Phantasmical Contraptions & Other Errors

by Jessica Augustsson

  In the darkness beyond, which Drake had all but ignored in his momentary zeal, just past the wall splattered with glowing Turkish delight, an amorphous shape—easily three times the size of an adult human—rippled and shifted in the shadows. The vaguely rounded thing’s damp surface gave off an eldritch glimmer of bluish-green that quickly faded into blackness again, but only after illuminating the nest-like pile of bones and bleached clothing surrounding it in the cool dark shelter of the cave recess.

  End.

  Kimber lives in California, has been married to the same wonderfully talented partner for 30 years, and works in office administration. She’s been making up stories almost all her life, from crayons on construction paper to word processing programs. A voracious reader, Kimber also enjoys a wide variety of music, and has dabbled in various other artistic endeavors like drawing and sculpting.

  She has been a member of the Online Writing

  Workshop for Science Fiction, Fantasy, and Horror (sff.onlinewritingworkshop.com). She participates in writing-oriented LiveJournal, AO3, and Tumblr communities, as well as a private writer’s group focused upon improving writing skills and techniques.

  Paper

  by

  G. Deyke

  The box was made of wood. Gears and brass levers decorated its sides, and its base was—apparently—an enormous mechanical thinking engine. Mounted on its top was a series of lenses, with which it was able to observe its opponent. But in essence it was a wooden box: intriguing mainly for the promise of what it contained.

  “You’ve heard of Paper Scissors Stone, of course?”

  Edward looked the man up and down. He had, of course: the box belonged to the Paper Scissors Stone Club, and it was so labeled. He had not, however, the slightest idea what it actually meant. “Enlighten me.”

  “It’s a handgame from Japan: janken, they call it there. You move your hands, you see –this is paper; these are scissors; this, the stone—” And he explained the rules of the game. They were simple: Edward listened with only a passing interest, but there was little enough to forget. “They use it to decide conflicts,” the man from the Paper Scissors Stone Club went on, “but it’s when it’s played repeatedly that the real game begins. It’s a game of wits more than chance, which is why the janken box—” he gave the wooden box an affectionate pat, careful to avoid the delicate mechanisms it worked by “—is so brilliant.”

  Edward ran a skeptical hand over his mustache. “What does it do, exactly?”

  “Why, it plays the game. You see the lenses: through these it watches its opponent for his move. Inside the box there is a scroll of paper, a lump of quartz, a pair of scissors; but the janken box will show you only the item with which it hopes to win. The box is an artificial Paper Scissors Stone player, but it’s as good as a man—better than a man.”

  “How can that be? The thing’s a box, man—there’s no wits in brass and wood!”

  The man from the Paper Scissors Stone Club gave the ghost of a smile. “It learns,” he said.

  The janken box was watching him.

  The man from the Paper Scissors Stone Club was not. The machine was alone, for the moment; Edward took comfort in that, in the knowledge that nothing could see him standing there except the thing of brass and wood.

  He beat a fist against his hand, and the gears began to turn. With a mechanical whirring sound, the janken box accepted his challenge.

  He played scissors. It played paper.

  Scissors – paper.

  Scissors – paper.

  Scissors – stone.

  Paper – stone.

  Scissors – stone.

  Paper – scissors.

  Stone – paper.

  Paper – scissors.

  Paper – scissors.

  Scissors – stone.

  Edward shrank back from the thing in a cold sweat. Not enough that the thing could see him, trot out its tiny brass shears at his behest, without even a touch from himself or any other man – it had won. It had learned. It was nothing more than gears and levers, and yet he was powerless against it.

  “Have you had a try, then?”

  Edward started. The man from the Paper Scissors Stone Club had appeared as if out of nowhere.

  “Say,” he managed, “is there a man in there – someone pulling the gears?”

  “Not at all.” The man’s grin was wide and proud. “The janken box can do it all alone. How did it fare against you?”

  “Too well,” answered Edward. “Too well.”

