Steampunk Fairy Tales

  "Is something the matter, Blaubart?" asked a man who she did not recognize, though something made her feel she should have.

  "Just a bit of overstimulation, Lorentz, despite an ongoing weakness." Doctor Blaubart gave a resigned chuckle. "You know how they can be."

  "One of the many fields where your experience outweighs mine. But take care of her. We'll talk when you're back."

  Her husband pulled her away again, out of the ballroom and into a small lounge just down the hall-near enough that she could hear the festivities, but far enough that she wouldn't be part of them.

  "Here you are, darling," he said, laying her down on a chaise lounge under the window, from which she could see the moon above.

  She didn't resist. In fact, she felt quite exhausted. Hadn't she been so excited for the party just a few minutes ago? Why was she so tired?

  "Rest now," her husband said. "You're nearly back to perfect condition, but until that day comes, we must be wary of these little hiccups. You understand?"

  She was merely able to nod.

  "Good," he said, and smoothed her hair before standing. "I'll come back to tend to you, but for now, I must still play the host. You'll be safe here."

  He turned and left the room, closing and locking the door behind him. It was indicative of just how near this room was to the party that she could hear the conversation pick up back in the ballroom.

  "The things you burden yourself with, Blaubart, I will never understand."

  "We all have our fixations, though, don't we? By the way, the amount of light released by your zevatron core and relays must terribly hamper the efficiency."

  "It does, but when the work is so brilliant, some excess should be permitted in making a spectacle of it."

  "You're proving my point. Though more importantly, I may find cause to modify the design, and would appreciate your input. I find myself needing much smoother output modulation for restricting energy flow."

  She lost the flow of their conversation in its ever-increasing technicality, and soon was unconscious of anything at all.

  ###

  Mary found herself idly wandering the halls of the manor. She did her best not to become upset. That was bad for her condition, as her forced departure from the party ? two? No, three days prior had so aptly demonstrated. She paused there, tapping a finger against the frame of a painting as she composed herself. Her husband had been right to remove her. She had been growing over-excited and lightheaded. She might have collapsed or had a fit, had he not done it.

  Knowing that, though, did nothing to dull the sting of being taken from the music, and from watching a pianist, however artificial, display the same mastery over that instrument she once had.

  It was worsened by being unable to play her own.

  She had spent uncountable hours whiling away the time in these halls as she recovered, a process that now seemed interminable, and in that time, she was certain she had read and read again every book, examined in detail every piece of art, and explored every crevice of their home. She had grown bored with it all ages ago, but still managed to find some way or another to distract herself enough from her situation.

  However, in the wake of the incident at the party, and her inability to recall how to play the piano, she knew of only one thing that would satisfy her, and that was to play on her own instrument once again.

  She had gone to the drawing room where her prized piano had stood for so long opposite the ancient stone fireplace, but found that a simple desk now occupied the space that once belonged to the instrument. She eventually cornered one of the few serving-girls who hadn't irritated her husband and been dismissed in favor of an automaton, yet.

  "Girl, what has been done with the piano?" she asked the servant, a pretty young thing who'd been with them for some time, but whose name entirely slipped Mary's mind.

  "The piano, madam?" The girl paused and stared at her, a look of confusion, but which also held a bit of what she'd seen in the party guests who witnessed her episode.

  "Yes, the piano. My piano. It was here not long ago. Has it been moved?"

  The girl's confusion visibly deepened, and she shook her head. "Madam, this room has been the same since I started here. There's never been a piano."

  Mary took a breath and swallowed her irritation with the serving-girl. Though having a fit within her home with only the house staff to witness it would be far less embarrassing than what had overcome her at the party, she would still prefer to avoid any such loss of composure, if possible.

  She dismissed the serving-girl and set out to solve the mystery on her own, re-examining all those corners and hidden places around their labyrinth home where the instrument may have been taken. But it was not in the entrance hall, nor the bedrooms, nor the dining room, nor the gallery, library, or even atrium-and so she had found herself stalking the back halls in a foul mood, puzzling over what may have become of it.

  He wouldn't have had it destroyed or thrown out, even for her sake. He'd chosen it for her himself, and was very fond of its appearance. She didn't believe for a moment that he would have marred that perfect finish.

  That left one room; the one place she had never explored in all of her idle wanderings: her husband's laboratory.

  She was not allowed in there. No one was, beyond Doctor Blaubart himself. She understood why, of course. She was hardly a scientist, nor even particularly clever. It was likely that her mere presence would upset some delicate work and set him back months in his latest project. He had already given up so much of his work in his care for her that she would not usually trouble him further, but in this matter she could not deny herself.

  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

  Long 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.