Gascogne! Title is taken from a track on Air's Moon Safari album. And the French language too, I guess
The Money Girl
Gascogne had computed the tremendous effort that went into her existence, once. A collection of wisdom cubes, no small sum of money spent on her construction, an additional fortune spent on funding research, not to mention the material and fuel costs of the field research.
She hadn't been ordered to do it, even. It was something she had done freely, like Master wanted. It had been an intriguing mathematical exercise for all of an afternoon – although it did help hone her research and math skills – before she had the number. It was there, in her memory… and it seemed to crop up again and again during her normal operations.
Richelieu smiled at her. A fraction of a percent of Gascogne's cost went to repairing Richelieu after a Siren shell got too close for comfort. Master had impressed the importance of gratitude upon her recently…
"Thank you, Richelieu."
Richelieu's eyebrows rose, ever so slightly. According to data… indication of surprise. "You're welcome, I suppose, but I don't seem to recall what you're thanking me for."
"Your combat data allowed my existence. That is, as I understand, something worth being thankful for." Gratitude was another one of those mysteries that Master was teaching her about, and they wanted it put into practice…
Again, she smiled. "It was my pleasure, Gascogne. We're all very glad to have you here."
Gascogne didn't have enough data to state what gladness looked like in her own life. Defining pleasure was another work in progress. She plowed through her memory banks, searching for some appropriate response to fill in the gap…
"Do you have plans for lunch, Gascogne?"
"My standing orders for the next… seventy-three minutes are to 'do as I will', no specific orders were given regarding lunch plans," Gascogne informed her.
"Then you're free." Richelieu smiled.
Gascogne supposed it would be a productive exercise, both to collect data and to acquire sustenance.
Four of them sat around a table.
Family was another one of those concepts that Gascogne struggled to understand in the emotional sense. The higher level sense, some might say. If she could understand it as frustration, she might realize she felt some of it about this area of knowledge being blocked off to her. But if she could understand, she wouldn't be in this situation, would she?
But she was. She sat at a table with Richelieu, Jean Bart, and Clemenceau, and she supposed that she should feel something. Was she experiencing it without being able to understand it?
Observation: she was the odd sister out, the one born through the complex, expensive process of nurturing a research ship from a blueprint to a full-fledged warship ready to sail through the seas. Perhaps that explained it: she simply wasn't built like them. Perhaps in some other world, she could have come to be without her deficiencies… but this was the world she lived in now. Master needed her here.
(As did the fleet, she supposed, and her sisters as part of that fleet. However, she hadn't been invited to lunch by any other members of the fleet. Was this an outlier, or the first data point of a new set?)
Jean Bart asked for soda, Richelieu for tea, and Clemenceau asked for an 'Arnold Palmer', a mix of sweet tea and lemonade. Gascogne asked for water. They were all smiling.
"We're glad you decided to join us today, Gascogne," Clemenceau said.
"Thank you for extending your invitation." At the very least, she understood these simple pleasantries. Maybe she didn't grasp the meaning behind them, but there were certain responses expected when she socialized. Thanking generous sponsors and researchers who had helped bring her into being.
They chatted a bit, the conversation veering away from her until they got their drinks. Richelieu took a sip and asked a question: "Is your work going well, Gascogne?"
"None of Master's orders have proved impossible. Most are quite simple."
Gascogne observed the most minute rise of Clemenceau's eyebrows, barely visible at all. Clemenceau chuckled. "Master? Do our friends in Britain have some competition?"
The silence stretched a moment longer than usual, and Gascogne realized that Clemenceau wanted an answer from her. The question she was asking… "The Commander is Master," Gascogne said. That was all there was to the matter.
"Our Commander is very lucky, aren't they?" Clemenceau mused.
(Gascogne had the impression that Clemenceau meant to say more with that statement, something beyond the Commander being fortunate to have a competent worker like Gascogne under them.)
They ordered food, each one of her sisters choosing their 'usual'. Gascogne was not opposed, on principle, to luxury – Master enjoyed their armagnac – but she picked out a menu option that seemed to be a good balance of price and nutrition. A warrior needed her food… and Gascogne didn't wish to make her debts grow too rapidly.
Her hardware seemed to be behaving strangely as she waited for her food. Was she hungrier than she thought? The time seemed to fly by swiftly and yet she was less concerned than usual about her schedule.
When the food arrived, Richelieu prayed. None of her sisters – Gascogne included – did, but they all waited until she finished to begin. Gascogne followed her sister's example without quite knowing why there; usually, she ate quickly and efficiently. That was all her previous lunch-breaks had been: an excursion to acquire calories as swiftly as possible. However, this seemed to make the Commander upset with her performance, leading to them exiling Gascogne from the officer for a time, leading to…
A leisurely discussion over lunch. Rumors of new research ships, discussion of Roon's vivid personality ( a strong contrast to Gascogne's lack of one, others had noted), and many seemingly inconsequential questions about Gascogne herself.
("These questions do not seem to have strategic utility." The entire conversation didn't seem to, not really.
Clemenceau smiled. "The answers are interesting for their own sake." Gascogne had heard girls saying that you couldn't trust what Clemenceau said. She didn't give straight answers. Was that true here? Was it a plan, or genuine interest?)
