Chapter 17 - Following Orders

Vimes frowned. Just as he had been about to explain what he wanted Bott to do, her doppelganger had barged into the room uninvited, demanding that he discharge the Constable from the Watch, and accusing him of 'drafting' her - which turned out to be a funny foreign word for conscription. He raised an eyebrow - as if anyone in their right mind would conscript anyone as perky and annoying as Bott.

"We did not conscript your so-called 'simple minded twin sister'," he said, for the second time. "She volunteered, and has been duly sworn in. And," his voice grew harder, "she isn't your twin sister; she is a mechanical golem fashioned in your likeness by an evil genius named Warren. She told us so, and my werewolf confirms it, so don't bore us all by lying."

Buffy blinked and stared accusingly at Buffybot, who was standing smartly to attention besides Vimes' desk. Buffybot looked at the toes of her military issue boots .

"Oh boy." Buffy leant forward and rapped her on the helmet, making it ring. "You are in so much trouble when we get home, Bottie."

There was a very pointed clearing of the throat somewhere below her, and she looked down. The dwarf with the strangely ringleted beard and the oversize earrings was scowling at her. She scowled back. No fashion-challenged dwarf was beating her in the scowling stakes.

The dwarf gazed up at her fiercely through bushy eyebrows. "Just what gives you the right to order Buffy around? She's a free dwarf ... woman ... bot."

Buffy scowled more. "I'm called Buffy; she is called ..."

"Der lance constable is a fully paid up member of der union. She can now dis-aggre-gate herself from der oppressive slave economy of der Revello Drive regime." Oh boy, it was the troll. The really hugely enormous troll, who was carrying Porphyry casually over one shoulder. He was scowling as well, and twiddling a dial on the huge helmet that sat on his rock-like head.

"And, she's enrolled in the Watch." That was the sergeant. The slim, blonde and tall sergeant, with the alarming golden eyes. Were they golden a minute ago? Buffy couldn't remember.

"Which means, she doesn't have to go anywhere with you if she doesn't want to," finished the dwarf triumphantly.

The troll nodded. "She is emancipated, and has thrown off der shackles of your autocratic oppression. She is a free Bot." He laid a huge and heavy hand on Buffybot's shoulder.

Buffy glared accusingly at Bottie, who had straightened up and was beaming proudly, clearly thrilled that so many people were interested in her future. What had she been telling these guys? And since when was she a slave in Revello Drive? She was a robot; she liked taking orders. "She is a robot," she said, trying to keep her tone reasonable, and then losing it a little. "She has a serial number printed on her ass!"

"She is not a number," said the troll solemnly, "And we is refusing to tolerate your intolerance." He twiddled the temperature control on his helmet rather self consciously, as dry ice wafted around his temples.

"Shame on you," added the dwarf, nodding vigorously.

Buffy's jaw hung open, and she turned to Vimes.

"Don't look at me," he said, waving a dismissive hand. "I've already been through this routine. We're very progressive in Ankh Morpork - rights for all, including dwarfs, trolls, zombies - and golems. Employing Lance Constable Bott here is just a new, wonderful opportunity for us to embrace diversity and a vibrant multicultural future."

"Hear, hear!" cried Captain Carrot.

Vimes spared him a quick glance, and then turned back to Buffy. "If she wants to stay, she stays - though you could ask her nicely to go with you," he added, unable to keep the hope out of his voice.

Spike and Lady Margolotta had retired to her tasteful town house, to wait out the daylight. Heavy black drapes hung at the windows and candles cut through the perpetual gloom, striking reflections from the gilt furnishings, the rich fabrics, and a series of huge oil paintings that depicted some of the gorier scenes from Uberwaldian history. Spike lay back on the chaise longue, taking a leisurely sip of his drink. Then he sat up hurriedly, grimaced and held his glass up to the candlelight. The liquid inside it was red, sticky, and salty, with a distinctive metallic tang. Sadly, though, his taste buds told him it was tomato juice with bitters, and completely haemoglobin free. He put it down on the little fancy table beside him. Trust his luck to wind up with a bunch of vampires who didn't suck so much as a throat pastille these days.

Lady Margolotta patted his thigh. "You get used to it, Spike my dear," she said comfortingly, "after the first twenty years or so."

She leaned forward and her milky white bosom strained against the tightly laced bodice of her dress. Spike brightened; perhaps this place wasn't too bad after all. He looked up at her through his lashes. "So, tell me Lady M, which of your natural urges do you still feel the need to satisfy these days?"

Lady Margolotta laughed, and struck his arm with her fan. "Naughty man." Her eyes darkened to black, and ridges began to appear over her beautifully manicured eyebrows. Her teeth lengthened, and her tongue flicked out between her ruby lips. "I may decide to discipline you if continue to be so very forward."

Spike smirked. "And I may decide to let you."

Lady Margolotta swept the fancy table with the glass of tomato juice aside and pounced on him, pinning him to the chaise longue in one easy movement. Spike growled, and rolled with Lady Margolotta in his arms. He landed on the floor in a sea of tomato juice, Lady Margolotta on top of him. "This is more like it," he said, grinning.

