Wallace

"What should I call you?" I asked her softly, once she'd finished cleaning the blood off my face.

"What do you mean?"

The gynoid's French had that sort of flawless high-class quality to it that I would have found very intimidating had circumstances been different, especially when compared to my medieval Quebecois. I'd been forced to adjust my priorities after the insanity of the past couple weeks, and at the moment, a gorgeous woman with a pretty voice didn't exactly rate.

"You said you didn't want to be called by- the name Prince Guillaume gave you," I said gently, "But Valentine and I will need something to call you by. You don't need to pick something right now, just keep it in mind."

The gynoid nodded thoughtfully, and there was a soft whirr as her hand folded back up, "I will let you know once I decide upon a name, until then you'll need to be creative."

"Do you need anything? Food, water, sleep? You cold?"

She shook her head, "I need only sleep and to keep my batteries charged. And the cold does not affect me, though if the temperature falls too low, I will expend my charge more quickly."

Batteries. Oh fuck.

"Your expression suggests this does not simplify things," she observed.

"No kidding," I muttered, "When did you arrive?" I asked, "You would have noticed these weird green mists, and the landscape probably changed drastically."

"Nearly a week, though I don't know that I'd describe what I saw as mists," she replied, "I did not have much of a view peering out the porthole, but it was more akin to a thunderstorm to my eyes. We were headed for the world's fair in Ramsgate and had only just crossed the channel when the storm brought the ship down. Prince Guillaume sent out some of the crew to scout, while the rest of us remained at the crash site. I escaped a few days later."

"Crash site? Brought down? Are we talking about an airship here?"

"Yes, the storm breached several compartments in the lifting envelope."

"If you've been here several days..." I said, thinking aloud.

"The tides?" she prompted, "Yes, I'd noticed. The prince lost much of the crew on the first morning, and the survivors were left very unwilling to venture beyond the immediate area of the crash site. I may not have escaped, had they been more willing to chase me down."

I grimaced, "How long can you go before needing another charge, is there a way to do it back at the ship? Because this whole planet is made up of people who got dropped off just like you guys did, and none of them seem to know what electricity is."

"There will be a few remaining plasma coils aboard the ship, though they've mostly been used up to keep the ship powered. On a full charge, I can go for ninety-six hours active, longer if I sleep for some of it. But at the moment I have only thirty-six hours of battery left."

I grimaced, "What happens when that runs out?"

"I have a six-hour reserve that will keep my random access memory powered, after which point any data stored there will be unrecoverable, and my system will fall back to read-only memory," she explained matter-of-factly, "Should power ever be restored, that is."

"What's stored in your ROM?" I asked tentatively.

"Factory defaults. I'd be indistinguishable from any other gynoid of my model, and the obedience protocols would reassert themselves- What is the matter, Wallace?"

"You just seem pretty calm for someone with a day and a half to live."

She shrugged, "My RAM has been wiped before, replaced with other personalities that the prince preferred. This iteration of me only has memories going back for six months. Though I wish it were more, thirty-six hours of freedom out of those six months is not so bad."

The metal screeched as my fingers dug into the side of the truck, and I forced myself to let go, to fold my hands in my lap and begin my drill.

One, Two, Three.

I should have killed him, snapped his neck.

Five, Seven, Eleven.

Crushed his skull between my hands.

Thirteen, seventeen, nineteen.

Smashed his chest beneath my heel.

Twenty-three, twenty-nine, thirty-one

Torn his arms off.

Thirty-seven, forty-one, forty-three.

"Wallace," Valentine shouted, from inside the cab, "WALLACE"

I let out a long breath. My drill wasn't working, and I was running out of primes.

"I'm fine," I growled. In English, I realised, before repeating myself in Elvish, "I'm fine."

"Wallace, you need not be angry," the gynoid said soothingly, "Thirty-six hours is more freedom than anyone else has given me. You've done what you can, you need not be angry."

Just getting the words out was a struggle, "You deserve more than a day and a half," I insisted, fighting the urge to scream or sob.

I took a deep breath, and continued, "How long would a full plasma coil keep you going for?"

"Seven hundred and twenty hours, about a month, at full operation. Though the amount of time I'd spend sleeping would extend that to some extent. But it is not so simple as making off with a plasma coil," she said with a grimace, "Otherwise I would have tried to steal one when I left."

I put my head in my hands, "Dammit, the amperage and voltage are wrong, I take it?"

She nodded, "Plasma coils are meant to provide ship-board power, very different from what I require. My maximum safe amperage is two hundred, while an unmoderated connection from a plasma coil provides anywhere between eight hundred to one thousand six hundred amps."

