Chapter 2

You know that episode of the Simpsons where Mr. Burns tries to adopt Bart? You know, it’s the one where Bart watches footage of his family on the security screen and the guy that Mr. Burns has hired to play Homer says ‘boh’ when he drops his donut, so Bart isn’t quite convinced, so Mr. Burns walks in and flips through a hundred and fifty page script (written for a single five second long faked security camera footage reel, I hasten to add) to discover that the world famous catchphrase of everyone’s favorite possibly plural multiprofessional ex-astronaut wonder, Homer Simpson, is...

Doh.

Yeah, that episode.

So, anyway, there was a part in that episode where Bart sits at a table at Mr. Burns sits at the other end of the table and the table is just so fucking huge it’s ridiculous?

That’s how big this table was.

I was seated at the comfy chair at the front, while Marceline had gotten the rest of the staff together.

The staff were all robots.

I raised my hand. “Question,” I said.

“Yes?” Marciline asked as I looked at the robots – counting from the robot on the right to the robot on the left, circling around the table, we had:

1. Tall, intimidating scary soldier robot girl with a marching band hat, which she had taken off and crooked under her shoulder.

2. A sleek robot of increasingly indeterminate gender in a sleek suit with bright polished buttons and white glove. Slightly less fancy than Marceline’s suit, but still intimidatingly fancy ... the enby had a bowtie for God’s sake.

3. Polly. Hi Polly.

4. Jeanette. Hello nurse!

5. An extremely curvy robot girl with platinum blond hair and lips that seemed to have been carved into a perpetual scowl, with skin that had been shaded the same warm nut brown as my Grandma’s credenzas but without the cigarette stains (if you’ve never seen my Grandma’s cradenza’s, count yourself lucky. But, when shaped into a lady robot form and without the cigarette stains, it was actually a really cute skin tone. Well. Hull? Tone? I don’t know, what’s the word for skin when it’s not skin, but you don’t want to call someone skinless when they’re not a really gnarly cenobite.)

6. A sky blue tomboy with very short cropped frizzy hair-fibers. She was dressed in like a very dark blue jacket with bright gold buttons and she had a flat hat that she twirled in at the end of her finger while looking incredibly bored.

7. The girl in the maid outfit. So, okay, when I had first seen her, I had thought she had been in a frilly French maid outfit, like from the hit mystery movie, Clue. But in fact, she was dressed in an equally sexy, slightly more practical, significantly less frilly maid outfit, like in the hit murder mystery Sherlock Holmes ... which Sherlock Holmes? I dunno, pick one.

“Why are you all sexy robots?” I asked.

The entire table acted like I had set a kitten on fire.

“We are not robots!” Marceline exclaimed. “The very term is a complete ... I...” She closed her glowing, hologrpahic eyes. “That is a gross misunderstanding of the relationship between machines and humans and I will beg you to never use it again, understand?” She nodded.

I nodded. “Right. But you ... are? Robots?”

“Are you sure she’s an improvement?” the soldier girl asked, her voice a low growl.

“I, sorry, just...” I stammered. “I don’t know what to call you! That’s the word we use for, like, you know, people who are all beep boop!” I mimed the Robot. “Whirr, click, Danger Will Robinson, Danger, my arms are flailing wildly.”

“ ... again, I ask,” the soldier girl said, while Marceline sat down – but it was Jeanette who saved me.

“Ah, tarnation!” she exclaimed. “We’re seeing here a bit of etymological confusion. Mistress, do you know what robot means?”

“It means beep boop?” I asked.

“No, it means slave,” Jeanette said. “It’s Czech, I believe.”

“OOOOOOH!” I said. “Well, uh, to clear things up, there are no robot, er, machine slaves on my home planet, called Earth.” I put my hand on my chest, gently. “There are just wage slaves. And literal slaves. And sex slaves.” I paused. “Thank you, again.” I said, looking at Marci. “A lot.” I paused for a moment. “Seriously, like, my planet was fucked up.”

“You can say that again,” the blue skinned ro- ... machine chick said, pausing in her cap twirling. I grinned at her.

“We should determine a point of divergence in the histories of our two worlds,” the curvy intimidating blond said, nodding as she spoke – her voice stern and delicate both. “Did you defeat Napoleon at Waterloo?”

“Yes,” I said, nodding. “Uh, did you guys have a World War?”

“Of course we had a world war,” the curvy blond said, her eyes narrowing. “As I said, we defeated Napoleon at Waterloo.”

“No, I mean...” I trailed off. “Okay, that’s the divergent point. Between the Brits beating up a short French guy,” I said – then stopped as the soldier girl leaned in and muttered.

“Corsican,” she muttered.

