The Sunken

by S. C. Green

  “You can tell those men apart from the rest of us,” noted Buckland, returning with a glass of brandy for each of us, “by the outright desperation on their faces. Each one dreams he will be the recipient of this most enviable prize, and fame, fortune, and immortality will be his.”

  Nicholas and Buckland described for me some of the familiar faces. George Combe, the eminent phrenologist of the Church of Morpheus, paced up and down along the wall. Turner, the artist and arrogant Presbyter of the Isis Sect, held court in a private circle in the corner, his trilling, whining voice rising above the clamour. Not wanting his position to be compromised by one of the newer artists or poets, Turner had submitted plans for a mural to be painted across the west-facing walls of each of the city’s buildings — scenes of terror and desolation, of hundreds of Redcoats armed with muskets and bayonets, ready to strike at any dragon that dared impose upon the city.

  Percy Bysshe Shelley, the dark, brooding “engineer of words” who’d became Messiah of the Isis Sect in Lord Byron’s absence, slouched across one of the velvet pews. Shelley had submitted a spectacular design for a high-walled pleasure garden containing plants like garlic and fenugreek, which the dragons found abhorrent. He planned to suspend these gardens or “mobile Eden” across the city, so citizens afflicted by dragons could wait in safety while the beasts were apprehended. I knew his design would find favour with many of the noble men on the Council, and he certainly acted as if he knew the prize was already his. He mocked protocol by bringing his wife, Mary, as his guest, and she sat beside him, dressed in her finery, the subject of many lascivious whispers amongst the learned men.

  Brunel stood in the corner of the stage, and Aaron stood behind him, frantically trying to pull the hems of Brunel’s too-long formal robe from under the feet of the marauding deities. “Isambard’s face betrays nothing,” Nicholas said. “His is the only steady gaze in this room of posturing. Do you wish to see him?” he asked me. “Isambard has been so kind to me, James. I’m certain he will welcome you as a long lost brother.”

  The blood froze in my veins. I shook my head, unable to bear the thought of facing him, of talking to him or Aaron, knowing my actions cost the lives of a brother and a father. “Perhaps another day,” I said “Brunel will not want to think of the past when his future may well change forever.” Nicholas waited for me to explain further, but I didn’t.

  “How does the King look?” I asked, changing the subject.

  “Strangely fine,” Nicholas replied. “He’s still sitting in the wheeled chair, but he lifts his head and talks to people — mostly to Banks, who has just slipped him a small bottle of something. The skin on his face shows no signs of the wounds he received. I do not know what to make of it.”

  “And no sign of Babbage?”

  The Council judged cases of state and religious crimes. Babbage was charged with blasphemy, and he’d opted to defend himself rather than accept a Council-appointed lawyer. As far as I knew, he’d found no man willing to speak in his defence.

  “He has declined to attend his own trial,” Buckland said. “No point, really, is there? They have him under guard in the Engine Ward — his last free night to work on his calculating machine.”

  Even I could sense the tension in the room. Shuffling my Noctograph from one arm to the other, I flipped back the glass lid on my pocketwatch and felt with my fingers for the engraved watch face. We had been waiting over an hour, but now all the Messiahs — save Robert Stephenson, who often absented himself from Society business, preferring to remain in the north with his railway — were present, we could finally begin.

  Sir Joseph Banks called us to order. There was a mad scramble as men rushed toward the front of the room, but we remained in our circle in the corner, our reactions hidden from the scrutiny of the stage. Buckland, who would be reciting the evening’s sermon, nervously folded and unfolded his lecture notes. He was a man who secretly (or not so secretly, thanks to Babbage) still worshipped the Christian god, and the presence of so many religious men unnerved him.

  There was still no sign of Charles Babbage.

  Banks rolled the King’s chair across the stage, and released an injector valve, which raised it above the podium with a puff of steam.