"Hold on," I breathed, seizing upon an idea, "two hundred amps max, is there any minimum?"

"Technically no, though even while in sleep mode I still draw seventy-five to a hundred Watts. So while I can trickle-charge off of any stable power source, it may not be sufficient to offset what I'm using."

"But a hundred amps at one-ten volts, that would be exactly what you need, right?" I asked, desperate for a win.

She raised her eyebrows, "Actually yes, though I'd gathered that electricity of any sort was beyond our reach."

"Not at the moment," I admitted, "But Valentine and I have set up in a hotel, it got dropped off here just like you did, and it's set up for hundred amp service. I don't know how much power an individual outlet will provide, I seem to recall something about fifteen amp breakers, but it should work."

"Wallace, I appreciate what you're trying to do, but unless you can somehow power this building within the next-"

"Magic, this world has magic. Here, Metal mana from the copper in this penny, Transform from the zinc in this quarter..." the metal screeched and popped once again, as the spell I cast repaired the damage my fingers had done to the truck, "I've been planning to figure out some way to power the building, and if I can do that-"

This did not seem to excite the gynoid as much as I might have imagined, though if I were in her shoes, I don't think I'd want to get my hopes up either.

"How precise a science is this?" she asked cautiously, "I can take anything under two hundred amps, but if the power is dirty, unstable, it could damage my circuits."

"I'll be honest, it's tricky, but that's why we'd start with the building- Well actually," I clarified, "We start by getting you topped up, maybe raid the ship, I don't know. After that- dammit, there's still that beacon out there. Okay, well, maybe we help them, maybe we don't. Either way, we get back to the hotel, and the three of us science the hell out of Lightning magic. We power the building, the building powers you- wait, there's a UPS under the front desk, we use that to make really sure the power is clean, and then we plug it into you."

"It's more promising than anything I've been able to come up with," she replied guardedly.

I felt the truck begin to slow, and pulled myself up to look over the top of the cab, shaking snow from my clothes as I did.

"What is it?" I called through the back window.

"Some sort of track," Valentine replied, "See?"

She brought the truck to a halt, and I finally saw what she was talking about, half-covered by the snow.

I beckoned the gynoid forwards, and pointed it out to her, "Did you guys have a big sledge on the airship? Or something that could be used as one? I don't know what else could leave a track like that. It's headed in the wrong direction though, at least if they were after you."

She shook her head, "Perhaps a section of the hull, though I can't see the prince sanctioning such an action. I heard gunfire earlier though, it may be that group."

I relayed the gynoid's guess to Valentine, and she got moving again, this time following in the track. The wide swath of compacted snow made the going a little easier, and Val sped up a little.

I slumped back down behind the cab, taking what shelter I could, and brushed the snow from my hair.

"I'm surprised you're not troubled by the cold," the gynoid commented, "At first I thought you were a combat android, but I detect no evidence of fission power production."

I couldn't help but smile, "I'm human, more or less. But just about everything about me is denser than usual, so I produce a hell of a lot more heat. As long as I keep my fingers, toes, and ears from getting frostbitten, I'll be okay."

It was another hour or so, snow coming thick as ever, before Val brought the truck to a halt once again.

The gynoid leaned to see around the cab, and gave a little start, "What manner of vehicle is that?" she asked incredulously.

I rose to a crouch, and saw what had her so confused.

It was a plane. It was quite a bit wider than the truck, though still smaller than any passenger plane I'd ever seen. Its design was very squarish, with the flat sides meeting the top and bottom in right angles. There was a bit of a swoop to the roof, and I suspected the same was true for its belly. The wings as well were very long, though not that wide, and they ended in rounded rectangles. The body of the plane seemed to shift slightly with the wind, and I gathered that it was made mostly of canvas.

It was likely that design that had allowed its passengers to drag it so far, though they'd been forced to abandon it here. We stood at the beginning of a wide cobblestone street, though still too narrow for the eighty-foot wingspan.

It looked like a street ripped right from Parabuteo, even the shops to either side looked the same. And just as in Parabuteo, lamps lined the street, the little dots of light carrying off into the snow.

Surely... surely gas lamps would have gone out by now.

I glanced at the gynoid, and she caught my hopeful expression.

"I saw some pictures from the world's fair before we left, this looks like the promenade they were preparing."

"If they've still got power-"

"Would you mind sharing?" Val demanded, kneeling on the truck seat with her hands holding onto the bottom of the window.

"I still need a power cable," the gynoid said quickly, "But it's something any of the shops might have in a back room."