“Gesundheit?” I asked.

“Napoleon was Corsican,” the soldier girl muttered, more forcefully. “Not French.”

I blinked. “ ... what’s a Corsica?”

“It is an island off the coast of France, near Toulon,” the blond chipped in.

I nodded. “Right. So, okay, you beat Napoleon and never had any wars again?”

“Not any of significant size,” the blondie said, nodding. “There was some significant transitional violence in the Americas, I believe, dealing with their aristocratic gentry, a spot of bickering in Russia...” She tapped her finger against her chin. “Nothing to match twenty years of unending slaughter.”

“What was your twentieth century like?” the soldier girl asked, looking at me pointedly.

“Uh ... worse mustaches?” I said, for lack of anything better.

Silence.

I coughed. “So, um, on to the introductions.” I pointed my finger at the soldier machine. “You are?”

“Theodora Fusilier,” she said, her voice stiff and gruff as she sat up a bit. “You can call me Ra.”

“ ... not ... Dora?” I asked.

“No,” she said, flatly.

“And you’re my...”

“Bodyguard,” she said, again, flatly.

“Okay!” I said, smiling. “Ra it is. You?” I pointed at the bowtied person.

“I’m, oh, ah, that is,” the enbot stammered, their voice deliciously unplacable. Their hands went up to their bow tie. As their fingers played with the fabric, their fans started to whir and grind together, louder and louder and louder. “Oh dear. I just ... ah ... my apologies, Mastress, er, Misster, er, I mean, the ... I...” Then blushed. “Oh, this is why I rarely ever, um...”

“Jay Page is our valet,” Marceline said, sweeping in to save the day from the poor flustered Jay. I nodded, subtly, then reached out and put my hand on Jay’s shoulder, squeezing them through their black suit jacket.

“You’re a good egg, Jay,” I said, cheerfully. “Cute name.”

Jay’s entire face started glowing red and their fans went from whiring to filling the air with burrrr. Over that sound, I pointed at Polly, then Jeanette. “I know you two, but-” I said.

“I’m Pollyanna Cook, the cook!” Polly said, then jerked her thumb at Jeanette. “She’s Jeanette Hope, our nurse.”

Jeanette smiled. “I handle anything that you won’t need a proper sawbones for.”

I nodded. “Cool. And you?” I pointed at the curvy blondie. She harrumphed.

“I am Georgette Proctor,” she said. “And I must admit, this entirely short and nearly one sided interaction with you has only begun to underline the depths of my newly found vocation.” She sniffed. “I am your governess, young Miss, and as soon as you begin your hormone treatment, I will need to immediately have you before me learning how to be a proper lady.” Her eyes flashed. “And I will not be taking any backtalk while tutoring you, Mistress. Do you understand?”

So.

I had, like.

Two buttons in my brain.

There was a big old CALL ME DADDY button – cause, like, even when I was picturing being a pretty little princess, I was also picturing myself slamming Raven from the Teen Titans against a wall while Starfire (also from the Teen Titans) eating me out. But there was also a PLEASE ME STEPPY button too. That one was yellow and had a BDSM version of the Gadsden flag on it, and it was whenever I met girl tall fierce rawr oh my. I blushed, gulped, and nodded. “Yes. Very. Got it. Sir. Ma’am. Aye aye.” I bobbed my head hurriedly.

Georgette harrumphed. Which meant she was now pounding the PLEASE ME STEPPY button like she was a bored pedestrian at a crosswalk. I pointed a shaking finger at the sky blue tomboy. Now, okay, if she was a flier who liked to go fast...

“I’m Jenny. Jenny Messenger,” she said, grinning. “And, uh, I showed up late, cause, um ... reasons!” She said, her voice brash and cheerful. “So, like, why are we calling the asshole Mistress now? Is this a humiliation thing?”

“You didn’t read the note I left for you at the stables?” Marci asked, her voice cold. Deadly.

“Note?” Jenny asked, blinking.

“You’d think the one thing that a messenger would be good at,” Jeanette said, her voice a soft muttered drawl in the corner. “It’d be getting the memo.”

“Oh, you wanna go, Doc!?” Jenny asked, standing up.

“Ladies, you will not brawl!” Marci snapped, standing up as well, her hand going to Jenny and pushing her back down into the seat. Marci’s voice grew icy. “In the house. Again.”

Ra chuckled throatily. “I don’t know, when the clothing starts to tear, it gets rather entertaining.”

“Fusie!” Georgette snapped. “We need to set a good example for the young Mistress.”

“We do?” Polly asked. “I thought my job was just to cook.”

I watched the dialog bouncing back and forth, my eyes almost going crossed. I tried to get the conversation back into something approximating an enlightening direction by saying: “So, uh, Jenny, your job is ... messenger?” I asked.

