Adventures of Eaton

Street Smart (Part 1)

Eaton's optical sensors tracked the small figure scaling the drainage pipe with impressive agility. The boy moved with practiced efficiency, each handhold chosen perfectly despite the pre-dawn darkness. Most observers would have missed him entirely — which was, Eaton's processors concluded, precisely the point.

His analysis protocols had been following this particular youth for three days, ever since witnessing him pick the pocket of a well-dressed businessman with remarkable dexterity. The boy couldn't be more than thirteen, but his movements showed the expertise of someone who had survived on New Plymouth's streets far longer than any child should.

The youth reached a window ledge and froze, becoming nearly invisible in the shadows. Eaton's enhanced vision noted how the boy's threadbare clothes were carefully chosen in colors that blended with the city's stonework. Even his small size was used to advantage, allowing him to hide in spaces others would overlook.

“Stealing from Murphy's Mechanicals would be unwise,” Eaton said, pitching his voice to carry just far enough. “Their security system includes pressure plates beneath the floorboards.”

The boy nearly lost his grip in surprise, head snapping around to locate the source of the voice. When he spotted Eaton standing below, his face twisted into a scowl.

“Mind your own business, brass man,” he hissed, though Eaton noted he was already plotting an alternate descent route.

“I calculate a 73.4% chance of apprehension if you proceed,” Eaton continued calmly. “The night watchman changes shift in twelve minutes, which is insufficient time to bypass their internal protections.”

The boy's scowl deepened, but Eaton could see him processing this information. After a moment, he began climbing down — using a completely different route than his ascent, Eaton noted with interest.

Once on the ground, the youth straightened to his full, if limited, height. “You're that busybody helper automaton everyone's talking about, ain't you? The one who goes around sticking his brass nose in other people's business?”

“I am Eaton. And you are Stewart Clyde, though you prefer to be called Bug.”

The boy's face hardened. “Been asking about me, have you? Well save your helping for someone who wants it. I do fine on my own.”

“The night watchman's change occurs at this same time each evening,” Eaton noted. “But you already knew that. Just as you knew about the back entrance's faulty lock and the blind spot in their window coverage. Your analysis protocols are quite sophisticated.”

Bug's eyes narrowed suspiciously, trying to detect mockery in Eaton's tone. Finding none, he shrugged. “Simple observation. Anyone could figure it out if they bothered to pay attention.”

“Yet most do not. They fail to notice patterns, to analyze systems for weaknesses. These are valuable skills.”

“Yeah? Well these 'valuable skills' keep me fed.” Bug started walking away, his stride deliberately casual but his path taking advantage of available cover. “So you can go help someone else. I don't need saving.”

“The Wilson Home for Young Men has three vacancies,” Eaton said to Bug's retreating back. “As does the Presbyterian Orphanage on Maple Street.”

Bug stopped. When he turned, his face was fierce. “Been in both. And Saint Michael's, and the Methodist Home, and every other cage in this city. Rather sleep in gutters than let them lock me up again.” His voice dropped to a harsh whisper. “You don't know nothing about me, meddling machine man.”

“I know that James Clyde was respected among the factory workers at Harrison Industrial. That he taught you to read blueprints before you started primary school. That after the accident—”

“Shut up!” Bug's composed facade cracked. “Just... shut up! You don't get to talk about him.”

Eaton's social protocols registered the raw pain in the boy's voice. “Your father valued education. Valued skilled work. The path you're on—”

“The path I'm on keeps me free,” Bug snapped. “And I don't need some fancy automated idiot telling me how to live my life. Go shine some shoes and leave me alone.”

He darted away into the pre-dawn shadows, his movement patterns clearly designed to prevent following. Eaton remained still, his processors analyzing their interaction.

Bug's technical aptitude was evident in how he had cased Murphy's Mechanicals. His understanding of systems and security showed a mind that could be turned to more productive uses. But first, Eaton's algorithms suggested, the boy would need to trust someone enough to listen.

“Very well,” Eaton said quietly to the empty street. “We shall try a different approach.”

Over the next week, Eaton made himself visible but unobtrusive wherever Bug operated. If the boy was casing a shop, he'd find Eaton examining something nearby. When he slipped through market crowds hunting marks, a brass figure would be reflected in store windows. Never approaching, never preaching — just present.

“You're starting to affect my business,” Bug finally confronted him one morning. “Hard to work with a big shiny lawman following me around.”

“I am not a lawman,” Eaton replied. “Merely an observer. Like yourself.”

“Yeah? What exactly are you observing?”

“An individual with exceptional spatial awareness, advanced problem-solving capabilities, and remarkable manual dexterity.” Eaton's head tilted slightly. “Though your latest target seems somewhat beneath your skills.”

Bug blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“The locksmith's shop you've been studying. A simple mechanism, hardly worth your expertise. The bank two streets over has a much more sophisticated security system. Of course, I couldn't recommend attempting either,” Eaton added, “but from a purely technical standpoint...”

For a moment, professional interest overcame Bug's hostility. “You know about their security?”

“I make it my business to understand systems. As do you.” Eaton paused. “The difference is, I was built for it. You taught yourself. Most impressive.”

