12
On entering the library, Milo had been expecting to find plans of golems like those on the walls leading into the Workshop.
Giant constructs of death with massive sawblades for hands and spewing flame through their faces.
Such a machine would make dungeons easy, he thought.
Unfortunately, it quickly became clear that such machines were not the kinds of blueprints the Workshop kept lying around.
They were, Fed stated with its usual cold aplomb, something which required access to The Prime.
“Again the Prime,” Milo muttered, sifting through a stack of scrolls. “Always The Prime.”
He wasn’t initially sure what he was after. The idea circling his head wasn’t exactly very clear just yet. Mostly because it depended on what he could build. And how closely he could get it to resemble a human.
After a few hours, he finally settled on two sets of blueprints.
One was for a large humanoid which looked like it could really tank enemies. It was thick with plate armor and had an array of built-in weapons which would keep it going. Nothing like the sawblades or flamethrowers he’d seen, but it looked formidable enough for an Academy dungeon.
The other was a smaller humanoid which was clearly designed for scouting.
Or, judging by the long blades hidden in its forearms, assassination.
Carefully, he laid out the plans and studied them both.
He was unsure which one to start on first.
Both looked ridiculously complex. More so than some of the more intricate clocks he’d built for Sunderland. But if the Workshop had the parts already, then he told himself it wasn’t that much more difficult.
He just had to be sure to follow the plan.
“Fed, do we have all the components for these plans?”
Affirmative, Milo.
“They both use Golemskin,” he said. “Do we have enough of that?”
Quantity is sufficient for three constructs.
“And more needs access to The Prime.”
Affirmative, Milo.
He squinted at the wall. “And there’s nothing in these plans which requires access to The Prime right now? I can build these without The Prime? Right now?”
Affirmative, Milo.
He scooped up the assassin plan first.
For two reasons. One, if the build was successful, he’d need to infiltrate the Academy records system. That wasn’t something he could do himself. And while Click was a good observer and mildly efficient thief, it wasn’t capable of complex tasks such as filing forms.
This construct, however, seemed built for the purpose.
He wondered what kind of society the dwarves had where spy and assassin golems were so normal that they weren’t restricted behind the Prime.
They must have been a stranger culture than anyone suspected, he thought.
Heading to his workbench, he spread out the plan again and considered where to start.
The Frame seemed the obvious choice.
Then the Drive Train.
“Alright,” he said, pushing some confidence into his voice. “Fed, let’s start with this one. Can you assemble all components please? I want to lay them out so I know what I’m doing.”
Affirmative, Milo. All Components for construct 11-B are being gathered.
He heard a distant clank and whir as arms started reaching down from the ceiling in the warehouse. Retrieving components.
He thought about going and watching the process, but instead chose to study the blueprint. The insane level of detail in it was almost overwhelming.
There was a dart-mechanism which would wrap around the construct’s forearm which looked like it contained hundreds of moving parts.
It was a lot, he thought. Especially for one person.
But every time he thought of trying to recruit someone else, such as his old master or one of the apprentices he’d known, he felt uncomfortable. He realized he didn’t want to share the Workshop with anyone just yet.
It wasn’t just a matter of trust.
It was also the fact that he’d never felt very comfortable around people. He hadn’t understood the politics of friendships. While he’d occasionally laughed with the other apprentices, he’d always felt like he was on the edge of their circle.
Included only because he was Master Sunderland’s favorite.
Everyone was polite.
But if friendships were supposed to have emotional connections, then he hadn’t felt them.
Maybe, he thought as he watched a trolley roll along rails into the room, there was something wrong with him. How could he feel more of a connection to a simple little thing like Click or an emotionless disembodied voice like Fed than for any other living person he’d met?
His lip curled wryly as he remembered the customization screen and the sliders for breasts and other more intimate parts.
It could be that he had more in common with the dwarves than he thought.
Moving to the first trolley, he was surprised to see the contents looked to be for the Machine Frame.
He’d expected them to be haphazardly thrown into the trolley.
But this was very ordered.
He liked it.
Reaching in, he pulled out a long strut. A leg, he presumed. It was almost like a humanoid leg bone in shape. He saw others which looked like ribs. And, surprisingly, there was a dwarven bronze skull.
He picked it out and held it up to peer into the dark sockets of its eyes.
