The Sunken

by S. C. Green

  “Forgive me for what I am about to say, but … won’t you be … is the … will you be punished for what you have done?” she directed the question at everyone, but it was clear she worried for Nicholas. I worried also, knowing full well the penalty for such an act as they had committed.

  “That remains to be seen,” Brunel answered. “Is it treason to kill someone who was already dead? Most of the King’s supporters on the Council died alongside him tonight, and he has no immediate heirs. We have done England a great service, Miss Brigitte, and she will look after us.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t fear, my love.” Nicholas leaned over, placing his hand on top of Brigitte’s and mine. “The worst is behind us. From now on, every day will be filled with promise. Nothing approaching this scale of horror could ever be repeated.”

  How wrong he turned out to be.

  ***

  They poured down the street like a river, their furnace bellies glowing in the moonlight, their blades slicing the air like a siren’s song, calling the Sunken to their doom. They fell into formation with languid ease, as if they had fought off hordes of once-human-lead-vampires hundreds of times before. Descending upon the city with immaculate precision, they finished what the Stokers had begun — sweeping the streets clean of the Sunken.

  Aaron could only pull the Stokers back, well clear of the carnage, and watch the Boilers with a mixture of reverence and disgust. Wiping the blood from his face, the full horror of what he’d fought against came crashing down on him. Watching the Boilers at work — the ease with which they mowed down their enemy, the ruthlessness of their mechanical blows — forced him to see them as something other than a mechanical workforce; they were a true killing machine, answering only to one master. The notion struck his heart with a deeper feeling of fear and unease than he’d felt all night.

  William patted his shoulder. “Time to go home,” he said.

  Home. Aaron shuddered. We have no home anymore.

  They trudged back toward Engine Ward, the only place they could go, their spirits broken, their bodies shaking off the thrill of the killing and taking up the burden of their belated terror. All around them, the night’s horror forced itself upon them. The dead littered the streets, piled up in the doorways, draped across the gutters and sprawled in mangled heaps under the wheels of wrecked carriages. Blood mixed with raindrops and flooded through the cobbles, collecting in the drains and forming scarlet ponds that glimmered in the moonlight.

  So many dead, and for what? What could drive a king to this madness, and what made Isambard allow him to do so? He could have stopped this. He should have stopped this. So many have died so he could be the saviour of London.

  They marched through the gates of Engine Ward, wishing only to sink back down into their tunnels and sleep off the horrors of the night. But the madness on the streets outside had penetrated the high walls of the Ward, for men and women ran through the streets, torches blazing, drums beating, voices screaming and cackling as they rushed in and out of narrow streets and ramshackle buildings.

  Aaron pulled his men into an alley. “It seems we’re not out of danger yet. If the Sunken have penetrated Engine Ward—”

  “But why is the Chimney ablaze with light?”

  “And why is everyone singing?”

  “Singing?”

  William peeked around the corner. “I don’t believe it.”

  Aaron leaned out, and he couldn’t believe it, either.

  It wasn’t a massacre, but a celebration, and it was attracting a great crowd of people, who poured in through the main entrance. Priests from the Metic and Isis churches rolled barrels of wine from their cellars into the streets and pried them open, while eager hands dived in, bottles and tankards at the ready. Men dragged instruments from their homes — strange devices made from steel pipes, broken steam valves, and empty drums. A great cacophony rose up — grating at first, but as the musicians found their places, it became melodious, a dance to lift the heart of the Engine Ward. Multi-coloured robes of every sect intermingled, twirling and weaving through the streets, dancing together, the wearers laughing with each other.

  As they walked, awestruck, toward the Chimney, hands reached out to embrace them, voices calling blessings and thanks. Their praises brought smiles to Aaron’s men, and as they neared the Chimney, he saw the lanterns had been flicked on, and a group of revellers congregated on the steps, dressed in dirty overalls, but welcomed by all and wrapped up in the frenzy of the dance. They were led by a familiar figure, draped in grey and handing out candies to laughing children. He bolted into the street before William could grab him.

  “Chloe, what are you doing up here?”

