton-dress socials, and the endless dust of flour over everything.

  When she finished speaking, he again just looked at her for a moment. Then he asked the last question she had expected.

  “Do you want to stay?”

  She focused on his one human eye. It was shadowed in the electric light, and she couldn’t tell what color it was.

  “Of course,” she answered at last. “This is the most wonderful place I’ve ever seen.” She looked down at the green silk gown she wore, now moist with tear-spots. “There’s so much I could do and make and learn… and I feel like I was born to be here… but… I know I don’t belong.”

  Another moment of silence. Then, “What will you give me if I do it for you?”

  She jerked her head up. “Do… you mean make the AI? But how? This is all useless.” She gestured to the heaps that surrounded them.

  “That’s not an answer to my question.” His voice remained calm.

  What could she give him? She had nothing. Nothing but the clothes she wore, which didn’t even truly belong to her.

  Except—

  “I have a pearl necklace,” she faltered, pulling the strand from underneath her bodice and fingering it. “It was my mother’s.”

  He reached for it with grimy, slightly disproportionately short fingers, then hesitated. “May I?”

  She nodded, and he touched one of the pearls.

  “I can make one model in exchange.”

  She blinked. “I’m not sure you understand. He wants high-functioning AI. Out of junk. Before morning.”

  “Yes. I will do that for the necklace.”

  She looked down at the pearls, and then focused beyond them at the green silk dress.

  Then she nodded and reached around to undo the clasp. She pulled it off her neck and held it in her hand a moment.

  He held his hand out in expectation.

  She tightened her fingers around it briefly, then put it in his hand. He took it, put it in his pocket, and turned to pick up the tools.

  “What’s your name?” she blurted out.

  He picked up some metal cutters. “Just call me Rumpled. Now get some sleep.”

  Exhausted, she curled up on the bed and watched as he approached one of the junk piles with purpose, and picked up a piece. Then she fell asleep to the sounds of gentle cutting, welding, and clicking in the silence of the palace.

  She awoke to the warmth of sunlight on her cheek. It took a sleep-addled few moments for her to remember that she was not in her own bed in her little room above the mill. No, she was in the governor’s palace.

  The little altered man.

  She flew up in bed and looked around the room.

  There was no sign of life. At least, not human life. Instead, a multi-colored metallic face stared vacantly at her, unmoving.

  She stared at it. It was a whole metal person, an elaborate array of gears and wires and metal plates, sturdy and mismatched, yet somehow elegant.

  Another glance around the room affirmed that the little man was gone and she swung her legs over the side of the bed and onto the floor, then pushed herself up.

  The room was so silent.

  Cautiously, she approached the machine. Panic began to build in her chest. This ornate device was nothing like the basic AI she’d worked with back home. What if the governor had questions? What if he asked her how it worked? What if he wanted specifics as to how she had designed it?

  Before she had time to even touch the creation, the wooden door to her side swung open and the governor walked in, followed by his manservant.

  “Good morning.” He bowed, taking just enough time to let his gaze rest on her before turning to the machine.

  “Good morning,” she returned, remembering to curtsy despite her pounding heart.

  Byron approached the metallic marvel and rested his hand on its shoulder. “This is… incredibly impressive, I must say.”

  She didn’t know how to respond, and so she smiled.

  “You must be exhausted, but may I examine it briefly before you take some rest?”

  “Of course, your honor.”

  She watched, heartbeat working faster
than the mill. He touched a small circle on its chest area and it whirred to life, gears spinning, eyes blinking orange.

  “Good morning,” said the automated voice. “How may I serve you?”

  It’s diction was certainly an improvement over the mill’s AI. But it was still far less than human, with inflections always slightly off from what they should be.

  “What is your protocol?” the governor asked.

  “I am programmable with fifty different actions, which I learn through observation. To program me, say, ‘observe,’ then perform an action. When the action is complete, say, ‘program.’“

  “Impressive indeed.” The governor looked at Amanda with new respect in his eyes. Then he turned back to the machine. “What is your name?”

