Author: Colin Jeffrey

As the steam-powered Queen Victoria chugged its way across the palace forecourt, the sound of a volley of cannon shots rang out through a public address system.

A troop of mechanical horses paraded noisily in front of the queen, boilers whistling, gears grinding. Mannequins attired in military garb rode upon them.

“Preeee…sent arms!” yelled the recording of a sergeant major to a platoon of animated dummies ranged across the parade ground.

“Ooooorder…arms!” the recording continued.

Just then, one of the machine-driven horses exploded, spraying hydraulic oil and boiling water all over the John Brown mannequin mounted upon it. The horse and dummy crashed noisily to the ground.

“Oh, no, no, no!” screamed Jacamo Smith through his megaphone. “Stop!”

As Jacamo leapt from his director’s chair, he swept his hand across an array of switches, turning them all off. He threw his megaphone on the ground, strode out onto the parade ground. “Just once,” he said through gritted teeth, shaking his fist at the cloudless sky. “Just once, I would like to have everything make it through a whole procession!”

Jacamo surveyed the remnants of John Brown’s horse, its brass and steel innards spread across the ground. He knelt beside the mangled automaton, his face softening. “Oh dear, old boy,” he murmured, patting what remained of its flank. “I’m sorry I yelled. A momentary setback is all.” He snapped his fingers, and a clanking gaggle of retrieval automata gathered up the pieces of Brown and his horse, and whisked them off to the workshop.

He stood up, looked out across the silent parade ground. The mechanical Queen Victoria stood majestically in the afternoon light, her polished brass parts gleaming. He glanced at his pocket watch. “Oh my, they’ll be here at any moment,” he said to the ranks of staring dummies. “And we have to be prepared.”

Jacamo adjusted the lapels on a regal-looking mannequin. “Sergeant Major,” he said, saluting. “Please ensure the men are presented at their very finest.”

As he approached Queen Victoria, he ran a loving hand along her wooden superstructure. “Apologies, ma’am, just a little more pressure,” he whispered, finessing a valve. Steam hissed reassuringly.

He turned back to the courtyard, where wind stirred the air, blowing around torn epaulettes and fragments of discarded promenade plans. A soldier mannequin fell forward in the breeze, landing on its face with a hollow clunk.

Jacamo ignored the fallen dummy, clapped his hands three times in rapid succession. “On your best form everyone!” he said. “They’ll write stories about today!”

He strode in front of the platoons of assembled figures, hands clasped behind his back, addressing them in a grand voice.

“I know the council has doubts,” he said. “They laugh at me behind closed doors. But when they witness this, when they see what I have built, they will know the magnificence of Jacamo!” He paused, his voice now barely a whisper. “Then they will release me from this place.”

Suddenly, steam valves hissed, a swaying mannequin creaked.

He turned on his heel to face the timber Queen Victoria and nodded reverently. “Yes, ma’am. It shall be done.”

In the sky, the two suns dimmed briefly as a large cloud crossed their faces and long, late afternoon shadows extended across the arena. The seemingly endless desert stretched away in all directions, the parade ground and its buildings a tiny island in a vast ocean of sand.

Jacamo looked out from his domain, his eyes focused on the distance. “They are coming. I heard their voices in the fog this morning,” he said. “They’ll be here any time now.”