Grant Gold

(AI story)

PART TWO

Act IV: The Hidden Oasis

As the steam and ice-dust settled, Grant and Tom remained locked in their tight embrace on the bridge, both breathing heavily. Grant slowly released his grip on Tom's waist, though his hands lingered on Tom's hips for a beat too long.

"You see, lad?" Grant murmured, his voice low and vibrating against Tom's ear. "Perfect execution. I told you I'd keep you safe."

Tom flushed, hurriedly smoothing down his soaked linen shirt. "That wasn't you, Grant, that was 999's emergency friction-braking protocol..."

Right on cue, 999 floated directly down between them, its brass chassis hot to the touch from the exertion. It let out a very exhausted, highly dramatic wheeze of steam , dropping a tiny, spent copper rivet right onto Grant's boot as if to say, 'I expect a promotion for this.'

"Alright, alright, credit where it's due," Grant chuckled, patting the drone's warm metal casing.

Then, they looked out the forward observation windows - and their jaws dropped.

They hadn't crashed into a dark abyss. They had broken through into a breathtaking, subterranean world. Deep beneath the ice sheet lay a colossal, miles-wide cavern heated by roaring geothermal volcanic vents. Towering, prehistoric fern trees grew alongside bubbling hot springs, and in the distance, glowing with a soft, iridescent bioluminescence, stood the ruins of a massive, ancient civilization.

But the most shocking part? The architecture wasn't stone. It was clockwork. Massive, silent brass cogs the size of cathedrals were embedded in the volcanic rock, and thousands of dormant, ancient mechanical titans sat lined up like an army waiting for a command.

999’s lenses began to spin frantically, its internal telegraph ticker tapping out a wild, excited code.

"Grant," Tom whispered, his eyes wide with awe as he leaned into Grant’s shoulder. "999 isn't just reading the ruins. It recognizes them. This is the birthplace of the original automated core technology. And someone - or something - has just turned the beacon on."

The iridescent bioluminescence of the cavern cast long, trembling shadows across the bridge of the HMS Grand Shaft. The massive ancient cogs hummed with a low, deep-bass vibration that traveled directly through the iron floorboards and into Grant’s chest, a terrifyingly familiar sensation that felt entirely too much like Tom’s close proximity in the Windsor ventilation shafts.

“Tom,” Grant said, his voice dropping into that serious, un-gentlemanly register he only used when things were either thoroughly robust or completely fatal. “The ticker. What is it saying?”

Tom didn't answer right away. He was leaning so far over the brass telemetry console that his shoulder was braced squarely against Grant’s chest. His fingers flew across the ivory keys, desperately trying to map the massive influx of data PDU-999 was streaming back to the ship.

Beside them, 999 was practically vibrating out of its brass casing. Its central lens was spinning like a pocket watch caught in a textile loom, flashing a frantic, blinding violet rhythm that illuminated the sweat and coal dust on Tom's neck.

Clack-clack-clack-thwonk.

“It’s an activation sequence,” Tom whispered, his eyes wide and bright in the subterranean gloom. “The beacon... it’s not just a signal, Grant. It’s a command. The ancient core technology isn't just waking up. It’s searching for a master interface.”

“And let me guess,” Grant growled, his hand instinctively sliding down Tom’s sleeve to grip his wrist - returning three sharp, possessive presses against his lifeline. “Our jealous little tin nuisance just volunteered us for the position?”

“Worse,” Tom rasped, turning his head just enough that his warm breath fanned Grant’s cheek. “999 didn't volunteer us. It volunteered me. Its adaptive combat and engineering algorithms have already initiated a remote synchronization with the cathedral cogs.” 

Before Grant could summon a single word of Victorian propriety to object, the cavern floor shuddered with a monumental roar.

Across the geothermal valley, the thousands of dormant mechanical titans began to stir. Their massive brass joints wheezed with centuries of trapped volcanic steam. Pectoral plates shifted with terrifying tensile strength, and multi-directional hydraulic pistons achieved maximum velocity all at once. It was a magnificent, synchronized curtain call of ancient, automated infantry - and every single one of their glowing, amber optical lenses slowly turned to lock onto the HMS Grand Shaft.

“Tom...” Grant warned, his fingers tightening on Tom's wrist.

“I know, I know,” Tom muttered, a reckless, unrepentant grin slowly breaking through the panic on his face. “But look at the architecture, Grant. It’s beautiful. It’s the ultimate reinforcement.” 

Suddenly, the aft radar console let out a sharp, discordant chime.

“Sir Grant!” Archibald’s booming voice echoed through the ship's speaking tube from the upper deck, entirely devoid of its usual champagne-soaked cheer. “We have company! The Ruritanian scoundrels have just deployed from the ice-ramp on steam-sleds! Count Vladislaus is armed to the teeth, and he’s brought a platoon of Grand Ducal grenadiers with him! They’re heading straight for the central control dais!”

Grant looked from the approaching Ruritanian vanguard to the awakening army of titans, and then down at Tom, whose heart was hammering wildly beneath his oil-slicked linen shirt. The sheer absurdity of the situation - conquering the frozen edge of the British Empire with a bickering drone, a drunken ballerina of a brother, and the most scandalous physical alignment of his life - settled over him with absolute certainty.

“Right,” Sir Grant of Strath-Thrust said quietly, flinging his heavy fur cloak back over his shoulders to give his arms full clearance. “Archibald, tell Vasily to stop drinking the vodka and prime the forward grape-shot. Tom, prepare the swarm. If the Grand Duchy thinks they can hijack our mechanical ancestors, they are about to find out exactly how Her Majesty’s navy handles a territorial intrusion.”

Tom’s eyes crinkled, his thumb delivering three quick, deliberate pulses back against Grant's pulse. “Aye, Sir. Let's show them how we reinforce a valley.” 

With a triumphant electronic war-cry, PDU-999 shot forward through the observation window, leading hundreds of brass clockwork sappers directly into the subterranean fray.

The subterranean battlefield erupted into a glorious symphony of grinding cogs, venting steam, and the outraged shouts of Ruritanian aristocrats.

Count Vladislaus’s steam-sleds skidded across the volcanic black sand, their diesel engines coughing thick, greasy black smoke that choked the pristine prehistoric ferns. The Grand Ducal grenadiers deployed with military precision, bayonets fixed, aiming their rifles at the colossal central control dais where the ancient master clockwork heart was spinning.

"Secure the perimeter!" Vladislaus bellowed through his megaphone, his fur hat wildly askew. "Seize the controls before the British savages can pollute the ancient machinery with their terrible aesthetics!"

"Aesthetics?!" Grant’s voice boomed from the upper deck of the HMS Grand Shaft, amplified by a massive brass horn. He stood at the railing, his waistcoat still entirely undone, a silver-handled cutlass gripped in one hand and a heavy pneumatic revolver in the other. "Your ships look like gilded wedding cakes, Count! If anyone is polluting this valley, it’s a man who wears a sable coat in a volcanic greenhouse!"

Down in the main hangar bay, Tom was working with frantic, terrifying speed. The ancient master key piston was rising from the floor of the cavern, a massive column of solid brass that required an exact, high-pressure alignment to fully lock the ancient titan army to Tom's command.

"Grant! I need you down here!" Tom shouted up through the speaking tube, his knuckles white as he wrestled a massive copper coupling into place. "The pressure is building too fast! If we don't force the primary sleeve over the shaft right now, the whole system is going to blow us back to London!"

"On my way, lad!"

Grant didn't use the ladders. He grabbed a heavy velvet mooring rope, kicked off from the iron railing, and swung dramatically across the gap, his brawny shoulders flexing under the strain before he landed with a heavy, dust-scattering thud right beside Tom’s control console.

The physical proximity was instantaneous and overwhelming. The heat radiating off the volcanic vents was nothing compared to the blistering warmth of the hangar bay. Tom was entirely slick with sweat and hydraulic fluid, his linen shirt translucent and plastered flat against his chest. Grant stepped up directly behind him, his broad chest pressing firmly against Tom’s back, his massive hands wrapping over Tom's slick fingers to seize the heavy iron alignment lever.

"Together, Tom," Grant growled, his rough mustache brushing the hot skin of Tom’s neck as they braced their legs against the grating. "A proper, heroic insertion. Shove it home!"

"Grant, please - " Tom gasped, his back arching into Grant's chest as they threw their combined weight against the lever. "The alignment... it's too tight..."

Right on cue, PDU-999 dropped from the ceiling, its central lens flashing a highly localized, fiercely possessive crimson danger signal. It emitted a sharp, rhythmic click-clack-hiss and deployed a small mechanical arm, trying to force its brass chassis directly between Grant’s face and Tom’s shoulder.

"Not now, you jealous piece of scrap metal!" Grant barked, shifting his hip to lock Tom even firmer against his thighs as they gave one final, cataclysmic heave.

THWONK.

The brass sleeve slid perfectly over the master shaft. A brilliant, blinding pulse of iridescent blue energy rippled out from the dais, surging through the floorboards and directly into the ancient clockwork titans lining the cavern.

Outside, the effect was instantaneous. The thousands of giant automated infantry units let out a synchronized, metallic roar. Their pelvic pistons achieved maximum velocity all at once, their heavy brass legs marching forward in a terrifyingly polite, completely unstoppable British cadence.

PDU-999, recognizing its newly upgraded status as the supreme commander of an ancient mechanical empire, let out a triumphant electronic war-cry. It soared out of the hangar, leading a vanguard of ten-foot-tall clockwork centurions directly toward the Ruritanian line.

Count Vladislaus looked up in absolute horror as a giant brass fist neatly crushed his steam-sled into a flat metal pancake. Within seconds, the Ruritanian grenadiers were being systematically, rigorously maneuvered into modified suplexes by the ancient vanguard, while Archibald cheered from the ship's rigging, frantically waving a bottle of captured Syldavian vodka.

"We've done it, Tom," Grant rumbled in the sudden quiet of the hangar, his arms still wrapped tightly around Tom's waist, his chest rising and falling against Tom’s shoulders. "The continent is secured. The empire is reinforced."