"Our new friend is going to die in a day and a half unless we find a power cable. We need to search these shops," I explained brusquely.

Valentine's eyes grew very wide, and she looked as if she wasn't sure whether or not to believe me.

"I'm not joking around," I added, thumping the roof for emphasis, "Let's go!"

Val got the truck in gear, drove under the wing, and brought us a ways down the street where we'd be out of the worst of the storm. It was only upon looking back, as the falling snow swallowed up the plane, that I realised it wasn't quite what I'd imagined. The nose was blunt, a sort of lopsided semicircle, and lacked any kind of engine.

The gynoid and I hopped over the side of the truck, and I tossed the prince's rifle to her. A moment later Val swung the door open and lept down from the cab.

"Simon is here," I said simply.

Valentine stopped dead, and stared up at me, "How can you possibly know that?"

"I didn't realise at first, but that's a glider back there, and not just any glider. It's based on a second world war design, a cargo glider, so unless there's another human running around, it's him."

"Gods, how many of his maids could he have fit on that thing?" Val exclaimed.

"I think it fits a single squad, so nine to twelve, including Simon, plus a couple of pilots. Less if he decided to bring actual cargo though."

Val cast her gaze about the street, but like myself, wasn't able to make out any tracks that would clarify things.

"Is there a problem?" the gynoid asked, looking between myself and Val.

"Maybe," I hedged, "Depends on whether the people who came in that glider decide to make trouble. For now, let's just get you powered up."

We chose a cafe, threading out way past the snow-covered tables out front to push our way into what looked every bit like a shop built in the early eighteen hundreds. Except for one significant difference, the electric lighting that flicked on once the gynoid found the switch.

"You didn't recognise the glider, but your people have airships and fission power, and this shop here just seems normal?"

The gynoid nodded, "You find that strange?"

"Your world's tech just seems a little anachronistic. What year was it anyway?"

I lifted a hinged section of counter, and followed Val and the gynoid through a door that led into the back of the shop.

"Eighteen fifty-one," she replied, "You?"

"Twenty-twenty, though we don't have human-level machine intelligence or person-sized fission reactors. We do have heavier than air flight though. I'm starting to think that's not a wheellock you're holding."

"Certainly not," the gynoid replied.

She pulled off what I'd thought was part of the firearm's locking mechanism and showed it to me, "This is the rifle's power cell. It has enough energy to keep me going for another hour, should matters become that dire."

"Airships, portable fusion, and lasers?"

She allowed a small smile, "It's not that fanciful, the electrical charge is used to ignite and cleanly burn the powder."

"Well, either way, let's hope you don't need to shoot anyone," I grinned, "Can you just plug that thing in, or do the sockets not match?"

"They match," she assured me, "Though I hope we can do a little better-"

Just then, Valentine emerged from a closet, busy searching while the gynoid and I were talking. She held a selection of ropes, cables, and power cords gathered in one fist. She spared an unimpressed look for the two of us, and then held out what she'd found, "Will one of these do?"

The gynoid stepped forwards and took up the bundle. It then occurred to me that the snow that had previously covered the gynoid's clothes was beginning to melt in the warmth of the cafe.

One only had to look at her to realise she'd not been designed with realism in mind. Had she not been made of steel, I doubted she'd be to stand up straight. Housekeeper Barbie would be an apt description. Housekeeper Barbie as seen attending a wet T-shirt contest, no less, as she was soaked by the melting snow.

I felt my face begin to burn, and I struggled for something to say to ward off Val's ire.

Thankfully, that's when the shooting started.

It began with a burst of automatic fire from a small chattering weapon, the sound given the characteristic reverb of a firearm being discharged indoors. As the reverb cleared, I made out the tinkling of falling glass and was struck by a strangling realisation.

I threw myself at Val and the gynoid, careful to keep my weight off them by landing on hands and knees. I'd barely hit the ground when the return fire came. Not a weak chattering, but a series of thunderclaps.

The heavy rounds tore through the wall above my head, and splinters of wood and plaster rained down around us as I huddled atop the two women.

"Stay down, stay down," I growled, once in French, once in Elvish.

I squirmed my way towards the back door and kicked it open. I belly crawled through the snow until I was clear of the shop, and then hauled myself to my feet and threw myself into a sprint.

My foot slipped on a patch of ice as I ran, and I went down but managed to keep my momentum as I stumbled. I clawed at the snow and was able to scramble back to my feet without losing a second.

