A Midsummer Night's Steampunk

by Scott E. Tarbet

  With one hand, the taller Alex pushed Winston away, and regarded him archly. “You call yourself an educated Englishman? I’m German, and even I know that you don’t end a sentence with a preposition.”

  Stepping close, Winston made as if to straighten Alex’s coal-blackened lapels. “Well, Prince Stuffed Shirt MacIntyre, I’ll tell you this: that is one piece of nonsense up with which I will not put.” And he dealt Alex a swift uppercut to the chin.

  ~*~*~*~*~

  A lone moth fluttered around the gaslight at the walkway end of Berth 32, high atop Victoria Station. Against the lamppost slouched a brown-cloaked figure which startled hurriedly erect at the sound of several pairs of rapidly approaching feet.

  Malieux passed the Enforcer without a sideways glance and turned down the walkway toward Lakshmi’s dirigible. Shaka growled in passing, “Alert! I could have walked up and snapped your neck! The enemy will not be lenient.”

  He shifted the inert figure of Jubal to his human arm and jerked the Enforcer’s uniform blouse straight. “Alert!” He patted the man’s shoulder and hurried after Malieux.

  The doctor paused at the gangway and whispered low to the Enforcer stationed there. “Report!”

  “No change in the last hour, Doctor. No one has come or gone, and the two prisoners, they seems content to stay right where they are.”

  “You have been listening? What have they been saying?”

  “Can’t hear, sir. They speak low, as lovers might. The woman, she laughs once in a while. The man, he seems in his cups. He sings pub songs. Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but it seems I might know him? From before my time with you, sir. Mayhap from Bethnal Green?”

  Malieux proceeded up the gangway without a word.

  “Mind your familiarity!” chided Shaka as he passed.

  The scene that greeted Shaka as he entered the gondola was exactly as the sentry described: Bottom reclined on a divan, a half-eaten plate of kippers and chips and the dregs of a pint at his elbow. Lakshmi sat beside him on a low stool, tenderly stroking his bandaged head. Neither looked up as Malieux entered the car. Bottom hummed a familiar music hall tune as Lakshmi smiled on him indulgently.

  Malieux smirked. “Well, well! Isn’t this just a cozy little domestic scene! Enjoying ourselves, are we?”

  “Mmmm!” hummed Bottom. Almost under her breath, Lakshmi sang the familiar refrain:

  Oh, a British tar is a soaring soul,

  As free as a mountain bird!

  His energetic fist should be ready to resist,

  A dictatorial word!

  Malieux’s laugh was ironic. “HMS Pinafore, of all things! How apropos!”

  Lakshmi looked up dreamily. “Mmm?”

  “Lakshmi, my dear, I need to speak with you.” She rose as if sleepwalking. Malieux peered into her eyes, and, when they failed to focus on him, he snapped his fingers in front of her face.

  “Lakshmi! Listen to me!”

  “Mmm?”

  “I must have the instructions for the automaton. You must tell me how to gain the same obedience from my Enforcers that you command from your Friends.”

  “Friends . . .” she murmured, nodding.

  He beckoned Shaka to bring Jubal closer.

  “You do it with this machine, don’t you?” he pressed. “Teach me the settings.”

  Lakshmi smiled and reached out for Jubal, but Malieux waved Shaka back.

  “The instructions, my dear. Do you want your automaton back?”

  “Jubal. Diamond Jubal . . .”

  “Show me the settings.”

  She held out her hands, and Malieux beckoned Shaka a half step closer. She reached out, touched the automaton’s face, and merely smiled.

  “Now what?” Malieux insisted. “Listen to me carefully, because I don’t have time for this nonsense. I believe you can hear and understand me perfectly. I will give you the automaton back once you have given me the secrets of its construction and control. Until then, you shall not touch it again. Do you hear me?”

  Lakshmi gave no sign of reaction. She smiled and caressed the golden face.

  “You force my hand. I shall have to extract the construction and control secrets from the Spiegel girl. It is of little importance to me whether you tell me or whether I pry the information from your goddaughter. Either way, I will get what I need. This is your doing.” He waited, but there was no response. She did not move.