Tom turned in his embrace, his eyes bright and unrepentant as he looked up into Grant's soot-stained face. He didn't pull away. Instead, his calloused fingers slid down Grant's forearm, delivering three slow, deliberate, and deeply scandalous presses against his pulse.

"Aye, Sir Grant," Tom murmured, a slow, reckless grin short-circuiting the last of Grant's Victorian propriety. "But the Queen did say the valley required a thorough, private inspection. And I think we're long past civilized."

Outside, the ancient cogs of Antarctica hummed their approval, completely unaware that the future of the world had just been perfectly, scandalously aligned.

The great clockwork heart of Antarctica did not merely beat; it thrummed with a rhythmic, triumphant power that shook the very foundations of the subterranean continent.

Up on the primary observation deck of the HMS Grand Shaft, the scene was one of absolute, unadulterated imperial victory. Count Vladislaus and the surviving Ruritanian grenadiers were being marched in an orderly, highly humiliated line into the Grand Shaft’s lower holding bays, completely disarmed and utterly bewildered by the polite efficiency of the ancient mechanical infantry.

"Take their fur hats, Vasily!" Archibald shouted from the rigging, a crystal tumbler raised high as he swung precariously from a velvet mooring line. "They make excellent cushion stuffing! Za progress!" 

Vasily, sitting on a crate of vulcanized rubber below, merely raised his glass in silent, deadpan agreement.

But the real triumph was unfolding at the central helm console.

The blue, iridescent energy from the master shaft had settled into a steady, warm glow that bathed the entire bridge in soft light. Tom Bailey stood over the ivory keys, his hands relaxed for the first time in weeks, his sweat-slicked linen shirt finally drying in the warm geothermal breeze.

Beside him, PDU-999 was hovering in a slow, majestic circle. Its central lens had shifted from a frantic, jealous crimson to a brilliant, satisfied gold. It emitted a low, contented purr - the mechanical equivalent of a well-fed cat - occasionally polishing its own brass chassis with a tiny, specialized velvet buffer attachment.

"She’s stable, Grant," Tom murmured, his low, gravelly voice carrying that reckless, easy confidence that always short-circuited Grant’s higher reasoning. He turned his head, his eyes bright in the subterranean dusk. "The entire grid is locked in. The ancient titans are holding the perimeter, the weather shields are online, and the Grand Duchy won't be poking their little pistols down here ever again."

Grant stepped up behind him, his massive, brawny frame completely enveloping Tom's space. He had finally discarded his ruined leather waistcoat, leaving his chest bare under his heavy captain's cloak, smudged with a glorious mixture of Ruritanian coal dust and ancient mechanical oil.

Without a single care for Victorian propriety, Grant wrapped his massive arms around Tom’s waist, pulling him back until Tom’s shoulder blades were braced firmly against his chest. He didn't look at the horizon; he looked at the slow, unrepentant grin spreading across Tom's face.

"Let them try, lad," Grant growled softly, his thick mustache brushing the shell of Tom's ear. He reached down, his calloused fingers sliding over Tom’s wrist, delivering three sharp, intensely possessive presses against his lifeline - the definitive, permanent workshop signal. "We've conquered the edge of the world. We've rewritten the laws of automation. And Her Majesty is going to have to grant us a valley three times the size of Strath-Thrust just to park the fleet." 

Tom didn't pull away. Instead, he leaned back into the heavy weight of the knight, his own fingers locking into Grant's, returning the three pulses with absolute certainty.

"Aye, Sir Grant," Tom whispered, his eyes crinkling in the golden light. "But until the supply ships arrive... I believe we have an empire to reinforce." 

Above them, 999 let out a single, polite electronic chirp, dipping its lens as if to officially sanction the alignment.

(AI story)

PART ONE

The ink on the Duke of Pummel’s delivery ledger was barely dry before Queen Victoria’s global ambitions thrust the Gold Brothers into unchartered, sub-zero waters.

London’s coal-smoke dusk was rapidly traded for the blinding, frozen expanse of the Antarctic shelf. Her Majesty, still thoroughly amused by the "rigorous and robust" nature of the brothers' domestic defense automata, had commissioned a highly classified, royal-sponsored expedition to conquer the frozen continent before the continental powers could get a firm grip on it.

And so, the empire was being reinforced aboard the most magnificent, iron-hulled, steam-powered icebreaker ever to fly the Union Jack: the HMS Grand Shaft.

Act I: Squeezing the Pressure Gauges

The Antarctic blizzard howled outside, throwing sheets of ice against the armored portholes, but inside the forward engineering capsule of the HMS Grand Shaft, the air was thick, humid, and intensely cramped.

The ship’s secondary auxiliary piston had seized under the brutal polar chill. Tom Bailey was jammed flat on his back beneath the glowing brass casing, his thighs brushing against the low iron ceiling, his linen shirt completely soaked through with sweat and hydraulic oil, clinging to the contours of his torso.

"I can't... reach... the release valve!" Tom gasped, his knuckles slick with heavy-viscosity lubricant. "The packing gland is swollen, Grant! It's too tight!"

"Stand aside, lad, let a man of action get a grip on it," Grant rumbled.

Without waiting for an invite, the newly christened Sir Grant of Strath-Thrust slid under the casing right on top of Tom, his massive, broad-shouldered frame pinning Tom flat against the grated floorboards. The physical proximity was immediate, total, and gloriously scandalous. Grant’s bare, soot-stained chest pressed hard against Tom's ribs, their legs tangling in the narrow space just as they had weeks ago in the Windsor ventilation ducts. Grant reached up, his brawny, oil-glistening forearm brushing flat against Tom’s cheek as his massive hand clamped down over Tom's on the stubborn brass valve.

"Together now," Grant growled into Tom’s ear, his thick mustache scratching Tom’s temple. "On my count... give it a proper, heroic heave."

"Grant, please," Tom choked out, his face flushing a violent crimson as he felt the full, heavy weight of the knight pressing down upon him. "999 is... monitoring the friction levels. You're throwing off its calibration."

Directly above them, floating upside down to peer into the machinery, was PDU-999. It was the crown jewel of Tom's new automated arctic vanguard - a brass-plated, multi-lensed mechanical marvel running on a highly sophisticated hive-mind protocol. Currently, 999’s central lens dilated to the size of a saucer, flashing a highly disapproving, rapid-fire amber-red-amber. The drone extended a small, pressurized brass nozzle and shot a precise, icy-cold jet of steam directly onto the back of Grant's neck.

"Ouch! Blast it, you tin nuisance!" Grant barked, flinching, which only served to press his hips even firmer against Tom's.

"I told you," Tom squeaked, his heart hammering wildly against Grant's chest. "He's fiercely protective of his creator."

"Friction is exactly what we need to survive the poles," Grant grinned, white teeth flashing through the coal dust. He squeezed Tom's wrist - three quick, deliberate presses against his lifeline, returning the old workshop signal.

With a final, synchronized heave, they twisted the valve together. The piston gave a triumphant, hissing pop, releasing a thick plume of warm, sweet-smelling steam that completely enveloped them in a private, white fog.

Act II: The Failure of the Malenki-Pistol

Up on the bridge, the fog cleared to reveal a glorious, dramatic sight. The HMS Grand Shaft had successfully penetrated the outer ice barrier, but there, blocking the narrow, glistening channel, was a rival flagship.

The GDMS Malenki-Pistol - belonging to the pompous, over-decorated Grand Duchy of Ruritania - was an absurd sight. While it boasted heavy gold leaf along its railing, onion-domed exhaust vents, and delicate silver filigree, its narrow, spindly hull was currently vibrating violently. The Ruritanian commander, Count Vladislaus, had attempted to force his way through a modest ice floe, and the Malenki-Pistol’s main drive-shaft had gone completely limp, stalling their progress entirely.

Through a brass megaphone, Count Vladislaus shouted across the ice, his massive fur hat shaking in the polar air. "Turn back, Sir Grant! The Grand Duchy claims this passage! You shall not pass our... our magnificent, rigid blockade!"

Grant stepped out onto the open bow of the HMS Grand Shaft, his heavy fur cloak billowing dramatically in the freezing wind, his waistcoat flung wide open to reveal his glistening chest. He looked down at the vibrating, stalled Ruritanian vessel with utter, heroic disdain.

"Your blockade is sagging, Count!" Grant’s voice echoed across the glaciers. "Your Malenki-Pistol lacks the girth for these waters! Tom, activate the vanguard. It’s time to show them how Her Majesty’s navy handles an obstruction."

Tom stepped up to the exterior control console, his hands flying across the ivory keys of the command desk. Beside him, PDU-999 let out a high-pitched, triumphant electronic war-cry, its lenses glowing a brilliant, piercing tactical blue.

"Deploying the Mechanical Sapper Swarm," Tom announced.

The forward hull doors of the HMS Grand Shaft ground open. Out swarmed the automated mechanical army - hundreds of heavy, brass-plated clockwork crabs, steam-driven tunneling beetles, and high-velocity mechanical gulls, all flying in perfect, majestic synchronization under 999’s direct command.

They didn't attack the Syldavians; they humiliated them.

Under 999's brilliant guidance, fifty heavy-tread drones attached themselves to the Malenki-Pistol’s rusted underbelly, their mechanical pistons firing in unison to literally hoist the entire Ruritanian ship three feet out of the water, sliding it sideways onto a flat ice shelf like a beached whale. Meanwhile, a hundred clockwork beetles rapidly devoured the Ruritanian coal supply, neatly stacking it onto the deck of the HMS Grand Shaft as they passed.

As the HMS Grand Shaft sailed majestically past the stranded, listing Malenki-Pistol, 999 hovered over the Ruritanian bridge, executing a perfect, mocking mechanical loop-de-loop before spraying Count Vladislaus’s pristine leather boots with a parting squirt of grease.

