Free The Derring-Do Club and the Year of the Chrononauts by David Wake Page B

press the heart in the centre of the main column with whatever weapon one had selected. This seemed remarkably simple, and the obvious nicks and holes attested to how often this had been achieved in the past.
    She marked a line two paces away in the dust with the toe of her Oxford Street boot and experimentally swished a foil this way and that. Finally, she pulled the face mask over, finding she could see through the wire mesh, but realising that her coiffure was ruined.
    “En garde,” she said, bringing the blade upright, the cold steel guard tucked under her chin, and then, ruining the bold stance, she bent forward and tossed the gauntlet down. It landed squarely on the activation plate.
    The metal dropped, the central arm jerked up in a parody of the duelling pose and then the first Jacquard card shunted in at the back, clunking and whirring. The right armature swung round, a counter balance, distracting Earnestine as the other arm came up and prodded forward. It caught her in the midriff; her corset transferred the force across her entire torso, so it flung her over backwards crushing both her bustle and her dignity. The thing carried on, whirling, swirling and stabbing, slashing and probing as the entire pack of cards jostled into the mechanism telling the mechanical combatant to fight and struggle on, despite facing an already fallen opponent.
    Earnestine rolled over and hustled out from under the flailing threat and turning, she pulled herself up.
    Waiting for the right moment, she stepped in: parried the blow. It clanged backwards and she smiled, knowing that she’d got the hang of this–
    “Oooph!”
    She was on the ground again, her ear stinging from a swipe. The face mask came free and bounced away like a rugby ball. The machine had known where she was, her blow activating cogs and levers as her parry moved the arm in a certain way and this in turn directed the counter move. She struggled backwards, the device thrashing side–to–side above her and walking!
    Walking!
    Towards her!
    It shunted from one short leg to another, the weights inside throwing it one way and then another in a travesty of motion.
    It stopped moving as the internal forces wound down and presently the thrashing slowed, stuttered and stopped.
    When it finally ceased, Earnestine stood and brushed the dirt off her dress before she–
    “Ah!”
    It struck again, the last spring giving its final oomph.
    “Right!”
    A simpler programme was the answer to expedite a gradual improvement of her skill, she thought.
    She selected another: turned the handle again – that right one could do with some oil – and set off the combat once more.
    This time she was ready, this time she parried and parried again before the thing somehow twisted its foil and disarmed her.
    Second attempt – the oil was in the workshop and… there must be something to get this disgusting stuff off her hands without ruining her lace handkerchief.
    “Now!”
    Gauntlet down, Earnestine down.
    Fourth attempt, the oil had done the trick, and she was soon hopping in the centre of the warehouse around the clever hansom cab, holding her hand and biting her lip to stop her yelling the ‘b’ word at the top of her voice.
    When it had finally subsided, Earnestine glared at it for a long time and then, very deliberately, she stabbed the heart of the machine. The image depressed signifying that the machine was ‘off’. It was indeed so easy when the opponent wasn’t defending itself.
    Oh, it was such a foolish un–ladylike activity anyway.
    She made herself a cup of tea, but it was no victory celebration and her hand, ear, derriere and pride smarted dreadfully, so she put the very idea out of her mind completely and went back to filing, banging the doors shut and slamming the stacks of paper down with a certain vehemence.
    “My dear, what’s the matter?”
    “Nothing Mister Boothroyd.”
    “I think we should have a spot of tea.”
    They had yet another tea and Earnestine