No-one could believe that at the twilight of the 19th century, the fantasies and flirtations of the great ‘science fiction’ authors of our age were to become true on a simple West Midlands beach. Until the extraordinary Skegness find in 1892, humanity had been stumped as to how to create a fully independent thinking mind, not drawn from any organic brain or power. A completely machined intellect, an ‘artificial intelligence’ as it was so aptly named. Many stories, such as those of Hephaestus’ golden automata, or the ivory Galatea of Pygmalion had been told, and many had tried to replicate this artificial intelligence: Babbage’s computers were of particular theoretical renown, their shunting, grinding calculations mapped out across miles to provide even the slightest hope of generating sapient thought from metal. And yet, the closest mankind had come to developing such a tour de force of engineering had been the metal machinations of Da Vinci, or a dwarf underneath a table playing chess, but pretending to be a sapient robot!

Until Skegness, that is.

I, Charles Sidmouth, was lucky enough to be on a seaside excursion to Skegness’ sandy beaches, the source of many a holidaymaker’s relief I was told, due to the keen efforts of Mr Whitton and Cook to persuade the people that this cold North Sea stretch was a warm, sunny paradise. Nevertheless, a brisk walk down the beach each morning to take in the cold salty vapours of the sea did wonders for my health and mind. Until, of course, I was told of a strange appearance by one Mr Brigshaw.

Mr Brigshaw was my lodger and a good friend, dating back to our schooldays. He came dashing to my door one Thursday morning in a state of great excitement, red in the face and positively vibrating with enthusiasm. “Mr Sidmouth, Mr Sidmouth!” He exclaimed with great vigour, “there’s this…thing, on the beach! A wondrous, marvellous thing!”

“A ‘thing,’ Mr Brigshaw? What kind of ‘thing?’” His eyes all but shone as he spoke, almost reverently. “An automaton! Nothing like we’ve ever seen…it speaks! It speaks, Mr Sidmouth, intelligibly!” I was taken aback by this statement. I had always been led to believe that such a machine was currently impossible for my generation to produce. Cogs and sprockets were far too clumsy and large to create such an intricate, infinitely powerful vessel as a brain was, and even the most recent development in possible artificial intelligence, the diode, was far too finicky for even the simplest mind! “An automaton? Speaking? Pardon me, Mr Brigshaw, but I’m having a hard time believing you!”

It was now that Mr Brigshaw began to recount his tale. He had been taking a leisurely stroll along the Skegness sands early in the morning, so crisp and beautiful that it was he couldn’t resist. In fact, it was so early that the beach was empty bar for his lonely figure, wandering along the sand. While observing the gulls wafting along on the morning thermals he was interrupted by a peculiar burbling from further along the shore, near the lapping waves. As he began to near the noise, he saw a shape…a body! Believing it to be a stricken soul, or perhaps a cadaver washed up from some nearby shipwreck. But as he broke into a run in the hope that he could save the poor being, he noticed that it glinted in the morning sun- and that the speech was droning, repeating…to his shock, he found the ‘body’ to be made of metal!

“Nearly had me in a fit I was so surprised,” he exclaimed as we stepped out into the cool, still crisp mid-morning. A healthy breeze filtered in from across the North Sea, and the sound of gulls and birdsong mixed with the already bustling streets of the resort. I took a deep breath of the salty air…and found that Brigshaw was already dashing across the street, weaving between the crowd, cutting past a riot of different colours and styles, from swimsuits to top hats and tails.

I quickened my own pace, apologising profusely to those who Brigshaw had shocked with his brusque passing, before finding my way onto the sandy Skegness beach. It was still much less busy than the previous few days, but crowds of holidaymakers were moving along the beach, many lying down on the sand to take in the sun, though still more bobbed up and down in the sea. My own experiences foot paddling in the water were that is was ghastly cold. God knows how they could submerge themselves!

Brigshaw’s discovery lay a little further down the beach, away from the crowds…all the better for it, too. Such a curiosity would have generated so much interest that we would never have got onto the beach, let alone reach the automaton! Nevertheless, he argued relentlessly with a small urchin of about 11 or 12 who had presumably found the automaton. “Boy, this is a piece of, uhm, well.”