  “Since you apparently do not care for her welfare, I must take from you something that you obviously do care about. I shall remove your little plaything. You shall be alone until you send me word that you are ready to tell me what I need to know. No more Nick for you.”

  “Nick . . .” Lakshmi breathed. “My Nick . . .”

  “Ah!” smiled Malieux. “Now we are getting somewhere. Tell me what I want to know, and I’ll leave the two of you alone.” Lakshmi looked pained and confused.

  “Really, Lakshmi! Come now! Show me what I need to know!”

  She nodded slowly and held out both hands to the automaton. Malieux watched as she seemed to caress the golden face, then half-turned to Bottom, who was watching dreamily. She smiled, equally dreamy, and clapped the golden hands together.

  The familiar blue flash filled the compartment, and Malieux and Shaka jumped, startled. For several heartbeats, no one moved, then Lakshmi settled gracefully to the floor in the lotus position. Her eyes drooped closed and her chin fell to her chest. She seemed to Malieux to be catatonic, but remained upright.

  Bottom, too, had slipped into a deep unconsciousness, and all efforts to rouse him were to no avail. He was quite inert, limp as a rag doll, despite Malieux’s attempts to rouse him with slaps and smelling salts.

  Malieux’s efforts with Lakshmi were even more insistent, pricking her fingers with a needle, waving salts under her nose, and examining her pupils. She neither moved nor stirred. There was no sign of consciousness.

  ToC

  Then a steel-shod rush and a steel-clad ring,

  And a crash of the spear staves splintering,

  And the billowy battle blended.

  Riot of chargers, revel of blows,

  And fierce flush’d faces of fighting foes,

  From croup to bridle, that reel’d and rose,

  In a sparkle of sword-play splendid.

  And the long, lithe sword in the hand became

  As a leaping light, as a falling flame,

  As a fire through the flax that hasted.

  —Rhyme of Joyous Gard, by Adam Lindsay Gordon

  Chapter Nineteen

  Mano a Mano

  Alex snapped his head back, slipping Winston’s punch. He shook his head and regarded Winston quizzically. “Clearly, you’re not a boxer,” he said, taking a classic orthodox stance. “No boxing team at school for you?” He circled left.

  “No,” acknowledged Winston, raising his own hands. “Soldier. Harrow Rifles. Just thought a little tap might help clear your head a bit.” He, too, circled left.

  “Thank you so much for your consideration,” Alex answered. “Would you like me to help you clear yours? It seems you desperately need it.” He feinted a left jab, swung a hard right hand, but Winston easily stepped aside and the blow went wide.

  “No school boxing team for you either, it seems?”

  “Regrettably, no,” said Alex, continuing to circle.

  “Are you two idiots quite through?” interjected Pauline. “You remind me of a pair of big dogs, snarling and snapping at each other.” Neither man took any notice.

  “Clemmie! Help me, here! Talk some sense into them!” Pauline cried.

  “They can kill each other, for all I care,” Clemmie answered.

  “But I have had considerable saber and fencing practice, if you would rather indulge that way,” Alex continued. He threw a rather wild, wayward roundhouse, and received a stinging shot to the ribs for his trouble.

  “That might be amusing,” opined Winston. “The sword has been part of my upbringing since my earliest days
, though, so it might not be much of an amusement against a Scottish clerk.” He ducked under Alex’s guard and delivered another body blow, but took a left hook to the head.

  “You’ll indulge me, then?” asked Alex. “Capital! Might I trouble you to know if there is a spare lying about? The one you carry on your hip is a trifle short for my stature, but you’re welcome to use it if it’s all you can handle.” He turned into Winston’s right cross, deflecting it off his shoulder, and landed a glancing blow to the side of Winston’s head.

  “Ah, yes,” agreed Winston, circling. “The modern British cavalry officer’s saber—the weapon of choice. This particular blade served me very well at Omdurman, both horseback and dismounted. But I can see that it might seem small to someone whose idea of swordplay comes from watching Highland Games where they whirl bloody great claymores around their heads.”

