by Trish Telep
Excitement, romance ...
Who are you trying to fool, Quintillius? he thought. You'll never leave London. It was his home. The City. The theatre. The loneliness.
The trio walked side by side until the way became so narrow that they had to trudge along one behind the other and the upper floors of the houses they passed seemed to lean menacingly in toward them, blocking out the sliver of indigo sky with dark, looming brick facades. Quint began to suspect that the mysterious Mister Kingfisher was leading them into some sort of nefarious trap--that he and his uncle were on the verge of being accosted and robbed of their belongings, or perhaps their very lives--when the old man suddenly stopped before the narrow door to a tall, neat house. A small blue flame burning in the lantern above the door illuminated a series of elaborate brass locks that Kingfisher unlatched, one by one, with the keys on a large ring he brought forth from some inner pocket. The keys on the ring were like none Quint had ever seen before. One of them seemed to glow when the old man inserted it into the keyhole.
"My own invention, this security system. Top notch. One can never be too cautious." Kingfisher grinned at them over his shoulder. "Especially not with the treasures hoarded in my particular stores ..."
Once over the threshold, Quint gazed around in astonishment. He was hard-pressed to imagine how anyone could find anything of value in amongst the unidentifiable junk and clutter that towered in teetering piles, lining walls and obscuring furniture. Sitting room, dining room, tiny kitchen --all were virtually un-navigable on account of the masses of paraphernalia.
Coils of wire, glass bulbs, sheets of what looked like hammered tin and copper, gears and cogs of all sizes, fine linens, a dressmaker's dummy, and tools ranging from an industrial-grade riveter to cases lined with tiny precision instruments for watchmaking were stacked about as though a crazed gathering of Santa's elves had gone on break in the middle of an assemblage of nightmarish toys. In the corner, there was a fully articulated human skeleton hanging from a pole. A pair of what looked like welder's goggles were perched at a jaunty angle on its bleached skull. There were books everywhere. Scrolls. Tablets. Palimpsests. Some new, some positively ancient.
"Have you ever heard of the Library of Alexandria?"
"Of course I have," Quint snorted. "It burned to the ground in ancient times, taking a vast accumulated wealth of knowledge with it."
"Yes! Yes, it did." Kingfisher's eyes grew a touch unfocused for a moment. "Well, some of it survived. Some. Enough. Heron, for example ..."
"I've heard of Heron of Alexandria," Agamemnon piped up from where he'd been crouched down on the floor, examining some sort of spring-loaded curiosity that resembled a tiny catapult. "An inventor, he was. Built one of the first steam turbines, didn't he? And mechanical things. Whirligigs and such. Doors that opened on their own and wind-powered musical thingamies. Clever bloke."
"Clever. Oh, my, yes." Kingfisher nodded and clapped his hands. "Hydraulics, pneumatics, automation. You might even call him the father of cybernetics, in fact."
"Cyber ... what?" Quint frowned. He'd understood the other words, but ...
Kingfisher's eyes twinkled. "Follow me," he said, and crooked a long finger, beckoning the two Farthing gentlemen toward a door, which he opened. Through the archway, Quint saw the darkness beyond suddenly disperse and become filled with light from what must have been cleverly recessed lamps. The soft, golden illumination seemed to come from everywhere as they descended a circular staircase down into a basement that was as pristine and organized as the rooms above were cluttered and chaotic.
Kingfisher trotted eagerly over to a shapeless bulk in the middle of the room, covered with a canvas drop cloth. "As I say, I've something to show you," he said, drawing aside the tarp with a magician's flourish. "Something men of your quality may find ... of use."
* * *
It's not something, Quint thought to himself as he stepped off the bottom rung of the iron spiral staircase. It's someone. A girl. And she was beautiful in the light of a dozen oil lamps. The lambent glow of the flames rendered her skin golden-hued. It gleamed, almost as if it were polished--
"Metal ..." The word whispered from between Quint's lips, but as he approached the exquisite statue of the girl perched on the high stool in the corner of the workroom, he realized that it wasn't an illusion. No trick of the light. Her skin looked as if it were, indeed, fashioned out of precious electrum.
