A Midsummer Night's Steampunk

by Scott E. Tarbet

  Clementine gripped his fingers like a drowning woman. “And I love you. And I always shall. You and no one else.” She searched his eyes, grieved at what she saw. “But I see that you intend to obey.”

  “If it were up to me . . . but I am constrained. Duty and honor demand that I comply with his wishes. He is the head of the family.”

  “And the source of your living. And your mother’s.”

  “It is true. My father did not leave us with wealth. I can only hope to better my circumstances through my own efforts.”

  “With the sponsorship of Marlborough.”

  “Yes, with his sponsorship. I am to stand for Parliament in the upcoming by-elections. His Grace, with his entire political party and faction, are bent on my immediate installation in the House of Commons. His Grace considers the match with Pauline to be most fitting. With political advantages.”

  “But she’s the daughter of a shopkeeper! And not even English!”

  “Artificer to the Crown,” Winston offered lamely.

  “Whereas I am a fatherless girl, of no political importance.”

  The silence stretched between them. The truth stung, unanswered, confirmed.

  “So I bring you no political advantage. You say that duty and honor compel you to obey. But what of your duty and honor to me? What of the promises we have made each other? Is His Grace aware of our understanding?”

  Winston’s stare was fixed over her shoulder on the waters of the Serpentine. She saw him blink back tears, set his jaw, and straighten his spine. She knew the signs. He had fixed his mind. He would press forward, certain in his cause. And wasn’t this iron will, this dogged determination, part of what had compelled her to love him?

  “I must apologize most humbly,” he said at last. “I had no right to allow my affections to stray from the bounds of my family’s arrangements.” For a moment he melted, and searched her eyes. “But how could I help but love you?”

  Then the steel was back in his jaw, and his eyes returned to the water. “Clemmie, my dear, sweet Clemmie! I have wronged you. But I have no choice.”

  Clementine looked at him a moment, then released his hands. “Would you be so kind as to help me mount, sir?”

  From the back of her horse, Clementine looked down at Winston for several long moments, her face hard. “Good day, Mr. Churchill. Nay, good bye. I wish you and Pauline all the best. I can only wish that I had the advantages to offer you that she does.”

  She rode away, gathering Jenkins in her wake. She looked back only once. Winston stood staring forlornly after her. She managed to wait until she was certain she was out of sight before she dissolved into tears.

  ~*~*~*~*~

  Ernst Spiegel stood at the door of the Golden Gear and marveled as Shaka, Malieux’s towering mech, disappeared down the street carrying a crate too heavy for four men. He shook his head, bemused, and turned to Pauline. “Always I have tried to make machinery that lightens the burdens of my fellow man. But this Malieux—he turns his fellow man into a beast of burden.”

  Staring after the gleaming black mech, both father and daughter were oblivious to the horseman who quietly drew up behind them. Winston dismounted and stood, uncharacteristically subdued, waiting for them to notice him. Turning back to the door of the Golden Gear, Ernst recognized him with a start.

  “Lieutenant, wie zufällig! How fortunate you have come! Welcome, sir. Welcome! Your mother wrote to say that you had arrived from Egypt. We were speaking of you not ten minutes since.”

  “Herr Spiegel, my dear sir, how wonderful to find you in good health,” he said. “And dearest Pauline, how you have blossomed into the very rose of womanhood.” He bent over her hand, but she withdrew it abruptly. Her answer was chilly.

  ”How honeyed your words are, Winston, especially since your correspondence with my friend Clementine has been so . . . extensive. She says you write her the most fascinating letters, nearly every week. Since you have written me briefly no more than once or twice per year, one must assume that your affections had blossomed, and not in my direction.”

  The lieutenant’s smile was forced, but he waved a dismissive hand. “A trifle, my dear, I assure you. Nothing could possibly eclipse my devotion to you. Our betrothal is of long standing, as is the connection between our families.”

  She turned away. “Mr. Churchill, I would like you to meet my close friend Alexander MacIntyre, undersecretary in Her Majesty’s household.”

