A Midsummer Night's Steampunk

by Scott E. Tarbet

  He followed the fleeing Starveling aft to the storage locker. Ganesh sighed and pumped ballast.

  ~*~*~*~*~

  The state dining room of the palace had been transformed into an intimate theater for the family’s evening entertainment. Nearly a hundred of the queen’s children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren had gathered from around the world for her Diamond Jubilee, and followed her in from her apartments. It was a dazzling family group, with the latest and finest dresses from Paris and Milan, gold and jewels from Africa, Asia, and the Americas, and uniforms representing the high commands of a dozen nations.

  Alex, resplendent in the dress blues of a lieutenant in the German Imperial Army, pushing Pauline in a wheeled chair, her truncated legs cradled carefully in front of her, waited at the door of the dining room. Try as he might, Alex had not been able to convince her to stay aboard the Kaiseradler and rest, despite the short time since her amputations.

  She had persuaded Clemmie to allow a carriage to be sent for her, and the friends now waited side by side, their gloved hands clasped.

  The queen moved slowly, the weight of her years clear upon her, leaning on the arms of two of her grandsons, Tsar Nicholas II of Russia and Kaiser Wilhelm II of Germany.

  “I’m very glad,” she muttered to them both, “that there is not another state function this evening. The procession today was quite enough!”

  “How your people love you, Grandmamma,” said Wilhelm.

  "No one ever, I believe, has met with such an ovation as was given to me, passing through those six miles of streets. The cheering was quite deafening, and every face seemed to be filled with real joy. I was much moved and gratified.”

  “As you should have been.”

  “But at my age, sitting in a carriage for six long miles, not to mention the church service and all the waving, are quite enough. I am more than ready to relax a bit with a little lighthearted entertainment and get to bed.”

  As the queen reached the door, Alex bowed low. “Wally, come here, my boy,” the queen said, beckoning with a gloved hand. “No, no—bring your lovely intended.”

  Pauline could hardly breathe. Being presented to the queen? And sitting down? She couldn’t have imagined either occurrence two days ago.

  Alex wheeled her forward, with Clementine following at a discrete distance. The queen, however, beckoned her forward as well. “And you would be the Hozier girl?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” Clementine answered. Her deep royal curtsy was picture perfect.

  “And where is your young man?”

  “With his men, Your Majesty.”

  Queen Victoria leaned down and took Pauline’s hand. “The heroes of the hour.”

  “You are too kind, Your Majesty,” answered Pauline.

  “Nonsense, child. And you may call me Grandmamma. You’re marrying my grandson, after all. Come along, now.” She turned for the door, paused. “Oh—and I want the three of you to join us on the front row for this evening’s entertainment.”

  Her Majesty’s chair had been placed in the front row’s center. Pauline found herself whisked into place at the queen’s right hand. Surrounding her on three sides were the crowned heads of the great European empires. She groped for Alex’s hand, and he gave it a reassuring squeeze.

  The large, glittering family filed slowly into the room, exchanging pleasantries as they came. As they waited for the family to be seated, the queen leaned to Pauline. “My dear, you are a marvel. I admire your fortitude. I cannot imagine the effort it must have taken for you to get here tonight, so soon after your injuries. How do you do it?”

  “Morphine!” Pauline heard herself blurt. “It fogs my brain, but my friends must be able to look out into the audience and see me smiling for them. They are my protectors. They bought me my life. Whatever it costs me, I must do.” Oh, laws! Had she truly just taken such liberties with the Queen of England? She blushed furiously.

  But Victoria chuckled and patted her hand. “Ah, morphine! It certainly does loosen the tongue, does it not?” Pauline could only nod.

  “My dear, I was saddened to learn of your dear father’s murder. How satisfying it must be to dispense justice as you did. I am proud of you.”

  “Thank you, Your Majesty. I was lucky. But for Snug, the Ripper would have done for me.”

  “Tsk, child! ‘Grandmamma’, remember? And yes, you are indeed fortunate in your friends.”

  “Yes, Grandmamma.”

  “Pauline, I have another problem.”

  “Yes, Your—Grandmamma?”

  “Your father’s passing leaves me without an artificer.”