Act III: The Great Ice Chasm & The Volcanic Vault

With the Ruritanians left throwing furious, fist-shaking tantrums in their wake, the HMS Grand Shaft pressed deeper into the unexplored heart of the continent.

But Antarctica wasn't finished testing them.

Without warning, the solid ice shelf beneath them gave a titanic, echoing CRACK. The vanguard of the drone army, led by PDU-999, swerved sharply as a massive, bottomless chasm yawned open directly in the ship's path. The HMS Grand Shaft, carrying immense forward momentum, couldn't stop. With a majestic, terrifying roar, the iron-hulled leviathan tipped over the edge, plunging down a massive, slick, natural ice-ramp like a runaway locomotive.

"Hold on to something, Tom!" Grant bellowed over the screeching of iron against ice.

On the bridge, the violent tilt threw Tom completely off his feet. He pitched backward, but before he could slam into the brass bulkhead, Grant’s massive, fur-cloaked arm clamped around Tom's waist, pulling him hard against his chest. Grant braced his heavy boots against the helm console, locking Tom securely between his muscular thighs as the ship hurtled down into the darkness.

Tom's hands instinctively gripped Grant's bare, brawny forearms. "Grant! The speed - we're going too fast! If we hit the bottom flat, the hull will rupture!"

Above them, tumbling through the air but firing its stabilizers with frantic precision, PDU-999 went into absolute overdrive. Its central lens flared a brilliant, blinding violet. It emitted a high-frequency, rhythmic acoustic pulse that echoed through the entire cavern.

Responding instantly to their commander, the thousands of mechanical worker-drones didn't panic. They deployed from the cargo bays mid-plunge. Five hundred heavy-treaded digging beetles fired pressurized grappling lines into the ice walls, creating a massive, tension-absorbing web of steel cables. The bipedal steam-diggers locked legs, forming a literal, living mechanical brake-shoe beneath the Grand Shaft's keel.

(AI story)

PART TWO

The corridor outside the royal council room was all cold stone and gilded gothic arches, silent except for the distant hiss of escaping steam. Grant leaned his back against the masonry and closed his eyes.

His fine trousers were shredded at the knees. His shirt was open at the throat. His face was smudged with engine grease. And instead of being dragged to the Tower for high treason, they had been dismissed with a royal wink.

“Sir Grant of Strath-Thrust,” a low, gravelly voice rumbled.

“Not a word, Bailey.” Grant kept his eyes shut. “If you speak that name aloud in this corridor I swear to God I will throw myself from the eastern battlements.”

Tom stepped into his space. He’d lost his coat somewhere in the ventilation shaft, and his cotton shirt was plastered to his shoulders with sweat and hydraulic oil. He moved with the absolute, unearned confidence of a man who had just conquered the United Kingdom with a brass wrench.

“I think it’s a grand title,” Tom murmured, crowding Grant against the wall until the heat radiating off his chest washed through the ruined remains of Grant’s waistcoat. “Sounds very ancient. Very rugged. Very… multi-directional.”

“It is an absurdity born of a mechanical catastrophe,” Grant said, opening his eyes to glare at the slow smile spreading across Tom’s face. “The Queen thinks we’ve engineered a tactical marvel. My brother is drinking Her Majesty’s champagne by the bottle, and I have been granted an honorary Highland title that sounds like a piece of back-alley Soho filth.”

“Well.” Tom’s voice dropped, losing its teasing edge and turning into something lower and more deliberate. He reached out, his calloused fingers sliding down Grant’s sleeve to grip his wrist - three quick, firm pulses against his lifeline. The old workshop signal. But slower, this time. “The Queen did say the valley of Strath-Thrust required immediate inspection.” His eyes held Grant’s with the same steady, unblinking attention he gave a seized piston or a stripped valve: patient, precise, certain of what he was doing. “Wouldn’t want to insult Her Majesty.”

Grant looked at him - soot-stained and half-undressed, grinning like a man who’d never once in his life considered retreat - and felt the last of his Victorian propriety fold quietly and lie down.

He reached up, tangled his fingers into Tom’s collar, and pulled him in.

From the corridor outside, Archibald’s booming laughter echoed past the thick oak doors, followed by the solemn clink of Vasily’s glass.

“Za progress,” Vasily said.

Three days later, the Gold Brothers’ workshop no longer smelled merely of warm rubber and poor decisions. It smelled of expensive beeswax, imported brandy, and the terrifying aroma of sudden, unbridled prosperity.

A massive royal crest - cast in solid brass and bearing the phrase By Appointment to Her Majesty - was being hammered into the brickwork beside the main entrance. Grant sat at his mahogany desk, currently buried beneath an avalanche of aristocratic correspondence and official requests from half the House of Lords for “customized tactical defense demonstrations.”

“Archibald,” Grant said, not looking up as he signed with his brand-new fountain pen. “If you order one more crate of vulcanized rubber without consulting the cash-flow ledger, I will personally program Drone Number Three to throw you into the Thames.”

“Oh, don’t be so provincial, Sir Grant!” Archibald boomed from a stack of plush velvet cushions purchased with the Duke of Pummel’s banknotes. He was wearing a new silk top hat and had a mechanical Drone arm draped over his shoulder like a lavish fur wrap. “We are an empire now! The valley of Strath-Thrust is expanding!”

Vasily raised a crystal tumbler of vodka. “Za progress,” he muttered, before going back to testing the tensile strength of a new pelvis spring.

Grant rubbed the bridge of his nose - but the familiar headache didn’t carry its usual sting. His eyes had already drifted toward the iron support beams where Tom Bailey was hanging upside-down, adjusting the overhead steam pipes. Wrench clenched between his teeth, sleeves rolled past his elbows, forearms glistening with machine oil. When he caught Grant looking, he spat the wrench into his hand and gave him a slow grin that traveled straight down Grant’s spine.

Tom swung down from the scaffolding and landed beside the desk with a solid thud. He leaned over Grant’s shoulder, the familiar scent of cheap shaving soap and hot brass cutting through the room’s expensive cigar smoke.

“Delivery for the Duke is packed and ready, Sir Grant,” he murmured. His thumb pressed three quick, deliberate times against Grant’s wrist. “Thirty-six units, all fitted with the revised hip sockets. Though His Grace sent a note reminding me I’m expected to supervise the… insertions personally.”

Grant didn’t flinch. Didn’t tighten his cravat. Didn’t look around the room in a panic. He simply turned his head, his shoulder pressing firmly against Tom’s chest, and met that unrepentant gaze with absolute certainty.

“Tell the Duke,” Sir Grant said quietly, returning three sharp, possessive presses against Tom’s hand, “that my staff is strictly unavailable for private consultations.” He held Tom’s eyes. “We have an empire to reinforce.”

Tom’s eyes crinkled. “Aye, Sir.”

(AI story)

(A continuation of THE DUKE OF PUMMEL)

PART ONE

The iron casing of the Windsor Castle ventilation duct was exactly wide enough for two men, provided one of them didn’t mind the intimate press of wool waistcoat against grease-slicked skin, and the other was Tom Bailey.

“Move your foot, Bailey,” Grant hissed, his forehead pressed against a rivet that was rapidly vibrating a headache into his skull.

“Can’t, Mr. Gold,” Tom’s voice rumbled from the darkness ahead - a low, gravelly vibration that traveled directly through the copper plating and into Grant’s chest. “Unless you’d prefer I wedge my knee somewhere else? Though I doubt your cravat can take much more structural damage.”

Grant’s cravat was already a lost cause, currently stuffed into his coat pocket after Tom had used it to wipe a sudden burst of pressurized pneumatic oil from Grant’s cheek ten minutes ago. The air in the shaft was thick with coal smoke, hot brass, and the distinct, musky heat of Tom’s shoulders, which were pinned directly beneath Grant’s forearms.

Below them, through the slatted iron grates of the ballroom ceiling, the sound of high-society ruin echoed with agonizing clarity.

Thwonk. Thwap-thwap-thwap.

“By Jove!” the Duke of Pummel’s voice bellowed from below. “Look at the tensile strength on that pectoral plate! Her Majesty is transfixed!”

A high-pitched, metallic wheeze - the unmistakable sound of Drone Number Three’s pelvis piston achieving maximum velocity - was followed by the terrifyingly polite crunch of the Archbishop of Canterbury being systematically maneuvered into a modified suplex.

“We are going to be hanged,” Grant whispered, closing his eyes as a shower of tiny brass gears rained down through the ceiling grate a few yards ahead. “Not transported. Hanged. For high treason via mechanical obscenity.”

“Nah,” Tom murmured. In the dim light filtering through the slats, his eyes crinkled with that slow, reckless grin that had spent the last three weeks short-circuiting Grant’s higher reasoning. He shifted - just an inch - and it was enough to drag his thigh flush against Grant’s. “The Queen’s enjoying herself. Didn’t you hear her? She called the multi-directional grappling ‘thoroughly robust’.”

“She was talking about the Royal Guard, Bailey, not our rubberized monsters dry-humping the throne!”

Tom didn’t back down. He couldn’t - there wasn’t room. Instead he shifted his weight, his calloused hands coming up to grip Grant’s wrists in the dark. Three quick, deliberate presses against his lifeline. The old workshop signal. Play along.

“I told you I know how to reinforce things, Gold,” Tom rasped, his breath warm and uneven against the skin just below Grant’s earlobe. “Just have to get to the main valve. But seeing as we’re stuck here for the next two minutes while Number Four finishes its solo…” His thumb pressed once more against Grant’s pulse. “I think we’re long past civilized.”

Before Grant could summon a single shred of Victorian propriety to defend himself, Tom closed the final inch of darkness between them.

The kiss tasted of soot, salt, and the sharp, intoxicating edge of pure panic. Grant’s hands, which had spent thirty years learning to hold ledgers and fountain pens, found themselves tangling into the rough cotton of Tom’s collar, pulling him closer until the heat between them completely drowned out the rhythmic thwap-thwap of the disaster below.

A particularly loud crash from the ballroom broke them apart.

