Dark Age (The Reckoning Turbines Book 1)

by Robert T. Bradley

  ‘Don’t be alarmed,’ said the older gentleman, whom earlier introduced himself as Sidney. ‘This is an elevator, have you been inside one at all?’

  ‘Can’t say I have,’ Pete said.

  ‘Nothing to fear, you’ll feel a slight sinking in your stomach, but it will pass.’

  The door closed behind them and Pete could feel his body weight shift faintly inside himself.

  ‘How queer.’ Pete reached for the hand rail.

  ‘Yes, it is.’ Sidney opened the door. Another corridor, lighter than the one before, but with less paintings. The room they eventually entered had purple velvet wallpaper and large empty vases. A model ship, perfect in its construction and detail, sat on two pillars in the centre of the room. Pete scurried over to inspect it, slowing down half way to mask his enthusiasm.

  ‘His Lordship will be with you shortly,’ said Sidney from the doorway.

  ‘Thank you,’ Pete shouted at the closing door, returning to his fascination.

  On the deck, miniature models worked the ropes and helm. The captain and first mate stood at the stern, keeping an eye on their ragtag crew. The officers wore white trousers, blue tunics and had perfect postures compared to the men who climbed the ropes and scrubbed the decks – they looked poles apart in their filth stained rags; if it weren’t for them, those Upper bastards wouldn’t even have a Navy. Pete wondered if the models knew how good they had it.

  V

  A door laying flush to the room’s elaborate décor opened noiselessly. Lucian stood still, away from the crack, shrouded in darkness as he studied the journalist. The man acted giddy. The elevator effected many of the Upper-Middles the same way, yet alone some Middle, from some Sootrail-drenched back-city district. Lucian had checked the man’s file, but there was little of any interest. Journalist for fifteen years, struggling marriage and no children. A true company man, a newspaper man. He wore the cliché long brown coat, it’s baggy pockets emptied of their only contents, the classic Journalist’s weapons of notebook and pen. Pete held them both in a loose grasp behind his back like a guest trying to convey vulnerability, acceptance and trust. To Lucian he looked nothing less than trouble. The middle journalist danced around the model as though it was the first scaled down anything he’d ever seen, the first possibility, thought Lucian; the second was he’s displaying an act and totally aware of his host’s observation.

  Lucian crept in slowly to the bar, a rolled up newspaper under his arm, he carefully picked up a glass. He blew inside it quietly, clearing the bottom of any dust, then continued the ritual with another glass and placed them beside one another. A Spanish Pernod vintage 1901 stood out among the other Absinthes. Like his guest, the bottle was short and fuller at the bottom, and the Absinthe was more grey than green. He recalled the taste; sharp on the tongue but gentle on the throat. He plucked it, removed the cap and poured the light grey drink into both glasses in equal measure. As he placed them under taps, he turned and said, ‘History fan, Mr O’Halloran?’

  Pete jumped and flung his notebook in the air. It landed between them both on the planked wooden floor. Lucian stepped softly over where it landed, reached to pick it up, saw the list of questions and handed it back.

  ‘Greetings, Lord.’ Pete cleared his throat with a cough.

  ‘Seagrave,’ Lucian corrected.

  ‘Nice ship.’ Pete pointed a shaking finger at it.

  ‘Ah yes,’ Lucian agreed. ‘Seafaring, hey? Real exploration. Fan, are you?’

  ‘Nah, I mean, I’ve never been one,’ said Pete.

  Lucian noted the gulf of separation in their class. ‘You’re familiar with the Endeavour?’

  ‘Yes, isn’t it Cook’s ship?’ said Pete.

  Lucian heard fluster in his voice. It was the same fluster he heard on these rare occasions when he had to talk to a Middle. ‘Correct. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Peter O’Halloran. Scottish?’ Lucian held a copy of the Gazette, threw it on a nearby desk and offered his palm.

  Pete hurried out his hand to shake and bowed his head. ‘Irish.’

  ‘Oh yes, of course it is, “O’Halloran”.’

  They shared a silence.

  ‘Pardon my archaic attempt, Peter, I’m not one for accents, I could never get them right.’

  ‘No, your Lordship,’ Pete said, ‘I’ve not heard a better one in a long time.’

  ‘You’re too kind. I’m surprised,’ Lucian pointed at the model, ‘you recognise the Endeavour.’ He walked back to the bar and continued fixing the drinks and waited for his guest’s reply.

  ‘I learnt about it, from my father.’

