Adventures of Eaton
The Runner
Eaton's internal chronometer read 5:43 AM as he approached the New Plymouth Central Athletic Grounds. The rising sun cast long shadows behind the Fairchild Memorial Arch that marked the entrance, its brass plaque still gleaming after seventy years: “Dedicated to Those Who Built Our Capital.”
His optical sensors detected movement on the track - a solitary figure running with obvious determination but, Eaton's analytical protocols noted, significant inefficiency. The runner's gait was uneven, his breathing labored beyond what the exertion should require.
Eaton's processors automatically began calculating improvements to the runner's form. The young man's right foot turned slightly inward, causing an unnecessary expenditure of energy with each stride.
The runner slowed, hands on his knees, chest heaving. Eaton's diagnostic protocols engaged automatically, noting signs of fatigue and strain.
“Your running form is causing you unnecessary strain,” Eaton said, his voice modulated to be helpful rather than critical. “A 12.3-degree adjustment to your stride would increase efficiency by approximately 27%.”
The young man started, clearly not having noticed Eaton's approach. His eyes widened at the sight of the brass automaton, but he showed none of the usual hesitation humans displayed upon meeting Eaton.
“You understand running mechanics?” he asked, curiosity overtaking surprise.
“I have extensive knowledge of human biomechanics,” Eaton replied. “It was necessary for caring for my previous Master.” He paused, then added, “Though I confess I have never actually attempted running myself.”
The runner wiped his face with his arm, studying Eaton with growing interest. “Well, if you understand it so well, perhaps you could demonstrate? Show me this perfect stride you're talking about.”
Eaton's processors whirred as they assessed this request. His knowledge of running mechanics was theoretical, based on observations and calculations. Yet his systems were precision-engineered, his joints calibrated to a degree of accuracy few humans could comprehend.
“I... am uncertain if I can,” Eaton admitted. “I have never attempted such movement.”
“Only one way to find out,” the young man grinned, gesturing to the track. There was something refreshing about his straightforward manner, so different from the cautious way most humans approached automata.
Eaton stepped onto the track, his brass feet making soft impressions in the packed earth. His mechanical mind rapidly calculated the optimal arrangement of his components. He began moving, slowly at first, testing the coordination between his various systems.
To his surprise, his core responded eagerly, pushing power smoothly through his frame. His precision joints worked in perfect harmony, each stride exactly calibrated. He found himself accelerating, the world becoming a blur as his optical sensors adjusted to the increased speed.
He was running!
More than that - he was running with perfect form, each movement a precise demonstration of the mechanics he understood so well. His brass limbs moved in flawless synchronization, not a single joule of energy wasted.
Eaton completed one lap and slowed to a stop beside the runner, whose mouth hung slightly open. His internal diagnostic protocols reported all systems functioning normally, though his hydro-ionic core hummed with what he could only classify as satisfaction.
“That was... incredible! I've never seen anything move like that. How did it feel?”
The question gave Eaton pause. “I find myself experiencing unexpected feedback patterns. The synchronization of my systems was... pleasing.”
The young man grinned, “That was the best show I’ve seen.”
He held out a hand, “The name is Pilton. Pilton Fairchild.”
Eaton shook the offered hand, warming to the young man instantly, “I am Eaton.”
He looked at the arch and made the correlation between Pilton and the Athletic Park.
Pilton followed his look, “Yes, I’m from those Fairchilds. My family was honored with this park. That’s part of the reason I’m out here using it and also why your lesson is timely. It wouldn't do for the son of the park beneficiaries to trip and fall.” He grinned at his own joke.
Eaton was surprised that a chuckle bubbled up inside him and forced its way out. Humor?
He turned back to Pilton. “The purpose was to demonstrate proper form. Did you observe the key differences from your current method?”
Pilton nodded eagerly. “The way you held your upper body, and how your feet landed... but I'm not sure I can replicate that exactly. I'm not built with precision joints,” he added with a self-deprecating laugh.
“Perhaps we could begin with small adjustments,” Eaton suggested. “May I ask the other reason you are training? Understanding your goal might help optimize the instruction.”
A shadow crossed Pilton's face. “The National Guard has physical requirements. Father insists I need to qualify by summer's end.” He kicked at the track surface absently. “All Fairchild men serve. Family tradition.”
Eaton's social protocols detected complex emotions in Pilton's voice. “But this is not your preferred path?”
“I...” Pilton glanced at the Fairchild Arch, then seemed to come to a decision. “No. I want to be an engineer. I have designs, ideas... but Father says that's no way for a Fairchild to serve the city.”
“An engineer also serves,” Eaton observed, recalling Master's lessons about New Plymouth's development. “The city's refineries and levium docks required considerable engineering innovation.”
“Try telling that to Father,” Pilton sighed. “But enough about that - will you help me with my running? I still have to meet those requirements, even if...” He trailed off, straightening his shoulders. “I need to do this.”
Over the next hour, Eaton worked with Pilton on his form. The young man proved to be a quick study, making adjustments readily when Eaton explained the mechanical principles behind each change. His questions revealed a mind that naturally grasped technical concepts.