“Fed, do these come in different sizes?”
Affirmative, Milo. Additional shapes and sizes can be customized.
“Maybe I should have customized it first?”
I have selected appropriate sizes to imitate human proportions. Was this Milo’s intention?
He blinked.
This was the first time the Workshop had taken initiative for something.
“Actually, it is,” he said. “Thank you, Fed. That was very considerate.”
You’re welcome, Milo.
It might have been his imagination, but the voice sounded slightly less cold than before.
Slowly, more trolleys arrived. Each was sorted well enough that he was able to start unloading them and sorting them out across the ground in an order he could understand.
His clocker mind couldn’t imagine delving into the trolleys in search of individual components. He wanted them laid out. Even if it ended up taking a large amount of floor space.
It took another few hours to arrange everything, tagging them as he went. Checking against the plan to be sure he had everything. Counting and recounting.
Click returned a few times to spit out Access Memory Crystals and get new ones. Milo patted the little construct each time, which always made it let out a long whirring purr.
He’d sent it back through the Academy to monitor the classes he wasn’t taking.
With the crystals, he’d be able to watch and listen to lessons while assembling his golem. He still wasn’t sure he’d need the lessons. But it didn’t hurt and was giving Click something to do.
Finally, he stood over the components and considered starting.
But the yawn which shuddered through him made him think it would be better to get some rest first. Then he could power through the frame in the morning.
Closing everything down, he headed out of the Workshop, snatching up his broom on the way out.
The climb up the stairs felt dreary and he always felt a sense of regret.
Part of him wanted to just move down into the Workshop. There were a few small apartments in it which were a little bigger than his cubicle. Clearly some of the dwarves working there had lived in the Workshop.
However, he wasn’t sure what that would mean in the longterm.
If someone noticed he wasn’t returning to his cubicle, they might follow him. Or report him as missing. Then he’d have to explain things.
It was better if he just continued pretending to go into the lower halls to clean.
“Milo!” a bright voice snapped out as he entered the dorms.
Turning, he saw the Hall Monitor. She was watching curiously, her finger twirling through her blue hair.
“Hey, Ket.”
“I was wondering when you’d crawl back, kid.” She grinned. “I was beginning to think you got lost!”
“I didn’t get lost.”
“You’re not exploring, are ya?”
“No,” he said. For about the hundredth time. “I’m not exploring.”
“Master Garmstooth left a message for ya, too.” Her grin hadn’t faltered. “He’s wondering why you ain’t been to any of his classes yet. Are you missing classes, kid?”
Milo gave a small shrug. “I might’ve missed one or two.”
“You oughtta be careful about that, kid,” she said. “Some of them teachers get real antsy if you ain’t there. They start complaining. And a complaining mage ain’t a fun thing to have on your ass. They’re like a pimple. Ya see?”
“I see,” he said, trying not to screw up his face in irritation. “But I don’t know what they want from me, Ket. I can’t cast any spells. It’s a waste of time. I might as well just sweep up dust. At least that’s kind of productive, right?”
“Aww, Milo…” She let out a sad sigh. “I wish I could do something for ya, kid. I really do. Maybe just show up now and then so they see your face, okay? Ya got a nice face, ya know.”
“Thanks…” He felt his cheeks flush despite the fact she was much older than him.
“Hey, have ya gone to Mistress Vizingbelle’s classes?
Maybe ya should. She doesn’t just teach spells, ya know.
She teaches survival. And mages ain’t all just using spells.
Some use mana rifles. You ever thought of using one of them?
” She twirled her hair tighter around her finger.
“If ya can shoot one of them real well, it won’t matter if ya can fling a spell or not. ”
Mana rifles?
He remembered seeing the guards carrying them.
“I thought they were restricted,” he said.
“Naw,” she grinned wider, seeing his interest. “That’s just for normies. Mages get to play with all the toys. It’s part of ya training, Milo.”
“Mistress Vizzingbelle’s class, yeah?”
“Yeah! I think you have a class with her tomorrow. I think ya should go to it, Milo. It really might open your eyes.”
He pursed his lips.
Tomorrow he really wanted to finish the skeleton of his first construct.
He could send Click.
But maybe Ket was right, too. If he kept skipping classes, the teachers might start poking their noses in. He didn’t need that.
“Alright,” he said at last. “I’ll do that.”