Dark Age

by Robert T. Bradley

  He placed both hands in his pockets, surprised how easy his mechanised limb obeyed the order without a hint of dysfunctional protest. He walked over to one of the supporting pillars, each footstep on the hard stone sent a tremor from his feet up to his skull, rattling what remained of the morning’s hangover. He took in a deep breath, looking upward as a low flying airship was quick to make his lungs recoil. When had they gotten so big, he wondered.

  Resting his back against the base of the pillar, a beggar held out a paper cup with a white stick by his side. Alfred flashed a glance – the man’s face was scarred with severe burns and one of his eyes was white, void of pupil and iris. The other moved around chaotically as though following an erratic fly.

  ‘Penny for the Nightingale?’ asked the blind man, aware a gentleman was in his vicinity.

  Alfred looked away from him. The other Lowers continued about their business.

  ‘Is your name Nightingale, sir?’ Alfred asked.

  The blind beggar rattled out a sound you’d expect to hear from someone fresh out of their spell. ‘No, sir, not a Nightingale.’ He spat blood on the floor between his legs. ‘A Nightingale did all of this to me.’ The man made a circle with his hands around the top half of his body. ‘I need a penny to find the bastard, take back what he took.’

  Alfred’s entire being became victim to gravity. The weight of the world was pulling him back to where he belonged. ‘Here, this is all I have.’ He placed a shilling in the man’s cup.

  ‘Thank you, sir!’ He motioned to stand, trying to thank Alfred beyond his words.

  Alfred stopped him, feeling the terrain of scars under his tunic. ‘Quite all right sir, please stay down. Rest, I’m sure more will be along to help you further.’

  III

  Boarded up shops, stray dogs and cats fighting over the scraps. He walked backwards just by the road, and stopped to allow a series of elaborate carriages past, their curtains closed even in daylight. Locking themselves away from the reality of their time. The Argyle District had changed a great deal.

  He looked back at the shop. The shopkeeper put back the boxes, returning his store to its rightful state. There was pride behind those actions; it was like watching a poet’s thoughts flowing onto paper. His lips were moving; he was singing the song again. Alfred’s heart did something it hadn’t done for an age and fluttered, sending shivers from the back of his neck down to his pelvis. He recognised the feeling’s purpose was to dissolve the despondent reservoir he held locked within. Tears appeared to run down his face, and he wiped away their insolence.

  A huge Seagrave Corp poster spread across a bricked up abandoned building, its surface still patchy from the damp paste. A hulking locomotive was speeding across a set of tracks, flat and solid, not in a structured way but in a way without giving in to the designers wish for it to look elegant. Above the train were the words Gas is the Future! then below read:

  On Saints Day come and watch history with the launch of the world’s first Gas Powered Locomotive reaching speeds greater than 80 Miles per hour!’

  The reservoir of hate came close to evaporating as admiration for his former business partner struck Alfred; a blow from the past, a blow from a friend who wanted him to smile and to forget. But how could he? Instead the lake of hate boiled, turned unstable; back to the wrath, making each breath inhaled heated enough inside his chest to exhale fire. The smell of the city, the stupid fashions and the people, oh God why so many of them? Ladies wearing ridiculous outfits, going home in the evening stinking of soot. He didn’t understand the allure. His foolish brother loved it here. Everyone from all over the territories came to work in Britannia, perhaps the King’s propaganda honoured sounder promises? Such a strange bunch of interbreeds. He had only met the King once, shook his hand and bowed; it was enough gesture to know they didn’t like each other. Some former plonk goes on to build the transport system of the future, such snobs. They only ever wanted their own to succeed, he thought. Seagrave, the former fellow at the same school and now the royal lapdog, how Alfred loved he had managed to outdo him, but for what cost? He wanted the demon dead for what he’d done.

  Alfred’s eyes held steady on the poster, he hadn’t taken a breath since he saw it. Could lightning strike twice? He intended to ensure it would.

  CHAPTER 17

  Beneath the keep at the entrance to the City, Abigail Falcon lounged at the corner of her desk. The last of the day’s paperwork towered at the other end. She stared at it, wishing for magic of a Wiccan to make it disappear. The rest of the shift had packed for the night, leaving her and the office administrator to wrap up. Spinning on her desk chair she moved around the pile of papers to face him, but he looked equally bamboozled.