  “For thousands of years, man has long sought to hold back the natural world.” The King’s voice held no sign of age or illness. Strong and deep, it soared over the cavernous room. “From the moment of our birth in the great Forge of Creation, we’ve fought to control fire, pull up the flora, and tame wildlife. And now, as we proceed through the nineteenth century, we are closer than ever before to achieving dominion over all the earth’s forces. In this room stand the men who’ve made this possible — the engineers, physicians, adventurers, scholars, artists, and poets who’ve shaped this age of iron and industry.

  “Our final task lies before us. We must keep this city — the capital of iron and dreams — free from the menace of the dragons, the last great remnant of our barbaric past. We must assert, once and for all, our dominion over the beasts. After a week of deliberation with the committee,” he said, “I have decided who among you shall lead this city into the new age of industry. I would like to ask Isambard Kingdom Brunel to join me.”

  A collective gasp rose from the room, followed by frantic whisperings as tongues wagged. Even though Nicholas had told me what the King had said, I still couldn’t believe the Council had chosen Brunel.

  “Mr. Brunel’s design is composed chiefly of a great Wall, which will encircle all of London like a fortress of old, making her impenetrable to the dragons as well as any other enemy that may present itself. The Wall shall also benefit our local trade and security, as it will monitor the coming and going of people and goods throughout the city, and will one day run passenger trains throughout London. In light of his industry and forward thinking, I present Brunel with this certificate of patronage, and his new Godhead as Presbyter of the Sect of the Great Conductor, replacing William Adams, who will be stepping down immediately.”

  The applause came in spatters, overwhelmed by cries of protest. “He’s not even an engineer!” cried Shelley, leaping from his chair and upsetting his brandy all over his velvet breeches.

  “Silence!” boomed the King. “The Council’s decision is final. Brunel has won the competition. Need I remind you that questioning my divine authority and insulting church leaders are answerable to charges of blasphemy and treason.”

  That shut everyone up. In stony silence Brunel walked across the stage, his heavy worker’s boots clanging on the oak. He accepted his award and kissed the King’s ring.

  “He looks rather chuffed,” whispered Nicholas.

  “Wouldn’t you?” Buckland said. “This is an incredible honour. Perhaps the Council is finally allowing men without money or status to pursue the sciences.”

  “Not likely,” Nicholas replied. “Look at Shelley’s face. He looks as though he’s ready to commit murder.”

  Banks tapped on the lectern, his fingers rapping against the wood and Brunel’s footsteps on the wooden stage as he returned to his seat the only sounds in the room. The King gestured for the ceremony to continue.

  “To our second matter,” Banks said. “We must address the opinions published by Charles Babbage in the Society Gazette. I know many of you have read this document, but for those of you who have not, Babbage insinuates Sir Humphry Davy, Messiah of the Aristotelean Sect, had not added his calculations correctly, and suggested an alternative equation based on his own calculations. Clearly, you must all be as appalled as I am by Babbage’s actions — to accuse a Messiah of erroneous calculations — such a thing is blasphemy! Mr. Babbage’s writings have sullied the good name of Mr. Davy, the Gazette editors, the Society, and the deities we serve. When asked to speak in his own defence, Babbage declined: his absence only confirming his guilt.”

  “Declined, or was kept away?” Nicholas whispered. I nodded. He was beginning to understand the kind of men we were dealing with.

 
“As you know, the punishment for blasphemy is excommunication. But, as this is an organisation of equals, I would not be so arrogant as to make this decision myself. Is there anyone in this room who would speak for Mr. Babbage? Anyone who would offer an argument for him to remain?”

  No one spoke. I knew the thoughts of my friends mirrored my own. If free thought and debate were still welcome within these walls, than why was Charles Babbage being vilified for expressing his?

  Banks, however, didn’t appear to notice this discrepancy, as he announced the decision had been made. Charles Babbage was no longer a member of the Royal Society and would be stripped of all his royal and church patronage. Any further infractions against the church would be dealt with more harshly.

  After that announcement, we heard two sermons — one from Sir Humphry Davy himself, who informed the congregation in a smug tone that his calculations were, in fact, correct; and the second, much longer, from Buckland on some recent fossil discoveries of Great Dragons: the larger, prehistoric ancestors of the very swamp-dragons that continually attacked our city. I took a seat on the edge of a pew and rested my Noctograph in my lap, using the metal and string frame to guide my notes in straight lines across the page.

