Manakin

“Gentlemen, I present to you the perfect personal servant, Manakin!”

Professor Michael Exeter paused for dramatic effect, but the members of the Automaton Society seemed to be more interested in their claret and cigars. Most of them ignored the eccentric inventor and the vaguely human-shaped figure slumped in a chair next to him. Smoke-grimed portraits of prominent scientists and inventors gazed down on the wood paneled room with equal disinterest.

Professor Exeter’s short stature, slight figure, and narrow face provided little of interest to the casual observer. His dark suit, customary for such an occasion, was no different from the men seated at the polished oak dining table. He did, however, affect a goggle-like set of protective eyeglasses rigged out with swing-down lenses to provide magnification of small and delicate objects.

Exeter was known among the society more as a craftsman than innovator. He’d picked up the honorific ‘professor’ during a short-lived teaching stint at Slough Technical College, but hadn’t formally earned the title. His students were awed by his superior intellect and dogged devotion to his work, but the administration less so. Too many missed lectures and a lack of deference to the Dean had resulted in a polite but firm dismissal.

The dining hall of the Automaton Society was much like any other gentlemen’s club, with wood paneling, deep carpets, and wrought-iron gas lamps. The décor, however, was decidedly different. The bookshelves were stocked with well-thumbed technical journals rather than dusty tomes of great literature. Various mechanical parts and pieces were displayed in cabinets and stood along the walls where one might have expected trophies of African safaris. Several of the clockwork devices had been designed and built by the man at the dais.

One of these was a miniature pianist who could be made to play different songs on a tiny piano by inserting appropriate cogwheels into an exposed geartrain. Exeter had also provided the clockwork mechanism for a finely detailed scale model of the Earth itself. The globe’s surface was done in a polished blue enamel, with continents and countries represented by darker shades of brown and green. Coastlines and national boundaries were picked out in threads of bright brass and snowfields were shown by mother of pearl. More than four feet in diameter, the globe had a clockwork mechanism that kept it rotating in perfect synchronization with the real globe. A bronze band circling its equator was etched with markings 1/100th inch apart. These markings showed the time in increments of five seconds with every twelfth mark indicating one minute. A delicately formed arm, aligned with the Royal Observatory at Greenwich, arched from pole to pole as an indicator. It held a magnifying cyclops lens above the equatorial band that allowed even the near sighted to see the time advancing in its inexorable twenty-four hour per day progression.

Exeter’s craftmanship was widely acknowledged, but his efforts to automate the mundane and dreary tasks of everyday life were unappreciated. More ambitious members of the society devoted their energies to stately steam-powered dirigibles or intimidating self-propelled carronades. Undaunted by his fellow members disinterest, however, the man on the speaker’s dais pressed on.

“Manakin can cook, tidy a room, put a letter in the post – “

“Harumph!” Sir Cyril Mosbach interjected. “We’ve seen your claptrap tea brewing machine, Exeter, and the toast butterer, too. Mere toys do not warrant the attention of this august body. If you’ve nothing more to show than a clockwork mannequin, then don’t waste our time. We’ve seen the like in a sideshow fortune-telling kiosk.”

Sir Cyril gave Exeter a condescending smile and returned to his claret. A large man with a florid complexion, he’d been a notorious bully at his public school and still took pleasure in the intimidation of colleagues and companions. His bone cracking handshake was infamous among the members of the society, yet largely unavoidable due to his status as president. A status due more to wealth than ability.

It was generally known that Mosbach used the society to profit from other men’s work. His name was on a score of patents that he only vaguely understood. But that’s often the price that the brilliant pay to gain wisdom. Exeter had paid the price ten years earlier. He was the one who’d invented the Mosbach Automatic Bootblack but he wasn’t listed on the patent. Society membership was his only compensation for a year’s labor. The Bootblack machine had been a technical success but hadn’t turned a profit, being unable to compete with the army of small boys who kept London’s footwear shining. Mosbach blamed Exeter for the financial losses and never failed to belittle his subsequent efforts.

