by I H Laking
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Ambrose and Percy set off at a quick pace down towards Mrs Milliard’s pie shop. The city of Traville was set on the side of a huge hill, and ran down from the giant headquarters of The Order, known as The Citadel, which loomed atop the hillside, silently watching all that went on in the city. At the top of the hill were rich housing estates and mansions, and as one travelled lower, the quality of both housing and citizenry tended to deteriorate (at least in the opinion of those living at the top). At the bottom of the hill were the slums, stretching out for miles over flood plains until they reached the mighty Boer River, which was the main source of trade and traffic to the city. Visitors arriving from the river are struck by quite an intimidating design as they wind their way towards the capital. The Citadel tower gleams white during the day, and is lit by gas lamps that burn a deep red at night. Out from its base, the city is set in a circle, with eight great roads leading out from the centre, in which rests White Square, the giant, open gathering place for citizens from around the Empire. All who come to the city and view the design would easily spot that it is set in the shape of the eight-spoked wheel of The Order – a reminder of who built the city, and who still runs it. Those living in the slums are always quick to remind visitors that at least Traville is open in its intentions – the filth literally runs downhill, and it’s easy to know one’s place in the great capital simply from where you’re standing.
Thankfully, Mrs Milliard’s pie shop was located at the heart of the downtown shopping area, just below White Square. Ambrose always found himself captivated by the sheer volume of people that were crossing the square at any given time. Not only was it home to the Central Station of the Civilian Protection Force, but it was also the place where every piece of the Empire seemed to collide. Ambrose looked at the faces of those scurrying along, trying to pick up clues as to where they were heading. Bureaucrats from the Scholar’s Guild headed past with piles of books, while politicians from the Order did their best to pretend they enjoyed mingling with the general public. Once, when the four Guilds had struggled for control of the Empire, this square had been the centre of their conflict. Now it was simply filled with the citizens of a united Empire. Yes, on the surface, the Empire was a sea of serenity. But underneath, it roiled with tension. For the moment though, Ambrose contented himself by looking at the tourists milling around investigating various attractions, and beggars seeking help from those going about their daily business.
Ambrose soon found himself outside the Mrs Milliard’s shop, staring at a crowd of curious onlookers who had come to see why their favourite pie shop was closed. Mrs Milliard’s shop was a local institution, and although the crowd was calm, they were clearly not happy about the situation. Percy, panting from the exertion of keeping up with Ambrose’s long strides, cleared a path through the crowd. “C. P. F. here folks, excuse us.” “Oh! It’s the C. P. F.!” Percy pushed past, closely followed by Ambrose. “Excuse me” “Could you get a pie for me while you’re in there?” “Pardon me” “’ere – I want to talk about my pie from the other day! It was all bloody and raw!” “Yes, yes, pardon us” “I hope you can fix this! I’ve had to eat cakes all week so far! Think of my figure!” “We’ll sort it folks, can we get through there?” Suddenly Percy and Ambrose stopped. In front of them was the biggest man that Ambrose had seen in his life. The gentleman towered over him (which is saying a lot, considering Ambrose’s considerable height). The man was blocking the door, clearly acting as a bodyguard of sorts. “Do you mind if we, ah, squeeze through there?” asked Percy meekly. The man regarded Percy and Ambrose with a suspicious look – his hard face and shaved head gave him a particular style of scowl that appeared to make Percy rather anxious. “And who sent for you?” the man asked, in deep tones that sounded like a bellow of thunder. Ambrose fixed him with a cool gaze. “We are here at the request of Mrs Milliard herself. I doubt she would be impressed by any hold up in our arrival.” The man stood still for a second, as if considering the statement. He then slowly stepped aside, and beckoned them to enter with a wave of his arm. The detectives moved inside, ready to start their investigation.
Mrs Milliard’s pie shop was a small, dark place. Without the aid of gas lighting, it relied on candles to light the interior, and they were a poor alternative. Ambrose had been in the shop many times, though he was not nearly as familiar with the outfit as Percy was. They were greeted by Mrs Milliard, who came racing out from the back room to see them. She was a tall lady, imposing in her stance, with sharp features and jet black hair. She almost seemed out of place in the midst of such a dreary place, with her long-sleeved blue dress flowing to the ground. Judging by the authority in her voice, many people would suggest she wouldn’t be out of place as a school matron rather than a storeowner.