  The lieutenant turned to Alexander, who stood half a head taller, and grasped his hand. “Mr. MacIntyre, Lieutenant Winston Leonard Spencer-Churchill. I am pleased to finally make your acquaintance.”

  “Pleased, I’m sure,” Alexander replied curtly.

  Churchill’s manner remained bluff and cheery. “I’m so very grateful for the kind attentions you have paid Miss Spiegel in my absence. Our mutual friend, Clementine Hozier, informs me that your courtesies have been considerable.”

  “I would say, sir, that your correspondence with my dear friend far surpasses mere courtesy,” said Pauline.

  Churchill’s face briefly betrayed his unhappiness. “Miss Hozier is a dear friend. But in view of my betrothal to you, it is all she can ever be. She understands that plainly.”

  Pauline’s eyes narrowed. “A recent development?”

  Winston looked away. “Very recent.”

  “All the more reason for me to eschew any attachment with you.” She turned to her father. “Papa, I love you, but I would rather die single than yield to being mastered by any man, including Mr. Churchill. Especially Mr. Churchill. I believe,” she announced flatly, “I should have the right to decide for myself, and I choose Alexander.”

  Winston shook his head. “Pauline, I think in time you will come to understand your father’s wisdom. And Mr. MacIntyre will as well. He certainly doesn’t want you to be made unhappy by flouting your duty to your parents.”

  “Mr. Churchill, I have Pauline’s love,” Alex said. “You do seem to have Herr Spiegel’s. Why don’t you just marry him instead?”

  Winston looked startled a moment, then chuckled. “Well spoken, sir. But in time I am confident I shall win both.”

  Alexander’s face was grim. “And I am confident that you shall not. Instead, I believe Herr Spiegel will, in the end, consider Pauline’s happiness paramount. I’ve heard from more than one source about your attachment to Pauline’s friend Clementine. She would make you a fine match. Why not set your sights there?”

  “To be fair, Winston,” Ernst interjected, “I have heard the same thing. Perhaps there is more to be considered here.”

  “Herr Spiegel,” said Winston, “I assure you that my heart is fixed upon honoring my family’s desires—particularly those of the duke—in this matter, and on nothing else.”

  “So your heart is not especially fixed on me,” noted Pauline wryly.

  “Of course on you, my dear!” said Winston. “Of course, that is what I meant to say.” He turned back to Herr Spiegel and very deliberately changed tack. “Sir, was that not a large mech that I passed carrying a crate away from your establishment?”

  “Indeed it was,” Ernst answered, more than happy with the change in subject. “And a very fine order, too.”

  “I encountered mechs on the docks of Portsmouth and in the sugarcane fields of Cuba. Miserable wretches. And such a one frequents the Golden Gear?”

  “His master, Doctor Malieux, has been a very good customer for many years. The mech is his porter.”

  “May I be so bold as to inquire what was in the case?”

  “You may indeed: fine machine parts for the refitting of injured and ill-working men. Doctor Malieux is responsible for the invention of many of the industrial refits given so many of our wounded soldiers.”

  “I know him by reputation, of course,” Churchill said. “It was he who began mechanizing men twenty-odd years ago. Ever since then, their numbers have been rising. Not just here, but in the Caribbean and wherever industrial labor is in demand.”
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br />   “Indeed, sir. If, as your mother says, you are intent on standing for the House of Commons, certainly the plight of these poor devils is of concern to you.”

  “Of course! The English working man, including he with mechanical enhancements, is the backbone of the nation. I intend to champion his rights.”

  Alexander snorted. “Champion the rights of mechanical men? I fear, sir, that you will find yourself on the wrong side of history.”

  Winston chuckled. “History will be kind to me, because I intend to write it. My volumes on the River War in the Sudan have already garnered favorable attention.”

  “Historians dwell too much in the past. Dusty books, dead languages . . .”

  “On the contrary, sir. History has much to teach us. The farther backward you can look, the farther forward you are likely to see.” He turned back to Spiegel. “May I venture a guess that the mech is an early example of his type, from the African wars, perhaps?”