  He dreamed of tiny brass scissors cutting through flesh. He felt rather silly when he awoke; still, the thought of it was strong in his mind, and the thought of his defeat with it.

  He returned to the box that very morning. The man was still standing there, brighteyed and cheery.

  “That box,” said Edward, making a discreet gesture with the bottom of his cane— “can it speak?”

  “Of course not,” said the man from the Paper Scissors Stone Club, looking distraught. “It plays Paper Scissors Stone: that’s all it does.”

  “But it can see me,” said Edward. “It looks at me, sees me; and it can think: it can think better than I can. Tell me it isn’t alive. Tell me it doesn’t have the mind of a man.”

  “The janken box doesn’t have a voice,” said the man from the Paper Scissors Stone Club. “It has gears and levers and delicate machinery, but how do you imagine it would speak to you?

  Nothing in the world could give a voice to a machine, no matter how cleverly built.”

  But when the man stepped away for a moment Edward stepped up to the machine, and beat his fist against his palm. Thrice he struck down: but he gave no paper, no scissors, no stone.

  The box creaked open. Inside it, held up by long brass levers, there was a tiny pair of scissors with engravings on the handle.

  It opened again: again, the scissors.

  Again: once again, the scissors.

  There was sweat on his brow: he dabbed at it with his handkerchief, staring at the wooden box. It stared back at him through lenses of glass.

  “Is something wrong, sir?”

  “Not at all,” said Edward. Too quickly, he spun on his heel and walked away. The janken box watched him go.

  In the dead of night, armed with only his fears, Edward crept back to the place where the janken box stood. It was still and silent, shrouded in shadows. Moonlight gleamed and slanted through its lenses.

  He crept up behind it, slow and silent, careful that it should not see him. From behind, he gripped its gears and tore them away, and throwing his weight against it toppled the box onto the ground.

  Inside the thinking engine of the base, there was something dark and moving, beating, beating—

  Lying battered and broken on the street, the janken box tried to open. Edward kicked at the door, dislodging it: inside, held aloft on long brass levers, he saw only the stone.

  Some Disassembly Required

  by

  Damon L. Wakes

  Few cared to admit it, but Sebastian Lloyd had a head for business. It had been hand-fitted by Stanton Precision Instruments and was capable of processing more than sixty-two economic calculations simultaneously. If you wanted the best service, you went to Edwin Pierce Esquire or Jarvis von Hyde. But if you wanted the best price, you went to Lloyd.

  Julius Foster rang the bell on the counter with a brass fingertip. There was a hiss of steam from the back room, and the sound of a chair being scraped back across the floorboards. Knowing the value of everything, and pursuing a more or less sedentary profession, Lloyd had not spared the same expense on his legs as he had on his patented pneumatic processor.

  Foster took the opportunity to have one more look around the shop. The selection of wares out front was adequate—certainly a fair mix of parts—but there was nothing remarkable. Nothing befitting his steady rise into high society.

  Lloyd emerged slowly from the back room, peering through his thick spectacles. Foster couldn’t imagine why
he didn’t simply swap out his original eyes for a set of rock quartz optics—he had at least three in stock—but then, Lloyd knew the value of everything, and so there must have been a reason.

  “Ah! If it isn’t Julius Foster, my...” the mathematical actuators in Lloyd’s left temple rattled momentarily, “fourth favourite customer.” There was a discount for the top five. “What can I do for you today?”

  “I’ll be attending a summer gala this evening and I’d like to look my best.” Foster peeled the leather glove off his left hand, revealing a crude but functional Smith’s Hydraulic. “This one’s in good shape if you’d care to take it in exchange, but I simply must have a dress hand for the event. If I make an appearance with an iron arm, well...” he leaned in close, “people might think I was a servant!”

  “I see.” Lloyd took a seat at the counter. From the waist up he was really quite presentable. “Do you have an upgrade in mind?”

