Dark Age

by Robert T. Bradley

  ‘Perhaps he needs a father to show him. If you leave Alfred, I will find you, and stop you,’ Nicholas said.

  Baxter had heard enough and returned to his quarters.

  IX

  The next morning, Francis crept up to the wall of the Beechcroft Manor and placed the tracker in the grass. It teemed with the pressure of the many compressed springs. He knelt next to it and pressed the top until the copper ring sunk in its body. A plate sprung from the casing, a panel opened, and a red button appeared. He pressed it. A tiny red light on the side of the panel blinked.

  X

  Five miles out past Beechcroft village, some distance from Gunners Ridge, out where a view of the city’s Brunel Ducts pinned together the sky and the land, machines made of metal, alien to the undergrowth housing them for months, rattled their mechanical workings and came to life. They shed casings of dirt. Rocks wedged around them shattered as their gas engine turbines blasted them out together. They rose high above the ground. Six orbs established a triangular formation. The internal mechanisms pushed through gears and lubricated pistons, and inside each of their burst chambers an exchange of hydrogen liquid gas ignited. Identical compartments opened in perfect cartographic unison, as the machines rocketed forward in the sky; each following the other as they accelerated to the only location they knew, the only program they had, they locked on and tracked a trajectory toward the active beacon.

  XI

  Nicholas had finished laying the table for breakfast, then hurried his portage and sprung outside to herd together a few of the sheep to take to slaughter out of the gate to the far end of the village. As he left the walled enclosure, something caught his eye. A metal object blinked a red light by his wall. Too small to be anything dangerous, Nicholas picked it up. It felt as though something inside was ticking, with a weight, it felt expensive. He put it in his pocket. Must belong to the odd city gentleman, he thought. Nicholas returned the sheep to the field, locked them back behind the manor wall and decided to see if he could find the odd city gentleman.

  XII

  Francis grabbed his things and hurried to the village gates. A crowd had gathered, blocking the direct route. The weekly traders set out their stores, erecting tables and arranging their goods. Francis struggled to get around each of them. A table placed in the way, a woman holding a stack of freshly baked bread, small children playing, three or four sheep and a man. He was wearing a sleek black top hat, dark green pair of trousers and ivory tunic, sleeves freshly forced over muscular forearms.

  ‘You sir, are in quite the hurry.’ It was Nicholas Nightingale, with the tracker in his hand. ‘Did you drop this?’

  The tall city boxer stood waiting for an answer, his stance seemed jovial but his face was every part as serious as his question. Francis knew Nicholas had no idea what he held and had no idea what was coming.

  ‘There it is...’ Francis puffed. ‘Oh, I must have dropped it?’ He noticed his own voice matched his nervous hand, trembling as it stretched out.

  Nicholas passed the tracker over. ‘I said leave before dawn, didn’t I?’

  ‘You did indeed, Lord Beechcroft.’

  ‘It’s noon.’

  ‘I was just looking for a compass, in the market,’

  Nicholas crossed his forearms. They flexed in individual bulks, each holding its own strength, capable of delivering painful punches.

  ‘A compass?’ he nodded at the device Francis held between his fingers.

  ‘A compass, yes, exactly, one of Seagrave’s finest.’

  Nicholas spat on the floor; it landed close to Francis’ shoe.

  ‘Right, well you’ve found it, thank you, so I’ll be on my way. Good day to you, Mr Beechcroft.’ Francis stumbled and knocked a child off his feet. ‘Goodness, little one, I’m so sorry.’

  The crowd had thinned. He looked for the second-best place to set up the tracker, but rising forwards from the chaos of the crowd like a shark fin cutting through stormy waters, the top hat approached.

  Three boys kicked a football at one of the carts, as a mild-mannered gentleman fumbled to set up his store between dodging volleys; Francis grabbed the largest of them. ‘Boys, five shillings if you can knock off the top hat.’

  The boys exchanged deviant glances. ‘Ten shillings?’

  ‘Fine,’ he said in a bluster, ‘ten it is.’ He threw the money at the ground and ran, leaving the paid mini mercenaries to take down the hat.