  ‘What you thinking, Martin?’ Peering over, she nodded at the tower of papers. ‘Shall we stop for the day on these? Pass them over to tomorrow’s shift?’

  The young man traced each tower as though sizing up the bars of his prison cell. ‘We can’t, Inspector.’

  ‘Why heavens not?’ Abigail asked, noticing her counterpart was more groomed than usual. ‘Oh, I see,’ she said with a wicked smirk. ‘Felicity what’s her chops back from internal?’

  Martin blushed. ‘What about her?’

  ‘It’s her nightshift, isn’t it, you rascal, and you want to be the one who says; Sorry about all this bloody paperwork, here’s a dozy darling, how about I stay and help you wrap these up. Am I right?’

  ‘Well, inspector.’ He re-adjusted his already adjusted tie. ‘We have a dinner date tomorrow night–’

  ‘How scandalous–’

  ‘Stop it, I’m nervous enough as it is. I thought sharing the paperwork would be a lovely gesture on my part, but also a great chance to make sure she isn’t faithful to the rumours.’

  ‘Rumours, Martin?’ Abigail dug each of her elbows into her desk, cupping the weight of her head. ‘Divulge at once.’

  ‘She moonlights.’ His eyes focused anywhere but Abigail’s set of beaming pearls.

  ‘Moonlights as what, Martin?’

  He whispered, in the way people do when really, they’re just talking with an odd husk. ‘A bangtail–’

  ‘Bangtail? Felicity?’

  ‘Haven’t you heard the stories, Inspector?’

  ‘You mean rumours, Martin, they’re entirely different. Who’s the source?’

  He clenched his lips, sealing the dam of words readying to pour out.

  Abigail took note, preparing to crack it. ‘Martin, I do believe she’s the most exciting girl you’ve had at the end of your compass in months.’

  ‘Inspector, please, keep it down.’

  Abigail paced the office, putting both hands behind her back. ‘And why on Terra is it such a bad thing, Martin?’

  The young man stayed seated, his words paused as he searched for an answer.

  ‘For Mother’s sake, man, she sounds great! Have some fun, you’re only young once!’

  ‘But it wouldn’t be proper, Inspector.’

  ‘Good Lord, Martin, have you heard yourself?’

  ‘I’m a gentleman, Inspector and a man of Mother.’

  ‘In my experience, you’re one or the other.’ She stood and walked to his side of the desk, and perching on the edge she gave the tower of paper a flick of her finger. ‘So why are you wishing to court if you’re so concerned about your holy guilt?’

  ‘Well, she–’ he gulped. ‘She asked me.’

  ‘Oh,’ Abigail lifted her eyebrows. ‘Which is certainly brazen. Do you ever see her at Mass?’

  ‘No, she’s never been to Saint Catherine’s.’

  ‘It could be perhaps she worships at her district?’

  Martin didn’t say anything. His forced facial creases were enough to indicate a musing over ancient morals.

  Abigail grabbed the papers. ‘Let’s get started. The sooner all of this is out of the way, the more room you’ll have to…’

  ‘Inspector, please!’

  Splitting the papers in two, she g
ave him the larger. His dullard looks wasted little time transforming to a frown.

  ‘God, Martin! Cheer up, I’m just jesting.’ She placed the papers back together, and his smile returned.

  Always willing to share the work made it a pleasure to work with him. ‘ The first task, what have we got?’ She grabbed the slither of paper and sat back in her chair, waving it in front of her face, amazed at how thin it was.

  ‘What does it say?’ Martin asked.

  ‘Prisoner Tabitha Parkin to be released, all charges dropped; full guard escort to the Seagrave Compound.’

  ‘Not another one!’ Martin shouted, leaning back in his chair. ‘It’s the second time this week the order’s come directly from the Magistrates.’

  ‘The Moorlander wasn’t making her name up after all. Very well,’ she continued, lifting her legs up to rest on his desk. ‘Martin, can you get the message to the Keep’s Guard Captain? Here, take this’ She flicked him over the task sheet. He missed it, evading his fingertips on a stream of stale dungeon air, it landed on the floor behind his chair. ‘Explain the girl needs to go to the boys upstairs for processing first before she gets sent over to the monstrosity.’ Abigail lifted her legs off the desk and slammed her boots to the ground, making the table shake. ‘I wonder how many more of those we have in this pile?’