  “Yes, Grandmamma. I can certainly recommend some of the finest in the Empire.”

  “That will not be necessary. I have already made my choice. I would like you to assume the post of Artificer to the Crown.”

  For a moment, Pauline could not believe she had heard correctly. When she had stared open-mouthed at the monarch for several long seconds, Victoria smiled. “You will be the youngest in history, yes. But you will also be the only one in history to be partially mechanized yourself.”

  “Thank you, Grandmamma.” Could this all be a morphine dream? Would she wake up back in her bed above the Golden Gear, with a day’s work ahead of her to complete her new steam horse?

  But the queen continued. “I am very much looking forward to seeing those legs, as the first fruits of your new office. And I would like you to join a Royal Commission to investigate the prosthetics offered our wounded fighting men. It seems for a long while we left it in the hands of profiteers.”

  “Oh, yes, Grandmamma! I would be honored to help rectify that.”

  “Good,” said the monarch, and patted the girl’s shoulder. Pauline turned to Alex, her eyes wide. He smiled proudly and kissed her hand.

  The last of the family had taken their seats, and Queen Victoria beckoned the Lord Steward to her. “Now,” she said. “What entertainment shall we have to wear away the long hours between our after-supper and bedtime?”

  “Here is a brief description of the entertainments and players that are on hand awaiting Your Majesty’s pleasure,” he said, handing her a linen card.

  “ ‘The battle with the Centaurs, to be sung by the men’s chorus from the Royal Opera Company’,” she read. “Lord have mercy! Not that. Twice is quite enough.

  “ ‘The riot of the tipsy Bacchanals, tearing the Thracian singer in their rage, performed by the Royal Ballet.’ An old one that we saw last winter. No.

  “ ‘The thrice three Muses mourning for the death of Learning, late deceased in beggary, performed by the Royal Shakespeare Company.’ That’s an entertaining one, but it is too heavy to cap off such a strenuous day.

  “ ‘A tedious brief scene of young Pyramus and his love Thisbe; very tragical mirth.’ ‘Merry and tragical’! ‘Tedious and brief’? Hot ice and cold lava?” She smiled. “What is this one about?”

  “There is an ancient play, only ten speeches long, Your Majesty, which is as brief as I have known a play. But ten speeches is ten too many, which makes it tedious, because in the whole play, there is not one word apt, not one decent actor. And tragical indeed, Your Majesty, for in it Pyramus kills himself. When I saw it rehearsed just now, I must confess, tears ran down my face—but not for the reasons they intended. I was laughing so hard, I could hardly breathe.”

  “Who are the actors?” asked Queen Victoria.

  Her daughter Vicky spoke from behind her. “Mamma, these are the mechanized veteran soldiers I told you about, the ones who guarded and saved Wally and Pauline. They are heroic and brave. Two of their company were mortally wounded in the effort. Both struggle for their lives.”

  Victoria handed the card back to the Lord Steward with an air of finality. “That’s the one. For there can be nothing wrong with such an offering of simplicity and duty. I remember reading it in Latin when I was a girl. Ovid, I think.”

  “Will it not be painful to see these well-meaning peasant soldiers make foo
ls of themselves?” Wilhelm asked.

  “Not at all!” Vicky answered.

  “But the Lord Steward says there is not a trained actor among them!”

  “Should we then,” Queen Victoria demanded, “send away these courageous men without our appreciation and thanks? No, we shall assume the very best of them, and lend their efforts every bit of tolerance and appreciation we can.

  “All over the Empire, governors and mayors of towns great and small greet me with thoroughly prepared welcomes that finally stammer to a standstill. But trust me, Willy, even in their silence, I felt a more sincere welcome than in any of the saucy and audaciously eloquent speeches of kings and diplomats.

  “Love, therefore, and tongue-tied simplicity in least speak most, or so it seems to me.”

  The Lord Steward murmured into Victoria’s ear. “The Prologue is ready, Majesty.”

  “Let him begin,” Victoria said. The lights dimmed and the room quieted. The queen leaned past Pauline and addressed Alex. “You should tell the family who these people are.”

