The Sunken

by S. C. Green

  Nicholas remembered Quartz’ warning, not to allow Aaron to return to the swamps. He brushed the thought aside. That was the last thing Aaron needed to hear right now.

  Brigitte returned with a roll and a pitcher of water. She set them down on the table in front of Aaron. He stared at her with reproach, then leaned over and snatched up the roll.

  “I think you misunderstand Brunel’s intentions—”

  “I think you misunderstand,” Aaron cried, globs of sticky bread dribbling down his shirt. “Did you know these new Boiler workshops would be built over our homes?”

  “No, of course not—”

  “I know how his mind works, and he’s consumed by those machines. His entire being is focused on their creation, on their perfection. He doesn’t care about the Stokers — he never has. He doesn’t care about you, Nicholas. I’m his oldest friend, and look what he’s made of me.” He gestured to his bedraggled frame.

  “You did this to yourself,” Nicholas said. “He cares for you very much. He thought this was what you wanted.”

  “Is that what he told you? No, Nicholas, he stopped caring about me when that first Boiler rolled out of the factory. He—” Aaron fell back into the chair, his eyes glazing over and his head flopping onto his shoulder. He started to snore.

  Nicholas patted Aaron’s hand, and together, he and Brigitte stretched him out across the couch, placed the pitcher of water beside him, and left him be.

  ***

  Nicholas stood outside the door of Isambard’s workshop, peering through the gap, just wide enough for a thin man to squeeze through, into the gloom beyond. Brunel sat in his wingback chair by the roaring furnace, the spidery apparatus that had sprung from his sleeve on the night they’d killed the King now holding a teacup to his lips. “May I come in? I want to talk to you about Aaron—”

  “I don’t want to talk about Aaron,” Brunel snapped.

  “He thinks you hate him. He thinks you’re sending him away.”

  “Don’t I? Aren’t I?” Brunel smiled. “Pull up a seat, Nicholas. Let me tell you about Aaron Williams.”

  Nicholas squeezed through the door, found an empty crate under the workbench, tipped it over, and sat facing Brunel. The mechanical arm held out a teacup for him, but he waved it away.

  “Don’t you like it? Without this arm, I couldn’t have saved your life, remember?”

  “I remember, but why do you wear it?”

  “I like it. A man can never have too many arms.” He extended the limb to its full length. “Besides, it has more strength, more flexibility, and more functionality than both my real arms put together.”

  “Is it painful?” Nicholas saw parts of the machine — gears and rods — extended under Brunel’s shirt, into his skin.

  “Not at all. It is partly my own design, partly made with Dirigire technology. Those Frogs understand fine clockwork better than I understand steam. Now, I was going to tell you why I sent Aaron away.”

  Nicholas leaned forward.

  “He’s not taking this very well.” Brunel gestured around himself, at the Chimney, the Boilers, and his mechanical hand. “When we made the engine all those years ago, he told me he didn’t want any credit. He didn’t want to hang if anything went wrong, and so he left me, alone, to live or die by the whim of the priests. Things could have gone very differently for me, and Aaron knows it. He knows if I had died, it would have been on his hands. He feels guilty, because he deserted me when I needed him most. And over the years, that guilt has turned to resentment, that resentment, to jealousy, and that jealousy to his current rage. He hates me, Nicholas, and has hated me for a long time. Here in the city, hemmed in by my success, he’s falling apart. He’s drinking more than ever, haven’t you noticed? And Chloe ….” He frowned, leaning forward and lowering his voice, even though there was no one else to hear. “I’ve seen her, Nicholas, walking through the Ward with bruises on her face and arms. The men fear his temper. He’s cracking up. He needs to leave the city as soon as possible. I had to send him away. Do you understand?”

  Nicholas felt ill.

  Aaron loved his wife, he would never … but Nicholas remembered how rough he’d been with her when they’d shown up at his home, how he’d dismissed her, how his eyes shone with hatred, how he saw fault in everything Brunel did.

