Dark Age

by Robert T. Bradley

  Dark Age

  The Reckoning Turbines

  volume one

  Robert T. Bradley

  Copyright 2018 © by Robert T. Bradley

  All rights reserved

  Heathcliff Publishing 2018

  First edition

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or distributed in print or electronic form without prior permission of the publisher and copyright owner(s).

  Edited in part by Kate Coe

  ISBN:9781980493518

  Book cover design by tearmatt art 2018 ©

  For Marion

  or was it Molly?

  Table of Contents

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This book would have remained unwritten if it were not for the support of my partner Charlotte Baker, my twin brother and fellow sci-fi champion James Bradley, my test subjects Brian & Jane Parkin, Nicola Farr, Peter Hannon, Eve Kirby, James Miller, Ceri Jackson and my mother Sheila; thank you for all those tearful Tuesday nights you endured, and those tougher Wednesday afternoons. And a special thanks to my publishers Heathcliff and my editor Kate Coe.

  PROLOGUE

  A speedometer pin launched from zero and climbed with accelerating purpose, defeating numbers; eighty, eight-five, ninety. Alfred Nightingale hadn’t blinked. His grip on the support bar shook as it tightened; he felt like he willed the pins journey, convinced it was his purpose. Burning metal flared behind him but Alfred ignored it, he knew they were fighting against unknown forces of nature and laws forbidding men to travel this fast. He wondered how long they could maintain such speed. He also wondered if the Machine City citizen’s would fear it.

  He placed his hand over the speed dial and looked at his pilot. ‘One hundred miles, per hour.’ he said.

  Donavan the pilot shrugged. ‘She’s got more in her than-’

  ‘Not today she hasn’t.’ Alfred interrupted.

  ‘Either way, you’ve done it.’ Donavan’s eyes glassed with unshed tears. ‘You’ve changed the world.’

  ‘No,’ said Alfred, ‘this celebration belongs to all of us.’

  Alfred opened the cockpit window and edged his face into the cold rushing wind, city buildings flew past making it difficult to tell where one building ended and another begun.

  ‘If you want,’ said Donavan, white knuckling the regulator handles, ‘I can check on our passengers?’

  ‘No,’ Alfred brought his face back into the cockpit and closed the window, ‘I need my best pilot at the helm, but be easy with her we’ve broken the record, the commission plotter would’ve noted it; besides, we don’t want to terrify our royal guests.’

  ‘Pilot?’ said Donavan, his voice vibrating. ‘But I’m not flying her, she’s a train, not an airship.’

  ‘You prefer train driver?’ Alfred frowned then pointed at the blurring city around the cockpit glass. ‘Are you sure you’re not a pilot, Donavan, I mean, take a look.’

  The young engineer released a stick and wiped his forehead clean of sweat and snapped a look at the passing buildings. ‘I know I’ve never moved this fast, never before in my life.’

  Alfred looked at him, smiled thinly then said, ‘Nobody has…’

  Both men laughed together, nervously.

  ‘I’ll check on the passengers.’ Alfred rotated the steel locking latches to the engine bay. The sealed door released its pressure in a stream of sound; Alfred shuddered, waited for the steam to clear then climbed through the circular gap tucking his leather overcoat under his arm.

  ‘Hold her at this speed.’ He shouted back at Donavan, who did well not to look but instead gave a quick thumbs up.

  Forced sideways into a narrow steel walkway, Alfred felt the heat of his breath reflect against the metal engine case. He locked the cockpit latch and the humming of the engines copper springs intensified like a swarm of rapidly approaching hornets.

  The devils speeded her up! Alfred knew Donavan well enough to have guessed he would and applauded the subornation mindful of their mutual love of speed.

  All the planning, all the endless days and nights, going back to drawings Alfred remembered how hard they tested him, not logically, every one of the drawings were sound and each of the models worked as they should. It was the practical appliance, the ability to firstly get hold of the parts he needed and secondly to avoid anyone from discovering his outlandish method. Then after years of failure, today arrives like the march hare to a carrot patch.