“Go on then, what is it?” asked the boy, obviously trying to wrangle a misguided answer out of the floundering Brigshaw. I decided to step in, striding up behind the child. “Scientific equipment. Very special, very expensive equipment,” I answered, bending down as the boy turned to face me. “Equipment that shouldn’t be mucked around with, or talked about.”

“Oh yeah, why’s that then?” I sighed at his impudence. Then again, children were naturally curious. I withdrew my wallet and took out a shilling. The boy’s eyes lit up. “Now, I want you to take this, but you must promise that you tell no-one of this, alright?” He silently nodded and took the coin as I gave it to him. “Now, off with you, and remember, no telling!” He nodded again, and scampered off, clutching his prize. Brigshaw chuckled. “Well, Mr Sidmouth, you got me out of a sticky one there!” I dipped my head curtly and turned my attention to the curious machine in the sand. “Make no mention of it, Mr Brigshaw. Now, let’s see what this machine man is about!” I crouched to get a better look at the half-buried metal man. It was most unusual, with what seemed to be a steel skeleton covered in a curious, shiner metal. A soft whirr and tick emanated from the slim, dented frame. It was humanoid, that was indisputable: a wide chest tapered into a thin waist, though the rest of the body was buried. Its face was the most unusual aspect. Again, in the form of a human face, but without any discernible features: a smooth plate of grey highly reflective glass, behind which only lay more of the shiny metal, though the impression was somewhat scarred by a wide, spiderweb-like crack. On one side of the chestplate, the word ‘Casio’ was imprinted, the divots that marked the letters filled with sand. “What on earth is it made of?”

“Well, the duller stuff, that’s steel,” answered Brigshaw, ever the keen metallurgist, “and this shinier stuff must be aluminium. The glass…seems to be normal glass, but I’ve never seen it stay whole when shattered. But the covering in places, this stuff,” he tapped a panel on the machine. It made a hollow tapping noise. "It isn't metal, much more like celluloid. A plastic, but harder."

“Very curious,” I murmured, “very curious indeed…and Casio? A maker, perhaps?” The more practically experienced man nodded in agreement, crouching opposite me. “Yes, I imagine so…sounds Italian to me. Possibly Japanese.”

“But where would they have gotten the materials?”

“God knows, but either way, it’s what this automaton says that’s the real curiosity. The way it speaks, it’s regular, like clockwork….almost automatically. Like it’s calculated…almost made of computer speech.” He looked mildly awed by the machine, as did I. The craftsmanship required to bend metal to this level of complexity, to mould glass to this quality! “How often does it repeat this message?” Brigshaw pulled out a pocket watch and checked the time. “Every hour or so…it has been 20 minutes since I last heard it.” Almost like the machine, cogs began to grind and turn in my head. “What are these words like?”

“Strange, Mr Sidmouth. Almost prophetic…they sound important. Like a message from the future.”

“Well, then…I feel we must record them. Sadly I left all of my writing materials in Woking.”

“I have none of my own, bar those covered in architectural plans.” Brigshaw looked stumped. “And I don’t imagine many carry writing materials on the beach.” I shook my head and thought a little more, before snapping my fingers in realisation. “Mr Fiton!”

“The town clerk? Of course!”

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“Yes, he’ll take down the message…but first, Mr Brigshaw,” I said, standing, removing my jacket and cravat, and rolling up my shirt sleeves, “we have some digging to do.”

We requisitioned two trusty shovels from some surprisingly well-equipped children and began digging out the metallic specimen, taking great care not to dig into the precious automaton. Bit by bit, more and more of the body was revealed. The chest tapered into a thin waist, and ended in a smooth panel, either side of which two equally slender legs flowed out, covered in the same aluminium as the rest of the machine. Equally, we found two arms that moved down the automaton’s sides, though one was harshly cut off at the elbow, and leaked a mysterious fluid. “Hydraulics” explained Brigshaw as he sniffed the strong odour of the fluid. We found that the metal man’s head was a simple arrangement, segmented aluminium panels with gaps in between presumably for cooling. Unfortunately, these had been clogged with sand, but where the blockage had been staved off an eerie blue light was visible. An automaton…with a brain! “Does this thing truly possess independent thought?” I put to Brigshaw. “I can’t tell you, Mr Sidmouth, but I’d wager it doesn’t. It seems to be entirely focused on a single message, much more like a robot than any true intelligence.” I was disappointed. What Brigshaw said was correct, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was in the presence of an intelligence vastly superior to my own.