  “Maybe something in a Cyril Gardener style? I gather their latest designs incorporate some marvellous tourbillon arrays.”

  Lloyd’s precision processor did a quick jig. “Awfully hard to come by. Batch-cast parts, you understand. Artisan engineering. I could order one in for you, but not in time for tonight.”

  “What about if I were to collect?”

  Lloyd arched his fingers. There was a staccato click of copper on copper as he drummed them together lightly. “Are you suggesting...a second hand hand?”

  “If it’s in good condition.”

  Lloyd’s processor worked a little longer this time. “Pneumatic. Triple compressor movement. Barometric auto-calibration.” He paused. “Rose gold case plating. That’s not to everyone’s liking: it’s not an ideal match for brass.”

  Foster flexed his other hand. “If it’s to my liking, I could always go for a pair. I’ll take it.”

  “Very good, sir.” There was a whirr as a slip of paper emerged from Lloyd’s lower jaw. He tore it off and passed it over “You’ll find your purchase at the address on the receipt.”

  Foster stared at the receipt. The quoted figure, formed of tiny punched-out dots of paper, contained a couple more digits than he had been expecting. “Is this the price for your fourth favourite customer?”

  “As I said,” explained Lloyd, “it’s a hard part to come by, especially at short notice.” There was a hiss of steam as he bent down below the counter, retrieving a small, phlogiston-lock pistol. He set the gun down on the wood. “If it makes any difference, you’ll be third favourite once you collect that hand of yours.”

  Foster picked up the pistol. “Well well,” he smiled. “I am going up in the world, aren’t I?”

  Lloyd smiled too. “Enjoy your evening.”

  Foster nodded a thank you and made his way to the door. His iron hand was on the brass knob when Lloyd spoke again.

  “One last thing.”

  Foster paused. “Yes?”

  For a moment, the only sound in the room was the rattling of Lloyd’s patented pneumatic processor.

  “Do pay promptly.”

  Runaway Airtrain

  by

  Jennifer Silverwood

  It wasn’t that she was afraid of flying, per se, more the rumbling chugging hiss of the brass monster blasting breakneck speeds through the air. The Queen Elizabeth Express was the latest in a prestigious line of modernity, equipped with the strongest hydro-engine and stuffed with enough pomp to draw in good society. The latter was the second reason Winnifred Wilhelmina Winthrop (Winnie for short) agreed to take the five o’clock airtrain from the capital to her sister’s home on the seaside. The first reason was the telegram pinched between her kid gloved hands.

  Winnie. Alfred is to remain at his post another week. Baby due any day. Please come as soon as Father allows. Stop.

  The airtrain jolted, unlocking her perfect posture and throwing her against the glass window with a loud “Oomph!” For a terrifying moment, the buzz of electricity faded, as storm clouds crackled with lightning outside.

  Winnie threw her arms wide, seeking purchase of the rack above her head and the gilded windowpane while voices shouted from beyond her compartment. She tried to squeeze her eyes shut, but her face was perched before the window and the lightning storm booming just beyond it. For a moment, her short, miserable existence flashed before her mind. A succession of society dinners and parties, playing hostess in Mother’s absence for Father’s associates, pilfering the contents of their coat pockets when no one was looking, just to be sure and promising to, “never let them steal your secrets, Papa.”

  The airtrain leaned a precarious tilt to the left, dipping into a smoldering cloud and suddenly righted itself. With the creaking of gears and hissing of steam, the combustible engine leveled and pushed ahead. A happy hum as electricity flickered in the light fixture above her head and Winnie collapsed a heap into her seat, damn propriety. She pressed the tips of her kid gloved hands to her temples, closed her eyes and rubbed. Thankfully she managed to settle into an empty compartment at the start of her trip, so as to disguise the panic attack she had been certain would overtake her. After that near-death experience, Winnie was pleased with her foresight.

  Black spots dotted her vision as she pulled her stopwatch from her coat pocket. One hour until they reached the coast. She knew this for certain as she checked every fifteen minutes the last hour.