  Alfred stopped and took a breath next to an engine chamber porthole window, removed a glove and placed his hand upon the glass. The heats intensity matched the noise of the springs but he had to feel both and ground himself in this day, somehow, he knew it was important, not just to him but to everyone in the Machine City.

  Between the engine room and the first-class carriage was the instrument bay. Daemons imprisoned in heaven would sound angelic in comparison. Copper sealed tanks stacked like a tower of collected golden urns held the magic and if he touched those tanks he knew he’d be dead in an instant.

  A tighter gap led to the first-class carriage, Alfred breathed in and slid his leather overcoat between the metal gaps.

  Looking back at the copper tanks, their hum and fusion brought the ones who told him it was impossible, playing with forces beyond mortal control to the forefront of his mind but now he understood their fears and also how wrong they were.

  The slender steel track eased the train around a long bend, like pouring water through a tube it ran frictionless to a parallel position across the outer edge of the colossal city wall. Sunlight sliced over the threshold of the structure in a yellow ray. Flashes from building windows strobed the light back at The Spirit, no white steam poured from the engine, not like the other outdated trains circulating in the districts beneath them – just a hum of energy, the sound of speed, endless speed.

  Alfred approached a thick iron buckle linking the carriages and spread one leg across the gap hovering over the speeding track while balancing himself there for a moment. Holding the carriages support rail, he looked down, saw the track and then peered over the edge to the deep darkness where the Lower City districts dwelled.

  He joined his back leg to his front, wobbling on the other side, making his gorge rise. Was it from traveling at a hundred miles per hour on a track thinner than a Middle district pavement? Or because ahead, behind the final hatch, royal delegates, fellow Lords and engineers waited to congratulate Britannia’s soon to be greatest Engineering Lord? Alfred couldn’t decide either of the two counts, but could happily stay this side of the latch. He looked back at the engine cart and smiled.

  His thoughts interrupted by tapping, somewhere on the outer side of the carriage, metal against metal like a hollow tin can hit repeatedly. Alfred eyed around the sides of the carriage, bent over, somewhere he envisioned a latch needing to be fixed or two seams still seamless or metal sheets rattling against each other.

  Deciding to ignore the tap and later address it at the station, Alfred
opened the carriage hatch revealing many well-dressed passengers stood smiling, clapping, their presence fitting to the ostentatious design of the first-class carriage wallpaper, red with a pattern which unless sat close enough, you wouldn’t be able to tell it outlined the stems of an illegal flower. He wondered if any of them had noticed. The floor was cut from a solid oak panel he and his brother Nicholas acquired from a stranded Eurasian airship; the passengers won’t have noticed that either.

  His wife Beatrice Nightingale stepped slowly forwards, she wore a different expression, far lovelier than the other passengers whom Alfred guessed hid their fear under forced smiles. He wished it was only Beatrice celebrating in the carriage.

  ‘Come on Lord Nightingale,’ she whispered delicately, sensing as she always did his discomfort, ‘enjoy your success.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Alfred replied, blushing. ‘Thank you, everyone.’ He removed his pocket watch and cracked the shell. ‘And just as you’d expect for a clockwork train, we’re right on time.’

  The passengers laughed together, some a lot louder than the rest, were they sharing his nerves or mocking his social inept attempt at humour?

  Prince James, accompanied by his mother and her baby son, Prince Jeremiah, approached Alfred. A few of the guests moved out of their way, some bowed, others showed their teeth.

  ‘And what will be our first stop, Lord Nightingale?’ Prince James asked, ‘Is it to be a big surprise?’

  ‘Only to him, your highness.’ replied Alfred. ‘We’re going to the Seagrave Compound.’

  The passengers laughed again vigorously.

  ‘Oh, do make sure I’m stood with you, Nightingale, I can’t wait to see his face.’ said the Prince excitedly. ‘In fact, I’m surprised he’s not on-board?’ The Prince looked around and laughed again.