The figure that Mosbach sought to dismiss was seated in a wooden chair next to Exeter. It might have been taken for human at a quick glance, or perhaps in dim lighting. It had a nearly spherical head, barrel shaped torso, arms, legs, fingers and toes. A layer of lightly textured, buff-colored gutta percha served as its skin. The component parts, taken all together, suggested a short, somewhat stout man, approximately five feet tall. But a closer inspection would reveal striking differences.

Manakin’s bright eyes were actually a mesh of steel wire, the pupil and iris merely painted on. The arms and legs were composed of cylinders connected by spherical joints. Its hands consisted of three jointed fingers and an identical opposing thumb with virtually no palm. The feet, sans shoes or socks, were perhaps Manakin’s strangest feature. Two long toes, similar to the articulated fingers above, extended in front of a spherical ankle joint and a single toe pointed aft. The overall effect was much like the foot of a bird. They looked odd under the humanoid body but gave extremely stable and adaptable support.

“It’s not a mannequin, Sir Cyril,” Exeter protested. “Not a poor imitation, but akin to a man. Spelled differently, don’t you see? It’s true that those early devices were mere doodles. Toast and butter occupied my hands while my mind roamed on high to conceive the ultimate automaton. Manakin is the physical realization of my ideas. Now I’m ready to share it sir, with the world, and most importantly, with you.”

“But what’s the point, Exeter? The lower classes already exist to serve their betters.”

Professor Exeter, who had risen from humble origins, didn’t miss the subtle inference.

“Human servants are unreliable and often vexing,” Exeter explained. “They lack discretion and often confuse their own needs and desires with those of their master. Manakin is capable of performing almost any task that a human being can do. But it never tires, never shirks, and is unfailingly loyal. Manakin has no opinions, no moral positions, and will carry out its master’s orders without question. Manakin is clever, dispassionate, and incapable of petty theft, which is more than I can say for some humans.”

Mosbach pretended not to hear the thinly veiled gibe.

“But what if it’s commanded to commit a crime?” Mosbach asked slyly. “Surely, that would be immoral?”

“Morality is the responsibility of the workman, not the tool,” Exeter replied. “After all, the scalpel raises no objection when it cuts through healthy flesh to reach the diseased organ that lies beneath. Manakin is completely indifferent to the concept of right and wrong. It thinks only to the extent of carrying out its master’s wishes.”

“And if someone else commands it to carry out their wishes?”

“My wishes, Sir Cyril, Manakin responds only to my voice.”

Exeter calmed himself and concealed his contempt for Mosbach behind an unassuming smile. The president of the society had to be placated, at least for now. Sir Cyril, founder of the Automaton Society, had provided the funding to turn a decrepit gentlemen’s club into a comfortable retreat. He had written their bylaws, he gave final approval for new members, and he had the power to remove Exeter if it came to a real showdown.

Exeter continued to attend society dinners despite his dislike of Mosbach, keeping up his membership to maintain access to its community of scientists, inventors and engineers. He was speaking to them tonight in hope of redeeming his reputation and showing up Mosbach.

“This is no wind-up toy, gentlemen. The motive power is steam, generated by a microboiler and fueled with pure phlogiston. Tiny pistons and steam turbines within Manakin’s structure animate the motion of arms and legs. Steel wires function as tendons, extending into the hands and feet. My advanced omniversal joint design allows for both flexion and rotation. It mimics, yet is superior to, those of the human. And the design is patent pending."

Exeter aimed a look at Mosbach, but Sir Cyril refused to meet his gaze. The other members were now showing real interest.

Microboilers, omniversal joints? Perhaps Exeter does have something of value. Still, it may be just another Bootblack, Mosbach thought to himself.

“Phlogiston? Hhrmmph, discredited theory, what?” Mosbach protested. “And the thing looks like a common clerk. Ten a penny and all that.”

“The design is intended to be unobtrusive, Sir Cyril, just as a servant should be. That’s why Manakin appears to be wearing a plain suit of clothes. Look closer and you’ll see that the clothing is merely a clever coat of paint. And not only have I proven the truth of Becher’s hypothesis, I’ve devised a method to extract and store phlogiston. A single cup can produce as much steam as a hundredweight of coal. A quart is sufficient to operate Manakin for days at a time.”

