The book is erotic and it is - well, for the rest of today at least - free. When I say sci-fi, it may not be quite what you expect. Perhaps I ought to qualify my statement. Yes. I would hate to mislead. Today's excerpt is taken from one of the more sci-fi stories in this rather mixed anthology, which also contains paranormal stories in roughly equal measure.
Three of the tales are almost apocalyptic; three more are haunting modern fables; one involves an old church, witchcraft and ancient rites; the last revolves around the eighteenth-century fascination with automata, machines that replicate human or animalistic movement with uncanny, otherworldly accuracy. It's a kind of steampunk without the steam. Or the punk. It's sci-fi without the fi. People actually built these things and some survive to this day. Some were frauds - the famous chess-playing 'Mechanical Turk', for example - while others - Jacques de Vaucanson's 'The flute player' - were simply incredible feats of engineering that led to, amongst other things, the industrial revolution and the execution of powerful Kings and powerless Luddites alike.
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Join me now as Henri Tybalt prepares to demonstrate his own wondrous mechanistic creation to a rather dubious Royal throng.
Excerpt from 'Automaton: the madness of King George'.
Henri's voice rings around the room.
'With Your Royal Highness's consent, I would like to offer a brief demonstration.'
'Tybalt, are you volunteering?'
The Duke leads the others in laughter. A smile and a placating palm are all Henri needs to quieten them.
'No, Sir. That is neither appropriate nor necessary. Your Royal Highnesses, gentlemen, please be seated and observe.'
There is, as always at this point, a dramatic pause. I know Henri's routine backwards and know he is about to produce a volunteer from thin air.
'I give you the exotic yet humble banana!'
Gasps of exaggerated amazement are followed by appreciative mumbles. A half-dozen high-backed and beautifully upholstered mahogany chairs are arranged about the plinth in a semi-circle. The men sit. All remove their hats and sit them on their laps. The young Prince's hat is fashionably tall and of a style worn by French dandies; I believe they are called toppers.
Excitement loosens the men's tongues.
'Will she eat it?'
'Will it even fit?'
'It is a big one!'
'Let's see what those teeth can do!'
More laughter. My beloved Mr. Tybalt again raises his right palm and decorum returns. He slowly peels then holds up the firm yet fragile white fruit in all its phallic glory, while discarding its blackened skin onto a small and perfectly-placed circular table. He faces the plinth. His gentle pressure indirectly opens my fingers. As Aphrodite grasps the firm flesh with her pale digits, I feel the men's communal discomfort and sense their fear for the fruit's integrity. However, their anxiety is unwarranted - hundreds of the banana's brethren have survived my ministrations. Henri produces a key, a long and unnecessarily ostentatious piece of metalwork, and, engaging the shaft in a small hole in the vicinity of Aphrodite's navel, proceeds to wind. The process is deliberately long and noisy; tension builds. I am ready.
Henri's fingertips are pressed to Aphrodite's left breast. A click precedes the gentle whirr of escapement that signals my awakening. Bellows rise and fall, directing warm moist air through the goddesses lips and across the banana's ripe tip; the pitch of each throaty breath is modulated by a continuously retuned aperture. The men lean forwards in anticipation. We have them! Heart rates are surely soaring and organs automatically accommodating the increased surge of viscous flow; the hats in their laps are surely well-placed. The bust's moist, full lips open. Eyelids flutter. Minute adjustments in universal joints aim the fruit towards the opening mouth. Pearly teeth shine. A red tongue pokes. The head dips. The fruit approaches then passes the lips. Well-greased gears disengage, slip and reverse, and the extant banana makes its resurgence. Men gasp, dab their faces and shift uncomfortably in their seats. My fingers make fine readjustments. The elbow bends a little more then straightens by the same degree, bringing the banana's tip into gentle contact with the lapping tongue. The cycle repeats with meticulous accuracy. By barely noticeable degrees, the rate of the arm's bending and straightening increases, till the banana is a fragrant blur.
'See how gentle... how loving she is, gentlemen. If such an object can feel pleasure, surely the banana is in paradise!'
The men are speechless, merely gaze in wonder. Henri depresses then turns her left nipple once more. The clicking and whirring stop and movements cease. The fruit is recovered from the clasping hand and passed around the now animated group. Though it has been stimulated by a thousand fluttering strokes, I know the banana is unbruised and virtually unmarked.
The demonstration ends and the men shake hands, exchanging vigorous nods, nudges and enthusiastic words. King George is obviously impressed, though, for some reason, expresses only his reservations.
'Ownership of such a device could lead a man into madness. Be careful what you do with her, Mr. Tybalt.'
My master bows.
'I shall, Sir. I shall take good care.'
The man I mistook for a courtier grasps Henri's forearm and takes him on one side. They exchange private words and meaningful glances. I catch only fragments.
'...the need for secrecy.'
'Of course. Reputations are at stake...'
'...the utmost discretion.
'His Majesty has never taken a mistress?'
'...fifteen children; he did not have the time!'
'Nor the strength, I shouldn't wonder!'
'...promise of a great sum!'
'Mr. Pitt, I understand... honoured to be of service!'
After warm farewells, the tall mahogany doors are unlocked and the King leads his party out. Footsteps and conversation fade. In a distant part of the huge house, doors bang. Through the mannequin's unmoving eyes, I see Henri lock the room's doors once more.
'They've gone. You can come out now.'
The secret door by my side clicks and slides. Back stiff, feet numb and legs aching, I clamber out into the fading daylight.
'You did exceptionally well, Camille - that banana was riper than I would have liked, but you have an incredibly loving touch.' Master sinks his teeth into the long slender fruit, savouring every sensuous chew. Smiling, he offers it to me; smiling in return, I shake my head, my long dark curls bouncing on my naked shoulders. He raises his eyebrows and snorts in a deep breath. 'Tomorrow, the King will return alone. You are ready?'
I nod.
'Oui.'
'I know you are.' He not only senses my unease, but divines also its source. 'And please do not worry - in the unlikely event of your discovery, I have created a fool-proof built-in fail-safe.' While striding around excitedly, he yells to the cherubs. 'Please, God, let it be a spectacular success!' Then he turns back to me. 'There is much work to do; oiling, polishing and readjustment. You may sleep now. When you next take your place inside the machine, it will be the moment of truth. Tomorrow's success may not assure my fame, but it will certainly assure my fortune! Now rest, little one.'
With a kindly smile, he strokes my cheek. The touch, though undeniably paternal, is blissful and I long to be more than his secreted assistant, more than his invisible servant.
Read more by downloading the anthology from the link above. The book is free for today only.
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