  Normally a compelling, engaging lecturer, Buckland stammered throughout his speech, dropping his papers from the podium and losing his place. I understood his nervousness — his discoveries pointed toward a catastrophic flood wiping out the great dragon population, which, coming from the mouth of a known Christian, sounded even more blasphemous than Babbage. Luckily for Buckland, the Council members had found the brandy stash, and no one paid much attention to his sermon.

  The meeting closed and we were free to drink our fill of brandy and talk amongst ourselves. Men — mostly lesser engineers and those from the poorer classes — swarmed around Brunel, offering their congratulations and requesting meetings.

  Aaron managed to slip away from the chaos and joined our circle. “He won! Could you ever have imagined such a thing?”

  I wondered why Brunel had not told Aaron about the hint that had been given during the meeting at the castle. For friends, we all of us seemed to harbour secrets.

  “It’s a great day for the Stokers,” he said, clinking glasses with us. “With Brunel’s appointment, we may finally become an important part of learned society.”

  “As long as your new Presbyter doesn’t let all this religious nonsense go to his head.” I gestured to the gaggle of engineers gathering in the centre of the hall, singing the Hymn to Great Conductor and shouting jeers at the leaders of other sects.

  “If anyone can keep his head screwed on right, it’s Isambard.” Aaron replied.

  “Pity about Babbage, poor old chap,” said Buckland. “He was a bright spark, head of his own little Metic congregation. A brilliant mathematician — Charles had this idea to create a machine that could calculate mathematical tables.”

  “I bet the computers like that idea,” Nicholas smirked, referring to the men who were paid to calculate and write mathematical tables.

  “Not one single bit, but that’s not why he got expelled.” Buckland dropped his voice. “He was a good man, but blinded by his own intelligence. He never thought of the consequences of anything he did. Babbage just wanted the Society back the way it was, back the way it is supposed to be — a stimulating discussion of various scholars.”

  “I wish they would choose one god and stick to it,” Aaron said. “I’ve grown up with Great Conductor, but I don’t mind Morpheus or even that Mama Helios the Dirigires are so fond of. I wouldn’t even mind having that Jesus fellow back — after all this nonsense, his claims of transmutation and necromancy seem rather inoffensive.”

  “You know,” Nicholas leaned forward, lowering his voice even lower. “Since this society no longer cares for natural philosophy, we should take our discussions elsewhere.”

  “You mean … start our own society?”

  “Why not? Men are still allowed to meet each other at pubs or in the privacy of our own homes. I don’t see why we can’t extend a dinner invitation to a select few free-thinkers.”

  “Leave the invites to me,” I said. “Buckland, you’re invited, of course, if you’re interested.”

  “Wouldn’t such free-thinking inquiry be … blasphemy?” Buckland could barely keep the smile from his voice.

  “There’s no blasphemy in a few gentlemen getting together over a game of whist to drink brandy and smoke cigars.” Nicholas again lowered his voice. “We could each take turns preparing a lecture and a topic for discussion.”

  “A brilliant idea,” Buckland said. “I would love to give a true and accurate account of my discoveries — instead of the bogus lecture I gave this evening, if this new Society would have me.”

  “We could meet in my rooms at Travers College,” I said. “It might be a little crowded, but between the madness and deafness of my roommates, there’s little chance we’ll be overheard.”

  “It’s settled. The first meeting of the Free-Thinking Men’s Blasphemous Brandy and Supper Society will take place in Holman’s rooms tomorrow evening.” Nicholas’ eyes twinkled, and he rubbed his hands together in delight. “Now, I trust Buckland will provide the teacake, but who will bring the brandy?”

  ***

  After the meeting had finished, Holman, Aaron, and Nicholas pushed against the tide of engineers and scholars stampeding for the doors, and found Brunel slumped against the edge of the stage. Nicholas handed him a glass of brandy, but he set his glass down on the stage and embraced Nicholas.