  ‘Mr Beechcroft, give us your…’

  Nicholas ran through them, knocking the largest to the ground. ‘Sorry chaps – Mr Barknuckle,’ Nicholas shouted, ‘please wait a moment.’

  Francis heard him, panicked, and dropped his belongings, leaving the tracker. The gates were open and he charged out of them and slammed down the lever. Behind him, the metal gates started to close. The Moor looked more inviting than he’d ever seen.

  The specks were in the distance and their signature hum grew louder as they made their calculations. Francis hid by the wall to the left of the gate and fell to the ground. It wasn’t the best hiding spot, but it would have to do.

  XIII

  A crowd entering the square pushed Nicholas, blocking his field of vision.

  ‘Some flowers, Mr Beechcroft,’ said a group of three women. ‘They would make for a lovely addition to your–’

  ‘Ladies, please another time–’ He barged past them to an empty path, the ragged man had vanished.

  He touched the Winchester Blunderbuss he had tucked in behind his shirt. It’s cold steel chilled his sweaty back. He let in a breath with a wheeze. How embarrassing, he thought, letting some city ragamuffin get the better of him.

  Between the market and the gate, sprawled out along the dirt, was a green blanket and several objects the ragged man must have slung. Nicholas laid out the blanket and wrapped them together, a bar of soap looked brand new, a comb and the compass. Then, just as Nicholas’ breath returned, on the blanket he noticed the embroidery of Beatrice, Baxter’s late mother, expertly stitched in the fabric. The Nightingale emblem was identical to the one she’d made for his boxing gloves, olive green, wings spread, the family symbol taking flight.

  Nicholas dropped it and the man’s belongings rained down on the dirt like a torrent of empty prayers discarded by God. The blood left his hands and his chest caved inward – had this man raided their home? Nicholas looked back at the house, retracing the day’s events, he picked up the man’s compass. It had a copper body with a brass ring around the outside. Then it hit him in a pulse from his heart stronger than death.

  ‘Baxter!’ he yelled his nephew’s name, overcome by a harrowing realisation, and around him people jumped as though a demon had escaped hell and howled at the living.

  Nicholas ran back to the house, around the mob and down the side streets, the fastest route he knew, the one he’d practiced in case it ever happened, in case he ever needed him. Baxter’s project, the bastard had given him a bomb.

  XIV

  The black dots grew larger, rapid in their approach. Jeffery Ashburn the guard in the village tower hoped they were airships, having a morning race with one another. Wouldn’t be the first time they buzzed the village with a low altitude flyby, he thought while hesitating at the warning bell. ‘No, they’ll think it’s a Rabid attack if I hit it.’ He peered down the scope and repeated the gesture a third time, he had to make sure. ‘They must be airships,’ he muttered from behind the scope, ‘nothing else flies the same way.’

  Beneath the objects Jerry spotted a shepherd. He watched as the man jumped into a marsh as the objects screamed over the top of him, and one lower than the rest ignited his flock’s wool, kicking them off in a flash of lunatic panic.

  Whatever they were, they weren’t friendly. Jeffery sprang to the bell, grabbed the hammer and collided it as the dots turned into spheres, turned into machines, turned into guns. They branched off, the lower of the six, headed straight at him.

  It whisked and squealed a thunder of mechanics, and metal sha
rds fired at the wall, burrowing deep into the stone. As it got closer, he grabbed a nearby pole and it noticed him, whizzed and buckled, trapping him between the corners of the two walls.

  The stream of bullets cut the telescope in half, carving the stone between the screaming Jeffery’s legs. Its ray of bullets peppered at his flesh, slicing it deep; blood sprayed up from the groin, covered his open face, and the screams of agony gargled from the flood of blood. The weight of his body’s separation cut the screams short, Jeffery had become two symmetrical slabs of pink bloody flesh.

  XV

  Nicholas heard the bell and prayed for more speed in his legs. He threw off his hat as the village watchmen gathered their weapons from their homes and ran to the walls expecting an invasion of Rabids, some looked scared, others ready for a fight.

  ‘No,’ Nicholas shouted at them. ‘Stay in your homes, get to your basements, it’s not Rabids, it’s a city attack.’

  ‘You must take us for country cowards,’ one man shouted.

  ‘You go and hide in your fortress, Beechcroft, let the real men handle this,’ said another.