Her auburn tresses gleamed like fine-spun copper. No. Not like fine-spun copper ... her hair was copper. Quint felt his eyes grow wide. Thousands of coiled and coiffed filaments, dressed in careful ringlets cascading down her back, shimmered like flame.
"I needed the conductivity to power her synapticulator," Kingfisher said, following Quint's gaze. "Copper was just the ticket."
"Her ... uh ..." Agamemnon stammered. "Her what is it you say?"
"Her artificial mind. The thought-processors consume a dreadful lot of energy," Kingfisher talked as he walked in a circle around the stool where the statue perched, "and then there's all the motivators that move her limbs and gears ... but I had help with the design from an Austrian fellow--very clever, lives in New York now--and we managed to miniaturize the power source enough so that we could internalize it."
"I don't understand." Quint stood there blinking dumbly. "It's just a statue."
"Oh, ho!" Kingfisher grinned impishly and patted the "statue's" shoulder. "Now you don't want to say anything to offend her, Master Farthing! She is no statue. She's a performer."
"You mean ... like a ... simulacrum?" Quint had heard of such things, only he'd always imagined them clumsy, bulky constructs. This ... this thing looked positively human.
The old inventor chuckled. "A simulacrum--no! Heavens. My girl here is to those crude clunkers what the Sistine Chapel ceiling is to ... to finger painting!" He gestured with a proud flourish. "I call her my Actromaton."
"I see," Quint's uncle said, a tiny amused smile twitching beneath his moustache.
Quint shook his head slightly. His uncle was obviously humouring the poor old fellow. Who was--quite obviously--stark raving mad. Still ... Quint took a step toward the inanimate thing. It was really quite lovely. Her sculpted features were delicately pretty. She even had tiny, finely spun copper eyelashes.
"What's her name?" Agamemnon asked.
"Oh--she only responds to her character name, of course," Kingfisher answered. "Anything else would just confuse her programming."
"Ah. I see ..." Quint's uncle harrumphed in wry amusement. "Her ... her programming, is it? She's not one of those Stanislavsky disciples, is she? They take everything so seriously!"
"No, no." Kingfisher laughed along with Agamemnon's joke about the controversial Russian. "I simply meant that she is presently attuned to respond initially at the mention of her character's name--as in her first scene in the play. Otherwise, she reverts to a state of dormancy, as you see her now, to conserve power."
Quint took another step forward, drawn as if by an unseen force. "'Oh, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!'" he murmured one of Romeo's lines that, in the moment, struck him as particularly fitting for such a charming whimsy. "'It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear--'"
Suddenly, the Actromaton raised her delicate chin and turned her head toward Quint. Bright green eyes fluttered open and the shadow of a smile curved her shimmering lips.
"Oh!" Kingfisher blinked, a confused frown shadowing his brow. "Well, my dear! You are awake, it seems ..."
"I thought you said she was in a state of dormancy!" Quint's uncle exclaimed, taking a step back.
"Well, I ..." The old inventor paused for a moment, thinking, and then his expression suddenly cleared. "Ah! Of course! Nurse calls her 'Jule' in the play. That's what she must have thought she heard when you said 'jewel.'"
The Actromaton turned her head toward her creator, her movements graceful as a dancer's. Precise and lyrical. She turned her head back toward Quint and her
leaf-green eyes seemed to sparkle with vitality.
"Made of Viennese glass," Kingfisher said proudly. "The finest."
Quint was enchanted. "Can I call her Jewel then?" he asked. "It seems so ... fitting."
"I suppose it couldn't hurt," Kingfisher said. Then he winked. "I think she likes you, Master Farthing."
"That's not really possible," Agamemnon said, knotting his arms across his chest and regarding the marvellous mechanical construct with some scepticism. "Is it? Her ... er ... liking someone?"
"Oh, no," Kingfisher smiled. "That was a little joke. She's just responding with a series of pre-programmed responses. It's all algorithms and such. An illusion, if you will--although a damned fine one, if I do say so myself. And, after all ... isn't that what the best actors do?"
Jewel had slid off her perch and taken a step toward Quint, raising one slender hand, as if she would reach out and touch his face. Quint mirrored the gesture. Their fingertips touched and he could feel the slight, gentle whirring of the tiny gears and servos that operated her joints and limbs beneath the paper-thin, flexible covering of her metal skin. Truly, the Actromaton was a marvel. More than a feat of engineering she was almost ... alchemy. Magic.