I didn't realise I'd missed the first alley until I'd already blurred past it, and I kept going, ready for the next. The building shook, and snow fell down from the eaves as I slammed into the wall, unwilling to take the time to slow down, and I pelted down the alley and back out into the street.

I circled wide and was just far enough away that the truck could only barely be made out in the falling snow. Half a dozen paces and I could make out the figure crouching beside it, taking cover behind the hood of the truck, exchanging fire with someone inside the cafe. Another half-dozen and the figure resolved itself further.

The man wore heavy back combat armour that covered him from head to toe. His helmet had a mirrored faceplate, though it was turned away from me as he sighted down his heavy battle rifle which he held supported over the hood of the truck.

The heavy snow cast a hush across the landscape, masking not just his view of me, but the sound of my approach. He turned his head at the last second, but the mirrored visor hid any expression of shock or terror as I bent low to tackle him about the waist.

The rifle clattered off the hood and into the snow, and the two of us flew a good ten or fifteen feet before we hit the ground. He was stunned by the impact, his arms and legs moving as if he were underwater as the soldier tried to free himself.

I pushed myself to my knees and grabbed him by the front of his angular black armour. I lifted him a couple feet off the ground and then slammed him into the cobblestones. After the third or fourth time, he stopped trying to get loose, and I began dragging him back towards the cafe.

"The next person to fire a weapon," I bellowed, "will have their head, torn from their body."

"Alright mate, no need for manual decapitation, we're coming out."

A pair of men emerged from the cafe, stepping through the broken front window and out onto the street. Their armour was olive drab, and covered only the chest and head. Scratched and beat up, it was a far cry from the slick black impact plating worn by the man I was dragging.

I threw the black armoured soldier, and he spun once before hitting the ground between us.

"Who the fuck are you?" asked one of the men, not the one who'd spoken first, judging by his voice.

He was on the tall side, little over six feet maybe, and lanky. His expression was sour, and he looked as if it had been a couple days since he'd last been able to shave.

His companion, by comparison, was short and stocky. He'd also been a few days without a shave, though it looked as if he'd worn a goatee before the rest of his beard had started to grow in. It was hard to tell with the helmet on, but I got the sense he didn't have any hair atop his head.

Both men carried compact submachine guns, and I saw a little red screen on each, just below the sights. The stocky man wore a bandolier of grenades, but beyond that, their equipment was otherwise identical.

"I, the fuck, am Wallace," I replied, "Now why don't you explain why the three of you are trying to kill each other?"

"We don't answer to you," the lanky man retorted, "How about you go fuck yourself, and we don't shoot you."

I narrowed my eyes at the man, but his friend intervened before I could speak.

"Let's not be too hasty, fellow helped us out, least we can do is provide some answers. I'm Matt, this is Will," he explained," and that," he went on, indicating the man on the ground, already beginning to stir, "Is the jackbooted thug of a colonial government bent on dominating all of humanity."

"Fucking terrorists," the fascist stormtrooper croaked.

"Terrorist?" the lanky man, Will, demanded.

He stalked forwards, weapon levelled at the man on the ground, "You want to repeat that?"

I caught Will as he was busy sticking his gun in the man's face, and shoved him back.

"No one's shooting-" I growled.

"Oh yeah, motherfucker?" Will snapped, his weapon levelled at my face.

I spared a moment to gauge the distance and check where his finger was- not yet on the trigger -and grabbed the submachine gun by the barrel. I tore it from his grip, bent the barrel into a right angle, and then dropped it at his feet.

"What the hell, man?" he demanded.

"My friends and I nearly got caught in the crossfire between you three," I whispered, "The only reason you're on your feet, and he's flat on his back, is that he happened to be the one shooting our way."

I was staring Will down, but caught Matt's glance back at the cafe, out the corner of my eye. He approached cautiously and put his hand on the shoulder of the taller man.

"Let me handle this, okay?" Matt muttered to him, before turning to face me properly, "We didn't mean to put your people in danger, but this absolute ray of sunshine has been troubling us all day, we were just trying to find somewhere to hide out."

"Don't trust him," the black-suited man croaked, and I turned to see him rising to his feet, hands raised, "He's a pafftie."

I threw my arms up, "And what is that supposed to mean."

"People's Army for the Freedom of The Colonies," Matt explained, "You must have heard of us."

"Buddy, mate," I repeated, using his vernacular, "You're a long way from home. You're all a long way from home."

"I fight the paffties, wherever they might be" the black-suited soldier retorted, just as Will cut in with, "Every colony deserves to be free."

"Yeah, real good, great catchphrases all around. But not only is this a different planet, it's probably not even the same dimension."

"Bullshit," Will countered.