“When she doesn’t crash,” Jeanette muttered.

“OH THAT IS IT!” Jenny sprang to her feet again, brushing Marci’s hand aside.

“Jenny!” I said, springing to my feet. “Sit down! Now! I know you and Jeanette obviously have some bad blood, er...” I paused. “Do you have oil?”

“Cooling fluid would be the best approximation for blood,” Ra murmured.

“Right, bad cooling fluid between the two of you,” I said, nodding. “But I just got my brain yanked from another dimension and plopped into the body of a space ... vampire...” I paused, then moved on with a titanic effort of will. “So, like. Please. Just. Focus on the introductions for now.”

“Right. Sorry.” Jenny said.

“Apologize to Jenny,” I said, looking at Jeanette.

Jeanette sighed. “My apologies, Mess.”

“Oh, fine...” Jenny said, sitting down.

Polly leaned over, whispering in Jeanette’s ear. “Is this going to mess up the hate sex?”

Ignoring that, I pointed at the last girl, who was looking deeply terrified about everything around her. She gulped, then muttered into her collar. “Um, my name’s, um, Abby. Abby Keeper. Um. I was unboxed yesterday, is ... this normal for all human households?”

“Yes,” Ra said at the exact same time Georgette and Marci said ‘No.’ This left Abby looking even more nervous looking. Still. I had everyone’s names in mind and ... wow, okay, this actually did help, all their surnames were what they di- oh, wow, I was just getting that. I’m really fucking stupid. Way to go Lucy, way to be quick on the update. I sighed, quietly, then leaned backwards.

“Now, we’re on to the last introduction...” I pointed at my own self. “I’m ... well, my real name ... er ... my birthday is Bryant DeWitt. I was born in Seattle in 1999, and then spent the next twenty one years of my life in Seattle, except for, like, four years in college. I once saw a whale.” I nodded. “Now, uh, who’s body did I snatch? I mean, I know his name is Albert Fancybutt McEnglishname the Third, and that I’m in space, but I’m still a bit unclear on the specifics.”

The table all looked at Georgette, who nodded, then sat up a bit and then spoke: “As Marceline told you, you are in the sixty ninth year of the twenty second century of the common era, and the third century of the Industrious Revolution – begun when the first Machine was invented on old Earth. You ... or, more accurately, the body you inhabit is the body of Albert Fitzland-Lancaster the Third, the Earl in Absentia of Arundel and the Duke of Burgendy II, Carousel and Phecda-C. You ... ah ... yes?”

I had raised my hand.

“Um, what does that all mean?”

Georgette cocked her head. “Do you want me to specify the noble ranks, or are we at the point of needing to define ‘accidentally’, ‘inhabit’ and ‘body’?”

“Noble ranks,” I said, blushing.

Georgette inclined her head. “Very good then. The Kingdom of Greater Britain has a council of regents, who administers the entirety of the British portion of the Galactic Concert – roughly four hundred thousand worlds of varying level of habitation. Below them are the Dukes, those who own or control multiple solar systems. Earls are individuals who control single planets – though, your Earldom is relatively unique, as while it is small in scale, it is venerable and highly coveted.”

I nodded, my brain boggling. That’s like, major fucking Stellaris levels of planets.

I didn’t even play Stellaris, I just watched a youtuber who played Stellaris.

But, like.

I knew the basic idea. You wanted to have more planets and more people. I sat up a bit, gulping. “S-So, uh ... it’s like ... the king runs things, but the nobles run everything under them, like, a pyramid scheme? So, like, how many subjects do I have? Like...” I trailed off.

“Well, are you speaking of your machines?” Georgette asked. “Or are you under the mistaken assumption you have human subjects?” She frowned and I shook my head, hurriedly. “Because if you think you have ... people you can boss around, like some ... ancient despot-”

“No, no!” I said, hurriedly. “The opposite! Just, like, if I’m in charge of, like, a bazillmilion people, I want to make sure they get enough food and water and stuff! Like, uh, what are my responsibilities, I want-”

The machines were all exchanging unreadable glances. “Bazillmilion is not an actual measurement of population statistics,” Georgette said. “But ... well, the Kingdom of Greater Britain has reigns over five million human subjects.”

I gaped. “What!?”

“What?” The robots all looked at me in confusion. Jenny spoke up: “Were, like, you expecting more?”

“Yeah!” I said. “Like, my entire planet has, like, nine billion people on it.”

“WHAT!?” The robots all exclaimed at once.