Bug's face shuttered again, but not before Eaton caught a flicker of pride. “If you're trying to trick me into reforming—”

“I am merely making an observation. Though since you mention it, Murphy's Mechanicals is currently seeking an apprentice locksmith. Someone who understands how mechanisms work. And fail.”

“Right. They're really going to hire a street rat.” Bug's voice was bitter. “Bet they'd love having someone like me around their valuables.”

“They hired Thomas Corra's daughter after she broke into their shop to study their new magnetic actuated bolt designs. She now runs their research division.” Eaton watched Bug process this. “Skill often matters more than background, if given a chance to prove itself.”

“And I suppose you'd put in a good word for me?” Bug's tone was sarcastic, but Eaton detected genuine curiosity beneath it.

“I would not presume to speak for you. You've made it clear you stand on your own.” Eaton began walking away, then added, “Though if someone were to demonstrate their lock-working abilities during business hours, they might find Murphy more impressed than angry.”

For the next few days, Eaton observed Bug lingering near Murphy's Mechanicals during business hours. The boy would pretend to be watching the airships overhead, but his attention remained fixed on the shop's operations. His practiced nonchalance couldn't hide his growing interest — at least not from Eaton's careful sensors.

“They'd just turn me in,” Bug said abruptly one morning, appearing beside Eaton at the observation rail. “Moment I walk in there, they'll call the police.”

“You've been watching them for three days. What have your observations told you about their character?”

Bug was quiet for a moment. “Old Murphy's fair with his workers. Lets them use the shop after hours for their own projects.” His fingers drummed on the rail. “But that's different. They're proper folks, not...” He trailed off.

“Not what?”

“You know what I am.” Bug's voice turned harsh. “Street trash. Thief. Orphan. Nobody wants that kind around, 'cept to throw in some home or prison.”

“You speak from experience.”

Something in Eaton's tone made Bug glance up sharply. When he found no pity there, only patient attention, words started spilling out.

“First place they sent me, after Dad... they acted like they were doing me such a favor. 'Poor unfortunate child.' Locked us in at night, made us pray for our souls every morning. Couldn't even go to the privy without permission.” His hands clenched. “Second place was worse. Matron used to check our pockets every night, like we were born criminals. Third place...”

He stopped, swallowing hard. “Dad used to let me help him with repairs around the house. Said I had a natural talent for seeing how things fit together. In those places, they wouldn't even let us touch tools. Said boys like us couldn't be trusted.”

“So you left.”

“So I left. Every single one. And yeah, maybe I steal now, but at least I'm free. At least I'm not...” His voice caught. “At least I'm not locked up, waiting for someone to decide what I'm worth.”

Eaton was quiet for a moment, processing. “When Master gave me my final instructions, some suggested I should be reprogrammed for a new household. It would have been... safer. More acceptable.”

Bug looked surprised at this shift in conversation, but listened.

“They believed an automaton should not be independent. That I required someone else to determine my purpose.” Eaton's gears whirred softly. “They were incorrect.”

“That's different,” Bug muttered, but with less certainty.

“Is it? We both saw our chance and chose freedom over others' expectations. The difference is only in how we use that freedom.”

Bug scuffed his worn boot against the ground, considering. “When Dad first taught me about locks... it wasn't about breaking them. It was about fixing them. Understanding how they work.” A faint smile touched his face. “He used to say every mechanism tells a story, if you know how to listen.”

“An astute observation,” Eaton noted. “What stories have Murphy's locks been telling you?”

“They're quality work. Precision built.” Bug's voice took on a technical tone that reminded Eaton of his father. “But they're still using the old tumbler design from Harrison's. Lots of ships are switching to those new magnetic locks — they'd need someone who understands both styles to keep up with changes.”

“An interesting analysis.”

“Yeah, well...” Bug's guard started to rise again. “Doesn't matter anyway. Even if Murphy didn't turn me in, no one's going to apprentice street trash.”

“Humans often make assumptions about capability based on circumstance,” Eaton observed. “When I first began helping others, many doubted an automaton could understand human needs. I found it necessary to demonstrate my abilities rather than argue about them.”

Bug was quiet for a long time, watching workers enter Murphy's shop for the morning shift. Finally, he said, “Dad would've hated seeing me steal. He believed in honest work, building things that last.” His voice dropped to barely a whisper. “I miss his workshop. Miss the smell of metal shavings and oil. Miss feeling proud of what we made.”

Eaton's social protocols registered this moment of vulnerability for the gift it was. “Perhaps,” he suggested gently, “you could honor those memories by building something new from them.”

“Maybe.” Bug straightened suddenly, his face setting in determination. “That lock they've got on display in the window — I spotted three ways it could be improved. If someone wanted to make it more secure against the new thermal picks showing up down at the docks.”

“An interesting observation. One that might be worth sharing.”

Bug shot him a quick look. “You really think old Murphy would listen to someone like me?”

“I think,” Eaton replied carefully, “that skill speaks for itself, if given voice. Though perhaps cleaning up first might be advisable.”

For the first time, a real smile flashed across Bug's face. “Trying to fancy me up, brass man?”

“Merely suggesting that presentation can affect how information is received. I believe the public baths open in twenty-three minutes.”