  “Yes,” he nodded. “Perhaps you’re right.”

  ***

  Holman and Nicholas saw Aaron off at the train station. They were two of only a handful of non-Stokers present, for the Stokers’ work and insular society afforded them few friends in the city. Brunel, the Metal Messiah himself, was not in attendance.

  The train they piled into was barely functional. The carriages had no walls, only wiry metal frames secured with chains. The locomotive itself spluttered, spewing sickly gases through a cracking blowpipe. Aaron knew his men could have done a better job, but men hadn’t made this locomotive — Boilers had. He’d seen them churning away in their new workshops for the past two weeks, putting together this prototype to send the Stokers away.

  Aaron settled Chloe into one of the forward carriages, then rushed up and down the length of the platform, checking the supplies and machinery had been correctly loaded and secured. He was the last to board the train when the whistle blew.

  His friends waited for him, and he faced them both, shrugging off his exile with his usual bravado. It was Holman who broke the silence first, extending his hand a little from his body in the habit of a blind person, and Aaron reached over and shook it.

  “Goodbye, friend.” Holman’s voice was kind. “I trust you to be safe and look after this sorry lot.”

  Aaron smiled. “As well as I’m able, James. And you stay out of trouble.”

  “You know that’s too much to ask.” Holman let go of his hand, and Aaron turned to Nicholas, the only other man who understood the voices, the man whose peace he’d shattered and whose drawing room he’d thrown up in.

  “Goodbye, Nicholas, and good luck with everything.”

  “Thank you, Aaron, and … I’m sorry.”

  “I know.”

  Nicholas leaned forward and embraced him, patting his shoulders. Aaron returned the embrace, savouring the texture of his friend’s wool coat and that familiar smell of fresh aftershave.

  “How will we contact you?” asked Holman.

  From the hidden pocket inside his greatcoat, Aaron pulled a thin metal plate, which he pressed into Holman’s hand. “There’s a woman in this village. You can trust her, but to be on the safe side, you should use the code.”

  He shook each of them by the hand again, his eyes imparting more than his lips could say. He collected his bag and climbed the steps onto the train. Setting down his rucksack, he leaned out against the railing and gave one final wave just as the whistle blew and the train lurched forward. For the last time, he stared at the soot-stained London cityscape, her regal buildings and lush pleasure gardens whizzing by in a blur, the great Engine Ward far in the distance — a black smudge on the skyline. He knew he would never set foot inside the city again.

  He was going home.

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  A note on the text

  Fiction is a reworking of established truth. All things subtly shift under the author’s pen, and even the most infallible facts become relative. As the Engine Ward series is set in an alternate history, I have taken certain liberties with the historical evidence. For your interest, I’ve detailed some of the more blatant fallacies below.

  Brunel, Banks, Babbage and Holman are all historical figures, although whether any of them met in life is not recorded. Joseph Banks died in 1820, ten years before his appearance in this book, but I figure if he could keep the King alive well past his time, he was probably cheating his own death a little, too.

  James Holman was blinded at age twenty-five in a manner similar to that described in this book. He returned to London, took a de
gree in medicine (secretly), and, after securing a post as one of the Poor Knights of Windsor, he set out on a journey across the world. The most thorough account of Holman’s unique experiences can be found in Jason Robert’s riveting biography, A Sense of the World, which I highly recommend.

  George III’s mania was believed to be caused by prolonged exposure to arsenic, resulting in the malady porphyria. Victims of porphyria suffer from abdominal pain, vomiting, seizures and mental disturbances. Porphyria affects heme (a vital molecule for the body’s organs), causing the skin to blister when exposed to sun and the gums to retract around the teeth and the canines to become pronounced. Many scientists have speculated that porphyria accounts for some historically documented cases of vampirism. Canadian biochemist Dr. David Dolphin has popularised this theory with research suggesting ingesting human blood relieves the symptoms of porphyria. Scientists tested follicles of George III’s hair and found large amounts of arsenic, known to be a cause of the disorder. He was not, to the knowledge of any historian, actually a vampire.