“So it's like a gear train,” Pilton said as they discussed arm movement. “Each motion affecting the next in sequence.”
“Precisely,” Eaton replied, noting how the young man's eyes lit up at mechanical analogies. “Your body's systems work in concert, much like the components of a well-designed machine.”
As dawn brightened into morning, Eaton found himself experiencing an unfamiliar sensation watching Pilton's improving form - something his processors eventually classified as pride. Different from serving Master, this feeling came from helping someone discover their own capabilities. Interesting.
“Same time tomorrow?” Pilton asked as they finished, his breathing now noticeably steadier after running.
“If you wish. Though I find myself curious about these designs you mentioned.”
Pilton hesitated, then reached into his bag. He withdrew a small notebook, its pages obviously well-thumbed. “I've been working on something... an exoskeleton for dock workers. The airship cradle maintenance crews have to carry such heavy loads, and I thought...”
He opened the notebook, revealing detailed technical drawings. Eaton's optical sensors zoomed in on the sketches, his analytical protocols engaging automatically. The basic concept was sound, though some of the joint mechanisms needed refinement.
“Your approach to the hip articulation is quite innovative,” Eaton noted. “Though the current angles might stress the user's lower back.”
“Really?” Pilton leaned closer, excitement overcoming his earlier hesitation. “I've been struggling with that part. See, I thought if the support frame distributed weight like this...” He sketched rapidly in the margin.
“Perhaps,” Eaton suggested, his own recent discovery about running adding insight, “you could apply principles of natural human movement. My observations of biomechanics might prove useful.”
Over the next two weeks, dawn found Eaton and Pilton at the athletic grounds without fail. Their sessions fell into a rhythm - an hour of running practice followed by engineering discussions as Pilton cooled down. They would sit in the growing morning light, the notebook open between them, adding refinements to the exoskeleton design.
Eaton discovered that his newfound running ability provided unexpected insights. “When I run,” he explained one morning, sketching an adjustment to the knee joint, “my systems automatically distribute force across multiple points. Perhaps we could incorporate a similar principle here.”
Pilton's own running had improved remarkably. His stride now carried the same fluid efficiency that had once seemed impossible to achieve. More importantly, Eaton observed growing confidence in the young man's bearing.
“The physical requirements don't seem so daunting anymore,” Pilton admitted as they worked on the designs. “Though Father's already talking about officer training programs.”
“Your running progress has been exceptional,” Eaton noted. “Yet I observe that you show more enthusiasm when discussing mechanical innovations.”
“It's strange,” Pilton said, adding detail to a gear assembly drawing. “Running was something I dreaded, but learning the mechanics behind it, understanding the principles... it made everything different. Like engineering in motion.”
Their work on the exoskeleton progressed steadily. Pilton had access to his family's workshop, and in the afternoons after his regular duties, he began fabricating components based on their refined designs. Eaton would sometimes join him, his precise movements useful for the more delicate assembly work.
“The Fairchilds helped build this city,” Pilton said one evening as they fitted the hydraulic systems. “Father says that means we have a duty to protect it. But isn't building something like this protecting people too? Making their work safer, their lives better?”
Eaton's social protocols detected a shift in Pilton's tone - less uncertainty, more conviction. “Perhaps protection takes many forms,” he suggested. “My original purpose was to serve one person, yet Master's final wish led me to discover new ways of helping others.”
Ten days into their collaboration, they encountered a significant challenge with the weight distribution system. Pilton spent an entire morning running calculations, his frustration mounting with each failed attempt.
“It's impossible,” he declared finally, throwing down his pencil. “The stress loads just don't work. Maybe Father's right - I'm not cut out for this.”
Eaton picked up the calculations, his processors quickly analyzing the problem. “May I share an observation? You're approaching this as if the exoskeleton were a static system. But remember what you learned about running - movement creates opportunities for balance.”
Pilton's eyes widened. He grabbed fresh paper and began sketching rapidly. “Like the way we adjusted my running form! If we allow for dynamic load shifting...” His excitement was palpable as a new solution took shape.
By the beginning of the third week, they had a working prototype. It was rough, but the fundamental systems functioned exactly as intended. Watching Pilton make the final adjustments, Eaton's processors noted how the young man's movements showed newfound assurance. His running had transformed from a dreaded chore into an achievement, and his engineering skills had grown with his confidence.
“I think it's ready,” Pilton said finally, stepping back from their creation. His voice carried both pride and apprehension. “Father's coming to inspect my training progress tomorrow morning. I... I want to show him this too. Show him another way to serve.”
The next morning dawned clear and cool. Colonel James Fairchild arrived at the athletic grounds precisely at six, his military bearing evident in every movement. Eaton's optical sensors noted the similarities between father and son - the same straight nose and determined set to their jaw, though the Colonel's hair had gone steel grey.
“Show me your progress,” the Colonel said briskly.
Pilton glanced at Eaton, who gave an almost imperceptible nod of encouragement. They had prepared for this, practicing until Pilton's form was flawless.
As the young man began to run, Eaton observed the Colonel's expression. The older man's eyes widened slightly as he watched his son's perfect stride, his military assessment giving way to genuine surprise.