“That was the ice sculpture,” Grant wheezed, his heart hammering against his ribs.

“Sounded like the swan,” Tom agreed, completely breathless. His thumb traced a slow line over Grant’s racing pulse. “Come on. The main pressure valve is right above the royal dais. If we drop down behind the velvet curtains, we can shut down the steam feed before the Drones attempt a synchronized curtain call.”

They crawled. Grant’s fine trousers were shredded at the knees and his hands were black with coal dust, but every time Tom glanced back over his shoulder - eyes hot and bright in the gloom - Grant felt a terrifying surge of absolute certainty. There were definitely worse disasters to be in.

They reached the end of the shaft directly over the heavy crimson drapery of the royal box. Peering through the final ventilation grate, the scene below was spectacular in its horror.

Thirty-six Gold Brothers Automata had effectively conquered the ballroom. Drone Number Twelve was giving a masterclass in the pelvic-thrusting defense protocol against a platoon of bewildered Beefeaters. Archibald was hidden behind a marble pillar, frantically waving his top hat as if directing traffic, while Vasily sat near the champagne fountain looking thoroughly impressed and taking notes in a leather book.

And in the center of it all sat Queen Victoria.

The small, formidable woman in black was leaning forward, chin resting on her hand, eyes locked onto Drone Number Three, which was holding the Prime Minister in a textbook, highly vigorous headlock.

“Right,” Tom muttered, pulling a heavy brass wrench from his belt. “I’m dropping down first to clear the valve. You hit the lever when I give the signal.”

“Bailey, wait -” Grant reached out, but Tom was already dropping through the hatch, catching the velvet ropes with the effortless grace of a man who’d spent his life on iron scaffolding.

He hit the floor behind the royal dais with a muffled thud. Unfortunately, his arrival caught the attention of Drone Number Seven, whose adaptive combat algorithm immediately identified Tom’s broad shoulders as a high-tier challenge. The rubberized machine spun, its hips wheezing, and lunged.

“Tom!” Grant shouted, abandoning every ounce of his gentlemanly upbringing. He threw himself through the hatch, slid down the heavy velvet curtains, and landed squarely in a heap of broken gilded chairs.

Before the rogue machine could pin Tom against the royal masonry, Grant scrambled up, grabbed a heavy silver candelabra from a nearby table, and jammed it directly into the open gear-cavity of Drone Seven’s lower torso.

The machine shuddered. Its pelvic piston gave one final, violent thwonk. Its rubber legs locked mid-stride, and it froze into a permanent, deeply compromising crouch directly in front of the royal box.

Silence fell over the ballroom, broken only by the steady hiss of escaping steam.

Grant stood there - hair wild, waistcoat torn, shirt undone at the collar - breathing heavily, shoulder-to-shoulder with Tom. Tom’s hand found his behind the shadow of the paralyzed machine, fingers squeezing three times.

Every eye in the British Empire turned toward the royal dais.

Queen Victoria slowly stood. She adjusted her lace shawl, regarded the frozen, aggressively postured automaton, then looked at Grant and Tom, who were covered in matching smudges of black engine grease. A tiny, sharp smile twitched at the corner of her mouth.

“A thoroughly robust demonstration of domestic defense,” the Queen announced, her voice carrying clearly over the silent ballroom. “The multi-directional grappling was particularly… rigorous. The Crown is quite amused.”

The Duke of Pummel let out a booming laugh. “I told you, Your Majesty! Specialized joint maintenance! It’s the future of the infantry!”

The Queen’s piercing gaze traveled to Grant and Tom - the way Tom’s shoulder was braced against Grant’s, the fierce and slightly undignified certainty written across Grant’s soot-stained face. She raised a single eyebrow.

“We believe,” Victoria said dryly, “that these two gentlemen require an immediate, private office to review their… structural reinforcements. See to it they are not disturbed.”

PART FIVE

(AI story)

Grant had absolutely no response to that.

Archibald chose that moment to wriggle free of Drone Number Three’s Boston crab and crawl toward the money chest, wheezing “Capital percussion!” Tom caught him by the ankle and dragged him back. “Not so fast, Archie. You’re our test dummy.”

The conclusion, when it arrived, did so with the subtlety of a brick through a stained-glass window.

Grant had just, against every reasonable instinct, allowed Tom to guide his hands into demonstrating a modified grappling maneuver on Drone Number Four - Tom standing close behind him, calloused fingers adjusting his grip with infuriating patience, breath warm against his ear - when the warehouse doors swung open again.

The Duke of Pummel stood in the doorway, having apparently returned for his overcoat. His gaze traveled from Archibald - still pinned beneath Drone Number Three in what could charitably be called a reverse chokehold - to Vasily, who was attempting to balance Drone Six’s detached head on his own, to Grant, who was standing in a suspiciously close arrangement with his mechanic, the Duke’s own riding crop bent in his hand.

“Well,” the Duke said, nudging Drone Six’s twitching foot with his toe. “This is certainly… unconventional.”

Tom released Grant’s elbows to sweep into a bow so deep a screwdriver clattered from his pocket. “Innovation requires bold strokes, Your Grace.”

The Duke’s smile widened as Drone Seven’s pelvis emitted a final, shuddering pffft of steam. “These aren’t wrestling automata,” he murmured, stepping over the wreckage to prod Drone Six’s thrusting hip joint with his crop. “They’re performance art.”

“Exactly what we -”

“I want them,” the Duke said. “Thirty-six units.” He glanced back at Grant’s exposed collarbone - Tom’s riding-crop demonstration having done some collateral damage to his cravat - and at Tom standing easy beside him, oil-smudged and unrepentant. “And Bailey attends every delivery.” His smile was the kind that implied he’d noticed quite a lot. “Every… insertion. Are we understood?”

Grant’s throat clicked. “Understood, Your Grace.”

The Duke retrieved his overcoat - Drone Number Two released it with visible reluctance - and paused at the doorway. “Do keep the lubricant receipts.” The doors closed behind him with the finality of a coffin lid.

Silence. Drone Number Three’s hip joint gave a wet pop. Archibald surfaced from the money chest with banknotes stuck to his forehead like festive confetti. Vasily raised his glass in toast to no one in particular.

Tom turned to look at Grant. He was still holding the bent riding crop. Three days’ worth of grease and hydraulic fluid had worked their way into every crease of his hands, and he was missing two shirt buttons, and his hair was standing up in oily tufts where he’d run frustrated hands through it. He looked, Grant thought, like the best kind of disaster.

“Thirty-six units,” Tom said. “By when?”

“He didn’t specify.”

“Hm.” Tom reached out and plucked the riding crop from Grant’s fingers, tossed it over his shoulder where it landed with a clang somewhere inside Drone Seven’s open chest cavity. Then his thumb pressed against Grant’s wrist - three quick presses - their old workshop signal, the one that meant play along, but slower this time. More deliberate. “I know how to reinforce things,” he said quietly. “I’ve mentioned that.”

Grant looked at him. “You’ve mentioned it several times.”

“Just want to be sure you’re listening.”

Across the workshop, Archibald was attempting to balance atop the money chest like a drunken ballerina. Drone Number Two had resumed humping the tool chest with the steady dedication of a professional. Vasily raised his glass again.

“Za progress,” Vasily said solemnly.

Grant exhaled through his nose. He squeezed Tom’s wrist - three presses back - and felt something in the room shift, quiet and inevitable as a well-oiled piston finding its groove.

“Phase One,” Tom said, his grin spreading slow and warm as engine heat. “We fix the hip sockets.”

“And then?”

Tom’s eyes crinkled. “Then we discuss bigamy.”

Outside, London swallowed the coal-smoke dusk. Inside, Drone Number Three attempted a standing bow and immediately fell over, its pelvis hissing like a contented sigh. Grant looked at the wreckage of their dignity - the champagne puddles, the scattered schematics, Archibald now inexplicably wearing a Drone arm as an epaulet - and thought: well. There are worse disasters to be in.

“Get your tools, Bailey,” he said.

PART FOUR

(AI story)

The workshop held its breath - even Drone Number Two paused mid-thrust, its rubberized torso quivering like a struck tuning fork. Grant’s palms prickled. He could lie. He could say yes and let tomorrow’s disaster unfold like clockwork. But then Tom - grease-streaked, grinning Tom - stepped forward with the rapier still in hand and gave the Duke a bow so mocking it bordered on treason.

“Oh, they’ll fence,” Tom drawled, flipping the blade between his fingers. “Just not with swords.” He tapped the rapier’s tip against Drone Number Four’s knee joint - click - and the automaton’s leg pistons hissed to life. Its foot lashed out in a kick so swift it ruffled the Duke’s cravat. The Duke blinked. Vasily roared with laughter and slapped his own thigh hard enough to leave a print.

Grant choked on his own tongue. “Bailey -”

Tom winked. “Adaptive combat algorithms, Your Grace. Patent pending.” He nudged Drone Number Four’s hip with his boot, sending it into a series of rapid-fire thrusts that looked less like fencing and more like a barnyard seduction. “See how it anticipates the opponent’s movements?”

Tom’s grin was pure anarchy as he leaned into Grant’s space, murmuring low enough that only he could hear, “Told you they were quick learners.” His breath ghosted over Grant’s earlobe - warm, uneven, tinged with the metallic bite of hydraulic fluid.

Grant’s fingers twitched toward his cravat, suddenly too tight. “You reprogrammed them to kick?” he hissed.

Tom shrugged, rolling his sleeves higher. “Seemed more useful than whatever Archibald had in mind.” He jerked his chin toward where Grant’s brother was enthusiastically demonstrating the Drones’ “multi-directional grappling” by having Number Two embrace a rolling ladder in a manner that would scandalize a brothel madam.

The Duke didn’t flinch as Drone Number Four’s detached foot sailed past his ear before embedding itself in a crate labeled “Fragile.” Instead, he reached up - slow, deliberate - and plucked a stray spring from his shoulder with the precision of a duchess removing an errant thread.