  Dutifully he arose and faced the audience. “These fine men, who have come here to entertain their queen this evening, are the same brave mechanicals who saved my Pauline and me from certain death at the hands of a rogue insurrectionist.” Wilhelm looked up and smiled gratitude for his discretion. “Now, ladies and gentlemen, cousins, I give you The Lamentable Comedy of Pyramus and Thisbe!”

  Alex returned to his seat. For several long moments, there was no movement on the stage. The audience shifted and coughed, and the Lord Steward had begun to step forward to see about the delay, when Peter Quince flew through the curtain, clearly propelled from behind.

  So sudden was his entrance, and so unexpected his massive mechanized steel-working apparatus, that there were little cries of alarm, and several men leapt to their feet, hands on the hilts of their ceremonial swords.

  Quince froze in the footlights. He swallowed once, twice, coughed, coughed again, opened his mouth to speak, but only an abortive squeak came out. He coughed again and froze completely, his mouth agape.

  As the silence stretched painfully, Alex rose from his seat again and stepped up on the stage. With his back to the audience, he put his hands on Quince’s shoulders and spoke low into his ear, then stepped down, to one side. After a moment, Peter’s tongue was loosed, and his laboriously memorized poem came out in a frenzied rush, with only a gasped breath or two.

  “If we offend, it is with our good will.

  That you should think we come not to offend,

  But with good will. To show our simple skill,

  That is the true beginning of our end.

  Consider then we come but in despite.

  We do not come as minding to contest you,

  Our true intent is. All for your delight

  We are not here. That you should here repent you,

  The actors are at hand, and by their show

  You shall know all that you are like to know.”

  He stood panting, and Queen Victoria clapped her hands and spoke to him. “Well done, my good man!” Aside, she said to Pauline, “At least now we know that we are not in for a pretense of grandeur.” She beckoned Alex to her. He bent low and she asked, “Whatever did you say to him to free his tongue?”

  “I told him to look out at Pauline’s and Clemmie’s lovely smiling faces, and speak to them and only them. And to visualize the Tsar and the Kaiser in their long-handled winter underwear.” Victoria gave her favorite grandson a playful slap on his bemedaled chest and waved him back to his seat.

  “He rode that prologue like a half-broken horse,” Tsar Nicholas muttered to his grandmother. “He sawed at its mouth with both hands. A good moral, Grandmamma: it is not enough to speak, but to speak true.”

  “Or like a child playing with a recorder,” said Wilhelm. “Lots of notes, but in no particular order.”

  Victoria chuckled. “Or like a tangled chain. Nothing wrong with it—just needs some straightening. Who is next?”

  Bottom bounded through the curtain to join Quince on the front of the small platform, followed timidly by Flute and Starveling. There were gasps of surprise from the assembled family at the array and variety of the mechs’ physiques and equipment, then low titters at Flute’s knitting yarn tresses and ample bosoms. Then puzzlement at Starveling’s cargo, which consisted of a candle lantern, a considerable pile of briar bush, and Vicky’s tiny Pomeranian.

  Spotting her mistress, the dog wrestled from Starveling’s grasp, wiggled her way free, dashed between the queen’s feet and under her chair, and bounded into Vicky’s lap, to laughs and a considerable round of applause.

  Quince looked about him, counting heads, and whispered loudly enough to be heard on the far side of the room. “Lieutenant? Shaka?” The curtain parted once more, and a figure emerged in full parade dress of an officer in the Queen’s Own Hussars, complete with mirror-polished boots, ceremonial sword, and the shaggy, homemade burlap head of what the audience could only assume was meant to be a lion.

  “That’s Jennie Churchill’s boy,” Vicky whispered from behind her mother. “He was the officer who won this victory, who brought the plans for the automaton here to the palace. These are his men. He takes the part of one of them who may yet die of the wounds he received at the battle at the workshop. The big Zulu takes the part intended for the man who killed Jack the Ripper.”

  “Ah!” exclaimed the Queen. “How wonderful that the lieutenant honors his man in such a way! But what Zulu? I see no Zulu.”