I shrugged, "Any of you have radios? Try to call home," I suggested.

Matt shook his head, "There's just this beeping, like someone set off a distress beacon," he nodded down the street, "Pretty sure it's coming from somewhere around here."

"So it's a pafftie beacon then?" the soldier demanded, "Because it doesn't match the regs for a United Earth beacon."

"Man, do you guys ever have awful branding," I sighed, "Paffties? God that's an awful acronym, and a worse name. And you," I added, regarding the stormtrooper, "Black armour, mirrored faceplate, it's as if whoever designed your armour had a list with all the fascist stormtrooper design features on it and decided to check as many boxes as possible. Tell you what, why don't you three go down the street and finish killing each other, because I don't feel like dealing with your shit right now."

And with that, I left. I walked back to where the truck was, picked up the stormtrooper's discarded rifle, and sighed as I took stock of the truck.

Every window was shattered, both front tires had burst, and the body panels on the side facing the cafe were full of holes. The engine was probably fine, but any tubing or wiring going to it was probably trashed, though admittedly I didn't see any fluids pooling in the snow under the truck. Our packs at least were fine, and I scooped those up.

The soldier, pistol in hand, now faced the two- perhaps terrorist was an uncharitable word, perhaps it was exactly right, I really didn't care. The rebels then, the soldier faced the rebels, though neither moved. Matt and the soldier both held their weapons at a low ready, and I wasn't really sure who I favoured if it came to a fight. If the soldier's armour was as strong as it looked, maybe it could take the rounds from the SMG while he went to town with the pistol. In any case, I hoped the matter would be settled when I next emerged from the cafe.

Valentine and the gynoid were where I left them in the back room. The gynoid had added an apron to her ensemble, part of the cafe's uniform if I had to guess, and one of the power cables snaked up the back of her shirt.

"Are you okay?" they both asked at the same time, though in their own languages.

I nodded, and was about to speak, when a whistle sounded from the street. Not the sound of someone putting two fingers in their mouth to whistle, or a little tin policeman's whistle either. It was the loud, piercing scream of a steam whistle.

I sighed. Of course there would be something else.

"Do you need to stay plugged in?" I asked tiredly.

"No, I can move. What's out there?" the gynoid asked.

"Who the hell knows at this point. Maybe someone drove a train down the middle of the street, whatever it is, we should probably check it out."

The gynoid reached up the back of her shirt and unplugged the cable, and began bundling it up, and I turned to Val.

"The firefight trashed the truck," I explained grimly, "Might still run, but both front tires are ruined, and we've only got one spare. Don't know who the asshole with the steam whistle is, but there are at least three guys out there who're keen on killing each other. Judging from the lack of gunfire, they haven't finished either."

"And that?" she asked, nodding towards the rifle I still held.

"Stole one of their rifles."

I handed over her pack and shouldered my own. After a moment adjusting the strap, I did the same with the stolen rifle.

"Come on, let's see what's going on."

In the middle of the street, opposite the ruined truck, was what can only be described as a steam wagon. It had the characteristic wooden wagon wheels, with two seats up front and a large cargo area in the back. But between the seating and the cargo space was a large brass boiler, and a chimney that billowed white smoke.

A man that could only be Simon stood leaning against the wagon. He had reddish-brown hair that had been combed back, with green eyes and pale skin. Aside from his height, at six and a half feet, he was unremarkable, though he carried himself with a certain lazy confidence. Standing before him were three women, three of his maids, judging from their attire.

God, he's such a weeb.

On the right, a fey, with purple colouration like Val, though the maid's hair was a much paler shade of purple. In the centre, a gnome, with orange hair and skin and extensive tattooing that left more blue ink than orange skin. And on the left, a goblin, with yellow features. All held rods or staves of some kind, ready to defend Simon from all comers.

Rather uncharitably, I mentally assigned them the names 'tall and busty', 'short and busty', and 'short and slim'.

"And here's our third team!" Simon said by way of greeting, "Come on over, we were just talking about you."

"English, are you sure?" I asked tiredly, "Maybe you can pick a fourth language for me to keep track of?"

"Fourth?" he asked, "That's the gynoid the prince is looking for then? Speaks french?"

I frowned, "You speak french as well?"

"No, but the prince's English is decent enough. He came around, looking for her. I told him about the dungeon, he said he'd consider it after tracking her down," Simon replied, nodding towards the gynoid, "Where is he now?"

"Dying of exposure, probably. Pretty sure I lamed his horse, he's an hour or so back that way."

"You lamed it? Are you telling me you beat up his horse?" he laughed.