  “My designation is 5-R,” the automated voice said.

  “We’ll call you Fiver,” the governor said. “Fiver, observe.” He stepped to Amanda and took her hand. “Thank you.” He held her hand a moment, and his was so soft that warmth crept up her cheeks as she thought how rough her own hand must feel.

  He let go of her hand and said, “Program.”

  Fiver picked up one metallic leg and stepped forward on it. He reached out and took Amanda’s hand in his cold, metal one. “Thank you,” the voice intoned.

  She and Byron laughed. She with the sweet release of relief, he, presumably with elation.

  The servants would have to know of the arrangement, Byron concluded when they discussed things over a dinner the next day, after she had spent a sleepless night in a beautiful upstairs room. It would be impossible and unnecessarily exhausting to keep up the pretense that she was a fine lady-wife among the people who lived with and served them, he insisted. And besides, he trusted each of them implicitly.

  She had nodded, trying not to feel nervous as she picked at her food. It was glorious food, dishes she had never heard of before. Not to mention it was the first meal in a long time, other than the occasional church social, that she hadn’t cooked herself. But its glory couldn’t drown out her nervousness.

  “What will the arrangement be, exactly?” She did her best to hide her nervousness. She was to work for him, she knew, but doing what? And when? And how and where would she be playing the part that all others were to think was hers?

  “You’ll have your own workshop,” he said. “Adjacent to your room, if you like.”

  Her room. Of course. The two would not be sharing a room. Absurd Amanda. Remember why you’re here.

  “And I won’t expect particular work from you,” he went on. “Consider this more of me funding your work than a proper job. I can tell you have a passion for technology. I’m interested in science in all its forms, honestly, but my primary interest lies in things that can be used to make commerce safer and more efficient. Why should our factories be full of overworked people, and our homes of underpaid servants, when we’re so close to being able to have so much of that work done by machines? I know…” he answered her thoughts, “not everyone approves, especially here. They see me as a monster trying to remove the lower classes from the only gainful employment they can get.” He chuckled, but it was a dry, rueful sound. “Particularly the Tyrellian Corporation. If there’s a campaign or a bill out there against my efforts, you can trust them to fund it.”

  Hearing him ramble on about his goals and obstacles lessened the tension in Amanda’s stomach, allowing her to nibble at her food again.

  “But,” he continued, “they don’t understand. Yes, if we incorporate a machine to do the job of a man in a thread factory, say. That man might lose his job. Or, with the time and money saved, the company might be able to pay him more. Or they might be able to create a new position they can’t now afford that he could fill even better and more safely. Or maybe he does lose his job. But also, with the company spending less on employees, they may be able to lower the price of thread, which lowers the cost of clothing, which makes the lower class a little less poor. Then what they save on clothing, perhaps they will spend on something else the man who lost his job may do instead.” He sighed, and wiped his lips with a napkin.

  Amanda had forgotten to eat and was just listening, attempting to follow his ideas through the examples he spun and the information he showered on her.

  “Anyway, I’m boring you,” he said at last, an apologetic smile on his face. “And I’ve digressed… I would love to invest in anything you can create, but I do have a special interest in machines that make work easier and safer. That’s all of it in a rather ambitious nutshell.”

  “Can a nutshell really be ambitious though?” she asked. Curse his calming voice. What a ridiculous thing to say.

  But he laughed. “As for formalities,” he went on, “there will be a wedding. No doubt there will be social functions to attend here and there. But there will also be plenty of time for your work. I’m not often home. And you wouldn’t be expected to attend anything without me. So you should have plenty of time. Not… not that I expect you to work like a servant, of course. You may take any form of recreation available, and I expect you to take plenty of rest. I’ll check in on your progress now and then, and I would love to see something new at least once or twice a month, but don’t worry.” He quirked a smile. “I won’t divorce you if you hit a slow spell.”