  “You left me all alone in that hovel,” she snapped. “We could hear the screaming through the vents. What was I supposed to do, Aaron? Wait for them to break into the Engine Ward and devour us? I heard them, everywhere I heard their horrible snarls, and you were gone, so I came here — we all came up here — to see what could be done.”

  “What has happened here?” Aaron grabbed his wife by the shoulders. “Why is everyone celebrating? The Sunken are not yet defeated. We’ve lost two men, and the city is drowning under the weight of the dead. What could there possibly be to celebrate?”

  “Haven’t you heard? The King is dead,” she answered, her face breaking into a smile. “Brunel has killed him. The Council has seized control of England. The Boilers are rounding up the rest of the Lead Children as we speak.”

  “I heard, but—” But what about the Stokers? What about all we did?

  “Long live Brunel!” The shout rang out from the horde of Stokers.

  “Long live Brunel!” The cry was taken up by the other men congregating in the streets — Metics, Morpheans, Dirigires, all chanting praise to Brunel. Aaron stepped back, his stomach tight with horror.

  “Long live Brunel, the Metal Messiah!”

  Everyone — his people, his enemies, even his wife — was under Brunel’s spell.

  EPILOGUE

  Nicholas watched from his place of honour behind the altar in the Chimney as Robert Stephenson, who could barely disguise his disgust, placed a new sceptre, forged of steel, into Isambard’s hands. Isambard repeated an oath, spoke in Latin, containing his promise to watch over all the peoples of England and her Empire, to uphold the laws of her Council and the will of her Gods. He raised the sceptre high in the air, and the whole Nave erupted with applause. Nicholas stood and clapped loudest of all, a genuine smile on his face.

  After the Boilers had cleaned the streets of the Sunken, and the remains of the dead were piled up in the market square in Engine Ward, a public funeral was held and hundreds reported to collect what body parts they could recognise as belonging to loved ones. All that remained were buried under a memorial stone in Kensington Gardens. The bodies of the Sunken were deposited on the lawn of Buckingham Palace, and set alight.

  The Council of the Royal Society convened an emergency meeting and confirmed what the populace of London knew already — in the absence of any immediate heirs to the throne, there was only one man fit to rule the Kingdom, and that man was Isambard Kingdom Brunel.

  He took the title of Lord Protector, and would not wear a crown. He was given other honours — he would take over from Stephenson as Messiah of the Sect of the Great Conductor, and would replace Joseph Banks as President of the Royal Society. There were only two men in all of England who opposed the changes: Robert Stephenson, now demoted to the mere rank of priest, and Aaron Williams, who had disappeared into the tunnels and hadn’t been seen for days.

  Brigitte squeezed Nicholas’ hand. “You were right,” she said, leaning into his shoulder. “Isambard is a brilliant engineer, and a truly great man. What better leader for this country than he?”

  Nicholas smiled back, but in the back of his mind, questions swarmed. An engineer instead of a king — what does this mean for England? More importantly, what does it mean for Isambard? He’d not been near Isambard sin
ce the night they entered the palace. Isambard had been swept up in the affairs of state, but Nicholas wondered if the new responsibilities sat well with his friend — if the adoration of the populace, the responsibility of running a country, the title “Metal Messiah” being hailed from every corner affected him. Nicholas wondered too if Aaron knew of Isambard’s appointment, and how he would be taking the news.

  “And now,” said Buckland, the new Prime Minister, “the Lord Protector Sir Isambard Kingdom Brunel will give his first sermon: On the Adoption of Boilers and the Nationwide Adoption of Broad Gauge Rail.”

  A great cheer rose up. Brunel stepped up to the podium, the grand sceptre out of proportion with his wiry frame. As he waited for the applause to die down, he turned around, searching the crowd. Brunel met Nicholas’ gaze, his eyes shining with delight and humility, and he smiled.

  Nicholas smiled back. He had nothing to worry about, after all. Isambard was perfectly fine.

  ***

  Within the Engine Ward, every bell chimed, every whistle blew. Breathless messengers rushed from street corner to street corner, passing the word through the huddled crowds.