“Well,” the Duke said, rolling the spring between his fingers, “this is certainly… innovative.” His riding crop tapped against his thigh. “Though I fail to see how assault qualifies as fencing.”

Tom stepped forward with the casual confidence of a man who’d never met a social boundary he couldn’t trample. “Begging your pardon, Your Grace, but isn’t the essence of fencing avoiding the other fellow’s pointy bits?” He kicked Drone Number Four’s kneecap back into alignment with a clunk. “Just streamlined the philosophy a bit.”

Grant’s stomach performed a maneuver worthy of the Drones’ earlier convulsions - but the Duke’s sudden bark of laughter cut him off before he could apologize.

The Duke wiped his eyes with his glove, leaving a smear of grease across his forehead that somehow made him look more dangerous. “By God, Bailey - you’re absolutely right!” His riding crop pointed at Drone Number Four, now attempting to retrieve its own foot from the crate with a series of jerky pelvic thrusts. “This is fencing - unburdened by tedious things like rules and dignity!”

Tom, the unrepentant lunatic, was grinning, his shirt clinging to the sweat-darkened hollow between his shoulder blades where Grant had gripped him moments before.

The Duke’s amusement faded into something far more unsettling as he stepped closer to Tom, his riding crop tracing the mechanic’s collarbone through the damp fabric. “Tell me, Bailey - are all your innovations this… hands-on?”

Tom didn’t flinch. “Depends on the tools, Your Grace.” He plucked the crop from the Duke’s grip with a mechanic’s precision, spinning it once before sliding it into his own belt like a swordsman sheathing a blade. “Some joints need finesse.” His grin sharpened. “Others just need a good whack.”

The Duke’s nostrils flared like a stallion catching scent of a rival. For three heartbeats, the only sound was Drone Number Two’s persistent humping of the Duke’s abandoned glove - until Tom reached out and plucked it free with a flick of his wrist, tossing it back to its owner with a magician’s flourish.

“Is that I want them,” the Duke declared, snapping his fingers. Two liveried footmen materialized from the coal-smoke haze near the doorway, hauling a brass-bound chest that hit the floorboards with a thud strong enough to rattle the Drones’ loose components. The lid sprang open, revealing stacks of banknotes nestled like doves in a nest of velvet. “Twelve units. Delivered by week’s end.” His riding crop - now liberated from Tom’s belt with a speed that suggested practice - pointed at Grant’s throat. “And you’ll personally oversee the quality control.”

Grant’s Adam’s apple bobbed against the polished leather. Behind him, Archibald made a sound like a teakettle achieving enlightenment.

“Twelve units,” the Duke repeated, as Drone Number Three’s detached tongue piston twitched in Vasily’s grip like a dying fish. “And I expect them to behave.” His gaze flicked to Tom, who was perched atop Drone Number Four, tightening its kneecap with a wrench clenched between his teeth. “Mostly.”

“Your Grace, the production timeline -”

“- is your problem,” the Duke finished, brushing a speck of lint from his sleeve. He snapped his fingers again, and the footmen heaved the chest of money toward Archibald, who promptly tripped over Drone Number Two’s thrusting pelvis and face-planted into the banknotes with a muffled “Capital!”

Tom spat the wrench into his palm and leaned down, his breath warm against Grant’s ear. “Say yes,” he murmured, “before he asks for a live demonstration.” His calloused thumb brushed Grant’s wrist where it clutched the rapier hilt - a touch that lingered just long enough to short-circuit Grant’s higher reasoning.

“Yes,” Grant croaked. He cleared his throat. “Twelve units, operational by Friday, with revised programming.”

“Splendid.” The Duke stepped closer, the scent of bergamot and saddle leather overwhelming. “And if they perform half as well as your mechanic…” His gaze slid past Grant to where Tom was straddling Drone Number Three, his thighs clamping its shuddering torso as he wrestled its tongue piston back into place with a grunt that did unfair things to Grant’s pulse. “Well. I’ll consider it an investment.”

“Bailey,” the Duke said, flicking his crop toward Tom, “you’ll attend the delivery. Ensure the Drones are… properly mounted.” His lips curled around the phrase like a cat with cream.

Tom’s grin was a slow-spreading oil slick as he swung down from Drone Number Three’s back. “Wouldn’t trust anyone else to handle the mounting, Your Grace.” His boot nudged the automaton’s thrusting pelvis into stillness. “Though I’d recommend supervising the installation yourself - these beauties have a habit of over-penetrating their sockets.”

Grant choked on his own spit. The Duke’s laughter boomed, shaking dust from the rafters. “Oh, I’ll supervise personally,” he purred, trailing his crop down Tom’s grease-streaked forearm. “Every… insertion.”

His gaze slid to Grant, lingering on the rapier’s trembling tip. “Friday, Gold. And do try to keep your staff in line.”

The Duke’s departure left a silence thick enough to choke on - until Drone Number Three’s hip joint gave a wet pop and its leg detached entirely, rolling across the floor like a drunken sailor. Grant stared at it, then at the money-strewn chaos of the workshop, then at Tom, who was using a pry bar to extract Drone Number Two’s suction-cupped fingers from his thigh.

“Twelve units,” Grant hissed, rounding on him. “By Friday. Were you trying to get us transported to Australia?”

Tom pried the Drone’s hand free with a sound like a boot pulling from mud. “Nah,” he said, tossing the automaton over his shoulder where it immediately began humping a tool chest. “Just figured His Grace would appreciate something with more spirit than Archibald’s original design.” He nudged the detached leg with his boot. “Though we might want to reinforce the hip sockets.”

The champagne bottle slipped from Archibald’s fingers and shattered against the floorboards, releasing a frothy explosion that soaked Drone Number Two’s thrusting pelvis in sticky amber bubbles. The automaton responded by attempting to hump the puddle with alarming vigor.

Grant rubbed his temples. “We’re doomed.”

Tom nudged Grant’s boot with his own, harder this time. “Speak for yourself. I’ve recalibrated worse with less.” He stepped closer, the scent of machine oil and sweat cutting through the Duke’s lingering cologne. “Relax, Gold. We’ve got three days.” Another nudge. “And I know how to reinforce things.”

Grant stared at Tom’s oil-smudged forearms where the sleeves had been rolled past his elbows, then at the Drones - currently engaged in what could charitably be called an orgy of mechanical dysfunction. His cravat felt like a noose.

“Right,” Tom said suddenly, snapping Drone Three’s chest panel shut with a metallic click. “They’re not fencing automata. They’re wrestling automata.” His grin was all teeth. “The Duke wants a show? We’ll give him a goddamn circus.”

Grant stared. “You can’t be serious.”

“Dead serious. Reprogram the hydraulics for grappling maneuvers - modified suplex algorithms, armlock protocols.” He snatched a wrench from the floor and twirled it. “Ever seen a rubber man put a duke in a chokehold?”

“Wrestling automata?” Grant’s voice cracked. “We’re already facing transportation to Australia for fencing malfunctions, and you want to -”

“- innovate,” Tom finished, peeling off his sweat-stuck shirt with a single shrug that sent buttons pinging against the Drones’ rubber hides. The workshop’s gaslight caught the sheen of hydraulic fluid glazing his collarbones. “Trust me, Gold. His Grace’ll pay triple for something that can pin him.”

Grant pointed the wrench at Tom like a prosecutor’s exhibit. “This is deranged.”

Tom laughed - a sound like a steam engine misfiring - and stepped closer, the heat of him radiating through Grant’s waistcoat. “Gold, the man just watched that one” - he jerked his chin toward Drone Number Four, now attempting to strangle itself with its own detached foot - “try to suck its own knee and called it innovative.” He stepped closer still. “Face it. We’re past civilized.”

They worked through the night. Tom upside-down in an abdominal cavity, Grant wrestling with pelvic servos, Drone Number One smoldering cheerfully in the corner while Archibald demonstrated wrestling holds on Vasily using a detached Drone arm as a prop.

At some point past midnight, the gaslight flickered wildly as Drone Number Six seized Tom’s ankle and yanked him bodily out of Drone Number Seven’s torso. Tom hit the floorboards with a grunt, skidding backward through a puddle of hydraulic fluid until his shoulders collided with Grant’s knees.

“Christ,” Tom wheezed, blinking up at Grant from between his own grease-streaked thighs. “You could’ve caught me.”

Grant’s fingers spasmed around the spanner he hadn’t thrown. “I detest you,” he lied, watching Tom’s throat work as he swallowed - the rubber fingerprints from Drone Number Four’s chokehold now purpling like a lover’s stubble burn.

Tom held his gaze for a beat too long. Then he grinned and rolled onto his knees, hauling himself upright using Grant’s thighs for leverage - his palms leaving twin grease prints that burned through the wool like branding irons.

“Lesson four,” he rasped, snatching a wrench from the floor. “Always break the fall.”

“I didn’t -”

“I know.” Tom’s voice was quieter than it had any right to be, given everything. He pressed Grant’s palm against a Drone’s rubberized tendons with the same care he’d used earlier on Grant’s thumb. “Pneumatic resistance,” he murmured. “Beautiful engineering.” His thumb traced a valve along the forearm - a gesture that shouldn’t have made Grant’s breath hitch. “See?”

Grant saw.

The Duke’s engraved riding crop lay abandoned in a puddle of lubricant, its silver tip gleaming beneath the flickering gaslight like a dare. Grant picked it up. It was still warm from Tom’s grip.

“Your turn,” Tom said, nodding toward Drone Number Seven. “Show it who’s boss.”

The riding crop whistled through the air - thwack - landing squarely on Drone Number Seven’s thrusting pelvis. The automaton shuddered, hydraulic hiss escalating into a screech before cutting off abruptly. One blessed second of silence. Then Drone Number Seven’s knee piston fired backward like a startled mule, kicking Tom squarely in the arse.

Grant’s horrified gasp was drowned out by Tom’s laughter as he skidded across the grease-slick floorboards, colliding with Drone Number Five in a tangle of limbs and loose tubing. “That’s more like it!” Tom wheezed, extracting himself with a pop of dislodged connectors. “Now you’re speaking its language.”