  II

  An influx of continuous draft rushed up from the gap beneath the door of the keep. Shoes tapped, gaining volume. Both looked up at the clock. ‘Rather late for a visitor,’ Martin said.

  The door opened without the courtesy of a knock. ‘Inspector Falcon, I presume?’ A tall man with spectacles, dressed in black with a pointed hat matching his nose, stood in the doorway. Looking around as he breezed in, the man removed his hat, revealing a bald patch, held the floppy bonnet to his chest and bowed. ‘Greetings, Inspector. I’m here to help you with your homicide investigation. The Royal Magistrate sent me as an aid.’

  Abigail sized him up, his trousers had divorced the ankles and married his knees. ‘Some things never change.’

  The tall man smiled at her, his cheeks turning several shades of pink, the colour engulfed the rest of his face. ‘Beg my pardon, Inspector?’

  Abigail gave the stranger a sharp grin. From the corner of her eye, a young girl tipped her head around the door frame, peering in the office, she smiled at Abigail.

  ‘I’m Hans Goldsberg,’ he said, keeping his head lowered.

  ‘Is that so? And who’s your friend, Hans?’ said Abigail.

  ‘She’s with me. Her name’s Pixie,’ Hans whispered. ‘She’s suffered a terrible last day, involving her family. I’m tasked with her care, witness protection for the time being.’

  Abigail crooked her head around him and gave Pixie a reassuring smile. ‘Hello Pixie, a pretty name for a beautiful girl. We have some custard creams; would you like one?’

  ‘She’s a mute,’ Hans interrupted. ‘Please leave her be. She won’t be any trouble.’ He reached in his jacket pocket and pulled out some papers. ‘I take it you’ve received these?’

  Abigail noticed Pixie nodding her head. ‘You would like some? Great, I’ll just get them.’

  Hans frowned. ‘Please, no, you really don’t need to–’

  ‘It’s nothing of your concern,’ Abigail said, handing her one, hesitating and getting her a second. ‘This is between us girls, and plenty more where they came from.’

  ‘Inspector.’ His tone sharpened. ‘The paper?’

  She looked back at the two towers. ‘Somewhere, I’m sure. Does Seagrave want to break me out of this shithole as well?’

  A laugh came from Martin, and Hans smiled an irresolute smirk. ‘It’s the Moor. There’s been another terrorist attack. Looks like the Brotherhood’s at it again.’

  ‘Aren’t they always at it, them lot?’ Martin rolled his eyes.

  Hans mirrored the office admin assistant to gain rapport.

  Abigail saw the gesture. ‘Great.’ She leant back in her chair. ‘Where there’s Brotherhood bullshit, there’s Brotherhood paperwork. Who’d they want dead this time?’

  ‘We don’t have much in the way of details; nonetheless, we believe it has something to do with the Nightingales.’

  ‘Ha! A guess sounds more to me like you have nothing. Besides, what evidence do you have it’s them? Weren’t they exiled to China?’

  She remembered the newspapers running the story. Everyone was talking about it. Two members of the royal family killed, a lost prince and a ton of engineering lords, it made the headlines for months after. The Star Express ran a story once a week for two years, with the poor boy’s mug spread across it, spinning conspiracy theories. The King was right to dissolve the contemptable rag.

  Hans cleared his throat. ‘Beechcroft Village. It’s deep in the Moor, named after Lord Beechcroft.’

  ‘Who?’ Abigail saw in his eyes he was expecting her to know.

  ‘Seagrave senior’s business partner?’

  She listened out for a bell, none rang.

  ‘Alfred Nightingale’s wife was a Beechcroft.’ Frustration packed out his voice.

  She sat forward. ‘You call that, a lead? Besides, those lot deserve all they’ll get! Oh, sorry, Pixie!’ She held her hand to her mouth.

  ‘Don’t worry about it.’ Hans was shaking. ‘The attack was caused by modified gas Seagrave drones.’

  Abigail continued laughing. ‘You sure the bescumber didn’t do it?’

  Hans ignoring the comment, leant over and grabbed a few of the papers. ‘The task’s in here, is it?’