Then he thrust Lady Margolotta roughly aside, dragged himself jerkily to his feet, and began to the head for the door. "Bugger it," he cried furiously over his shoulder, "It's that bastard Winkelson and his sodding ring!" He turned his head with great difficulty towards Lady Margolotta, who had already risen to her feet, and smoothed her hair. "Chuck a blanket over me before I make it out of the front door, I'm going to burn otherwise." He ripped the handle off the door in front of him, paused, and then walked through it with a splintering crunch, and stepped into the hall, moving like a like a wind-up soldier. His lips had almost frozen now, as Winkelson's spell gained complete ascendancy, but still audible was a monotonous, "bugger, bugger, bugger!" as he marched down the hall towards the front portico and the drizzly grey street outside.

……………

Buffy paced up and down, watching Igor's back as he bent over his work. Vimes had asked her to wait downstairs, and she'd been happy to go. The solid wall of disapproval emanating from Buffybot's military companions was galling. And totally unfair, she told herself. In no way was Buffybot a slave. Even if she did do all the housework. And the cooking. And the shopping ... and of course she'd painted the trim this year, and Buffy was still trying to decide what shade to get her to paint the rest of the house in spring. But still.

Buffy shook her head irritably, and looked over at Igor. One of his shoulders was significantly higher than the other - not because he was hump backed, she noted absently, but simply because one of his arms came in a different, larger size. Meeting Igor for the first time had come as a bit of a shock, since in her past experience, people sewn together out the bits of other people had never been good thing. But Igor seemed to buck the trend, and besides, she recognised an artist when saw one. She had passed Porphyry into his mismatched hands, and now she was anxiously awaiting the outcome.

Igor put down his tools and straightened his back with a big sigh. "There, done. Thome of my finest work, I do believe." He looked earnest. "Dead flesh is tho much more difficult. Muthy, and very liable to tearing. Luckily I've invented a new type of glue. I've been trying it out on Lance Constable Shoe, and he hasn't lost a finger in ages. He held up a small pot with a skull and crossbones on it."Zombie Goo, I call it. And I've got a slogan, 'Zombie Goo is good for you - stop the rot with this monster pot!" He beamed proudly. "Mr Dibbler and I are going into bithneth together to make our fortune. I've got the product and the capital. He'th got the marketing skillth."

Buffy raised an eyebrow. "Did this guy Dibbler try and sell you insurance while he was at it?" she asked, taking the pot and holding it up to light. The black stinky contents of the pot stirred, and belched, and she startled, nearly dropping it.

"It reacts with light, mithtress." Igor took the pot from her carefully, and placed it on a dark shelf. "But luckily I am inthured with Mr Dibbler, as you thay."

Buffy drummed her fingers on the table, looking at the prone Porphyry, whose head was back to the traditional lumpy troll shape. "He's looking good - well, as good as he can look." She lowered her voice a little. "Um, I don't suppose you were able to do anything about the dental hygiene issue?"

Igor shook his head."Thath's a natural phenomenom, mithreth. A byproduct of their insides breaking down by putrefaction. Troll zombies sometimes immobilise their prey by spitting up their own rotting intestines over them. It's very interesting, biologically thpeaking."

"Hey, shouldn't that be 'thometimes?' asked Buffy, looking suspicious. And 'thpitting'. And 'intethtines', come to that? And you said 'monster' a minute ago."

Igor blushed. "Thorry mithreth. It's just when things get scientific - thientific, I mean - I thometimes forget. I thpent thome time as a young Igor not lithping at all. Thought it was old fathioned. But we all learn from our mithtakes. And I'm older and wither now."

Buffy waved a hand. "Whatever. I mean I can see the sinister lisp is part of the whole Frankenstein's monster vibe you've got going here, but there's no need to impress me. I'm just passing through. Hey!" She grinned, 'sinister lisp' is thinithter lithp! Try saying that three times fast!"

Igor slammed his book shut, and began to put his needles and thread away. "Thath's kind of you, of course, mithreth," he said a little stiffly, "but one likes to keep up the family traditionth. I darethay thith Mr Frankenthtein you mention feelth the thame way."

Buffy shut up, feeling a little sheepish. Then, after a moment, she pointed at the unmoving figure on the slab. "So, when do you expect him to wake up?"

"I thall have to consult my almanac," said Igor, picking up a large black book and riffling through the pages. "Not that it'th ever right, but thtill it's nice to have an idea of what the weather will do - however wrong that idea turnth out to be in the end." He read a few lines and clicked his tongue. "Theemth it will be raining frogth in Klatch next Tuethday. Pity I didn't check that earlier. Frogth are always useful in my line of work."

Buffy frowned. "What's the weather got to do with it? Or frogs?"

"Lightning," said Igor succinctly, and with no lisp at all.

Buffy looked at the enormous lightning conductor running up through the centre of the room. She'd wondered why that was there. "You mean he won't wake up until you zap him with lightning?" she said slowly.

Igor shook his head. "Oh goodneth me, no. He'th dead you thee. It needs an outthide force to animate him. He'th not going anywhere til we have a good old fathioned thunder and lightning thtorm." He looked wistful. "I do mith the old country thometimes. Electrical thtormth nightly. Here in Ankh Morpork, you'll be lucky to get two in a month, if that. Today, for exthample, we'll be getting nothing more than drizzle."

Buffy goggled. "What! Two a month! You've got to be kidding me. I can't stay here for weeks waiting for an electrical storm to come along."

"Thorry, mithreth," Igor shrugged. "But that'th the way it ith. He'th not going anywhere today."

At which point Porphyry slid his legs over the edge of the table, felled Igor from behind with one massive blow, walked through the wall of the Watch House, and disappeared into the street, leaving a gaping, zombie-sized hole behind him.