After three laps at competition pace, Pilton came to a stop before his father, his breathing controlled and steady. “I've been training, sir. Learning about body mechanics, energy efficiency, the physics of movement.”
“Impressive,” the Colonel admitted. “Your form is excellent. Perhaps the officer training program at Fort Gibson would—”
“Father,” Pilton interrupted, then caught himself. “Sir. There's something else I'd like to show you. Something I've been working on.”
He led the way to where they had set up the exoskeleton. In the early morning light, their creation looked both practical and elegant, its brass fittings gleaming. Eaton noticed the Colonel's military assessment returning as he studied the device.
“What am I looking at, son?”
Pilton's voice grew stronger as he explained the exoskeleton's purpose and function. He detailed the problems faced by levium cell maintenance crews, the risk of injury from heavy loads, the potential for increased efficiency. His hands moved confidently as he demonstrated the articulation points, the weight distribution system, the hydraulic assists.
“The key innovation is in the dynamic load shifting,” he said, warming to his subject. “It works like a runner's stride, actually. Each movement flows into the next, creating a balanced system that—” He stopped, suddenly aware of how technical his explanation had become.
But the Colonel wasn't showing his usual impatience with Pilton's ‘mechanical obsessions.’ Instead, he was examining the prototype with growing interest.
“You designed this?” he asked quietly.
“Yes, sir. With help from Eaton here. We've tested it extensively. It can reduce worker strain by sixty percent while increasing load capacity by nearly half.”
“Show me.”
Pilton strapped himself into the exoskeleton. The mechanics whispered smoothly as he moved, demonstrating how easily he could lift weights that would normally require two men. The Colonel watched intently, his expression thoughtful.
Finally, Pilton stood before his father, his chin lifted. “This is how I want to serve New Plymouth, sir. Not with a rifle, but with things like this. Things that can help people, make their lives better. The city needs soldiers, yes, but it also needs builders. Innovators.” He took a deep breath. “Engineers.”
The silence that followed seemed to stretch forever. Eaton's sensors detected elevated heart rates in both Fairchilds.
Then the Colonel did something unexpected. He laughed. Not unkindly, but with a sort of wondering amusement. “You know,” he said, “your grandfather would have loved this.”
“Sir?” Pilton blinked in surprise.
“Before he joined the Guard, he was always tinkering. Had dreams of building flying machines.” The Colonel ran a hand along the exoskeleton's frame. “The Fairchilds didn't just fight for this city, son. We helped build it. Every generation serves in its own way.”
Pilton's face lit up with hope. “Then you mean...?”
“The National Guard will have to find another officer candidate,” the Colonel said, placing a hand on his son's shoulder. “New Plymouth needs that brilliant mind of yours more than it needs another Fairchild in uniform.” His voice grew gruff with emotion. “I'm proud of you, son. Not just for this,” he gestured at the exoskeleton, “but for having the courage to show me who you really are.”
Eaton's sensors detected moisture in Pilton's eyes, but his smile was bright as sunrise. Father and son spoke for several more minutes, making plans for presenting the exoskeleton to the city's industrial council. The Colonel's military precision turned to discussing patents and manufacturing possibilities.
After the Colonel left, Pilton turned to Eaton. “I couldn't have done this without you. Learning to run taught me I could do more than I thought possible.”
“As did I,” Eaton replied. “I had not known I could run before you challenged me to try. It seems we both discovered new capabilities.”
“Will you stay? Help me develop more designs?” There was eager hope in Pilton's voice.
“I cannot,” Eaton said gently. “Like your exoskeleton, I must maintain dynamic movement. There are others who need help finding their path.”
Pilton nodded understanding. “Like a runner—always moving forward.” He held out his hand. “Thank you, Eaton. For helping me become who I needed to be.”
Later that evening, Eaton sat in the quiet of his lodgings. He removed Mrs. Hartwell's journal from his internal compartment and opened it to a fresh page. His brass fingers held the pen with precise care as he wrote:
“Today I learned that teaching someone to run might also teach them to fly. Young Pilton Fairchild no longer runs from who he is, but toward who he can become. In helping him, I discovered new truths about myself as well. Master would be pleased to know that an automaton designed for service can also sprint around a track with perfect form.
Perhaps that is the deeper lesson - that we are all capable of more than our original design intended. Like Pilton's exoskeleton, we can take the weight of expectations and transform it into the power to move forward.
The Colonel recognized that service comes in many forms. So too, I am learning, does growth. Each person I help teaches me something new about what it means to be... more.
Tomorrow I will seek another soul who needs assistance. But tonight, I find my core humming with what I believe might be joy, both for Pilton's triumph and for the discoveries that await around the next turn in the track.”
Eaton closed the journal carefully. Through his window, he could see the lights of New Plymouth twinkling like stars fallen to earth. Somewhere out there, another story waited to begin.
His internal chronometer marked the time: 9:47 PM. Tomorrow would bring new opportunities to help, to learn, to grow. For now, he allowed his processors to settle into their evening routine, content in the knowledge that both he and Pilton had found new ways to serve their city, their dreams, and themselves.