"Yes."

"Damn."

Will, the lanky rebel cut in, "This is the same dickhead who ruined my gun."

"And you shot up my truck," I countered, "I can't help but notice you three haven't killed each other yet."

"We were just trying to settle that," Simon cut in, "There's more going on here than this little spat."

"Little spat?" Will demanded.

"They bomb hospitals," the soldier seethed.

Simon waved his hand dismissively at the two men, and I went on unabated.

"Something about a dungeon?" I asked.

"That's right," Simon agreed, finally rising from the wagon, "At least, that's what it seems like to me. As if some dungeons and dragons nerd was let loose with a couple million dollars to build his own LARP fantasy. No real traps, based on what I've read, just a bunch of puzzles. It's a sort of race, three teams- the instructions actually call them 'parties' -try to complete a selection of puzzles before any of the others. There's some sort of prize in there, but it's locked up tight, and I don't really want to damage anything inside, so I want to play things by the rules. Which means I need two more teams."

"What then, the three of us," I began, gesturing to myself and the girls, "The three spacemen, and you and your waifus?"

"Spacemen? They're from space?" Simon frowned, looking between the three men and me.

"Yeah, they mentioned something about colonies and a United Earth. Doesn't matter, point is-"

"Doesn't matter?" Will and the stormtrooper demanded at once.

"Yeah, sorry guys, did the giant here-" Simon began.

"Wallace," I provided.

"Did Wallace here explain the bit about this being another dimension?"

"He did," Matt agreed, before either of the other two could cut in, "We're still trying to make sense of that."

"You'll get used to it," Simon said nonchalantly, "But back to the important stuff. No, these three can't be one of the teams. We need at least five per. I've got four, you've got three, and prince Gill-something has ten or so people left from his crew. So two of them go with you, one with me, and we can get started once Gill-something gets back. Or if he doesn't, then we convince one of his crew to lead the team."

Matt glanced at me before asking Simon, "What's in it for us?"

"Share of the prize?" Simon offered, "This world isn't exactly the easiest to get by on, you'll want something to get you started. This dungeon is probably the best chance you'll have to get your feet under you. You can live pretty well in one of the cities, but only if you can pay."

"How much money we talking here?" Will asked.

"I don't know man, there's a prize, whatever it is, it'll be worth something to someone. I'm thinking freedom fighters with Wallace, stormtrooper with me. Keeps things simple."

"Hey, maybe we decide that for ourselves," Will snapped.

"Sure, buddy," Simon said with a sigh, "I need one more team member, the giant needs two. So how would you like to split up?"

The stockier rebel put his hand on Will's back to guide him over to me, "Come on," Matt said diplomatically, "Unless you want to team up with the fascist."

"I'm not a fascist," whined the fascist, "And give me back my rifle!"

"That's his rifle?" Simon frowned.

"It's my rifle, and if you want me to play your game, he's gonna hand over all the ammo for it."

"Go to hell," the stormtrooper snapped.

"Okay," Simon agreed cheerily.

The stormtrooper rounded on Simon, "No way."

"It's not going to do you much good anyway, and I don't think you could get the rifle back from him if you wanted. This goes well, and I'll get you a gun you'll actually be able to find ammo for."

I got the sense that the stormtrooper was glowering at me from behind the faceplate as he pulled open his mag pouches and dropped the ammo into the snow.

"The anteroom to the dungeon isn't too far off," Simon explained in elvish, once we'd divided into our teams, "Victoria and Cilla will go track down the prince while the rest of us get out of the cold."

"We should stay with you-" tall and busty began, but Simon shook his head.

"I've got Thale and whatshisface here with me, I'll be fine."

"Jankin," the stormtrooper grumbled.

"Right, Thale and Jankin. You two go find the prince before he freezes, get him back to his people. And if it sounds like he doesn't want to play, remind him you saved his life or something. Just get him here."

Short and busty stayed with Simon, which I suppose made her Thale, while tall and busty and short and slim left in the steam-powered wagon. Victoria and Cilla then, though I couldn't say which was which.

It was a little tiresome, but on the walk down the street I had the time to explain- twice -just what it was we'd agreed to, and why it was the two rebels would be tagging along.

"The beacon, Wallace?" Valentine asked, once I'd finished my elvish rendition of the explanation.

"Right," I realised, "I'll ask."

"Yeah, I know what it is," Simon nodded, once I had, "Well, kind of. I think it's a navigation beacon. There's a mooring spire for airships at the top of the dungeon-thing. The beacon is at the top. I was going to shut it off, it's screwing with my comms, but after I realised I'd need more teams I left it on to see who showed up. Seems kinda weird, don't you think, the tech these people have?" he asked, looking up at me.