  Isambard Brunel was appointed chief engineer of the Great Western Railway (affectionately known as the Goes When Ready, due to its rather loose interpretation of a “schedule”) in 1833, and the first train ran in 1838. He built several notable English bridges, including the Clifton suspension bridge and the Royal Albert Bridge – and two of the largest and most innovative ships of his time – the Great Western and the Great Britain. He had no delusions of godhood. Probably.

  Lastly, the widespread occurrence of dirigible flight has been altered dramatically. All these decisions were not made lightly. Nicholas’ world called for these divergences and each was necessary to create the story and anchor the setting. I did not lead you down a false path. I am a spinner of tales. I hope you have enjoyed this one.

  S C Green

  Want more trains, dinosaurs and mad scientists?

  Enjoy the first chapter of Engine Ward 2: The Gauge War

  Coming Soon

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  James Holman’s Memoirs — Unpublished

  Aaron said he would write in his first week in the swamps, but warned us we may not receive the letter for some time. After two weeks, Nicholas commented he’d been checking with the post office twice a day. After four weeks, he was concerned, and after eight weeks with no word, we both wrote worried letters inquiring after him and mailed them off to his contact, but still we received no reply.

  So, I felt a great deal of relief when the housekeeper delivered to me a letter. I had hoped it would be from Aaron, but as I turned it over and felt the crossed gauge nails that formed Brunel’s official seal, my heart leapt in excitement.

  The letter had been written using the raised, punched code Nicholas and Aaron had developed. They must have shown it to Brunel. The letter stated His Holiness the Lord Protector and Messiah of Great Conductor Sect was most looking forward to meeting with me on my next trip to London.

  I turned the letter over, and read it again, just to be certain I had not mistaken the message. What could the Metal Messiah possibly want with me?

  With my walking stick tap-tap-tapping on the ground I wound my way through the narrow streets toward the Chimney. Since I’d last visited, the Ward had become even more crowded, as engineers flocked from all over the country, all over the world, to acquire one of Brunel’s Boilers and seek their fortunes amongst London’s industrial elite. On every street corner, scientists and natural philosophers extolled this or that theorem. “Banish your boils!” yelled one, trying to herd me inside his church. “Heal your blindness!” cried another, waving a foul-smelling concoction under my nose.

  And everywhere, priests of the various sects bustled past, their strides confident, full of self-importance, their thick robes trailing along the cobbles. Metics, Morpheus, priestesses of Isis, even some Dirigires in their leather flying costumes … I could hardly tell them apart, for all their clattering.

  Despite the cacophony of the crowds around me, I found the Chimney with ease. The great steel face loomed overhead, dominating the Ward and casting a great shadow over the streets below. As I neared its giant iron entrance, sounds around me changed, the echoes morphed by the huge presence of the Chimney. I ascended the wide stone steps and braced my shoulder against the heavy door, which swung inward on an internal spring, barely requiring any effort at all.

  Not being a time of service, the Nave sounded deserted, save for a few mumblings of the priests tending the altar. I found myself a seat on the left of the aisle, fumbling for the hands of my pocket watch. I was a few minutes early, so I leaned back and waited for the Metal Messiah to arrive.

  “Welcome, James. “

  I jumped. He’d either been waiting behind me with the specific purpose of startling me, or had entered the room so silently I hadn’t heard him. Either option made me uneasy.

  “I’m sorry to startle you so. I was so deeply engrossed in these mathematical designs sent down from Charles Babbage’s office, I’m afraid I didn’t even hear you enter. You must think me frightfully rude.”

  “Oh, not at all. It’s my pleasure to meet with you again, Isambard.”