  Alex chuckled appreciatively. “I’ll have to take your word for that colorful description. I’ve never been to Scotland myself. Barbarians in skirts, I’m told. Like the naked African savages I’m sure you’ve skewered with your little saber. Useful for dispatching the wounded after the battle, I’m sure.”

  “If you would like, my men have encountered a store of boarding cutlasses. We could try our hand with those. Yes? Very good. Starveling, a pair of cutlasses, if you please.” The two men dropped their guards and rubbed their bruises.

  Starveling sped off into the dark recesses of the adjoining warehouse. They could hear him negotiate one turn, then another, before the sounds of his progress faded into the distance.

  “The warehouse is quite large, then,” noted Alex.

  “Quite,” answered Winston. “Stores for the Royal Navy. We’ve only explored a small portion. Thousands of items on miles of shelving. Endless tonnes of materiel. Britannia rules the waves, and all that.”

  “Ah, the irony! With all the tension between the two great empires, to think that the Royal Navy plays host to a member of the Prussian Royal Family! And hosts fisticuffs and swordplay with a member of the British peerage.”

  “If I actually believed you were truly a German prince, instead of an addlepated Scotsman, I’d take you to your grandmamma straightaway, wrapped in anchor chain,” Churchill sniffed.

  The sounds of Robin’s rolling mechanism echoed dimly through the high rafters.

  “What do you suppose is taking so long?” wondered Alex. “I’m anxious to proceed with this demonstration and set you firmly in your place.”

  Winston snorted. “I think if you were as wise as you seem to believe, you wouldn’t wish to hasten that reckoning. It shan’t be pleasant for you. What is keeping Starveling, drat him!”

  “Robin’s eyesight, sir,” Quince reminded him. “Mayhap he missed a turn or two. Sometimes he goes nowhere, but he gets there in a hurry.”

  Starveling rounded the end of a row of shelves at full speed, looking abashed, but carrying a pair of curved cutlasses with iron grips. As Alex took one and bounced it speculatively in his hand, Winston went through the series of warm-up moves prescribed by the Royal Navy. “When I am First Lord of the Admiralty, someday,” he said, “I shall abolish the cutlass training currently required of all able seamen. I don’t see a lot of use for it in the modern age of firearms and aerial bombardment. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Without warning, Alex swung the cutlass down hard from overhead with both hands, a blow which Winston only barely parried. “There, now,” he growled through gritted teeth. “We’re even for that sucker punch you gave me.” He slashed down again and again, Winston giving way with every step.

  Both men froze at the sound of a shrill scream. “Stop it! Stop it!” Pauline threw herself between them, seizing Alex around the neck and clinging tight. “Don’t you dare swing again!”

  Alex laughed aloud and pried her arms from his neck. “Please stand aside, Miss Spiegel.”

  “Please! Don’t you see? He’s a trained soldier! He’ll kill you!”

  He laughed again. “Despite what you continue to think, I am a prince of the House of Hohenzollern. I practiced with a sword every school day of my life from the time I could recite my catechism. I assure you, I have nothing to fear from this puffed-up Pommy popinjay. Now, please stand aside.”

  “I hate to agree with Pauline, Alex,” put in Clemmie, “but with all you’ve been through today, you’re obviously in no shape for a tussle. Especially not with a decorated warrior. I don’t know exactly what is wrong with you, but you’re clearly not yourself. You’re going to get yourself hurt.”

  “I promise I won’t hurt him too badly,” said Winston. “He just needs a small lesson in manners. And I’m just the man to give it to him.”

  Alex glanced at Winston and held out his hand to Clementine. “If it is the desire of my lady love that I not trounce this half-American upstart, I will accede to her wishes.”

  “Oh, marvelous!” exclaimed Pauline. “Her you will listen to, but me, your love and fiancée, you will not. Definitely a whack in the head.”

  Alex paid no attention.

  Pauline rounded on Clemmie. “I can’t stand it! How have you done this? If you really don’t care for him, if you’re not just playing with me, tell me how you have done this. Have you driven him mad? Have you seduced him? Is that the sort of creature you’ve become?”

  Clemmie’s mouth dropped open, speechless. She stared at her one-time friend, aghast.