  “Thank you, my friend.” he said. “Without the designs of Nicholas Rose, I would not have won this honour.”

  As Nicholas stepped aside, Brunel’s gaze fell upon Holman, and his expression turned to one of surprise.

  “Congratulations, Isambard,” Holman said quietly, his face angled toward his feet.

  “James Holman, is that you?” Isambard reached across and embraced the blind man. Holman, surprised, dropped his walking stick, and patted Isambard awkwardly on the back.

  “Look at you — you haven’t changed a bit! Apart from the eyes, of course. You shall have to tell me of your adventures. You are a Member of the Royal Society? How did I not know this?”

  “I-I-wrote you letters,” Holman stammered.

  “I never received them, but let us not worry about that. The old gang, back together at last! Please, will you all walk with me to Engine Ward? I’m afraid I’m rather giddy with excitement.”

  Isambard led them out of Somerset House and down the Strand toward Waterloo Bridge, pushing his way through crowds of brightly dressed characters from the seedier quarters of the city that spilled over to the riverside at this time of night. Isambard, a spring in his usually measured steps, led the way over the bridge, chattering nonstop, firing question after question at Holman, who answered in halting stammers.

  “I cannot believe it,” Aaron said, smiling from ear to ear. “Isambard, you’ve done it! You’re a Presbyter! A Stoker Presbyter!”

  “Your name will be known throughout the kingdom,” said Holman, who walked behind Nicholas, his head turned toward the ground.

  “Our fortunes are changing,” said Isambard, dodging around two streetwalkers and turning down a narrow alley. “The Stokers will finally have a place—”

  “Wait!” Aaron held out his hands, his voice tight and urgent. “Don’t move!”

  Nicholas’ head snapped up, wondering what was wrong. He looked around them, but could see nothing out of the ordinary. A bawd, her face drawn and haggard, chased two of her girls through the alley, while drunks cheered them on, and near the street an Isis priest preached from one of Shelley’s books of poems.

  Then he felt it — the sinking feeling as a creature’s thoughts pushed their way into his head, crushing the other voices and his own thoughts under their intensity. A predator, feeding on flesh — focused on the deliciousness of the meat, its senses on full alert for possible challengers to its meal.

>   A dragon. And it was close by.

  The others couldn’t see it, and Brunel opened his mouth to protest. Aaron held up his finger, urging them to remain quiet. The men inched forward, deeper into the alley, Nicholas and Aaron taking the lead, exchanging between them a knowing, frightened glance. Nicholas fumbled in his pocket for his knife.

  Aaron has turned a dragon away twice before, he thought. He could do it again.

  He could have turned back, sent Isambard and James down another street, but the meat pulled him — the smell of the fresh kill tickling his nostrils. His stomach rumbled, and saliva rolled from the sides of his mouth. So hungry …

  The alley ended at the wall of the close-packed tenement blocks. An even narrower path — barely as wide as a man — ran between the tenements and a workhouse. One by one they wriggled inside, their feet splashing in the mud and filth that formed at the bottom of the gutters. The smell of sweet, tender flesh grew stronger, pulling him onward.

  “What’s going on? What’s happening?” James asked, but neither Nicholas nor Aaron had the mind to reply.

  The passage widened out, leading them into another alley. They rounded the next corner, the smell of blood filled the air, and Nicholas’ mouth watered as the dragon’s desires overcame his last human defences, and he seemed to become the beast he was now confronted with.

  This dragon, another female, stood as high as a man, her tough brown skin dappled with green spots, and the scar of a burn along her muscular shoulders revealing a previous fight with a hot iron. She bent over the body of a man — a local butcher — her twin rows of serrated teeth making short work of his leather apron. She had dragged the body some way from the street, for the intestines stretched in a tangle down the alley.

  In the distance, someone was screaming. The images floated in front of Nicholas’ eyes. In one instant he was inside his own head, looking on at the dragon, and in another he was staring down at the corpse from inside her head, the taste of that fresh meat sliding down his throat.