  ‘Coward!’ shouted one of the wives from a house doorway. ‘Yeah Beechcroft, go on, run home, let the real men take care of you.’

  Nicholas prayed for them too. He got to the gates of the manor. ‘Baxter! Baxter!’ The locking mechanism jammed. ‘ Come on, come on, you stupid thing.’

  The door to the house opened, Baxter appeared. ‘Uncle what is it? is it Father?’ An explosion by the wall made them jump.

  ‘Baxter–’ Nicholas finally pushed the gate open. ‘Thank god.’ He grabbed Baxter and embraced him. ‘your project, the one you’re working on, what is it, who gave it to you?’

  ‘No-one Uncle, I found it in a marsh by Gunners’ Ridge, it’s broken – what’s going on?’

  Nicholas pushed his nephew back inside the house and slammed the door shut. ‘Get to the safe room downstairs, right now, remember, just as we’ve practiced.’

  ‘Uncle, what’s happening? Is it the City, are they coming for you and father?’

  ‘Just go Baxter, now.’ Nicholas pushed him.

  ‘No, Nicholas, what is it? What’s happening?’

  ‘They’re coming for your father, you have to hide.’ Nicholas pushed him again, this time into the hatch, and closed it.

  ‘Alfred! Alfred!’ Nicholas bound up the staircase and kicked his brother’s door in. There was no sign of him. He must have kept true to his word and left at dawn.

  He ran back downstairs to the steel door of the locked room next to the kitchen, pressed a series of numbers on the keypad. Steam blew out from the door’s four corners. It pressed itself back and slid to the side, relieving the majesty of the Nightingale armoury. A waistcoat and jacket were hung up and Nicholas threw them both on, grabbed his Winchester and put his pistol in the belted gun holster. He hurried, stuffing his jacket with the mini charges, and a few fell to the floor.

  Nicholas ran out to the courtyard as a cluster of explosions rippled behind houses.

  He stood fast at the gate, composed himself. He and Alfred knew this day might come, he had hoped Baxter might be ready to stand with them. It was down to Nicholas to protect Baxter now, the brother who chose a life of violence over the joys of design. ‘So be it,’ Nicholas said under his breath. ‘So be it!’ He repeated his words as explosion after explosion came from the square.

  XVI

  Screams echoed in a cocktail of rapid gun fire. The sound, thought Harry Parkin, remembering it for what it was, the sound of war. It tensed him firmer over his son’s trembling body. Harry stayed still, a cocoon of flesh over his son. Those things, the sound they made, he’d heard them before – they had one purpose and if he moved the slightest inch, him and his boy would be dead. Bullets hitting wood, metal, the land, his land, followed by the soft sound of his girl’s short screams. Cries from his wife and his eldest coming from the house’s back door.

  ‘Father!’ Tabitha shouted. ‘Quick come on, run, father, grab Jonathan and run!’

  Her screams cut deep into him, hearing her make such noises. But he had to stay still, for Jonathan, if he moved, they’d both be dead.

  ‘Daddy,’ the little boy muffled, under his father’s protective shell. ‘I’m scared Daddy.’

  ‘I know son, me too,’ he panted as quietly as he could with the dirt close to his mouth, ‘but don’t speak, or they’ll find us.’

  ‘Is it monsters, Daddy? Oh no, it is, isn’t it, real monsters?’ Jonathan screamed.

  ‘No,’ his terrified father said sternly, trying to hide he knew it was something far worse.

  Around them gunfire, getting closer, and louder. Harry tightened his grip on Jonathan, held him in closer. ‘Okay, little man, get ready to run, run faster than you ever have to the house, ready, steady go–’

  Bullets cut into Harry’s back, their burrowing into the cavities of his body cut short by the protective metal plate on his chest.

  ‘No!’ Tabitha screamed at the low flying drone. It hovered still, adjusted itself and made a sound like re-loading. She ran out of the house and grabbed the axe.

  ‘Come on!’ she shouted, ‘come on!’ She called out to her baby brother hidden under her father’s corpse. ‘Get inside, Jonathan, go to Mother.’