  “Shaka? Shaka!” whispered Quince, and there was another gasp from the audience, then stunned silence, as the mech giant stepped from behind the curtain. Candlelight glinted from metal carapace and his perspiring forehead. Shaka appeared, if it were possible, even more ill-at-ease than Quince, and hung looming at the back of the group, trying and failing to be inconspicuous.

  Peter’s joy in the small victory—at least getting his companions out onto the stage—was evident on his beaming face. He began his introductions, gradually picking up pace and confidence. He beckoned Bottom and Flute forward.

  “Gentles, perchance you wonder at this show;

  But wonder on, till truth make all things plain.

  This man is Pyramus, if you would know;”

  Bottom bowed, and bowed again.

  “This beauteous lady Thisbe is certain.”

  Flute tried an awkward curtsy, which he hadn’t attempted during rehearsal, and which produced a notable tearing sound from the back of his costume. But that didn’t stop him from flouncing back to his place in line.

  Quince beckoned to Shaka, who stepped reluctantly forward.

  “This man, with lime and rough-cast, doth present

  Wall, that vile Wall which did these lovers sunder;

  And through Wall’s chink, poor souls, they are content

  To whisper. At the which let no man wonder.”

  Quince motioned Shaka back, but he did not appear to see, and stood rooted to his spot. Quince stepped to him and, taking his human-side elbow, guided him back into line.

  Starveling rolled forward waving his lantern as Quince introduced him.

  “This man, with lanthorn, dog, and bush of thorn,

  Presenteth Moonshine; for, if you will know,

  By moonshine did these lovers think no scorn

  To meet at Ninus’ tomb, there, there to woo.”

  Quince nudged Starveling. “That’s your cue, mate. You’re to step back now.”

  “Oy! Sorry!” Starveling exclaimed, and threw his gears into reverse. He zipped backward on the tiny stage, stopping with a clank against Shaka’s unmoving legs. He peered apprehensively over his shoulder, then slowly up to meet Shaka’s unsmiling downward gaze. “Sorry, sorry, sorry!” he exclaimed, and rolled forward off Shaka’s uncaring foot.

  With an elaborate gesture as if conjuring a rabbit out of a hat, Quince presented Lieutenant Churchill.

  “This grisly beast, which Lion hight by name,
/>   The trusty Thisbe, coming first by night,

  Did scare away, or rather did affright;

  And, as she fled, her mantle she did fall,

  Which Lion vile with bloody mouth did stain.”

  Winston stepped forward slowly, menacingly, displaying oversized paws with long, scimitar-like wooden claws. From his memory of the lions of North Africa, he produced a thrumming, coughing roar that welled up from deep inside, filled the large room, and made him seem twice his size. On the fourth row, one of Alex’s cousins let go a theatrical shriek. She and Winston both basked in the ensuing round of applause and amused chuckles. Winston glowered menacingly at the assemblage, and stalked cat-like back to his place.

  Quince continued.

  “Anon comes Pyramus, sweet youth and tall,

  And finds his trusty Thisbe’s mantle slain:

  Whereat, with blade, with bloody blameful blade,

  He bravely broach’d his boiling bloody breast;

  And Thisbe, tarrying in mulberry shade,

  His dagger drew, and died. For all the rest,

  Let Lion, Moonshine, Wall, and lovers twain

  At large discourse, while here they do remain.”

  Quince, Flute, and Winston withdrew, leaving Shaka with a scrap of paper in his hand.

  “I was hoping to hear the lion speak,” murmured Victoria.

  “Of course he will, Grandmamma,” said Nicholas. “Why not have a lion speak, when many asses do?”

  Pauline could scarcely believe her ears. Had the Tsar really just insulted her friends so? She looked askance at the Russian emperor, who sat complacently, chuckling at his own jape, then she elbowed Alex. He got the message.

  “Be nice, tovarishch,” Alex said, grinning. Nicholas grinned back.

  Shaka scrutinized his paper, held out his giant metal hand in front of him with the fist forming an O, and spoke in his rumbling basso:

  “In this same interlude it doth befall

  That I, one Snout by name, present a wall;”

  “You’re not to read that part, you git! That was for Snout!” came Bottom’s whisper from backstage. Shaka ignored him.

  “And such a wall, as I would have you think,