For a fleeting moment, Quint felt as though he should have been repulsed. She wasn't real. She was a mockery. A machine. But then a thought occurred to him.
Well, what else are you, Quint, but a biological machine? You're not so different. Just muscles and tendons instead of gears and pulleys.
What was it Shakespeare had called his troupe of actors in A Midsummer Night's Dream? "Rude mechanicals"? And Quint was far more rudely mechanical than the Actromaton when it came right down to it! He laughed a little at his silent joke and Jewel noticed. She parroted the gesture and her voice was like the chiming of silver bells, musical and wondrous.
Quint pressed his rough palm against her cool smooth one and said, "'If I profane with my unworthiest hand, the gentle sin is this: my lips, two blushing pilgrims ready stand to smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss ...'"
It was Romeo's first line to Juliet in the banquet scene--the first time the two characters spoke--and Jewel responded with a swift, startled intake of "breath." Just as a proper Juliet would. Quint could almost imagine he perceived a slight, hectic blush brightening her gleaming cheeks. She opened her mouth as if to answer back when Kingfisher stepped forward to interrupt them. Quint had almost forgotten that the two other men were in the room.
"Now, now," the inventor patted his creation on the shoulder. "Let's not go too far down that road just yet. Time enough for banquets and balconies. Masters Farthing, let me show you something." He beckoned Agamemnon forward and smiled in a fatherly way at Jewel. "My dear? If you'd be so kind?"
She smiled serenely and lifted her arms over her head like a ballerina. Her costume, Quint saw, was not so much a costume as a casing. A housing for machinery. Kingfisher gently pushed aside the copper curls hanging down between the Actromaton's shoulders, revealing a series of rivets and intricate brass buckling that fastened up the back of her delicate corset instead of lacing.
"She runs on an electromagnetic engine, you see." The inventor beamed at his captive, captivated audience. "She's wireless! And these are her hydraulics, her pneumatics ..."
What Quint had taken to be nothing more than the stays of Jewel's corsetry was actually piping; thin pneumatic tubing that ribbed her garment in vertical stripes like whalebone. Up close, he could hear the hiss and gentle gurgle of gases and fluids that gave her motion. Simulated life. Kingfisher unlatched a hidden, lace-covered panel in her bodice and showed them the chambered, fluid-pumping apparatus of Jewel's "circulatory pump"--her heart.
Quint stared at the intricate mechanism, utterly intrigued. It was beautiful.
Agamemnon, for his part, was seemingly a touch overwhelmed. "I could use a wee dram to help me take all this in, Mister Kingfisher."
"Yes, yes. Of course! Help yourself." The inventor waved in the direction of an oaken sideboard as he adjusted his creation's marvellous corsetry. The sideboard held an assortment of cut crystal decanters holding liquids of various colours. "Just anything but the ... No! Agamemnon, stop!"
Quint's uncle froze, a liqueur glass full of something that looked like creme de menthe or green chartreuse, poised beneath his moustaches.
"Heh ..." Kingfisher bustled over and plucked the bilious green concoction from the other man's fingers. "Not that one."
"What the deuce? I thought it was plain old absinthe!"
"No. Although the 'green fairy' is part of the base liquid, this is no ordinary aperitif. No, this particular tonic takes a good deal of getting used to, you see. That is, if you want to avoid instant paralysis, followed by a slow, creeping death. Oh yes. One must ... build up a resistance over years and years of ingesting tiny amounts ..." He was muttering almost to himself now.
"And then?"
"Hm?"
"After the years and years?" Quint asked. "Why would one wish to partake of such a substance over a protracted period of time, sir, unless the benefits were unusually rewarding?"
The old man's timeless gaze swept back across the room to where Jewel waited patiently for her master to finish his tinkering with her mechanics. "One devotes one's life to the creation of such a thing, wouldn't you say? And if that life isn't long enough ... one finds ways to get ... more life." Kingfisher downed the contents of the glass himself with a grimace.
Agamemnon frowned deeply. "Sounds like a Devil's bargain, old man."