  ‘He had an invitation.’ said Alfred, while looking around at the other prestigious guests.

  The Prince waited for the laughing to stop. ‘Yes, he’s indeed a proud one, for sure.’

  Next to where Beatrice sat, their young son, Baxter, hadn’t noticed his father and although the carriage was full of chatter the boy’s head was fixed on the window watching his world blend together in a blur of colour and beauty.

  ‘Here.’ said Beatrice, picking Baxter up and handing him over to Alfred. ‘Congratulate Daddy.’

  The little boy said something sounding more like grated onions and tapped Alfred on the cheek.

  ‘Take him to the cockpit.’ she said, ‘I’m sure he’d love to see it.’

  ‘It’s a little dangerous.’ said Alfred, still straining a smile at the other guests and dignitaries.

  ‘Nonsense,’ Beatrice replied, ‘he’s a Nightingale.’

  Under their feet beneath the red carpet of first class, under the oak, below the steel shell of the passenger carriage, through a layer of compressed copper, a steel tube running alongside a series of intricate piping, tapped against its neighbours. A clasp holding it in place pinged off, hit the track several times and vanished to the city depths. The tube rattled violently until the split became a crack and gushed open and a spurting stream of invisible gas escaped from its pressured chamber. A spark from the track ignited the gas rapidly to a white dazzling flame. It widened fast, roasting the other tubes, gaining ground up through the casing of the carriage, it scotched against the underside of the iron buckle which joined first class to the instrument bay.

  Alfred opened the hatch with Baxter in his arms, he put the boy on his shoulders and stretched one leg over the iron buckle.

  ‘Hold on to Daddy son. Hold on.’ Alfred stretched his other foot across in careful balance.

  ‘Are you alright up there Baxter?’

  The boy giggled a reply muffled by the wind.

  Together, Alfred led his son through the instrument bay to the engine compartment and covered both of his sons ears. Behind them came a twisting whine, he looked back saw the buckle glow yellow, suddenly it snapped in a burst of powerful heat.

  The shockwave slammed Alfred against the engine bay hatch to the cockpit, Baxter firmly in his arms, Alfred quickly gathered his thoughts from the stunning moment and took it in; explosion, bomb, malfunction, he made sense of it, felt the panic rising inside him, knowing he had no other choice, he calmed himself.

  The train had broken away from the carriage and ran further from the engine. He could see Beatrice, hanging one arm over the edge of the newly exposed aperture, she stood up in a stagger and took in the devastation.

  ‘Don’t worry.’ Alfred cried from the engine cart. ‘The buckle’s blown.’

  A few of the other passengers arrived flustered at the carriages hole, Beatrice ushered them back with calming gestures.

  Alfred’s thoughts leapt to his son he looked back and saw the boy crouched by the hatch both hands over his ears.

  The cockpit hatch opened. ‘What’s happened?’ shouted Donavan.

  ‘Explosion,’ said Alfred, ‘the buckle I have no idea how. Get back to the cockpit where its safe, slow her down and take my son with you.’

  Donavan grabbed Baxter and lifted him through the hatch, sealing it behind him.

  Suddenly the emergency breaks screamed against their grip of the steel rail, orange sparks flew out the back of the engine bay like a thousand foundry’s and covered Alfred’s view in flickering light. He stood, clung to the framework and leant forward through the sparks, his left arm up protecting his eyes. The carriage was closer now, just an arms grip away.

  ‘Hold on Beatrice, take my hand.’ He shouted.

  She leant over the speeding track. ‘Where’s our baby?’

  ‘He’s safe, Donavan has him – lean further.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘You can, Beatrice, by your feet, pass me that cable,’ he pointed. ‘I’ll attach it here, toss it to me.’

  ‘Where?’ she shouted back.

  ‘The cable, by your leg.’

  She saw it, collected it together in her arms and stumbled.