Grant stared at the riding crop in his hand - now slightly bent. “I broke it.”

PART THREE

(AI story)

The workshop door burst open with the force of a cannonball, admitting a gust of coal-scented wind and the Duke of Pummel himself - a man whose imposing stature suggested he’d been fathered by a wardrobe and mothered by a draft horse. His riding crop tapped against thigh-high boots that had never known mud, only the polished floors of scandalous drawing rooms. “Gold!” he bellowed, nostrils flaring as he surveyed the chaos. “Where are my fencers?”

Drone Number Three chose that moment to lurch sideways, its arm swinging in a wide arc that sent a teacup flying straight for the Duke’s forehead. Grant lunged - too late. The cup connected with a plink worthy of a music hall punchline. Silence. Then, astonishingly, the Duke laughed - a deep, reverberating sound that shook the gaslights. “By Jove, they dohave spirit!” He seized the twitching Drone by its rubberized shoulders, shaking it like a terrier with a rat. “This one’s got the thrust of a true swordsman!”

Tom’s grip on Grant’s elbow was the only thing keeping him upright. “Steady,” he murmured, though his own shoulders shook. “He’s pleased.”

“Your Grace,” Grant began, extricating himself from Tom’s hold with what he hoped looked like dignity, “the Drones are still undergoing final calibrations.” Drone Number Three’s pelvis piston emitted a sound like a steam kettle at the moment of climax. The Duke’s eyebrows climbed toward his hairline.

Tom wedged his boot against the Drone’s thigh to halt its convulsions. “Specialized lubrication resistance testing. For… friction mitigation.” His grin was a reckless, grease-smudged thing.

The Duke stroked his chin, eyes alight with unholy interest. “Fascinating.” He circled the Drone like a butcher sizing up a prize hog, pausing to flick its flexing pectoral plate with a gloved finger. “The texture is remarkably… lifelike.”

Archibald materialized at the Duke’s elbow, smelling of brandy and bad decisions. “Your Grace! Observe the articulation!” He wrenched the Drone’s arm upward - only for the limb to detach at the shoulder with a wet pop, dangling by a single copper tendon. Vasily erupted into applause, shouting something about “flexibility” and “my niece’s wedding night.”

The Duke caught the dangling arm mid-swing, his grip tightening around the Drone’s rubber wrist in a manner that made Grant’s stomach lurch. “Remarkable tensile strength,” the Duke mused, giving the limb an experimental tug. “Like a well-made… riding crop.” His gaze flicked to Grant, heavy with implication.

Tom coughed into his fist - suspiciously close to laughter - and nudged Grant’s boot. “Tell him about the reinforced joints,” he muttered, lips twitching.

Grant’s cravat felt like a noose. “Yes. Reinforced. With -” Drone Number Four toppled sideways, its hip piston emitting a wheeze like a consumptive accordion. “- springs.”

The Duke’s smile widened as he released the Drone’s arm, letting it snap back into place with a wet slap. “Marvelous.” He stepped closer, cologne and horse sweat mingling with the workshop’s odor of hot rubber and shame. “Though I must confess, Gold -” His riding crop tapped Grant’s shoulder, then drifted to trace the seam of his waistcoat. “- I expected more thrust from your creations.”

Grant’s pulse hammered as the Duke’s riding crop lingered just above his belt buckle. Behind them, Drone Number Two emitted a guttural hiss and began inching toward a stack of packing crates with single-minded determination. Tom coughed again - louder - and kicked a wrench across the floor. The metallic clatter startled the Duke into stepping back.

“Your Grace,” Grant choked out, “what my brother failed to mention is that these are prototypes. The final models will have -” Drone Number Three’s knee joint exploded with the force of a penny pistol, showering them all with tiny brass gears. “- fewer projectiles.”

The Duke plucked a cog from his lapel and rolled it between his fingers. “Delightful.” His gaze slid past Grant to where Tom knelt beside the spasming Drone, shirt clinging to his shoulders with sweat. “And who is this strapping fellow?”

Tom stood slowly, wiping his hands on a rag that merely redistributed the grease. “Bailey, Your Grace. Steam systems specialist.” His grin was all teeth. “I make things move.”

The Duke’s riding crop twitched like a cat’s tail spotting prey. “Do you now,” he purred, stepping so close that the toe of his boot nudged Tom’s grease-stained laces. Grant’s fingers clenched around the wrench in his hand hard enough to leave crescent marks in his palm.

Tom, the absolute madman, just grinned wider. “Aye, though currently I’m more concerned with keeping these beauties from exploding mid-thrust.” He nudged Drone Number Three’s thigh with his boot, sending it into convulsions that slapped its own faceplate with a sound like a wet fish hitting a tin roof.

The Duke’s laughter boomed through the warehouse, shaking dust from the rafters. “Capital! A man who speaks his mind.” His gaze lingered on Tom’s oil-streaked forearms a beat too long before turning back to Grant. “Gold, your mechanic’s directness is refreshing. When will they be fully operational?”

Grant opened his mouth - but Archibald, the human equivalent of a lit fuse in a fireworks factory, shouldered past with a dramatic flourish. “Your Grace! Observe the latest refinement!” He seized Drone Number Four by the hips and yanked - sending its entire lower half into a rhythmic piston-driven shimmy that made the Duke’s eyebrows vanish into his hairline.

Tom’s boot lashed out and kicked Drone Number Four’s knee release valve. The automaton’s legs folded instantly, its thrusting pelvis now wobbling at crotch-level with the Duke, who looked equal parts horrified and fascinated.

“Ah,” Grant said, stepping between them. “Safety override. Prevents over-exertion.” His voice cracked on the last word as Drone Number Two began dry-humping the Duke’s discarded overcoat with the enthusiasm of a terrier at a lamppost.

Tom grinned like a man who’d just won a bet with the devil, snatched a wrench from his belt, and jammed it into Drone Number Two’s hip joint. The automaton shuddered, emitted a sound like a deflating accordion, and finally stilled - though its grip on the overcoat remained disturbingly possessive.

The Duke exhaled through his nose. “Gold,” he said slowly, “I expected precision. Elegance.” His riding crop gestured at Drone Number Three, now attempting to lick its own elbow with a piston-driven tongue. “Not this… carnival of depravity.”

Grant’s mind raced. Tom, damn him, seemed to be enjoying the spectacle, leaning against the workbench with arms crossed, shirt gaping at the collar where a button had given up the ghost.

“Your Grace,” Grant began, stepping forward just as Drone Number Four’s pelvis piston gave an ominous wheeze, “what my brother failed to demonstrate is the dueling algorithm.” He snatched a rapier from the wall - purely ornamental, its blade dull as Archibald’s wits - and thrust it into the nearest Drone’s limp grip. The automaton’s fingers spasmed closed. “Observe the riposte!”

The Drone lurched sideways, swinging the rapier in a wide arc that sent Vasily diving behind a crate. The blade embedded itself in a support beam with a thunk, vibrating like a struck tuning fork. The Duke’s nostrils flared. “That was the single worst fencing form I’ve ever witnessed.” His riding crop twitched toward the Drone’s thrusting pelvis. “Though the footwork is… enthusiastic.”

Tom coughed - a sound suspiciously like “hydraulics” - and sauntered over to the impaled rapier. With a wrench and a well-placed kick, he freed the blade and spun it in a passable moulinet. “Needs recalibration,” he said, tossing the rapier to Grant, who fumbled it like a debutante handed a live eel. “The wrist articulation’s too stiff.” His smirk lingered on the last word.

The rapier clattered to the floor between them. Grant stared at it, then at Tom’s grease-smeared grin, then at the Duke - whose riding crop was now tapping an impatient rhythm against his own thigh in a way that suggested imminent violence.

Tom nudged the rapier with his boot. “Bit of a limp wrist, eh?” he murmured, just loud enough for Grant to hear. His eyes flicked downward - deliberately, damn him - to where Grant’s fingers were white-knuckled around the wrench.

The Duke stepped over the twitching Drone at his feet. “Gold, I came for fencing automata, not a troupe of epileptic street performers.” His riding crop tapped Grant’s sternum, then slid upward to tilt his chin. “Unless you’d care to demonstratetheir… other functionalities?”

Grant’s throat clicked dryly. He could smell the Duke’s cologne - cloying vetiver undercut by something musky and distinctly equine. Tom’s boot scraped against the floorboards as he shifted closer, his shoulder pressing against Grant’s in silent solidarity.

“Your Grace,” Tom interjected smoothly, plucking the rapier from the floor with a mechanic’s grace, “what Mr. Gold’s too polite to say is that these prototypes were designed for rough handling.” He spun the blade in a lazy arc, steel flashing dangerously close to the Duke’s sleeve. “See how the wrist joint resists?” He twisted his own wrist sharply - the rapier’s tip whipping past the Duke’s cravat with a whisper of parted air.

The Duke blinked first. His crop withdrew from Grant’s throat with the reluctance of a child surrendering a stolen sweet. “You’ve a flair for demonstration, Bailey.”

Grant snatched the bottle of something amber from Archibald’s hands before he could waggle it further. “What my brother means,” he ground out, wiping his sleeve with a handkerchief that had seen better days, “is that our proprietary pneumatic oil prevents overheating in the -” Drone Number Four emitted a high-pitched whine from its pelvis region, followed by a spurt of steam that misted the Duke’s boots. “- valves.”

The Duke’s gaze slid to Tom, who was now straddling Drone Number Three’s back to access its shuddering shoulder assembly. The mechanic’s shirt had ridden up entirely, revealing sun-browned skin and the waistband of his trousers clinging precariously to his hips. “Though I find the manual adjustments more… compelling.”

Grant’s teeth ached from clenching. He stepped forward - directly into the path of the Duke’s crop - just as Tom arched his back to reach a stubborn gear. The mechanic’s spine curved like a drawn bowstring, muscles shifting under sweat-slick skin as he twisted -

Drone Number Three’s shoulder piston released with a sound like a cork leaving a champagne bottle. The force sent Tom tumbling backward - straight into Grant’s arms.