"Is the Commander treating you well?" Jean Bart asked.
"Do you need someone to help with your workload?" Richelieu wondered.
Yes and no – respectively, for those two questions – weren't sufficient answers, it seemed. This sort of intensive information gathering… perhaps it was part of those mysterious phenomena, loving and liking? Supposedly, if you loved someone, or liked them, you wished to know more.
Strangely, when the meal came to a close, Gascogne felt as if a lot had been done. Nothing of strategic importance occurred and no tactics were shared, but she had a sense of… satisfaction. Like the feeling she got after eating a meal when hungry, but somehow magnified. She was not any hungrier than usual before eating, but she felt more satisfied. Curious.
The bill came, and with it, a little struggle. "I'll pay." Jean Bart said, reaching for her wallet.
"But didn't you pay last week?" Clemenceau asked.
"She did," Richelieu confirmed. "I can…"
"You paid the week before that," Jean replied. "Clemenceau…?"
"I was going to volunteer, of course."Clemenceau laughed.
Gascogne spoke: "Thank you all for lunch."
"You're welcome," Clemenceau replied, "but we shouldn't keep you. Look at the time."
She had spent a longer time eating than she had thought…
The Woman of Silver
When you pricked Gascogne, she bled. Gascogne had data to confirm this, in addition to the simple logic that she was a shipgirl who should, logically, be possessed of the same durability and bodily functions as her comrades. There were a scarce few exceptions: a wound deep enough to draw blood would find none to spill in the right hand of Duca degli Abruzzi.
Gascogne was not made of metal, unless you were referring to her greater self, the one that sat in a drydock. She bled, she thought, and she believed she experienced emotions, even if she had trouble parsing them or even recognizing them as such.
Observation: other ships would sometimes call her 'cold' or 'robotic' when they believed she wasn't listening to them. That seemed to imply they believed it might cause her some offense, but it took a while to understand why they'd think so.
Regarding her temperature, Vestal and Master had both assured her that hers was not abnormal. Her diagnostics said the same. Robotic? She bled, so she was not a robot in that sense. Again, it looped back to the lack of emotion. She was perceived as so unfeeling and emotionless as to be like a machine made of metal, frigid in a way that couldn't be resolved with layers or exercise.
Contemplation of such things grew to be a waste of precious computing time and resources, and so she resolved to find an answer at the source. During a break in both of their duties, Gascogne approached one of the people who had made such comments during a time when they were both free from their duties. A personal matter should not interfere with military affairs, after all.
"Pardon, Miss Hero. Requesting a conversation, if time permits."
"Huh, you wanna talk with me?"
"Correct."
"What, you need some maintenance tips or something?" Was that another comment comparing her to a robot, or did it just refer to her rigging? Data insufficient to draw conclusion…
"According to my memory banks, you said I was, quote, 'cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey.' Do you remember such an incident?"
The smile left Hero's face, but she laughed. Another curious data point. "I don't think I remember anything like that…"
"Eight days and seventeen hours ago, comment made to USS Bache while drinking tea at the Ironblood Maid Cafe." Gascogne reminded her.
"Some memory you've got there. You have a black book somewhere or something like that?"
"I have no grudge with you, Miss Hero." Hero raised an eyebrow, like she didn't believe Gascogne. For what little it was worth, people didn't usually think Gascogne a liar, probably because they didn't think she had the social talent for it. "I simply wish to know why such complaints were not directed to me personally."
"What, you'd prefer if I insulted you to your face?" Hero laughed.
"Question: did you believe I would take offense?"
Hero seemed confused. "What?"
"Your comments, as I understand, referred to a lack of feeling on my part. Am I correct in assuming you think me lacking in emotion?"
"Well, yeah. It took you that long to figure it out?"
"Then why not say as such to my face? Logically, if I am unfeeling as you say, you wouldn't offend me."
Hero's jaw went slack for a moment. "That's your problem with it? Really?"
"If my behavior hurts fleet cohesion, it is my obligation to redress it. If there is any issue with my performance, I would prefer to know about it."
"Here's an issue: you don't know when to end a frickin' convo!" Hero stormed off, and Gascogne was left with fewer answers than she would have liked. Why didn't Hero bring such issues to her?
Gascogne was vaguely aware of the concept of gossip and how some people enjoyed it. Perhaps the matter was simple as that. Or perhaps doing such a thing was a faux pas. (Gascogne had been informed of several faux pas, so she might avoid them, but it was possible to… stumble into one. She had done so before.) Otherwise… perhaps Hero feared repercussions for saying such a thing?
Was… this something that would offend the Commander, should they hear about it? Was this something that would disappoint Queen Elizabeth or the British?
Was this something that would provoke the indignation of her sisters? Gascogne… was uncertain.
The parts of the chapter, Money Girl and Woman of Silver, are both possible translations of the Air song's name. (And the fic title.) Money Girl focuses on Gascogne's value, transferring from a cynical dollars and cents evaluation to sisters that value her for her, Woman of Silver focuses on Gascogne as someone with feelings - someone who isn't just a woman made of metal. There's no idiom like heart of stone relating to silver, though...