“Oh thank heavens you’re here! I cannot believe the situation, I just cannot believe it!” she exclaimed. “How can something go so wrong so fast? Everything is ruined! I’m ruined! All my efforts, gone to waste! What did I do wrong? How did I upset him? You have to help me, please!” her voice started to break as she nearly burst into tears. Ambrose, never particularly good in situations with emotion, began his normal inspection routine, trying to not distress Mrs Milliard any further.
“Yes ma’am, we’ll do our best to help. My name is Inspector Ambrose, and this is Detective Portland.” He shook her hand and smiled politely. “Call me Percy” said his partner, who had more of a gift for these kind of interactions. Mrs Milliard smiled a touch, and seemed to calm down a little at their presence. “We understand you’ve got a malfunctioning Mech. Perhaps you could take us through the story of what’s been happening?” Mrs Milliard nodded quietly, and beckoned them to follow her into the back room. It was a small space, filled with empty pie trays and smelling like pastry. They sat down at a small table in the centre of the room and Percy started scribbling in his notebook as Mrs Milliard began explaining the situation.
“It’s very strange, it’s like our Mech’s gone mad… as if we’ve upset him somehow.” She gazed off into the distance. “My family has owned this pie shop for generations. We were one of the very first shops to open on this street, you know. My great-great-great grandmother came up with the recipe for our pork pies, and they were instantly popular. She worked here until she was nearly ninety, but she refused to give the recipe to anyone, not even her closest relatives. Since my family had made quite a sum of money by then, she decided it would be best to teach it to a Mech instead – ensuring it could never be released, and no one would ever truly know the secret recipe.” Mrs Milliard sighed. “And so it was – my grandfather organised for a Mech to be made, and she passed the secret on to the Artisan who designed it. From the day that the Mech started cooking, no one noticed any difference, and so it’s been, year after year – until last week.”
“Is that when he stopped making the pies correctly?”
“Yes, and it just happened overnight.” Mrs Milliard pointed to a trapdoor in the corner. “I went down to the kitchen, expecting everything to be ready. The pies looked good, but something wasn’t right. I looked at him, and he looked back, but… it’s hard to describe, but it was like he didn’t recognise me, or didn’t want to acknowledge me somehow.”
Percy glanced up from his notebook. “And how would you describe your relationship with your Mech, Mrs Milliard? Are you close?”
Mrs Milliard made eye contact with Percy. “He’s our baker. I would describe our relationship as professional. We have great affection for him, but we always keep work and family separate. A Mech’s place is to serve.”
Ambrose nodded and smiled. He desperately wanted to keep the conversation on track, and a debate about the place of Mechs in society wasn’t going to help anything. “Does your Mech talk?” He enquired.
“No, he’s not designed for that. Simply industrial.” Mrs Milliard sniffed and shifted in her chair. “He’s fit for purpose, and does the job – we’ve never needed him to say anything before, but now it would
certainly be useful.” She sighed, and looked at the trapdoor wistfully. “The pies he’s produced for the last few days, they’ve been terrible. Half-cooked, salty, bland. You name it, he’s doing it wrong. And we can’t just start making them ourselves; no one knows the ingredients or the technique!” She threw her hands up in the air, exasperated. “That’s all there is to know – I have no idea why, but it’s like someone’s come in and changed his nature somehow, so that he wants to hurt us. And it will hurt us; there’s no way we’ll be able to stay open long with this problem – and with all the upset customers, who knows how much damage has already been done?”
Ambrose looked around the room. There was a back door, leading to an alleyway in the middle of the far wall, so it wasn’t inconceivable that someone could get inside. But to change the nature of a Mech – that just wasn’t possible. Mechs had been an important part of the Empire for centuries. Owned by those who could afford them, they had ushered in the Age of Peace, in which The Order ruled the Empire. For centuries, Mechs had formed the backbone of The Order’s power, designed to work and support humans by their very nature. If someone had found a way to alter a Mech’s behaviour it would shake the very foundations of society.
Don’t leap to conclusions. Take the case one step at a time. Ambrose collected his thoughts.
“What’s your Mech’s name?”
“Morris”
“Could we meet Morris? It’s going to go a long way to helping our investigation.”
“Absolutely.” Mrs Milliard replied, as she got up and walked over to the trapdoor. “But you must promise me that you won’t breathe a word of what you see to anyone. Everything about our method is kept strictly confidential, to enable us to stay ahead of our competitors.” Both Ambrose and Percy nodded, the latter still furiously scribbling in his notebook. Mrs Milliard turned and pulled a lever hidden behind one of the pie racks. With a graunch and a groan, the trapdoor opened, and they descended inside to meet Morris the malfunctioning Mech.