  “At least we’re still on time,” she said and squeezed the ticking contraption. Between deep soothing breaths she chanted, “All is well. We are not crashing today, Winifred. Besides, the journey is almost over.”

  With a groan she straightened and pressed a hand to steady her spinning head. She blinked until the spots in her vision cleared and took in the opulence. Old-fashioned gold trimmings dressed up the cherry wood and soft cushioned seats. This car was not the most splendiferous of the Queen Elizabeth Express, nor the cheapest. Father was not poor, his inventions saw to that, but he was a miser through and through. Truth be told, Winnie was grateful for the chance to get away from the empty coldness of Winthrop Hall.

  Gwendolyn escaped through an arranged marriage six years before. Her husband was a member of the Watchers Society, Her Majesty’s most elite team of…well, something important they said. No matter. Best not to poke her upturned nose where it didn’t belong, or so Father often said. Through Gwen’s letters, Winnie believed her sister found a measure of peace. However, she was rethinking her eagerness to see her little sister now, listening to the storm rage madly on.

  A voice came over the bowled brass horn poking out the corner above head, “Apologies for the disturbance, ladies and gentlemen. Reports show the worst of the electrical storm behind us. Enjoy the remainder of your—.” Static replaced the voice, before a high pitched tone pierced her ears.

  Winnie threw her hands over her ears and bit down on her lower lip to keep from crying out. Tears leaked from her eyes in the aftermath, much to her horror. She hadn’t cried since she was a little girl, Father wouldn’t have stood for it. She lowered her hands and peered up at the brass speaker.

  Static crackled and groaned from its gleaming bowl and she hesitated, fought the rising panic trapping air in her throat. She tugged at her high neck collar and looked at the compartment door. No other voices cried out in the hall this time and a chill laced down her spine.

  “It’s nothing, just another effect of the storm…”

  Winifred Wilhelmina Winthrop was a coward by nature. There was always someone or something to fear, from rival inventors seeking to steal her father’s work, to Mother’s ghost haunting her in the night. She shook herself and pinched her cheek. “Enough silliness, you’re a grown woman.”

  She stood, determined to leave her fears behind and took the short steps to the compartment door. She pressed the golden button flickering with soft illumination and the thin metal and glass slid open with a hiss. Either side of her compartment was empty, brightly lit and disturbingly silent.

  “Hello?” Winnie turned both directions and sli
d her gaze through the windows peeking into other compartments. Men, women and children sat, slumped over in their seats, as though fast asleep. At once she recalled the horrific sound the speakers emitted, the same moment she recalled something from Father’s notes. It was possible…

  “No.” The plea tore from the back of her throat and she leaned closer to the nearest glass door. Faint red streaks fell from the noses and ears of the other passengers and she staggered back, away from the awful truth. Alarm bells tore through her ordered mind and she clutched a cherry wood panel between compartments and tripped on her ridiculous lavender skirt en route to the door. She threw up her hands, catching her fall on the exit and turned the gilded knob without success. She pounded on the door, leaned against it to listen for sounds on the other side, shouted as loudly as decency demanded, “Hello? Help! Someone help these people!”

  Winnie pulled away and reached for her pocket watch, kept it tightly gripped between her gloved palm and fingertips. “No point in panicking, Winthrop,” she said, blinked and with a breath reached to turn the knob again. This time the brass gave and the door pushed violently against her. Instinct offered enough warning that she threw her weight back against the wood, heard the frustrated grunt on the other side and bit back a scream. Logic chided her reaction. Most likely it was the conductor or some other passenger on his or her way to assist her. Fear, a powerful survival tool, told her otherwise.

  The man on the other side of the door cursed with a snarl and doubled his efforts against her, but she held fast. Why the engineers of the Queen Elizabeth Express had not installed mechanical doors between the train cars, she had every intention of asking once she got out of this fix. No semblance of the past was worth this danger.