  “Yes indeed. From the Zulu War. The gentleman is called Shaka. He was once a mighty Zulu warrior, felled in battle.”

  “Lucky to be alive,” Churchill said. “Our boys killed thousands of them.”

  “Yes, and at Isandlwana they killed thousands of ours. With not much more than spears and cowhide shields.”

  “An amazing race, the Zulus.”

  “This one in particular. The lower half of his body was carried away by a cannon ball and he was left for dead. Dr. Malieux saw no harm experimenting on him with large-scale body part replacements. Shaka was his first such patient who lived. Even Malieux is not certain how he survived those first weeks. Many vital organs were damaged.”

  “But how . . . what is he made of?”

  “The function of his skeleton is much the same as the finest automatons we make here at the Golden Gear, only on a larger scale. The strongest hydraulics. The finest stainless steel, silver and gold, even jewels at key friction points. He is built like a fine Swiss watch. I know because I have supplied many of the parts myself as he has been upgraded over the years—parts like those in the crate he just carried away.”

  “He is Malieux’s ongoing experiment?”

  “Just so. When I first met him, he had no exterior—then for years, a simple shell of tin. Finally, he received the tungsten carbide you see. I believe his exterior is now undurchlässig . . .” He turned to Pauline.

  “Impervious,” she supplied.

  “Thank you, Liebchen . . . impervious to flame and corrosion of any kind.”

  “But he had no apparent industrial tools.”

  “No, no tools. Dr. Malieux reserves the industrial enhancements for those already trained in a trade. Shaka functions as a sort of servant.”

  “But, Papa,” said Pauline, “since you know this mech so well, why have I never met him before?”

  “Because, like so many of his kind, reluctant he is to show himself in the light of day.”

  “Why?”

  “Because unlike you, my inquisitive Liebchen, most people hate things they don’t understand. They ban the mechanicals from decent society, from public entertainments, from the trains, from domestic service. Afraid, they are. Like your young man, here.”

  “Afraid? Not I!” protested Alex. “I merely dislike the unnatural, the ungodly.”

  Pauline rounded on him, incredulous. “Unnatural? Ungodly? Science and engineering are merely the tools God has given us to understand and adapt to our world. Are Papa’s spectacles ungodly? Is a crippled sailor’s wooden leg unnatural?”

  Alex was unmoved. “Men like Malieux, and those of profit motivation who imitate him, are playing with forces of nature they can never hope to master. They are playing God. Only disaster can come of it.”

  “It seems to me,” said Churchill, “that the patients and society both benefit.”

  “Too little benefit, too much hazard,” Alex said. “It is only a matter of time before someone—possibly even some government—turns such technology to evil use.”

  “Denoch,” Spiegel broke in, “nonetheless, the veterans who have been wounded and refitted are not to blame for their fate. They were seldom given a choice. The Army doctors decided for them.”

  “Allow me to pose this question, sir,” Alex said. “What if those same Army doctors were given orders to turn such men into weapons? Swords instead of sewing needles? Machine guns instead of hammers? What then?”

  “I cannot imagine that a man who has taken the oath of a healer would ever consent to such a thing!” Pauline said.

  “It would indeed be ungeheuerlich. Monstrous,” Spiegel said. “Nevertheless, the wounded men themselves have done nothing wrong. Yet they are the victims of the fear and mistrust of the public. They became outcasts, relegated to industrial service, hidden away out of sight.”

  “They deserve better,” insisted Pauline.

  “The veterans knew the sacrifices they might be called upon to make when they enlisted in Her Majesty’s service.” Alexander was adamant. “Would you have society carry them as dependents for the rest of their days?”

  “I would have them better treated, veterans and non-veterans alike. I would have them honored for their service. I would have them out of the shadows and into the light.”

  “It has always been thus,” noted Alexander. “War is hell. It leaves broken lives behind. Men are injured on the job. That is just the cost of progress.”

  “Alexander! I am shocked at you!” said Pauline. “The main dangers in this life are the people who want to change everything . . . or nothing. I do not want to change everything, only that which my conscience decries as unjust. You, it seems, want to change nothing.”