  Abigail stood between him and the papers. ‘Those are private.’ She looked down and confirmed the pile. ‘Tasks, private tasks. I don’t care where you’re from, but in here, during my shift, I’m the one in charge.’

  Hans whipped his hand back. ‘My apologies. I have a zeppelin waiting on the roof, ready to take us there. Be sure to pack all provisions you consider necessary. Oh, and do wrap up warm. The quarters are heated on the airship, but the Moor will be a fright.’

  ‘Typical. There I was looking forward to an evening with my head in a book.’

  Abigail opened her trunk, forcing the lid to smash into the wall. She grabbed some woollen clothing together with her leather overcoat, gloves, changed her shoes to boots and grabbed her ear muffs. She put them on and looked over at Martin, who scrunched up his face,

  ‘No?’ she asked quietly, and put the ear muffs back inside the trunk. ‘Martin, get done what you can of this shit, then knock off when you need to.’

  The young man gave her a lazy salute ‘Don’t worry, Inspector, I’ll have them finished by the start of the night shift.’

  III

  The zeppelin hovered above the Keep, the drips of Sootrail it collected streaking down the anchored ropes from its hull. Abigail was quick to avoid as many of the drops as possible. The wind from the engine blew Hans’s cloak outward, the little girl hid under it, protecting her from the rain, shielded from the wind. He held his hat with one hand, his cloak flapping behind him. Abigail shivered at the sinister shape he created.

  ‘How many days travelling, Hans?’ she shouted.

  ‘One, maybe two depending if those clouds burst.’

  ‘Great,’ she uttered sarcastically as the airship’s ladder lowered and they boarded.

  Shooting off across the Moor, Abigail looked out over the edge of the deck. She hadn’t been out of the city in years; perhaps the rest of the world had changed, but she doubted it. The dark clouds engulfing the city quickly disappeared to the background as the ship climbed higher above the clouds. She’d missed air travel. Her father, a retired plonk, used to take her up whenever he’d be able to sneak her on board. The airships were a lot smaller in those days, back when people explored the world in hot air balloons, traversing the ruined cities of old Britannia. She always remembered they’d sneak in late at night. He’d make up some excuse to the guard about a night-time test flight. There was never much protest, her father, the charmer of guards. He’d
always have them laughing at some impression or other of their superior officer. He was a popular one, shame the popularity never rubbed off on to his daughter. She fell victim to his embarrassing levels of pride nonetheless, proud of the lies she told him about how well she was doing when she hadn’t solved a single case since starting the job eight months ago. Always a bit awkward around Saint’s Day, she’d meet him at the pub and each of his friends recalled the made-up stories she’d told him. It would break his heart if he knew what her days entailed, filling out pieces of paper from daybreak to sunset. Arresting thieving Lowers for stealing food from the Middles. Catching the ones who’d made it to the Upper districts. How they forged an Uppers’ ID card astounded her. She never understood the harsh penalties; they appeared as barbaric as the crimes.

  ‘The best way to travel,’ piped Hans, gripping the deck railing.

  Looking around him, Abigail raised Hans’ cloak. He backed off, wondering what she was doing. ‘Where’s Pixie?’

  ‘Oh,’ Hans said, surprised. ‘She’s in the chamber snoring her little head off.’ He grasped in his top pocket for his silver cigarette case. ‘Care for a smoke, inspector?’

  She looked at the collection, all tightly rolled in unison. ‘Thank you,’ she said, removing one. ‘My father was a plonk,’ Abigail confessed. ‘He’s retired now, living on the coast.’

  Hans rested his hands a yard up from Abigail’s on the railing. She immediately noticed the scars covering them. She thought it rude to ask, but did so anyway. ‘How’d you get those?’

  Hans looked down, rotating each of his hands, revealing a terrain of past suffering. ‘There was a fire,’ he said, ‘when I was a baby. I tripped, fell in. Luckily I was old enough to put my hands out in front of me. Otherwise, it would be my face filled with these beautiful scars.’

  The markings on his hands were dark in areas with purples and pinks. Under the lamplight of the airship, they looked like works of abstract art. ‘My mother always blamed herself for them, she didn’t look at them. From as long as I can remember I’ve worn gloves, even when it was just her and me.’