“But a machine can’t actually think.” Mosbach interjected, hoping to dull the luster of Exeter’s astounding claims. “An automaton merely carries out a pre-determined sequence of motions. It lacks the capacity for independent thought or action. Even the lowliest servant has a rudimentary brain.”

Exeter smiled with satisfaction. Mosbach was proving to be the perfect foil, providing leading questions and making objections that were easily disposed of.

“A team of Swiss watchmakers have spent the last six years crafting and assembling parts to my exact specification, Sir Cyril. The result is a clockwork brain with more than 250,000 precision gears, springs, and membranes. It has tens of thousands of jeweled bearings. Its operation is not merely programmed, but responds to external stimuli. The complexity of Manakin’s brain is orders of magnitude beyond Babbage's analytical engine.”

Exeter paused as skeptical members snorted and assured each other that his claims must be exaggerated. The gist of their muttered opinions was that coordinated operation of a quarter-million moving parts was simply not practical.

“With Manakin, I have achieved much more than a simple automaton, gentlemen. Perhaps a demonstration will be more convincing than words.”

Exeter extended his left arm and exclaimed dramatically, “Manakin, awake!”

The figure, no longer inert, stood and turned its face toward Exeter. There was a slight bobbing motion as it continually readjusted its balance atop the birdlike feet.

“Manakin, please don your hat and coat.”

Manakin gave a precise little nod and rotated its head until it located a hall tree that Exeter had placed at the back of the dais. It then proceeded to the hall tree with measured steps, trailing wisps of steam exhaust as it went. Those nearest the dais could hear faint hisses and whirs as steam cylinders extended and turbines spun. Each step was exactly repeated as Manakin walked to the hall tree, and those with sharp eyes could detect the signature bobbing motion that accompanied its constant search for balance.

At the hall tree, Manakin reached out to grasp an overcoat that Exeter had hung there for this very demonstration. A series of deft, mechanical motions followed as each coat sleeve was aligned and slipped over an arm. With the coat in place, Manakin then lifted a black felt bowler and set it firmly atop its bulbous head. The effect was both fascinating and disturbing. Each movement was so human-like, yet not very human at all.

The skeptics were mostly silenced by the mundane but oddly sophisticated demonstration. Donning a coat is an action easily taken for granted, but the more perceptive members appreciated the inherent difficulty of a machine performing such a maneuver behind its back. Mosbach, however, continued to be unreceptive.

“All very well with a carefully planned sequence, Exeter, but what if the hat isn’t where it’s expected?”

“Manakin can find the hat anywhere in the room, Sir Cyril, as long as it’s within view. Where would you like it placed?”

“Hrmmph, I’ll place it myself,” Mosbach responded. “We’ll see if your contraption can deal with the unexpected. And don’t try to give out any hints.”

Exeter removed the bowler and commanded Manakin to face the rear of the dais. Mosbach came forward, took the hat from Exeter and placed it under Manakin’s chair. It was technically in view, but not from where Manakin stood.

Let the blasted thing look all night, thought Mosbach smugly, returning to his seat at the head of the table.

Exeter merely smiled and repeated the original command, “Manakin, please don your hat.”

Once again, Manakin’s head rotated to take in the dais. But this time a more complex search pattern developed. Manakin took two steps to the right, then two steps back, then four steps to the left, searching the dais at each position. When at last the hat was within view, Manakin approached the chair, picked up the bowler with a bird-like foot, transferred it to a hand, and then placed it securely back on its head.

“The thing may well have eyes in the back . . .’ Mosbach trailed off, realizing that his protest sounded absurd.

The demonstration could hardly have been more convincing, and the society were all quite intrigued. Exeter seized the opportunity to expand on Manikan’s capabilities.

“There are no eyes, gentlemen, neither front nor back,” Exeter said with a determined smile.

Mosbach, uncomfortably aware of the new dynamic, began to reconsider his position. Perhaps it would be better to humor Exeter. Even if the machine didn’t work, its component parts were obviously valuable. And if there was money to be made, then Mosbach would be the man to make it.