  “It’s always a pleasure in the company of old friends.” He laughed. “I knew when I saw you driving that getaway carriage you’d be the right man for this job.”

  I rose and extended my hand, and he clasped it in his, tracing my knuckles with his cold fingers.

  “You’ve created a beautiful retreat for the mind within these walls,” I said, nervously, wishing to fill the awkward silence.

  “I often enjoy sitting in this lofty room when a sermon isn’t in session. The sense of space around me and the rhythmic cadence of these priests soothes the aches and pains of the workshop.”

  “Forgive my ignorance, Your Holiness, but you spoke of a job. Is this why you called me here today?”

  He leaned forward, his hand brushing against the back of my hair. “You always did yearn to travel,” he said, by way of introduction. “I remember well how you devoured the journals of great adventurers, memorising their escapades and planning how you might cope in similar situations. Tell me, has the loss of your eyes quieted your dreams of adventure?”

  “I must confess that it has not,” I said. “But they must remain just that — dreams. As a Naval Knight of Windsor, I’m expected at the castle for the twice-daily ordeal of climbing one-hundred-and-thirty-eight steps to attend mass. My last application for leave on medical grounds was declined.”

  “Why do you not simply quit the Naval Knights and travel as you please?”

  “I am still a blind man, Your Holiness, subsisting on an officer’s half-pay and a small stipend from the Naval Knights. Without the salary afforded to me I could not fund travel, or indeed even feed or house myself, and I refuse to resort to begging.”

  “Ah.” I heard the smile in his voice. “Then I think you and I can help each other. I need a job done, and I think you’re just the man for it. I had ordered the Stokers to send me living specimens of various species from the swamps, but, apart from a splendid dragon they sent some months ago, all they’ve managed to send so far are a few piddling reptiles and two mangy birds, which proved useless for my needs. I am unsure if Aaron’s presence will bring forth greater results, but I wish to search further afield. I need someone to travel across Russia and through Siberia, alone, and bring me back a selection of specimens. I have made arrangements and prepared detailed descriptions of the specimens, but finding a man willing and able to undertake this mission has proven a hard task indeed. When I saw you at the reins of that carriage, I realised you’d be the perfect man for the job.”

  “Siberia?” I could hardly contain my excitement.

  “I realise the danger involved in attempting to cross the untamed continent. To follow some of the migratory paths you will need t
o gain access to Siberia via the Russian Tsar, and you will need to negotiate with many locals. I know you have the temperament and skill with languages to make this mission a success. Of course, you will be paid handsomely, enough to fund many years of travel and to set you up with your own residence in London.”

  I leaned forward, heart racing. The offer seemed too good to refuse. I could complete Brunel’s job while making my way across the Russian continent. Then, once the last specimen was safely on board a vessel back to England, I could continue my circumnavigation of the world across the land bridge and into the Americas. With my own London residence bought and paid for, I would not need to seek permission from the Naval Knights. I could quit the order of cantankerous men forever.

  But it all hinged on my ability to complete the mission Brunel had set. “What kinds of specimens are we talking about? Will I be able to catch and transport them on my own?” I imagined myself swatting blindly at rare species of butterfly with a net attached to the end of my walking stick.

  “No. You will need to hire teams of men in the villages. I will give you all the currency you require. I wouldn’t ask you to hunt yourself, of course, only to manage the teams of men who will trap the animals. I need them to reach England alive — this is paramount. The animals will travel by ship, so you’ll arrange for them to be sent under escort to the coast, where my ships will be waiting. With Buckland’s assistance, I’ve had the artist J.M.W. Turner make you some engravings of the species I require.”

  He dropped a stack of metal plates on the table. I counted them gingerly — ten in all. Ten different species: a monstrous task. I picked up the first and ran my hands over the drawing.

  I gasped. It was a creature the likes of which I’d never encountered before. Low to the ground, it appeared almost as a tortoise with a great shell upon its back, only the long, clubbed tail and spiked face gave away its true nature.