Kingfisher's grin returned. "But ... But ... it has, in a small way, allowed me to play not the Devil, but God--if you will allow the blasphemy." His laughter sounded slightly unhinged. "At least I didn't make her in my own image! Ha ... that would have been a terrible burden now, wouldn't it?" He closed the panel over Jewel's heart again and tapped it gently with a fingertip.
"What about her ..." Quint gestured vaguely toward the Actromaton's head.
"Her synapticulator? Her brain is--well, I assure you--it's just as finely made as the rest of her. And I've filled it full of the complete works of the Bard. Every word. She's a Shakespearean encyclopaedia! She'll never miss a cue or jump a line!"
"You really mean to put her on the stage?" Quint's uncle's jaw dropped open almost until it was touching his chest. "You think she can actually act?"
"She will. Once you teach her. Train her." Kingfisher was staring at the Farthings now with a feverish glare. "I've given her the raw materials. She only needs the fine-tuning that a director--a mentor--can give her. I want that teacher to be young Master Farthing."
"I ..."
Quint felt suddenly very unsure of himself. Of this whole strange endeavour. He backed away--right into his uncle who stood at his elbow. Agamemnon grasped his arm before he could turn and bolt up the stairs and out into the night.
"Think of it," his uncle murmured in his ear, "no more Marjories up on our stage. No more gaffed lines or botched blocking! Every performance just as perfect as the one that went before. And just the way you want it to be. Think of it, Tillie, my lad. Even those newfangled infernal pictie-shows still need human actors to pull off a real performance. We won't need real actors at all anymore once they see what it--what this, er, what she can do!"
"Quintillius," the inventor said, "I beseech you. Will you do the honours of teaching her nuance? Of directing her, as it were? I know it is in your soul, young man. The words are in her mind, she just needs a taste of what they should sound like in her heart," Kingfisher argued persuasively. "Much like your own mind is simply the end result of an accumulation of knowledge and then the interpretation of that knowledge, she simply needs to be guided in the art of that interpretation. Shape her performance, Quintillius. And then, together, we three will present her to the world. The finest Juliet to ever grace a stage. And that stage will be the Aurora!"
"Agamemnon?" Quint said quietly, turning to his uncle. "What do you think about all this? Truly?"
His uncle'
s gaze had lost its wariness. In its place, Quint could see the dreams of the erstwhile impresario kindling to fevered life. This could be just the very thing the theatre needed to revive. Their fortunes could be looking rosier within a month. Word of the Actromaton's novelty would guarantee a sold-out show. Quint knew that in his bones.
Arms still raised gracefully over her head, Jewel turned and winked at Quint. Neither of the other men noticed and--for some reason--Quint did not feel inclined to tell them. It was like a little secret. It made him feel less apprehensive about the undertaking. Slightly.
He winked back ... and then reluctantly agreed to be Jewel's tutor. And more than that.
He told them he would only do it if he could also be her Romeo.
* * *
Marjorie Dalliance had responded just as expected when told she would be getting the boot in favour of a machine. And that Quint would be taking over the part of Romeo. "Cor lumme!" she crowed. "You? Romeo! Ha! You what? never been kissed? Snoggin' it up wiv this bucket o' bolts? Ain't that fittin'. Carn't handle a real woman, this one. Well, good luck t'yer, sweeting. Hope she don't break yer pansy wee 'art!" She spat on the stage at his feet and turned on the heel of her high, laced boot to flounce off up the aisle of the theatre, bustle bouncing absurdly in her wake.
Honorius Clement, the actor who'd played Romeo opposite Marjorie, took the news a good deal better. He'd always had a sort of laconic spirit anyway. And he'd seemed a bit alarmed when he'd thought for a moment that he'd have to be the one playing opposite the Actromaton.
Marjorie was one thing, he said, but he'd played Pygmalion once in an operetta and the story of the man who'd fallen in love with the beautiful statue had struck him as just slightly ... sad. He wished Quint luck. Quint instantly offered to make Honorius the stage manager of the production.
He was glad he did so, too, because Quint had his hands more than full with a rehearsal period that turned out to be only a few weeks long. The minute word leaked out of Kingfisher's and Farthing's daring new enterprise, the whole of the City, it seemed, was clamouring for tickets to the rumoured one-night-only exclusive gala showing. The price his uncle was charging was utterly exorbitant--and yet they sold like proverbial hot cakes.