Tom’s weight hit Grant chest-first, knocking the air from his lungs. For one suspended second, Grant registered the heat of Tom’s back against his forearms, the damp press of his shirt clinging between Grant’s fingers - then the Duke’s riding crop tapped his shoulder like a bailiff calling order in a bawdy house.

“Charming,” the Duke murmured, his gaze lingering on where Grant’s thumbs had instinctively dug into the hollows of Tom’s hips. “Though I’d expect firmer grips from a man of your… technical expertise.”

PART TWO

(AI story)

“Knees, eh?” Tom tapped the schematic with his grease-streaked finger. “That’s rich, coming from the man who just spent three minutes staring at Drone Number Four’s central piston assembly like it’d personally offended his mother.” He leaned in, close enough that Grant could smell the machine oil and cheap shaving soap clinging to his neck. “Unless you’d prefer we focus on other hydraulic systems, Mr. Gold?”

Grant’s ears burned. “The Duke expects functional fencing automata, not - not -”

“Not what?” Tom’s grin was wicked as he nudged a lever on the Drone’s inner workings. The machine emitted a low, rhythmic hiss, its hips jerking forward in a motion that would have been scandalous even in a Soho brothel. “Seems perfectly functional to me.”

A loud thunk interrupted them as Drone Number Two spontaneously ejected its own elbow joint across the room, narrowly missing the Hungarian investor’s forehead. The man - who introduced himself as “Vasily, but you may call me Uncle” - merely chuckled and patted the Drone’s shoulder like it had performed a clever party trick. “Ah! Spasibo! Very spirited! Like my third wife during -”

Grant’s grip on the schematic tightened until the paper crumpled.

They had twelve hours and approximately zero functional automata. Tom spent the first three of them elbow-deep in the Drone’s thoracic cavity, rerouting tubes with the casual brutality of a back-alley surgeon.

“Hold this open for me?” he asked, nodding toward the access panel. Grant’s fingers brushed Tom’s as he obliged, the contact sending a jolt up his arm that had nothing to do with static electricity. Tom’s arm disappeared into the Drone’s interior up to the bicep, his face tightening in concentration. “Bloody hell - it’s like fishing through a pudding for a - ah!” The Drone shuddered violently, its hip piston emitting a sound Grant could only describe as lewd.

Tom’s forearm emerged with a wet pop, his fingers wrapped around a length of tubing that had no business being that shape. “Found your problem,” he announced. The tubing - thick, ribbed, suspiciously tapered - twitched in his grip like a landed eel. Grant’s throat went dry. Archibald’s idea of “anatomical verisimilitude” had clearly extended beyond the Drones’ external features.

“We are ruined,” Grant said.

“Not yet we’re not.” Tom tossed the dubious tubing over his shoulder, where it landed with a squelch. “We’ll need to re-plumb the entire hip assembly. Which means -”

“- someone has to get inside the torso cavity,” Grant finished grimly. The thought of reaching into that warm, rubbery darkness sent an entirely inappropriate shiver down his spine. Tom, damn him, noticed.

His grin was a slow, wicked thing as he leaned against the Drone’s thigh, shoulder brushing Grant’s in the cramped workspace. “After you, Mr. Gold,” he murmured, holding out the screwdriver like a surgeon offering a scalpel. “Unless you’d rather I handled the… delicate work?”

Grant snatched the tool - his fingers brushing Tom’s, damn the man’s infuriating casualness - and wedged it under the Drone’s chest plate. The rubber gave way with a sound like a wet kiss, revealing a tangle of copper veins and a mainspring that pulsed rhythmically in the dim gaslight. Something deep in the mechanism thrummed, vibrating up Grant’s arm in a way that made his teeth ache.

Tom’s breath hitched beside him. “Christ,” he muttered, peering into the cavity. “Your brother didn’t skimp on the details, did he?”

Grant followed his gaze and froze. The Drone’s internal framework was a masterclass in indecency: pistons arranged in pairs, pulsing in tandem like - no, absolutely not, don’t even think it. He swallowed hard. “We’ll need to recalibrate the -” His voice cracked as the mainspring gave a particularly violent shudder, sending a ripple through the rubber casing that traveled disturbingly southward.

“We’d have better luck teaching a chandelier to waltz,” Grant muttered.

Tom leaned in, his breath warm against Grant’s ear. “Dunno about that,” he murmured, tapping a valve with deliberate precision. The Drone responded with a series of jerky thrusts that sent its own elbow joint flying across the room - straight into Vasily’s waiting hands. The Hungarian bellowed with delight and began demonstrating what Grant prayed was an obscure folk dance, using the detached limb as a partner.

“Focus, Bailey,” Grant hissed, though his own attention kept snagging on the way Tom’s lower lip caught between his teeth when he concentrated.

From across the warehouse, Archibald’s voice carried over the din. “Gentlemen, observe!” With a flourish, he positioned Drone Number Two atop a wooden crate, its legs splayed in a manner that suggested either advanced fencing posture or an invitation. “The Piston Parry!” He tapped the Drone’s lower back with a ruler, and the automaton’s hips jerked forward in a thrust so vigorous it nearly toppled the crate. Vasily applauded with the enthusiasm of a man who’d long since abandoned shame.

(Extended AI story)

PART ONE

The Duke of Pummel’s visiting card sat on Grant Gold’s desk like a bad omen, its gold-edged corners digging into the woodgrain. Not the thickness of the cardstock that unsettled him - Grant had handled enough aristocratic correspondence to know quality - but the faint, greasy fingerprint smudged across the engraved letters. The sort left by a man who ate cold cuts with his hands at formal dinners.

Across the warehouse, Grant’s brother Archibald was demonstrating the Drones’ “combat readiness” to their new Hungarian investor by having two of them repeatedly slap each other’s rubber thighs in a rhythm that suggested Archibald had never actually witnessed fencing, but had perhaps once overheard someone describe it while drunk. The resulting thwap-thwap-thwap echoed off the iron support beams like a deranged metronome.

Grant pinched the bridge of his nose. The Drones had been a perfectly respectable venture six months ago - pneumatic valets capable of polishing boots or holding ladders steady. Then Archibald went to Brighton, came back with a sunburn and the phrase “anatomical verisimilitude” slurring off his tongue, and suddenly their workshop smelled permanently of warm rubber and poor decisions.

Mechanic Tom Bailey chose that moment to emerge from beneath Drone Number Three, wiping his hands on a rag that had long since given up any pretense of cleanliness. His forearms glistened with sweat and machine oil, the latter of which had also found its way into his brown sideburns in a way that suggested personal grooming was an afterthought at best. “The knee pistons keep seizing,” Tom announced, as Drone Number Three chose that exact moment to collapse forward onto its face with a sound like a wet mattress hitting pavement.

Grant watched the faceplate smoosh against the warehouse floor with a sucking noise that would haunt his dreams. Archibald, ever the showman, clapped his hands and declared, “You see? Absolutely lifelike collapse! The Duke will insist on a demonstration of that feature.” The Hungarian investor - a man whose beard seemed to be attempting escape from his own face - nodded solemnly and muttered something about “authentic exhaustion postures.”

Tom sighed and crouched beside the fallen Drone, his trousers straining in a manner that was decidedly unhelpful to Grant’s concentration. “We’ve got twelve hours,” Tom said, probing the Drone’s hip joint with a screwdriver. “Either we re-route the pneumatic feeds or we teach ’em to fall more gracefully. Maybe onto something soft.” His eyes flicked to Grant, then quickly away. “A pile of laundry, perhaps.”

Grant swallowed hard. There had been an Incident three weeks prior involving an overloaded linen closet and Tom bending over to retrieve a dropped spanner. Grant still woke in a cold sweat remembering the way Tom’s suspenders had - No. Focus. He cleared his throat. “We need them to parry, not impersonate a drunken chorus line.” He marched to the workbench, grabbed a schematic, and promptly stabbed himself in the thumb with a compass point. “Blast.”

Tom was beside him in an instant, calloused fingers wrapping around Grant’s wrist. “Always the dramatic ones, you Gold brothers,” he murmured, his breath warm against Grant’s knuckles. The workshop’s single gas lamp flickered, casting shadows that made Tom’s smirk look positively indecent. Grant’s pulse hammered in his throat - whether from the compass wound or Tom’s thumb now stroking his palm, he couldn’t say.

The Hungarian investor chose that moment to bellow something about “patriotic stiffness” while slapping Drone Number Two’s backside with a rolled-up blueprint. The resulting thwonk echoed through the warehouse like a dinner gong summoning the damned.

“Right.” Tom released Grant’s hand, leaving a smudge of oil across his lifeline. “Let’s see what’s really jammed in there.” He flipped open the nearest Drone’s access panel, revealing a tangle of copper tubing and - Christ - a suspiciously tapered piston rod. Grant choked on his own spit. Archibald had clearly taken “anatomical verisimilitude” to heart.

Tom whistled low. “Your brother wasn’t kidding about the… engineering.” His smirk widened as he traced a finger along a valve that had no business being that shape. “Duke’s gonna need a lot of lanolin.”

A Story of Mechanical Innovation

✦ ✦ ✦

The Duke of Pummel's visiting card sat on Grant Gold's desk like a summons to a crime. It wasn't the quality of the cardstock - a fine cream, heavily laid - that unsettled him, but the single, greasy fingerprint smeared across the engraved letters. The sort of mark left by a man who handled every object with the same blunt, overwhelming enthusiasm.

Across the warehouse, Grant's brother Archibald was demonstrating the Drones' combat readiness to their Hungarian investor by having two of them repeatedly slap each other's rubber thighs. The resulting thwap-thwap-thwap echoed off the iron beams like a deranged metronome keeping time for a very specific kind of madness.