“How do they have enough room for their mansions!?” Abby exclaimed, her nervousness vanished away. “And, and, and, there must be...” She cocked her head. “Easily, one trillion machines, or more, for the entire planet! Stars! That must be so many Abbies...” Her eyes grew filled with concern. “You’d need to start coming up with nicknames in nested nicknames!”

“We don’t have machines,” I said, blushing.

“Oh right.” Abby looked crestfallen – a neat trick for a woman without moving lips. “Those poor humans ... they have to clean the mansions themselves...”

“We don’t have mansions!” I said, throwing up my hands. “Unless your name is Bezos or Bates, that is!”

“Then where do the humans live?” Abby asked. “In their townhouses?”

“Most of us don’t even have townhouse! My world sucks!” I said, slapping my palms down onto the table. “It’s crowded and smelly and everyone’s miserable. Even the people who think they’re happy aren’t happy, and we don’t have a single sexy maid ro ... machine!” I blushed. “I...” I paused. “ ... how many machines are there in the British Kingdom in Space?” I asked, pointing at Georgette.

“A proper gentlewoman does not point. It is considered rude.” Georgette sniffed. “And there are one billion machines in the British Kingdom. We make the clothing, maintain the homes, manage the post, fill the army, crew the ships and tend to the gardens. We heal the sick and mend fences and ... and ... what are you laughing about?”

“Sorry, just,” I stammered. “Sorry, just...” I blushed. “You’re just the nicest Terminators I’ve ever met. What do humans do?”

“Oh, humans do a lot of important things,” Abby said, nodding excitedly – clearly getting over some of her earlier nervousness. “They go to parties and become officers and wear the clothing that we make, and live in the houses we build.” Her eyes shone excitedly. “That’s why tidying up is so pleasant, it just makes you all so happy!”

Okay, note to self, protecc Abby.

I smiled, slightly. “Right...” I said, slowly. “So, um, I’m a noble dudette, with multiple solar systems-”

“Actually, just one,” Ra rumbled in my ear.

“Oh is that all?” I said, playfully sarcastic.

“Well, it is a very nice solar system,” Ra added, hurriedly. “Two Gaia worlds, Terran classification, and two marginals that are being tweaked with some wide scale Punnet modifications – algea, lichen, that kind of thing.”

“Ah.” I nodded. Like ... terraforming? Right? Cool. “Why was Albert so terrible?”

The machines were all silent.

“I mean,” I said. “Like, I listened to him talk for, like, five seconds and I wanted to tip him out of a window. And each of you ... like ... I can tell you’re trying to be nice to me, that you’re trying to act like I’m a new person. But, like, no offense, Georgette, you’re really bad at acting like you don’t subtly hate me.” I bit my lip. “How bad was he?”

“Well...” Jenny said.

“I don’t know, I was unboxed yesterday,” Abby said.

“See, the thing is, uh...” Jeanette rubbed the back of her neck.

“He was a prig,” Ra rumbled, her hand reaching up to scratch at a dimpled divot on her cheek I had thought had been chiseled into her until I had noticed that it had been outlined in silver chrome to really make it pop, like how a human scar would pop on a human face.

“It’s all that bloody Earldom’s fault,” Polly exploded.

“We cannot lay the entire blame of the young Master’s unfortunate character upon that,” Marci said, sighing. “We all bear some of the responsibility as well.”

“How so?” I asked. “Like...”

“Well. His parents died when he was quite young,” Marci said, her voice soft. “They enjoyed taking a ship back to Earth, to enjoy seeing their old homestead – the Earldom of Arundel, which I believe is located in West Sussex. A castle, it’s been refurbished and kept up to date by the reeneactors that live around the area. Use it sometimes in their recreations of the various wars.” She nodded. “All for fun, mind, not ... they don’t actually hurt one another.” She sighed. “But ... on the young Master’s sixth birthday, they were heading back and were struck by an unexpected solar storm. They didn’t manage to reef the sails in time and ... well ... the sails were overloaded within minutes. Any machine that tried to go out was killed in an instant, by the radiation ... and ... then ... the energy discharge coursed through the ship. There were no survivors.”

“Oh...” I whispered.

“The young Master ... well, he was all alone, then, and ... we did our best...” Marci looked crestfallen. “But this entire solar system is filled with a ... a ... miserable nest of vipers. Each aristocrat here has an ancient holding. Most of them are only in the other original planets, a lot of Martians and Venusians and Lunarians. But since the young Master had an actual Earldom on Earth, he was the toast of the town and so, spent his youth gaming and hunting with a great deal of older gentlemen – never had a friend that was younger than twenty, and ... well, we couldn’t so much as tell him no, he’d just get all crestfallen and lonely. And those fellows, they filled his head with stories about how aristocrats used to be, in the old Empire.”