After about ten minutes of hard excavation, we finally exhumed the full automaton and discovered just how badly damaged it was. A large, jagged scar on one side of its chassis presented bundles of curiously coloured wiring. The thing must have been electrically powered! But how to store the source in so small a body? My attention, however, was drawn to the thing’s lower left leg…or rather the lack of one. In addition to these much more serious wounds, there were dents and burn marks all over the battered automaton. “Well, it’s certainly had a rough ride, wherever it’s come from,” I observed, running my hand over the smooth dents and scorch marks. Brigshaw took his watch out again and returned it to his pocket. “It’s not a pretty sight, no…but we haven’t much time to get to Mr Fiton. We’ve only half an hour to move the automaton.”

“Very well, Mr Brigshaw. Now, if we take an end each and carry it between us, we should make good enough time. I’ll take the legs, you the arms.” Together we hefted the automaton onto our shoulders: it was warm, and surprisingly light, though not to say it was a lightweight machine! We marched off into the crowd, metal man between us, and deflecting any interest with the scientific machinery explanation. Again, through the bustling streets of Skegness, though this time we made much faster progress with our unnatural luggage carving a path through the crowd, who gained and lost interest as quickly as the automaton passed them. We soon reached the Town Hall with 10 minutes spare, and hastily entered the main reception. A mousy-haired woman in spectacles looked up from a typewriter. “Tell Mr Fiton it’s Misters Brigshaw and Sidmouth, and it’s urgent,” I said, though I believe the dire and supernatural state of the machine had more effect than my words. We were hastily ushered to an office, behind which Mr Fiton, the grey-haired clerk of the resort worked. When Mr Brigshaw entered the clerk stood to greet him, but as he was followed by the body of the battered automaton and me at the end, he looked considerably stumped.

“Hallo, Eric, what’s this then?” He asked, puzzled. “An automaton, Mr Fiton,” replied Brigshaw, “a very special one.”

“An automaton? Really?” Mr Fiton showed keen interest in the figure, though his ordered mind soon leapt to the task at hand. “Special? How’s that,” the clerk asked. “It speaks,” I replied, setting the gently whirring body onto a Chesterfield settee. The battered, dirty, prostrate had the curious impression of both elegance, and wonder, mixed with a distinct pathetic appearance. The slow undulating pitch of the whirring almost gave the façade of breathing. “Speech, from an automaton? My, my…what a find!” Fiton sounded just as in awe as the rest of us were, though he soon switched track. “But why bring it to my office?”

“Because, Mr Fiton,” explained Brigshaw, “it speaks a message. One that repeats, over and over.” He checked his pocket watch again and nodded curtly. “Two minutes to go. Mr Fiton, I hope your typewriter is stocked.” The clerk nodded, patting the black cased machine. “Full of ink, full of paper. How long do you think this message is?” Brigshaw shook his head. “No idea, but it’s important. You may want to take your position, Mr Fiton.” The clerk was already sitting down, his fingers hovering over the keys. Mr Brigshaw began to count down. “Three seconds….two seconds…one second!”

