Steampunk Fairy Tales (3 page)

Now with a purpose and destination in mind,
she made haste towards the laboratory and, upon seeing the empty
hall, immediately attempted the handle, only to find it locked
tight. Of course, he wouldn’t trust the servants to keep out, and
so great was his love of his work that this would probably not
change even after he’d replaced all their human help with his
automata.

As the lady of the house, she knew where the
spare key was, and only she had access to it. However, her husband
had warned her to only use it in the direst of circumstances. It
was not due to a lack of trust in her, of course, but instead a
mere concern for her safety, or perhaps fixation upon his work; an
eccentricity she had long accepted and even come to love him
for.

Though this may not be the kind of emergency
use her husband had envisioned when he entrusted her with that key,
and perhaps he would see it as a betrayal of his trust, she could
think of no other recourse.

She studied the door for a time.

He had taken from her many things in the
name of her well-being. Her freedom, her interaction with society,
her music … Perhaps it would seem a petty, childish thing, but to
her, playing her music was a way to stake a claim to her soul. She
may be diminished, but she would never be entirely snuffed out. If
she could play once more, it would be all the proof she needed that
she had overcome her accident and her frailty, once and for all, if
only to herself.

This was the only logical place he could
have hidden it, and she would get it back.

###

Mary slipped the key from its hiding place
and carefully made her way back through the library. There was no
real cause for such caution, as she was alone in the house for the
first time since the idea had come to her a few weeks ago, but it
made her nervous to hear her labors produce even the tiniest noise.
And so she crept between the stacks back to the halls, the key
clutched tight in one hand while the other held a small electric
torch. The thought of lighting up whole rooms caused just as much
anxiety as her fear of being heard.

Though she jumped at every shadow along the
way, she soon found herself standing before the laboratory door
once again. That her husband was away to a meeting, the servants
sent home for the evening, and even the automata mostly disabled
for core maintenance did little to calm her nerves. She took her
eyes from the door to study the key. It was a peculiar thing,
cylindrical and etched in strange patterns, with wires and a small
red bulb on the back.

Taking a breath, she inserted it into the
round keyhole and stepped back as some unseen mechanism drew the
key the rest of the way into the lock and twisted it a quarter-turn
with a buzz and a loud click. The red light on the rear of the key
lit. She did not understand the process entirely, but knew that
electricity was being directed through the key and disengaging a
number of locks and other security measures around the door. Soon,
there was another buzzer, and the door began to swing open on its
own.

As door came fully open, the light from her
electric torch revealed her piano sitting there against the far
wall of the laboratory, just as she had expected. She breathed a
sigh of relief as she stepped into the lab. Perhaps it would only
be for a night that she could play, before she had to return
everything to their proper places that her husband may not notice
her disobedience. Even the promise of that one solitary night was a
balm for her soul.

However, perhaps triggered by the door
mechanism, lights began coming on around the room. The first thing
illuminated was mere steps from her, and she shrieked as the light
struck it.

It was a body.

The shock fell away somewhat, after a
moment, and she realized it was not a body, but an automata, though
an incredibly lifelike one. There was still something unsettling
about the half-assembled device, but before she could place it,
another light came on, and another. With each part of the room that
lit, another project was revealed. One after another, she saw
half-assembled automata appear from the dark.

The automata were ever-increasing in detail
and complexity. She resumed walking through the lab, examining each
one as she did. And as they progressed, that unsettling feeling
returned to her, becoming a gnawing fear deep within her, as she
began to understand.

As the automata became more advanced, their
features became ever more familiar: more and more, each one was
becoming a reflection of her own appearance.

When she saw the first one stained by dried
blood, her hand flew to her mouth as she understood these automata
were not abandoned in the middle of assembly, but disassembly. At
some point, they had begun to be constructed with living skin that
covered veins which carried real blood; blood that now stained
their ruined bodies and destroyed clothing.

There must have been dozens of them in that
room, ever more gruesome in their appearance as their disassembly
apparently became ever more thorough to match their increasing
complexity. She felt the need to retch and vomit at the sights, but
nothing came.

Why? Why would he make so many duplicates of
her? It had to be her husband’s work. No one else could access this
room, and no one else was so skilled.

Finally, with a click, a final light lit the
corner of her room, near her piano, and, despite herself, she
turned to look.

There, in a tall glass cylinder filled with
some mysterious liquid, floated what seemed to be the most complete
of the copies. It had a full face and hair, and was totally
unharmed, unlike all of the others, though it had yet to be
dressed. She supposed it had yet to be activated, as countless
wires trailed down to the top of its head, and its eyes were open,
but motionless, glassy, and dull.

Her hand went to her mouth, but she shut her
eyes and turned away. She could question this later. Perhaps …
perhaps she would even ask her husband. Was he somehow preparing
for her inevitable death? Had he mislead her as to the severity of
her condition? He wouldn’t want to distress her, after all.

She took a few blind steps forward and
bumped into something. Upon opening her eyes, she discovered it was
her piano. A thick layer of dust covered the entire surface.
Peculiar – she was certain it had been mere weeks since she’d last
seen it in the drawing room. She shook her head and turned her back
to the gruesome room, focusing on the keys. If she could just play
one more time ….

Her fingers touched the ivory and she began
one of the simplest pieces she knew. However, even playing such a
childish work, and even playing more slowly than she had even when
learning the instrument, her fingers seem to keep missing their
marks. The motions were rough and jerky, almost like a—

A brilliant flash came from behind, and she
fell to the ground, making a loud noise as she struck the piano
briefly. She lay there, her body unnaturally heavy and her limbs
unresponsive.