  ‘Be careful, Beatrice.’ Alfred’s heart gambolled up his gullet.

  She steadied her shaking legs, her hair came away from its tie and streamed wildly across her eyes, she did well to shake it away.

  ‘Toss it to me.’ Alfred shouted.

  Finally she threw it.

  The cable went high in the air, it hit the cart but bounced back to the rail too fast for Alfred to catch. It ricocheted against the track like an eel tossed from a river.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ she shouted.

  ‘It’s okay, Beatrice, you did great, you’re doing great. Pull it back in and try again, we can do this, you can do this I–’

  Heat exploded into Alfred’s face, fire unlike any he’d ever felt, the pain of burning and a roar louder than the voice of God.

  Alfred burst backwards, his left arm severed from fire at the shoulder, the wound singed to a bloody crust and with one eye open he watched his wife’s inflamed carriage derail.

  It fell into the shadowy darkness to the Lower city districts with a slow grace he couldn’t describe.

  ‘Beatrice? No. My wife? Beatrice!’ He howled her name at the carriages, one by one they followed each other, disappearing into the dark abyss.

  CHAPTER 1

  FIFTEEN years later

  A green eye blinked down a rifle scope. It took in ruined pastures, ran along crumbled walls, dipped between plains and hovered across bland woodland separated by rocks shaped like animals.

  ‘Have you spotted him?’ Baxter’s uncle Nicholas stamped his boot heels into their hunting pit shaking the scopes clear vision.

  ‘I’m at the tree line,’ replied Baxter. ‘I can see rocks.’ The scope glass fogged; he wiped it clean which kicked up the smell of wet heather. ‘I have him? No, sorry it’s another rock.’

  Nicholas shuffled closer to his nephew. ‘He’s further along the ridge dropping in sootrail hollows. Wait a tick, there, can you see his head?’ Nicholas pointed at where the stone met the sky. ‘Stood upright on the led
ge, the one overhanging the valley. No wait, he’s moved again. Blast, he’s a fast critter.’

  Baxter lowered the rifle. ‘It’s no use, I can’t–’

  ‘–pass it over.’ Nicholas snatched the rifle from his nephew, got on one knee and scanned the horizon. ‘How are the girls?’

  The sheep had gathered yards behind the two men. The ram kept a few of them busy whilst others enjoyed mouthfuls of moorland. ‘They still haven’t noticed him.’ said Baxter.

  ‘Good.’ Nicholas handed the rifle back and pointed back at the ridge. ‘Between the rock and those ferns. No, keep both eyes open, you’ll find him faster.’

  Baxter dialled the focal ring. Click followed click until he saw the lucid detail of the wolf. From legs to the shaggy mane, a variety of grey shades focused out to a contrast and blew in the mountain winds. The wild dog sniffed the ground, sniffed the air, and tried to take a bite at something invisible. It looked back, convinced another had called for it, unsure, it returned attention back to the sheep. Mad with hunger, Baxter thought.

  ‘Quit the admiration,’ Nicholas said. ‘What are you waiting for?’ He shuffled around in their day sacks. ‘Where are my goggles, did you pack them?’

  ‘Try inside my bag.’ Baxter knew they were in there. ‘Do you think he can see us?’

  ‘Not on your life,’ said Nicholas. ‘Did you bathe this morning?’

  ‘Yes.’ said Baxter, sheepishly.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Nicholas drew the brass magnifying goggles over his head. ‘How do you focus?’

  ‘Rotate them together.’ Baxter unslung his rifle. ‘Here, let me show you–’

  ‘No.’ Nicholas grabbed the rifle and thrust it back at the young man’s arms. ‘You’ll lose him.’

  Baxter had already spotted a trail of misty breath rising from the tip of the small hill. It was the wolf, skulked deep into the fell, its stomach flat to hide his shape. Such clever animals, Baxter wondered how such tact was taught, but settled on wild instinct, just as wonderful and mysterious, he decided.