There was a horrifying silence as the automaton remained prostrate, it’s faux-breathing gently continuing…and then with a judder, and an electronic screech, it began to rise! The right hand grasped the edge of the settee, pushing itself up, a slew of sparks rupturing from the gash in its side. The dented chest leant forward, the head pushed up, the entire machine adopting a very human pose. It was an artificial intelligence after all! What kind of machine would act so naturally, so fluidly and independently? And then, it began to speak, in a tone clearer than any gramophone. It wasn’t as crisp, as clear as human speech, not by a long way, but it was scratchless, seamless…and beautiful. The words were mellifluous, almost songlike…and yet, the message was incomplete, as if the machine had forgotten…or had rather lost some vital memory during the rough journey. What it did say, though, was how Brigshaw had described. Prophetic, haunting, almost like a warning…or a report. The machine spoke;

“When the leviathan comes…..when the living heart…the airborne ziggurat…are angered…will the world end. Three-legged boilers… will stride across…fields of the dead...lancers will…send…whirling to destruction. Those…crimson balloons…everywhere …taking…land ironclads…treading…splendid…horrible…great flying steamships cross the air…a war unto the Earth…heaven…hell…rock’n’roll…genocide on a scale…the great European conflict…again…will take the world…He shall come…thy will be done…only when the Big 3 meet…shall it be over. Amen.”

As the automaton dictated, Mr Fiton’s typewriter clacked and shunted as he furiously took down the words. Once the message had been spoken, we sat in stunned silence. A message of a future war, of…genocide. A new word, not one I had previously heard, though thankfully my schoolboy Latin allowed me to infer as to it’s meaning, of most interest to me, the automaton told of great machines! I confess now, that while I should have been in a more solemn mood at the pessimistic message, I was wholly excited. Three-legged boilers, airborne steamships, land ironclads! It all sounded to good! I was giddy with thought and resolved to telegram my good friend Mr Wells of the machine’s words, once he had returned investigating tales of cephalopods in the town of my own name.

Mr Fiton, however, was the first to snap me out of my giddy trance, his heavy sigh announcing that he had finished the automaton’s message. “Gentlemen, it is done…I believe I have just taken down a prophecy.” Mr Brigshaw and I nodded and considered our next moves. “We must keep this secret,” considered Brigshaw, “heaven forfend the authorities find this machine man, this message.”

“A vault, I think. I have the resources to hide this machine,” I answered. I began to think of how many other occurrences were like this? Mr Well’s cephalopods, those curious skulls from the Americas…they must all have some meaning. A collection of these items would be of no doubt vital to humanity’s knowledge, to its research into the sciences…I resolved to seek such peculiarities, from scraps to accounts to whole specimens. I told the gentlemen as much, and they both wholeheartedly agreed.

“I shall hide the machine, then, and take your copy of the manuscript, Mr Fiton. And then, well…I start my search.” Fiton nodded, walking to a heavy oaken drinks cabinet to the side of the room, and pulled out a decanter of amber liquid. He poured three tumblers out three tumblers, passed two to us, and raised his own. In a sombre tone, he said “gentlemen, a toast. To the future, and whatever may come with it.”

“To the future,” we agreed.

Postscript

Now in the year of our lord 1950, I am certain that our automaton was to have accurately predicted our future. The invasion of the Martians in 1897 (which added generously to my collection,) the terrible, terrible First and Second World Wars, the advent of the tank and the airship. Genocide, of course, and the Big Three, Trotsky, Churchill and Tugwell. Little was I to know that our automaton was a true prophet. However, we have yet to see the leviathan, nor the airborne ziggurat. Was the Red Planet intended to be this factor, or not? Either way, we can never be certain. The future no longer seems bleak, but I am sure there is more to it.

-The Memoirs of Sir Charles Sidmouth OBE, abridged at His Majesty’s Command.

Epilogue

Outside the town hall, two figures stood. One was tall, like a beacon amongst the crowded streets. The other was of normal height. Both were slender, wearing suits that hung loose from their frames. They were also unusually pale. The tall figure wore a bowler hat, the normal one a top hat, giving a strange sense of symmetry. In fact, everything about these figures was…strange. They would never stand out in a crowd, and yet people looked back as they passed.

“So they have found a Messenger,” said the tall one. “Indeed,” replied the shorter one. “Shall we take it from them?” The tall one shook his head. “No. Leave it. We must change with the times…and these humans may very well become useful.”

“Perhaps you’re right. Shall we move on, then?”

“Yes. Yes, we should.”

The two walked into an alley and vanished.