  The Metal Messiah, the Metal Messiah is about to speak …

  The Stokers had gathered around the rear of the Chimney, confined to stalls — a corral of high fences set up especially to keep the Stokers away from the populace of London, as though they carried some kind of disease. Aaron frowned as Chloe tapped her fingers impatiently against the high bars. “This is a fine way for heroes to be treated. After all this, we’re still the ‘Dirty Folk’.”

  “Hush, husband,” Chloe laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “No one saw what you did. They only saw the Boilers. Give Isambard a chance to work his magic on them. He knows he would be nothing if not for the Stokers. He will lift us up as he has been lifted.”

  All around them, Stokers chattered about Brunel’s sermon, certain it would honour their efforts in the battle. “Do you think he’ll announce a new engineering project, now that the Wall is finished?”

  “Maybe he’s had a message from Great Conductor?”

  “I hope he’s giving us a pay-rise.”

  Aaron remained silent, not wishing to destroy the mood with his suspicions. Below his feet, the engines whirred away, safe under the watchful eye of their Boiler furnace masters.

  A loud buzzing emitted from the row of horns protruding from above the grand entrance, startling the crowd and causing Aaron to jump. This was followed by a sound like an elephant’s trumpet, and then Brunel’s voice grated across Aaron’s temples.

  “Despite the tragedies of recent weeks, progress must continue unhindered if London is to thrive and move on from this tragedy. The success of my most recent Boiler prototypes has inspired me to create a new model, which will begin production immediately. The Boiler Version 3 … an iron machine that can be programmed to perform any mundane task. Thanks to a generous gift from the Royal Society, we will begin immediately constructing the new Boiler workshops. These new buildings — designed by the brilliant Nicholas Thorne — will occupy the western quarter of the Engine Ward, behind my Chimney—”

  “That’s where our homes are!” cried Chloe.

  “—and from right here in the Engine Ward, I can produce Boilers to order for all your engineering needs. With my machines stoking the fires of Engine Ward, we’ll work with an efficiency never before experienced, and this city’s legacy of innovation will be unparalleled. London will be known across the globe as the city that engineered the world.”

  A cheer rose up from all around — the people clapped and screamed their applause for Brunel’s vision for the city, but the Stokers remained silent, too shocked to utter a word.

  Finally, someone spoke.

  “Drop my balls in sulphur and call me a Navvy!” William swore. “I bloody knew that pox-ridden scallywag was up to no good. He’s gonna flatten our homes to build more of them rotten machines. Oi, Williams, get your lead-puckered arse back here!”

  Aaron vaulted the railing of the stalls, pushed past the Stoker guard who, used to seeing him walk where he pleased, didn’t attempt to hold him back. He shoved his shoulder into the riveted door and swung it inwards, stalking through the Nave, where the gentry seated inside clamoured with the exciting news. The gentlemen talked with ardent gesticulations as they ran their hands over the shining Boilers that rolled up and down the aisle. Aaron saw Holman and Nicholas and Brigitte standing in the far corner, and they called to him, but he ignored them, stormed past the ranks of priests, and ascended the stairs to the pulpit.

  “You can’t go up there—” A young Stoker priest grabbed for his arm, but Aaron jerked it away.

  “Someone has to stop him, Johnny Ringley,” Aaron hissed. “Someone has to tell him that with our homes flattened and these metal beasts at the fires, the Stokers will be ruined. Someone has to tell him he’s ruined his own people. How will your daddy pay for that fancy priest school now, Johnny?” The kid let go of his arm.

  Aaron grabbed the chain and pulled, and the collapsible metal staircase — a trademark of Nicholas’ industrial designs — slid down from the ceiling and uncoiled into an ecclesiastical spiral. Aaron raced up the stairs, three at a time, and fell, panting, onto the platform in front of Brunel’s pulpit. He banged on the door of the hatch.

  “How dare you disturb me—” Brunel flung the hatch open. “Aaron?”