  “On the contrary!” protested Alexander. “I am not a heartless proponent of what Mr. Darwin calls ‘the survival of the fittest.’ I believe that people of good faith must do the best they can by those less fortunate. But there is only so much that can—and should—be done.”

  “In the meantime, these poor fellows are virtual slaves to their employers. Some doctor has decreed that they are fit for one thing, and one thing only, and they have no choice.”

  “Poor devils,” said Winston.

  “Ach so,” sighed Spiegel. “Decided for them, their fates are.”

  Spiegel was startled by his daughter’s explosive laugh. “Ha! And I, Papa? Winston? Do you hear yourselves? Am I to be educated in mathematics, science, and engineering, to rise to the level of master artificer like my mother before me, and yet be denied the choice of my fate? Is an arranged marriage not decided for me? Can I escape it? Is it right that my marriage is decided for me before I am even born—that my entire adult life is decided for me—and that I have no choice in the matter?”

  Ernst regarded his daughter thoughtfully. Her face was flushed and her breathing rapid. Tears verged on the point of spilling down her cheeks. He took her hands in his. “Pauline,” he said gently, “you are the best and brightest young woman I have ever met. Not only as your papa I say this, but as your employer. If ever a young woman there was who could be trusted to know her own mind and heart, it is you.

  “—so if, after suitable reflection, you still believe that this is the right decision, I will support you. I only ask that you consider carefully, and for a suitable time. Hasty you must not be.

  “And remember,” he added softly, “this marriage was your mother’s fondest wish. Winston’s mother and Lakshmi Malieux are your Patinnen, your godmothers, because your mother’s best friends they always were. Consider their feelings along with your own, and I am sure you will reach the right decision.”

  Pauline took a deep breath, searched his face, and embraced him. “Thank you. I will consider it carefully, Papa.”

  Spiegel smiled broadly. “I know you will. Now: has it grown close in this room, or is it just me?” He stepped to the window to admit the afternoon breeze. Pauline looked up as a dragonfly buzzed atop a high shelf, flitted its way around the room, out the window, and into the street.

  ToC

  The W
ind comes stealing o’er the grass

  To whisper pretty things;

  And though I cannot see him pass,

  I feel his careful wings.

  —Friends, by Abbie Farwell Brown

  Chapter Six

  The Golden Gear

  Peaseblossom danced out the window of the Golden Gear on translucent dragonfly wings, and met Cobweb the cricket coming the other way, pirouetting above the heads of Londoners strolling through Knightsbridge. From all over the metropolis, they had come to celebrate their beloved queen’s Diamond Jubilee. All were decked out in their Sunday best. The women had fresh ribbons in their hats, the men had brushed their bowlers and shined their sturdy shoes. The children’s faces were freshly scrubbed and their rosy cheeks shone.

  With a gleeful cry, Cobweb joined the dance, jumping and twirling through the air for the joy of being alive, for the blessing of thought, for the loving kindness of her Queen. She and Peaseblossom joined hands and spun about, and the happy clatter of their wings brought smiles to many who didn’t even know why. It was a beautiful summer day, the Queen was on her throne, and all was right with the world.

  “Where away, my pretty friend?” sang Peaseblossom.

  “I fetch a Large One to the Artificer,” sang Cobweb in return. “And you? What happy task this glorious day?”

  “I shadow the Shadow. But not even Shaka can cast a shadow on this lovely day.”

  “We saw him go into the Artificer’s shop,” sang Cobweb, kicking up her heels, “and we saw him leave. They walk so slowly, these Large Ones! You wait, I wait. We wait, so we wait! Let us dance!”

  Beneath them, the crowd of holiday strollers hushed and parted as Starveling, Quince, Bottom, Flute, Snout, and Snug made their deferential way along the street. Mothers pulled gape-mouthed children aside, and men stepped off the curb into the street as the troupe came along, doffing their caps frequently.

  “Morning, Missus!” said Snout, smiling broadly. His glistening mouth full of metal caused the woman to squeal and scurry away.