Service Model by Adrian Tchaikovsky

Author:Adrian Tchaikovsky
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tor Publishing Group

Transition III

Conservation Farm Project to Central Library Archive

Soon after, Uncharles found himself in possession of the Farm office. Prognosis, against all probability, kept prompting him to expect the imminent entry of Doctor Washburn. The ragged dog-ends of his task list fluttered forlornly like the flags of a defeated army. Small reminders leapt to the forefront of his processing like actors bounding from the wings to deliver a stirring monologue, mouths open and imperious fingers raised—only to slink off shamefacedly a moment later once recent events caught up with them and informed them their services were no longer required.

Much like Uncharles himself.

He had been employed. Compared to the manorial service that he had been designed for, he would not have given his brief period of engagement at the Conservation Farm Project a favourable review. Had, say, some quality control survey arrived from Central Services keen on ensuring that high-end human-facing models like Uncharles were only being utilised in appropriate environments, he would have dispassionately prepared a list of the shortcomings of his situation, vis the lack of a supervising majordomo, the requirement to undertake subsidiary tasks beyond those appropriate for a valet, the lack of clear or appropriate instructions, and the requirement to construct his own task list. It had, all things considered, been decidedly substandard as domestic posts went.

But it had been his. And he could construct a scenario in which, were Doctor Washburn asked to provide his own critique, and be available to provide it, the contents thereof would be pretty negative. Uncharles would not, it was safe to assume, be receiving a good reference.

Adam appeared in one of the doorways, as it had been doing since the unceremonious removal of Doctor Washburn.

Uncharles, your enduring presence on-site is noted.

Adam, confirmed.

Adam did not, of course, explicitly suggest that Uncharles’ continuing lack of absence was unwelcome. As a nonhuman, Uncharles was not covered by Adam’s standing orders, and in the absence of a human of Grade Seven authority or above, it could not commence any course of action that would result in Uncharles’ removal. Nonetheless, Uncharles had the distinct impression that, if it could, it would. Not that Adam would bear him any malice, even if malice was the sort of thing that it could bear. It was just that the orderlies liked a nice, tidy work environment with a minimum of out-of-place elements, and Uncharles could understand that.

At that point, Adam’s other problem arrived and dumped a bulging backpack on Washburn’s desk, scratching the varnish quite badly.

“So, hey,” said the Wonk.

Uncharles tilted his head to indicate that he was attending.

“Got water,” said the Wonk. “Got a bit of fruit. Got a whole load of things in silver packets that are supposed to cook themselves through chemical action. Bet they’re going to taste nummy. Got a couple of real keen-looking kitchen knives in case of, I don’t know, lions maybe. Lions, tigers, and bears. So how about it, tin man? You ready?”

“Kindly confirm what readiness you are referring to.”

“Ready to go, Uncharles.

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