  The drone opened fire as Tabitha dived into cover behind some barrels. There she waited, held the axe up, heart thumping, as she prepared to strike. The orb span around and she launched the axe at it, knocking the thing out of the sky, splitting it in two. She ran back and grabbed Jonathan, got him in the house and sealed the door.

  The remaining drones picked off the slowest villagers. A group of children hid in a shed and a drone sprayed a hail storm of bullets into it. Blood burst out of the doorway, one of the children still alive ran out, and the drone sliced off her legs.

  XVII

  Disobeying his uncle’s orders, Baxter watched from his quarters as funnels of smoke drew upward above the roofs. His uncle stood with his legs apart, upright, straight as a knife edge, ready for a fight. He’d seen his uncle stand like it in photographs, but never like this, never in the real world.

  More explosions, screams – Baxter’s hands shook uncontrollably. Was this panic? He tried hard to recollect his uncle’s lessons, but they were too opaque in distant memories. He wanted to rip his nails off; his hands felt as though they belonged to someone else.

  ‘Father!’ The name fired out of Baxter without will; it echoed from his quarters, through the corridors of his dead mother’s home, to the empty tower where the boy’s frantic howl for his father’s protection dissolved into nothing.

  An explosion from the square, then he saw them. Six dark objects swarmed around the village, descending, picking off men daring attack them. Baxter grabbed his goggles, zoomed in. Spheres of copper and brass. He dropped his goggles as a buzz came from behind him.

  Louder than any engine, the Orb moved slowly toward Baxter, it had come to life. Baxter clasped his eyes, the fear of death arrived, the darkness was calling.

  But nothing happened.

  Baxter opened his eyes. Suspended there, hovering over his bed, a red light flashed from the underside which lit the bed and floor beneath.

  ‘Orders please, orders please,’ it crackled in a strange mechanical voice.

  Baxter quickly edged himself along the wall and snapped a glance back out of the window. The other drones had spotted his uncle.

  ‘Orders please, orders please,’ it buzzed and hummed at Baxter.

  Baxter ran to the window and watched his uncle, but the man didn’t move. He stood there waiting for them. ‘Why won’t he shoot?’ Baxter said aloud.

  ‘Orders please, orders please.’

  Baxter looked back at the Orb. ‘Protect him, the one at the gate.’

  The light changed from flashing red to a stationary green. In a burst of forward thrust, the Orb shot out through the glass window, sending shards raining down to the lawn below and scattering Baxter’s papers
up and into the air.

  Metal rods mechanically opened up from its sides as it flew over Nicholas’ head, shooting bolts of electric charges out at the other drones.

  XVIII

  Nicholas watched the other drone shoot bolts of blue dazzling charge at the others. He caught his chance and ran to the back of the yard. One of the drones managed to avoid the electric charge attack and spotted Nicholas’s escape, chasing him and shooting furiously at its target.

  He ran to the barn and from around the edge of the doorframe took aim and fired at the machine. His bullet ripped through the casing at speed, rupturing the fuel canister exploding the drone mid-air. The burning fireball hurdled at the barn and exploded, collapsing the structure, trapping Nicholas inside.

  XIX

  Baxter watched as his clockwork orb chased the rest of the remaining drones out beyond the village, and then ran to the back of the house. The barn was an inferno, part of its roof collapsed.

  ‘Uncle Nicholas? No, please, uncle Nicholas!’

  He ran back in the house, wet a blanket in a bucket and covered it over him.

  A beam covering the barn doorway broke and fell, sending out a whoosh of flame.

  Baxter fell to the grass, face charcoaled and streaming in tears, ‘Uncle!’ He got up and ran back to the front of the house, leaping over the wall and running toward a group of villagers. Percy Tong held one of his sons in his arms.

  ‘My uncle, Mr Tong, help me, he’s trapped.’ Percy watched as the panicked boy took in the extent of the carnage around him.

  ‘Is he hurt bad?’

  ‘The barn, it’s on fire, I can’t get to him!’

  Percy handed his son to his eldest and ran with Baxter back to the house.

  The barn collapsed, the flames thrashing the trees around it.

  ‘Baxter, he’s gone. I’m sorry, there’s nothing we can do. I’m so sorry, son.’ Percy returned to his family, leaving Baxter alone with the burning barn.