Victoria's Secret

Gasping and panting, the two courtiers stumbled into the hall, slamming the gilded doors behind them. Lord Trebulo's stiff collar was undone; the Marquis of Trevaire's sweat had smeared his makeup.

"I think she almost got me," said Trebulo. "Check my back. Is my cape still there?"

The Marquis only puffed, doubled over, hands resting on his knees.

"Congratulations, m'lords!" said Capere the majordomo. "These audiences with the Queen can be so trying." He proffered a tray. "Fresh lemon-water?"

"Merciful heavens, yes."

"The steel teeth were bad enough," Capere said conversationally, "but these new wheels... well, it's hardly fair anymore."

...For Science!

There was a time that I meant it, every shining-eyed word. The future was so bight that we'd all need triple-reinforced smoked-glass goggles (with attached breathing apparatus C-37). My head was full of gears and levers and steam valves, without room for fears or worries. How could I have foreseen the endless, pointless struggle? Every generation needs re-enlightenment, it seems.

I tug on my leather gloves. I heave my rocket-pack into place. I flip down my goggles.

"Did you think it would be easy?" Experiment 715Q asks from its aquarium.

I ignore it. "Today is a glorious day," I mutter...

Hardhat Zone

With a ratchet and a clatter, the brass squirrels retreated into their nests, making way for silver-plated owl-clocks. Overhead, there was a distant roar as a perfect V of missiles rocketed south for the winter. The streets were nearly bare as the last of the flesh-and-blood denizens scrambled for shelter.

The bells tolled, and the gears turned. "Winter is coming!" the birds called. "Winter is coming!"

All along the street, the lantern-posts creaked, rusty with months of disuse. One by one, the grips opened, releasing the glimmering leaves to drop to the streets with the clang of metal on metal.

The Spear-Carriers

Bernard reclined on the divan and watched Stouffer pace. Every so often the pudgy man would pause, haul a pocketwatch out of his waistcoat, and mumble into his mustache.

“Running out of time,” Stouffer mumbled.

“They’ll be back,” said Bernard. “You know they will, else we wouldn’t still be here.”

“We know they haven’t failed, that’s all,” said Stouffer. The butler clanked in with more drinks.

“Bloody thing needs oiling,” said Bernard, sipping delicately. “What time is it, anyway?” he asked, seeing Stouffer pulling out his watch once again.

“Stopped,” said Stouffer, letting it dangle by its chain. “Still stopped.”