She heard heavy footsteps as her husband
stepped around her prone form and placed a small device in the
shape of a pistol on the worktable that stood nearby. Next to it,
he sat his own key to the lab, the light on the rear of it glowing
red. Not even sparing her a glance, he cleared his throat and
pressed a button on the table. She heard a loud click, and he began
speaking, though not to her.

“
Beginning termination
log, subject …” Doctor Blaubart sighed. “Damnable thing. It’s been
so long I’ve lost count. I thought I had it this time.” He shook
his head and continued. “Series number to be assigned later. Note
to self, record over this part. Personal note, inform Lorentz that
his aetheric wave design is effective in disabling
zevatron-dependent devices. The antiwave canceled out the
luminiferous waveform and induced catatonia instantly.”

She felt him slide his arms under her own,
wrapping them around her torso and lifting her unsteadily from the
floor with a grunt and a muttered curse, before depositing her
roughly on the worktable. She could just see the little weapon her
husband had used lying beside her, and the glass cylinder holding
that most advanced copy stood in the center of her vision.

“
Termination of current
model was due to the predicted failure point,” Doctor Blaubart
said, resuming monologuing to some hidden recording device.
“Affixing an output modulator to the zevatron core to dull erratic
emotional states and subdue the automaton produced severe power
spikes that only agitated it further, and eventually lead to a
cascading failure. The question of maintaining human independence
and drive while still instilling necessary stability and obedience
continues to elude me, though this model outlasted its predecessor
by a startling margin.”

She saw him placing various tools, none of
which she could identify, on the table alongside the weapon. He
stopped a moment to crouch next to her and shine a bright light
into her eyes, which left her desperately wanting to blink, though
her body still failed to respond.

“
However,” the doctor
continued, oblivious to or uncaring of her plight, “the timing of
this failure is, in a way, fortuitous. I have recently perfected a
new design which will allow the automaton much greater mobility and
dexterity. As such, I will begin disassembly and inspection of
joint wear shortly.”

Doctor Blaubart stopped and placed the light
down, turning and stepping away from his catatonic wife to place a
hand on the glass cylinder.

“
I’m closer to making you
perfect again, darling. This time, you’ll be able to play your
piano.”

The Mech Oni and the
Three-Inch-Tinkerer

Leslie and David T. Allen

L
ong ago in Japan, on the island of Hokkaido, there lived a
tinkering couple. Though poor, they had only one desire. Every
morning they walked the path between the flickering stone lanterns
to the shrine on the edge of town and threw a coin in the
offertory. After bowing, clapping, and ringing the large bell, they
would pray:

“
Please give us a child of
our own. No matter how small, weak, or slow, we will love
them.”

Time passed, until the couple was old and
grey, and after thirty years of prayer their one desire was
fulfilled. True to their word, they loved their son, though he was
no longer than the tip of a grown man’s finger.

“
We’ll call him Issun
Boshi,” the proud new mother said with a smile. “Our three-inch
son.”

###

“
Mother!” Issun called as
he climbed through the grate on the small food steamer, a burnt
grain of rice clutched in his hand. “This was wedged in the gears,
but it should work fine now.” He looked up at his mother, surprised
to see a look of sorrow spreading across her face. “What’s
wrong?”

She sighed and gently stroked his head with
her thumb. “Your place shouldn’t be climbing through the guts of
broken appliances, looking for problems that our old eyes can no
longer see.”

Issun dropped the rice and stepped forward.
“I don’t understand. You need my help.”

“
Not anymore. Thanks to
you, we have enough money to retire.”

“
But—”

“
And you’re sixteen. You
should be starting your own life, not tending to your
parents.”

“
But—”

“
Take a few days to
consider what you want. Your father and I will do our best to help
you on your way.” With that, his mother turned and left.

Issun returned to the wooden box his father
had made him for a room and laid on the sandal topped with a thick
sock that was his bed. His friends in the village had started to
make their way in the world already. Issun had always thought that,
due to his small size, he would stay in the town where he was born,
where his neighbors knew him, and the baker decorated special
half-inch tall cakes.

None of this stoic practicality dampened his
dreams. As a young boy, his parents had taken him to see a kabuki
performance. Everything about it was magnificent, but the strutting
samurai character captivated him. Issun had idled away hours
wearing a thimble as a helmet and swinging a pine needle, imagining
he was the hero with the katana.

The next morning, he woke to the early
summer sun and entered the kitchen where his parents were having
tea.

“
I want to be a samurai,”
he said.

His parents sat in silence for a moment
before his father nodded. “Just because you’re small doesn’t mean
you cannot be mighty.”

His mother smiled. “Though you may not be a
samurai in title, all it takes is strength, honor, and bravery to
be a samurai in deed. You’ve proven yourself more than capable of
that. We’ll need a few days to prepare your things.”

Though sad to leave his parents, Issun could
hardly wait. Three days later he woke and entered the kitchen to
find several ornate boxes waiting for him.

In the first he found a long, steel sewing
needle, the eye a perfect width to use as a handle. In the second
he found a 500 yen coin, wrapped in wire with a handle on the
back.

“
Your sword and shield,”
his mother said.

The last box was so large that his father
had to help him open it. Inside was a fine tea-bowl and two
chopsticks.

“
And your ship, to carry
you to adventure,” his father said, his voice gruff with
emotion.

Issun saw the tears in their eyes. “My own
ship, so I can go and come back.”

He had meant for his warm words to comfort
their hearts, but their frowns only deepened.