  “How dare I? How dare you!” Aaron’s rage flew from his mouth. He grabbed Brunel’s collar and pulled him onto the platform. “Have you no concept of what you have done? You’ve made us redundant. You’re turning our homes into workshops for those abominable machines.”

  Brunel smiled, and in that instant, Aaron knew what he’d suspected for many months; Isambard was forever lost to him.

  “You misunderstand me,” Brunel said, his voice calm. “I know exactly what I’m doing. I’m sending the Stokers back to the swamps, to hunt once again.”

  “You’re sending … us … away?”

  “Yes, as you have pointed out, the Stokers are useless here in London,” Brunel said. “I have no need of them anymore. But I do have a job for them, one my Boilers cannot do. I need them to hunt in the swamps, to send as many live specimens back to London as possible. The larger the animal, the better.”

  “Why?”

  “My experiments are of no concern to you. You will be the foreman, of course, and you will lead the hunters, just like your grandfather. Isn’t that just what you wanted, to live with the mud and the animals?”

  “You … you ….” Aaron had no words. He balled his hands into fists.

  “You can thank me for this boon later.” Brunel shoved him back toward the staircase. “But right now, I have a congregation to address. You’ll receive your new instructions tomorrow.” He clambered back into the hatch, pulled the door shut, and locked it from the inside.

  Aaron beat his fists against the grating, barely noticing the rough steel cutting his hands. He buried his face in his hands, slivers of blood mixing with his tears as he wept for the friend he had lost and the doom of his people.

  ***

  “Nicholas! Open this door!”

  The window on the upper story flew open. “Aaron? What are you doing? It’s three in the morning, again—”

  “Now you see what your beloved Messiah has done?” Aaron roared, beating his fists against Nicholas’ door. “He’s no friend of mine!”

  “You’ll wake the whole neighbourhood!”

  “He’s sending the Stokers away! We finally have the opportunity to make a good life for ourselves here in the city and he’s sending us away!”

  “Stop yelling. I’ll be right down.” Nicholas’ head disappeared from the window. Aaron paced across the stoop, his rage boiling, until he heard the bolt slide across the lock and saw Nicholas open the door.

  “He’s a rotten scoundrel and I hate him!” Aaron yelled in his friend’s face, painfully aware he was being uncouth and vile, but too drunk and angry to
stop himself.

  “You need to calm down.” Nicholas grabbed his shoulders and shook him roughly. “You’re drunk, aren’t you? By Great Conductor’s steam-powered faeces, man, we’d best get you inside before you wake the whole neighbourhood.”

  He pulled Aaron into the downstairs drawing room and settled him into a chair. “I saw you in Mass today, climbing up to the pulpit like a drunken fool,” he said sternly. “I can see you’ve further inebriated yourself.”

  Brigitte appeared at the doorway, clutching a candle, her nightcap askew. “Aaron? Nicholas, what’s the matter?”

  “He’s just a little upset. Could you fetch us some water, love? And perhaps a bread roll for Aaron.” She disappeared across the hall.

  “Do you want to stay in the city, Aaron?” asked Nicholas, holding his friend’s face upright. “Is that what you want? Because I can talk to Brunel for you and see if he’ll let you stay—”

  “No!” Aaron bolted upright, his eyes flashing. “My people need me, and I will be stronger in the swamps. Every day I live inside that Ward, surrounded by iron and without the comfort of the voices, I feel the press of my own madness, Nicholas. Even if there are no tricorns anymore, I want to walk where my grandfather walked, hunt with the dogs, feel the breath of the dragons on the back of my neck.”

  “If this is what you wanted, why are you so upset?”

  “Brunel has sent the Stokers to a death trap. Those swamps are swarming with dragons, and no one knows how to hunt anymore. When Stephenson hears Brunel intends to connect London and Bristol, he’ll descend with force. Even though he’s not a Messiah anymore, the Navvies still outnumber us five to one, and they’ll fight us to the death to keep the southwest free of broad gauge. I won’t allow my son or my wife to die in the mud, not while I still have breath in my veins.”

  “Blood in your veins, Aaron. Breath in your lungs, blood in your veins, although I think yours might be well supped with alcohol.”