  She laughed, trying to keep it from sounding nervous, as the food turned her stomach queasy all over again. What could she really make that would in any way help him? How could he trust her so implicitly?

  Because of what he thought she’d already done for him, of course.

  Now was the time to tell him the truth. Better to get out now, before it was too late for him to avoid a scandal.

  “Will a thousand pounds a month be enough to fund your work?” he asked. “I know it isn’t much, but I know you are resourceful.”

  She looked into his eyes and all the tightness in her gut loosened into pure, sweet hope.

  “That will be more than enough,” she answered.

  And he smiled.

  IV.

  Part of Your World

  “I now pronounce you husband and wife. What God hath joined together, let no man separate,” the priest concluded.

  Amanda forced a smile at her new husband, and he smiled back and leaned forward to kiss her.

  She had been secretly anticipating this moment. Yes, she knew this was a partnership and not a marriage, and the kiss, like the rest of the ceremony, would only be for him to keep up pretenses for the sake of his ambitions. And she was fine with that. She was. She was excited to finally have the time and resources to experiment, to try new things, to create in ways she’d only vaguely dreamed of. At least, she thought she was excited.

  Still, it wouldn’t be so terrible to receive a sign of physical affection from him. After all he was her husband. Not really, exactly, but he was. So why shouldn’t she look forward to it? Even though she knew they were both, in a strange way, in it for the money. She for opportunity, yes, but also for the fine clothes and fine food and fine lodgings. He for what she could give him with her work. Gossip among the servants had implied to her that his father, the previous governor, had lost much of the family fortune investing in AI experiments that never went anywhere, and that the son had squandered most of the remaining money on the same pursuit.

  She had seen very little of him for the two weeks of their “engagement.” Of course he would be busy. He was the governor! He had matters of state to attend to, not to mention a household to oversee and a new AI machine to program. When she had seen him, he had been full only of excited prattle about the machine and how much it was going to help his cause. It was just the sort of thing that could more safely do the work of a human in a factory assembly line.

  In the end, the kiss wasn’t satisfactory in the least. He gave her a chaste peck on the lips, then turned, smiling, to the congregation. She blushed, unused to the amount of attention, and sought her father’s face. He sat in the front row in a suit that Byron had purchased for him, looking very ou
t of place, but he smiled at her. She smiled back, wondering whether she should tell him how she had accomplished the impossible task he had set her.

  Probably not.

  Ever after in her memory, the wedding reception remained a blur of curtsies and thank-yous and food which was unbelievable both in quantity and quality. Her father hugged her, reporters tried to get in, and at one point there was an uproar over one guest who was discovered to be an incognito journalist.

  She had a headache long before the ordeal was over.

  Evening found her being dressed for bed in her luxurious new bedroom. She was still getting used to being dressed by someone else, though she was surprised how quickly she was becoming accustomed to it.

  The silence weighed on her as her maid, a petite brunette with a round, mousy face, buttoned up her nightgown. In the wordlessness, she could hear the woman’s pity for her peculiar situation and she felt ruffled by it.

  “Is my laboratory finished?” was the first thing she could think of to say.

  “I believe so, ma’am,” Mary said, not looking her mistress in the eyes.

  “I hope so. I am very excited to begin my work.”

  “Of course, ma’am.”

  Quiet descended upon the room again.

  A knock at the door startled her and she jolted, though Mary didn’t pause in braiding her hair. “That’ll be your husband, ma’am,” she said.

  Her husband.

  “Of course.” She forced a calm smile. “Let him in. Then you are dismissed.”

  The maid curtsied and obliged. When she opened the door, Byron stood there in his dressing gown, handsome as ever. “May I come in?”

  Amanda nodded, keeping the smile painted on her face. What were his expectations for the evening? He had said they were not to live truly as husband and wife, that it was merely a formality, but—

  He stepped in, and Mary slipped out of the room and closed the door behind her.