Spots: Prototype

A Web Serial by M.C.A. Hogarth

37. Spit and Bailing Wire.	39. Under Tension.

38. Prototype

Testing Facility. Samuel-Colt is fitting Claws and Spots with gloves with prototype shield-generators.

Samuel-Colt, leaning back, single note marcato. "There. To turn it on, use this gesture."

Claws. "Hey, is that a gradient?" He tilts his arm. "There, toward the edges. It is, isn't it."

Samuel-Colt, rising arpeggio, staccato. "A slight one, yes. It is not obtrusive?"

Spots. "I didn't even see it at first. But... now I can see the edge, that's nice. Why don't the existing shields have something like this?"

Samuel-Colt, quick melody. "It was not necessary: the shield was always the same size and shape, so with little training a soldier could memorize its boundaries. These changes make the shield too malleable; it is imperative that its boundaries be delineated in some manner. We judged a visual aid would be best, since your species is visually-oriented."

Spots, curious. "Instead of... some other sense? What would you have used for yourself?"

"Sound, most probably. Scent can become too diffuse or confused in long engagements."

Claws, brows lifted. "And sound doesn't?"

"It is our observation that we hear sounds more accurately than you do." The Fiddler taps his abdomen as his vestigial arms bow a melody, detache. "We hear with our entire bodies. Shell thickness, density of the matter behind it and breadth of the part reverberating, all give us a broad spectrum of surfaces with which to hear a single sound." He pauses, tilts his head, ending the melody abruptly. "Even now, I must use visual words to describe it accurately in your language. A 'spectrum.' "

"Wow." Spots, soft. "You must have amazing music."

Samuel-Colt. "Our passage through life creates it."

Spots. "That sounds almost like a proverb."

Samuel-Colt. "You have a good..." Pause, single note, sharp. "Ear. I suppose. We would say 'good body,' but I suspect that has a different meaning to you."

Claws, chuckling. "You've been payin' attention to notice that."

Samuel-Colt, rising and falling arpeggios, spiccato. "We have had many lives here to pay attention, mother's-escort. If we did not observe accurately, we would be very poor at designing proper weapons for such a different species."

Claws. "Which brings us back to this." Pats shield-generator. "Please, go on."

Samuel-Colt. "Yes. To toggle the slide...."

After instruction, Spots and Claws experiment against target dummies and (lightly) against Samuel-Colt himself.

Claws. "This is complicated."

Spots. "This feels good." Sweetly. "It's not complicated, unless all you're used to is pulling a trigger."

Claws. "Hey! Ow! She's got teeth!"

Spots, grinning. To Samuel-Colt. "How much testing have you done? Enough to put it in the suit?"

Long note, held. "We can do no more testing without it being in a suit."

Spots nods. "Put it in mine, then." She glances at the clock, makes a face. "Uh, after the next shift."

Samuel-Colt, rising arpeggio with flourish. "It will be done, mother-soldier."

Claws. "Y' know, if you're gonna call her something, it should be 'mother-Marine'."

Samuel-Colt, three quick notes, spiccato, rising. "Because she is an underwater mother?"

Claws and Spots pause.

Slowly, Claws: "You... just made a joke?"

Samuel-Colt, arpeggio softening, legato. "I am aware of your designations, yes. It is amusing to us because we have special feeling for water."

Spots. "Really? How come?"

Samuel-Colt, legato. "We live in water." Another long pause. This time the Fiddler correctly interprets it. "We—I and my lineage—were designed to live in human environments."

Spots. "But... what do you do when you go home?"

Samuel-Colt, single soft note. "We can never go home, mother-soldier."

Claws. "Never?"

Samuel-Colt, silence, then slow melody. "Every designer of my lineage has given up water to fulfill our mother's request. We design weapons for the humans. That is the price we pay for the privilege of serving her, and you." A curious tremolo note, rising. "Do you not give up something to be here, both of you? Do you think it is a worthy cause, for the price?"

Spots. "We do, yes. Thank you, Samuel-Colt. Your sacrifice honors us."

The Fiddler bows. Spots bows back.

###

In the corridor, on the way back to the barracks.

Claws. "So, you around royalty much or do you just like fantasy flicks?"

Spots. "It just seemed like the right thing to do. You could say thank you, you know."

Claws. "For bowin' for me? I'm not the bowin' type..."

Spots. "...for covering up the fact that you couldn't immediately answer that there was a good reason for being out here."

Claws. "Caught that, did you."

Spots. "Red-handed."

Claws. "Hey, Spots—"

Spots. "You don't have to explain anything to me, Claws. Why you're out here is your business. But if you don't know the answer to that one, maybe you have some explaining to do, to yourself."

Claws. "****, you really are a mom, aren't you."

Spots. "Twice over. And—"

Claws. "—mind my manners, sorry, sorry, I'll wash my mouth out with what passes for soap when we get back, Scout's honor."

Spots's mouth quirks.

37. Spit and Bailing Wire.	39. Under Tension.