He opened his mouth, searching for conciliatory words, but Exeter stared him into silence and continued to describe the technological marvel that was Manakin.

“The sensory apparatus is entirely sonic in nature. It emulates the echolocation of the bat. What appear to be eyes are in fact small steam whistles. One emits a frequency inaccessible to the human ear. The appendages at the sides of Manakin’s head are ear horns, similar to those used by the deaf. Sound waves, gathered and concentrated by the ear horns, influence delicate membranes that both activate and interrupt gear trains in the clockwork brain. Manakin analyzes the echoed returns to determine shapes and distances in its surrounding environment. The other steam whistle is modulated at a lower frequency to provide a voice. And what appears to be a mouth is used to fill the water tank in Manakin's torso.”

The entire group was eagerly hanging on Exeter’s every word. They were completely in Exeter’s camp now and he decided to press his advantage.

“Perhaps another demonstration is in order, gentlemen. Sir Cyril, if you would be good enough to accommodate me, please stand for a moment.”

Mosbach sniffed but pushed back his chair and rose to his feet.

“Manakin, scan the room and describe it.”

The bulbous head rotated left and then right, it’s ‘gaze’ taking in the dining hall, the society members, and several windows. A dog on the street barked excitedly, but the men in the room heard nothing. After a few seconds, a reedy voice became audible.

“This room is twenty-four feet wide and forty-two feet long. There are four side windows and three doors. A long table in the center is surrounded by eighteen chairs. There are nineteen occupants.”

“Hah!” exclaimed Mosbach. “The infernal thing miscounted.”

“Manakin, how many occupants are human?” Exeter asked.

“Eighteen.”

“Manakin, how many occupants are standing?”

“Three.”

"Manakin, the person standing at the long table is Sir Cyril. Bring him here."

Manakin turned away from Professor Exeter and walked across the dais. Each discrete step was an identical motion, with a calculated stride that brought Manakin precisely to the top of the stair. There was a slight quivering pause as the next sequence of movements was mapped out.

Astonished faces watched intently as Manakin, trailed by wisps of steam exhaust, navigated the steps down to the floor, advanced to the head of the table, and grasped Mosbach by the elbow. Its movements certainly weren’t human, yet they were more graceful than might be expected of a machine.

Mosbach, flattered to be the center of attention, didn’t resist the forceful grip and was soon standing next to Exeter with predatory thoughts of profit running through his mind.

The fool doesn’t even realize what he’s got. Military applications alone are worth millions, yet he comes crawling back to me like a kicked puppy. Exeter lacks the nerve, and he knows it.

Mosbach, smiling as though preparing a lamb for slaughter, turned on his most unctuous charm.

“Well done, Exeter! Really old chap, quite amazing! I’d like to be the first, full partnership and all that, what do you say? A handshake agreement between friends?”

Professor Exeter smiled coolly at Mosbach, hardly believing that the old fool had played his part so perfectly.

“Manakin, take Sir Cyril’s hand.”

Mosbach felt a sense of triumph as Manakin’s firm textured grip closed on his hand.

“Manakin, crush his fingers.”

A distinct snapping of bones, followed by an anguished howl, stunned the crowd into silence. A dropped claret glass bounced on the carpeted floor. Manikin stood impassively as Mosbach begged to be released.

Mosbach fell to his knees with a whimper when Exeter finally relented and gave the command that released Manakin’s steam-powered grip. Exeter looked at the crumpled man with a sardonic smile.

“As you can see, gentlemen, the perfect servant is merely an extension of his master’s will.”




Author's note: ▼

In 1667 Johann Becher described a fire-like element that he called phlogiston. He theorized that flammable materials contain phlogiston and that combustion is actually a release of phlogiston.

In the 1820's Charles Babbage designed a mechanical calculating machine that is considered to be the first programmable computer. It was never fully realized, but some working examples were steam-powered.

Original story won honorable mention for the January 2023 round of the StAG Firebox contest

Prompt: Your Character has created his/her own clockwork minions.
              They may be used for good or evil . . .
              which does he/she choose?

StAG Firebox - Closed for judging!  (13+) Steampunk fiction competition #1781446 by Beck Firing back up!

(3100 words)