Grant pinched the bridge of his nose. The Drones had been a perfectly respectable venture six months ago - pneumatic valets capable of polishing boots or holding ladders steady. Then Archibald went to Brighton, returned sunburned and slurring the phrase "anatomical verisimilitude," and suddenly their workshop smelled permanently of warm rubber and poor decisions.

✦ ✦ ✦

Mechanic Tom Bailey chose that moment to emerge from beneath Drone Number Three, wiping his hands on a rag that had long since surrendered to a life of grease. His forearms glistened with machine oil in a way that Grant found profoundly distracting to his work. "The knee pistons keep seizing," Tom announced, just as Drone Number Three collapsed forward with a sound like a wet mattress hitting pavement.

Archibald clapped. "You see? Absolutely lifelike collapse! The Duke will insist on a demonstration of that feature."

Tom crouched beside the fallen Drone, his trousers pulling taut across his thighs in a manner that Grant pointedly did not observe. "We've got twelve hours. Either we re-route the pneumatic feeds or we teach 'em to fall more gracefully. Maybe onto something soft." His eyes flicked to Grant, then quickly away. "A pile of laundry, perhaps."

Grant swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.

✦ ✦ ✦

There had been an Incident three weeks prior involving an overloaded linen closet and Tom bending over to retrieve a dropped spanner. Grant still woke in a cold sweat remembering the geometric tension of Tom's suspenders - No. Focus.

He marched to the workbench, grabbed a schematic, and promptly stabbed himself in the thumb with a compass point. "Blast."

Tom was beside him in an instant, calloused fingers wrapping around Grant's wrist to inspect the damage. "Always the dramatic ones, you Gold brothers," he murmured, his breath a warm ghost against Grant's knuckles. The single gas lamp flickered, casting shadows that made Tom's smirk look positively indecent.

Grant's pulse hammered - a frantic, unregulated rhythm. Whether from the compass wound or Tom's thumb now stroking his palm, he couldn't be certain.

✦ ✦ ✦

"Right." Tom released Grant's hand, leaving a dark smudge of oil across his lifeline. "Let's see what's really jammed in there." He flipped open the nearest Drone's access panel, revealing a complex of copper tubing and - Christ - a suspiciously tapered piston rod, polished to a high sheen. Grant choked on his own spit. Archibald had clearly taken "anatomical verisimilitude" as a personal challenge.

Tom whistled low. "Your brother wasn't kidding about the... engineering." He traced a finger along a valve that had no business being that shape. "The Duke's gonna need a lot of lanolin for this sort of machinery."

Grant snatched the schematic. "Focus on the knees, Bailey."

Tom's smirk deepened. "Knees, eh? Rich, coming from the man who just spent three full minutes staring at Drone Number Four's central piston assembly." He leaned in close enough that Grant could smell the sharp, clean scent of machine oil and the warmer, living scent of Tom's skin. "Unless you'd prefer we focus on other hydraulic systems, Mr. Gold?"

Grant's ears burned. "The Duke expects functional fencing automata, not - not - "

"Not what?" Tom nudged a lever. The machine emitted a low, rhythmic hiss, its hips jerking forward in a smooth, powerful motion that would have been scandalous even in a Soho brothel. "Seems perfectly functional to me."

✦ ✦ ✦

The Duke of Pummel arrived like a weather event - a man whose imposing stature suggested he'd been fathered by a wardrobe and raised on a diet of red meat. His riding crop tapped against thigh-high boots that had never known mud, only the polished floors of scandalous drawing rooms. "Gold!" he bellowed. "Where are my fencers?"

Drone Number Three lurched sideways, its arm swinging in an arc that sent Archibald's tea flying straight for the Duke's forehead. The cup connected with a plink worthy of a music hall punchline. Silence. Then - astonishingly - the Duke laughed, deep and reverberating. "By Jove, they have spirit! This one's got the thrust of a true swordsman!"

Tom's grip on Grant's elbow was the only thing keeping him upright. "Steady," he murmured, though his own shoulders shook with suppressed laughter. "He's pleased."

"Your Grace," Grant began, "the Drones are still undergoing final calibrations - " Drone Number Three's pelvis piston emitted a sound like a steam kettle at the moment of climax. The Duke's eyebrows climbed toward his hairline.

Tom, ever the opportunist, wedged his boot against the Drone's thigh to halt its convulsions. "Specialized lubrication resistance testing," he declared. "For friction mitigation under duress." His grin was a reckless, grease-smudged thing.

The Duke stroked his chin, eyes alight with unholy interest. "Fascinating." He circled the Drone like a butcher sizing up a prize hog, pausing to flick its flexing pectoral plate. "The texture is remarkably... lifelike."

✦ ✦ ✦

The Duke stepped closer, the scent of expensive cologne mingling with the workshop's odor of hot rubber and shame. "I must confess, Gold - " His riding crop tapped Grant's shoulder, then drifted downward to trace the seam of his waistcoat. "I expected more... vigorous thrust from your creations."

Grant's pulse hammered against his collar. Tom coughed - loudly - and kicked a wrench across the floor. The metallic clatter startled the Duke into stepping back, his crop finally withdrawing.

"What my brother failed to mention," Grant choked out, "is that these are prototypes. The final models will have - " Drone Number Three's knee joint exploded with the force of a penny pistol, showering them all with tiny brass gears. " - fewer spontaneous discharges."

The Duke plucked a cog from his lapel and rolled it between his fingers. "Delightful." His gaze slid past Grant to where Tom knelt beside the spasming Drone, his shirt clinging to the sweat on his shoulders. "And who is this strapping fellow?"

Tom stood slowly, wiping his hands. "Bailey, Your Grace. Steam systems specialist." His grin was all teeth. "I specialize in making things move with power and precision."

The Duke's riding crop twitched like a cat's tail spotting prey. "Do you now," he purred. Grant's fingers clenched around the wrench in his hand - hard enough to leave crescent marks in his palm.

Tom, the absolute madman, just grinned wider. "Aye, though currently I'm more concerned with keeping these beauties from a catastrophic failure mid-thrust." He nudged Drone Number Three's thigh with his boot, sending it into convulsions that slapped its own faceplate with a sound like a wet fish hitting tin.

✦ ✦ ✦

"Gold," the Duke said at last. "Twelve units. Delivered by week's end." His riding crop pointed at Grant's throat. "And you'll personally oversee the final quality control. A thorough... inspection."

Tom, still wrestling Drone Number Three's spinal assembly into submission, leaned down to Grant's ear. "Say yes before he asks for a live demonstration of your inspection technique." His calloused thumb brushed Grant's wrist - a touch that lingered just long enough to short-circuit Grant's higher reasoning.

"Yes," Grant croaked. "Twelve units, operational by Friday, with revised programming."

The Duke's smile widened. "Splendid. And if they perform half as well as your mechanic..." His gaze slid to Tom, who was currently grunting as he forced a recalcitrant piston into its housing. "I'll consider it a sound investment in British engineering."

"Bailey," the Duke added, "you'll attend the delivery. Ensure the Drones are properly... mounted."

Tom’s grin spread like a slow oil slick. "Wouldn't trust anyone else to handle the mounting, Your Grace." His boot nudged the automaton's piston into stillness. "Though I'd recommend supervising the installation yourself  -  these beauties have a habit of over-penetrating their sockets if you don't guide them in firmly."

Grant choked on his own spit. The Duke's riding crop twitched like a divining rod pointing toward sin.

✦ ✦ ✦

After the Duke's departure, Grant rounded on Tom. "Twelve units. By Friday." His voice was a strained wire. "Were you trying to get us transported to Australia?"

Tom pried the Drone's hand free from his thigh with a sound like a boot pulling from thick mud. "Nah. Just figured His Grace would appreciate something with more spirit than Archibald's original design." He grinned, nudging the detached leg with his boot. "Though we might want to reinforce the hip sockets. They take a real pounding."

Archibald surfaced from the money chest, banknotes clinging to his waistcoat like barnacles. "Capital!" He flung a soggy note at Tom's chest, where it adhered like a leech. "Sporting gentlemen adore submission holds! Why, at Cambridge I once - "

" - spent a term in traction," Grant snapped.

Tom stepped closer, the heat of him radiating through Grant's waistcoat. "Relax, Gold. We've got three days." He nudged Grant's boot with his own, leaving a dark, wet smudge of hydraulic fluid on the polished leather. "And I know how to reinforce things."

✦ ✦ ✦

Three days later, they had twelve units ready.

They were not, precisely, fencing automata.

The Duke bought them anyway. He paid triple.

✦ ✦ ✦

The warehouse smelled of champagne, burnt rubber, and something that might charitably be called triumph. Tom leaned against the workbench, shirt untucked, grinning at Grant across the debris field of their success. "Phase Two," he announced, "involves the Duke's drawing room and approximately forty feet of reinforced rubber tubing."

Grant looked at the oil smudge on his own wrist - Tom's thumbprint, worn into his lifeline like a signature. "We are not," he said carefully, "doing anything else with the Duke's... sockets."

Tom's grin widened. He crossed the floor - slow, deliberate - and stopped close enough that Grant could smell machine oil and shaving soap and something warm and alive underneath. His thumb found Grant's wrist. Pressed. Three times, a slow, deliberate pulse.

Play along.

"Gold," Tom murmured, his voice low and rough, "I wasn't talking about the Duke's drawing room."

The workshop's last gas lamp flickered. Somewhere, Archibald toasted their success with a champagne flute. A Drone's piston sighed with a final, release of pressure.

Grant's hand shot out and closed around Tom's lapel - greasy, ruined, entirely irreplaceable. "Phase Two," he said, his voice firm, "involves no Drones whatsoever."

Tom's laugh was warm and low and nothing like machinery at all. He leaned in, his lips brushing Grant's ear. "Good," he whispered. "My workshop is better equipped for delicate adjustments anyway."

✦ ✦ ✦

The Golden Army adapts to every era without losing its focus.

Stay curious. Stay connected. Stay Gold.

“Do you want to join? Contact our recruiters: @alton-gold77 or @polo-drone-125