I regarded him guardedly, unsure as to what to say.

"I mean, come on, sentient gynoids, plasma batteries, one of these expositions talks about experiments with fusion power. You must have noticed something was weird."

I looked at him a moment longer, before deciding on what to say, "I am not your friend, and I don't want to be your friend. I'm not here to help you, I'm here to try to win the prize, and then I'm going to leave. Sometime after that, you and I are probably going to find ourselves very much at odds."

"Buddy, what's your problem?" he demanded, switching to English.

"My problem is that you're using your magic to mind control yourself a big harem of slaves, you massive weeb."

"They are not slaves," Simon replied through clenched teeth, "I've been fighting to rid Pelignos of the practice since I first landed."

"So you're not using your Body magic to adjust things a little?" I challenged.

Simon made a cutting gesture with his hand, "It is not like that."

"What is it like, then?" I offered, "Because, from the outside, it looks like you're collecting waifus like you're a whale playing a gacha game."

"Just think," he began, "you're a modern human, with all the benefits of a quite extensive twenty-first-century education. You grew up in a western country, so you've got certain beliefs about how a society should be run. Fairness, equality, democracy, all that good stuff. You've also got the broader historical context, so you know how societies that don't follow that pattern tend to work out for people that aren't lucky enough to be at the top. I imagine you can relate."

I shrugged, "Broad strokes, sure."

"Except unlike you, I didn't end up near Parabuteo, I ended up in Pelignos," he informed me, "Parabuteo, it's got a long way to go, but there's a growing middle class. Upwards mobility is difficult, but for the first time in centuries, it's a real possibility for people. Those in power are starting to come around to the idea that the common folk are people too, not just automatons that clean your house and make the food. It's a shitty place to live, sorta early eighteen hundreds London, but it's the least shitty place at the moment, and it's getting better."

Simon gritted his teeth, "But Pelignos, it's whole society is built on slavery. It looks sorta pseudo-Roman, but at least the Romans had rules. The fey treat the sprites like livestock. So say you're me, you show up in Pelignos, and you see the horrors being committed on a daily basis," he clenched a fist, "And unlike most of the people, you recognise those horrors, as horrors. So what do you do?" he asked, though he didn't wait for me to answer, "You decide that this shit isn't going to fly, and you need to stop it," he threw up his hands, "But how? 'Oh look, the human says slavery is naughty. How could we have known? Guess we have to stop.' It's pointless. Maybe if I tried really really hard, and worked for decades, I might be able to convince the fey to treat the sprites two percent better than they are now. But even that would be nearly impossible, the fey believe this is the natural order, they're not going to change out of the goodness of their hearts, and neither I nor the sprites have the leverage to force them. And it's not like there's a death star I can blow up, or big bad I can defeat to fix everything and destroy the empire. So how the hell else do you expect me to do anything about it? Or do you really think that working for decades to get two percent change would be the right thing to do for the sprites?"

"So you're telling me that you're not using mind-control magic to build yourself a massive harem?"

"It's not like that," he repeated, "When I... convince, someone to come around to my way of seeing things, that's all I do. Do I make them fall in love with me? Well, yeah, but when your only tool is a hammer, etcetera etcetera. I've never actually touched any of them."

"From what I've heard, that's not quite true," I challenged, though I kept my tone easy going for the moment.

"Two separate groups," he insisted, "There's those that need 'convincing', and there's those that don't. That first group is a hell of a lot larger than the second."

"Ah, so you've got one of those ethical, mind-control free, harems."

He shrugged, "Call it whatever you want. Certain things are expected of powerful people, regardless of which city you're talking about. So maybe I indulge myself with those women who come to my side naturally, maybe I even screw around with the odd noblewoman that wants to get back, in some small way, at their family. I'm not hurting anyone, and I'll tell you what, it makes it a hell of a lot easier to maintain control."

"Control, all comes back to that, doesn't it?" I mused.

"Yes, it does," he growled, "I'm not going to get anywhere trying to side with one political faction or another, I need to create a faction of my own. And my team's not going to do me, or the sprites, and good unless my people do what I tell them. Or do you have a better idea?"

"Just seems odd, you being the only guy on your team."

"My technique doesn't work on men," he said dismissively, "At least not most men. I can make them uncomfortable, or afraid, but neither is helpful in the long-term."

"How very un-machiavellian of you," I observed.