  “Seriously, Clemmie! Just teach me what you’ve done to trap him! What evil art have you acquired that addles his brain like this?”

  Clemmie finally found her tongue. “I have done nothing of the sort. I am totally innocent in all of this. You, who used to be my friend, should know me better than anyone.”

  “Don’t play coy with me!” Pauline advanced slowly. “I’m warning you!”

  “Pauline, you have become a monster I don’t even know! Stay away from me!”

  “Do not fret, dearest one,” Alex said, placing himself in front of Pauline. “I will protect you.”

  Winston elbowed him aside. “Here now, madman! Don’t think to intervene for my love. That is my duty and mine alone.”

  The two turned to face each other, and Pauline, frustrated, snapped. She reached around them both, grabbed a handful of Clemmie’s hair and, hauling with all her might, pulled her off balance and sent her crashing into Alex and Winston. The men, caught by surprise by this attack from an unexpected quarter, stumbled and fell sideways over Pauline. The four wound up on the floor in a heap.

  The Musketeers jumped forward as one to lift the young people to their feet, and Clemmie, in the bustle and press of human bodies and mechanical appendages, slipped free and ran into the darkness of the warehouse.

  Alexander, cutlass in hand, came up swinging, all pretense of restraint wiped away. His attack was furious and intended to be lethal, but Winston, no less infuriated, was ready. Every lunge was parried and riposted. Within seconds, it was clear that both men had more than passing training with the sword—both were adept and practiced. Alex pressed the attack, determined never to let Winston push him over onto the defensive, building into a steady rhythm that pushed the fight out of the workshop and into the dimly lit towering stacks of warehouse shelving.

  Gradually, subtly, the character of the contest began to change.

  “I cannot help but notice that you’ve begun to perspire,” said Winston, parrying and taking a half step back, “while I myself have not.” Alex gritted his teeth and attacked again. Winston parried and gave ground. “Would you care to speculate why that is?”

  “Because you’re the weaker swordsman and can do nothing but retreat?” grated Alex.

  “Hmm . . . an interesting speculation,” said Winston, parrying, riposting weakly and retreating another half step, “but wrong.”

  “Pray enlighten me,” said Alex, his lunge interrupting his request.

  Winston parried and offered a perfunctory riposte. “You’re perspiring not because you’re winded—clearly you’re not—good form
, old man—but because you are frightened.”

  “I? Frightened? Certainly not!” He attacked with considerable force, but Winston easily parried, and riposted probingly, but without energy.

  “There really is no use trying to rattle me with words, you know,” Alex said, attacking.

  “Nor would I try,” replied Winston, parrying and attacking low and slow.

  “Then why would you say you think me frightened?”

  “Because it is gradually dawning on you that you are, indeed, overmatched. You fight only academically.”

  “Academically?”

  “Very much so. Mensur style, to be exact. Academic dueling, the way they fight at Heidelberg.” Winston again attacked low and slow, and forced Alex to retreat, off balance. “Yes. Your footwork: Mensur. As if you truly expected to stand in one place and duel to conclusion. And that gives me the advantage.”

  “How so?”

  “Because unlike you, schoolboy, I am a soldier.” Winston suddenly attacked in swift flurries, pressing in, with two of every three attacks aimed low. “You have practiced far more attacking and defending the upper body, which means your downward parries are an instant slow. Every attack, parry, and riposte is a set piece. You have finesse, but lack imagination. What is more,”—he aimed a slash at Alex’s right hip, which was parried only awkwardly—“as a soldier, unlike you,”—he pressed the attack, keeping Alex on his heels—“I pick not only whom I fight, and how, but where.”

  Alex looked about, eyes wide, surprised to find that the fight had moved into the tight confines of the aisles of the cavernous warehouse, turning his long-limbed reach into a liability. Winston’s attacks came fast and low, forcing him to back even further into the aisleway.

  “Never let it be said that a von Hohenzollern cannot be taught,” he said, and, with a downward overhead slash that pushed Winston back on his heels, turned and ran before he could recover.

  ~*~*~*~*~

  Pauline sat on the floor with her head in her hands, fighting back tears as she refused the proffered hands of the solicitous mechs who surrounded her.