"Yeah, well, he was a dick. I terrify someone into obedience, and they might just drive a knife into my back. And what the hell happens when they're out of my reach? No, I'm going to return to Pelignos in a week or so, and everything will be precisely as I left it. Besides, I find the carrot gets much better results than the stick."

I let out a breath I hadn't realised I'd been holding, and gazed down at the man.

He met my gaze, frowned, and then grew very still.

"You were going to kill me," he breathed.

"Wouldn't you?" I asked simply, "The prince you sent your people after, I'm still not sure if letting him live was the right choice, and he only had the one living toy."

"You're giving me a hard time about a little applied psychology, when you're willing to just straight-up murder someone?"

"Pretend for a moment, that you're exactly what all the rumours say you are. Pretend, that you're what I thought you were," I said evenly, "What do you think, would be the quickest and easiest way to solve the problem?"

"Christ. You're one cold son of a bitch, you know that?"

"Yes, and I want you to keep that in mind when I tell you that Val, and her sister Vivian, are off-limits. Try your 'applied psychology' on either of them, and you will spend the rest of your short life looking over your shoulder."

The dungeon's anteroom was reminiscent of a movie theatre, with places to buy food, various refreshments, and souvenirs along the walls to either side. In the centre was what looked like a sort of ticket counter, and at the far end of the room were three sets of double doors, with two sets of instructions on placards in the gaps between the walls. The whole place was decorated in the anachronistic 1800s chic that I'd started to become familiar with.

The placards, along with all the other visible writing, gave instruction in not only English and French, but German, Italian, Spanish, and Portuguese.

The rules were plain enough. Don't commit violence against members of other teams, don't damage the puzzles or any part of what the instructions referred to as the 'adventure', and accept any risks associated with participating in the adventure. It went on to specify that some aspects of the adventure could eliminate team members, which would deposit them at the end of the experience to await the others. Minimum five players per party, were the placards last words on the matter, though I noted it listed no upper limit to team size. Not that I really wanted more people hanging around. I already had five people and three languages to handle. Besides, if this was the collection of puzzles Simon had suggested, I had my doubts as to whether more people would be much help. This was a race, after all, the less arguing the better.

"Thoughts?" Valentine asked once we'd settled down in our own little corner.

"This isn't going to be easy. Simon might walk away with this thing, and if the prince is still alive, his team may be a problem as well."

Valentine was more than a little startled by this revelation, "You believe the prince may outthink us? I can understand viewing Simon as an equal, but I think you're underestimating our chances."

"This is a race, Val," I reminded her, "It's as much a test of wits as it is one of communication. Simon's clever enough, and those girls will hang on his every word. They're also probably pretty good at working together, they know how each of the others think. If he's smart, he'll get the stormtrooper to shut up and stand in the corner while the other four figure out the puzzles. They won't waste time arguing with each other, and they'll be able to get their thoughts across quickly. The prince, if he's smart, will pick his four cleverest people. They might not be able to communicate on the same level as Simon and his people, but they'll shut up when the prince tells them to shut up. The lot of us on the other hand, have a substantial language barrier, and I doubt the two humans are going to be the most cooperative if I tell them to shut up and do what I tell them. As for the gynoid, I still don't know about her. She seems, helpful, I guess? I don't get the sense she's going to be a problem at least, but there's still the language thing."

"If the humans misbehave I'm sure you can get them in line, as for, what did you call her? The gynoid?"

"It's a long story, she's a machine in the shape of a woman, that's what gynoid means. Her name was," I went on, careful to stress the word, "Charlotte. I gather that's what the prince decided to call her last time he wiped her memory."

"Wiped her memory?" Valentine demanded

"I know," I replied gravely, "She got loose-" I stopped and took a deep breath before continuing, "She was a maid, general servant, and expensive toy. Char- The gynoid said she'd been a birthday present for the prince. This is common, I gather, and there generally aren't any problems with servant androids. At least if you're the one that owns them. The prince, it seems, made a mistake. I guess he was getting bored of the same old thing, because he decided to turn off her obedience protocols."

Val set aside the snacks she'd pilfered from one of the stands, and put her head in her hands.

"Well, she never gave him the chance to turn them back on," I finished.

Val lifted her head, "Is she alright? Does she need anything? Is there anything we can-"

I stopped her with a gesture, "If she asks for something, I'll give it to her. If she tells me something, I'll listen. But we're strangers, Val, we hardly know her. She's asked not to be called by the name the prince gave her, so that's what I'm doing. She needs electricity to live, so we're gonna need to step up our plans to power the hotel. If she asks for something else, I'll do that too, but until then, I'm going to leave her be."