  Lucian handed him a glass. Pete tipped his head in thanks.

  ‘History buff, was he?’

  They cheered each other’s glasses in a chime. ‘No, he’s a Naval Veteran.’

  ‘And plonk bloods surging through your veins, how exciting. Never fancied the freedom of the air?’

  ‘I prefer desks to decks.’ Pete took a sip from the rim of his glass.

  Lucian studied his expression and enjoyed Pete’s struggle to hide his distaste.

  ‘Or you could say you prefer white walls to fluffy clouds?’ Lucian suggested.

  ‘Comfort to wild weather,’ said Pete.

  ‘The mundane to adventure,’ said Lucian.

  ‘Freedom to slavery?’ The words rolled out of Pete’s mouth like a cannon cut loose from an airship’s hull.

  Lucian smiled. ‘Magnificent. To our fathers.’ He took a mouthful of the grey cloudy substance.

  Pete took a smaller swig.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Lucian studied the frown folds of his guest’s chin, ‘next time I’ll make you a tea.’

  Pete smiled sheepishly. ‘Yes, thank you, my Lord.’

  ‘So, you must be aware of the reason I called you here?’

  ‘Yes.’ Pete placed his glass down on a nearby surface. ‘My article, last Tuesday. I’m sorry about its contents. We journalists can’t ignore our sources.’

  Lucian walked around to the other side of the ship, peered down at it and plucked a particle of dust from the bow. ‘It was hardly what you’d call an article, Mr O’Halloran. More a lazy snippet. What’s her name, your chief? Why has she got a talented writer like you typing up such piss-riddled prose? I fear you’re at the wrong paper, Peter.’ He downed his drink and placed the empty glass next Pete’s.

  ‘There isn’t any other newspaper company worth writing for.’

  Lucian’s eyebrows twitched. ‘Ah yes, of course, the closures. Sorry, Peter, I’m buried under a mountain of work. These last few months have been hell, so you’ll have to excuse my lack of knowledge on current affairs. Do please think of me as being less than ignorant.’

  ‘Of course. To do with the new train, my Lord?’

  Lucian looked at him, lowered his head so his brows hid his eyes slightly. ‘Is this the start of our interview, Peter?’

  ‘If you’d like?’ Pete shorthanded the additional question.

  ‘How about I show you the mines, right now, a tour, then afterwards some lunch in one of our gardens. I’ll give you an exclusive interview on my life, the compound here and how we run our operation, providing you’re still awake, sound reasonable? Or would you rather we broke our fast now – did you even have the time this morning to have anything? You must be starving.’

  ‘Yes, my Lord, it sounds, it sounds…’

  ‘…look, Peter, I had a bit of bother, the other evening. Some Upper-Middle gave me grief about what you’d written, and I’m sure you know what them lot are like.’

  Pete knew, he’d run a story on the new library in the Fairchild District three months prior, he’d never held open so many doors. ‘They don’t have manners.’

  ‘Exactly, Peter. This one, more so than others, I mean I do make it habit of telling all my bankers to stay clear of Middle women. You know what they’re like, a sniff of the high life and they behave as though they never had the Spell in their lives.’

  Pete took another sip from his g
lass. He was polite; Lucian smiled.

  ‘I simply want to put the record straight. My public image among the citizens is important to me, especially now with the new rail system a few weeks away from launch.’

  ‘You do me a great honour, my Lord.’

  Lucian waved a hand away from him. ‘Oh, it’s nothing don’t worry, I’m sure this article will no doubt give you the recognition you deserve. Do you have clothes for the night, are your things here?’

  ‘No, I don’t, my Lord.’

  ‘We have plenty of clothing you can use if you so wish, or we can wash your own and have it ready for you in the morrow in case you decide to re-wear it. Stay for the evening, and all day tomorrow, you can chaperone me to the Airship display, one of our lighter craft has just finished a re-fit, I think you’ll be impressed. I’ll be sure you get a wake-up call. Do you like eggs?’

  ‘Yes, well, I mean, I’ve not had an egg in years.’

  ‘Good. The Moor side of the compound – my chef over there, I don’t know what it is, but they seem to get the best eggs. You’ll love them, I’m sure.’

  ‘Thank you, my Lord.’

  ‘Stop thanking me, Peter, once is enough, any more and people will have you down as somebody’s slave.’ He laughed some forced up beats of fake laughter. ‘Right, the mines, but before, let’s fix you a…’

  ‘tea?’ said Pete.

  ‘Yes, a cup of tea.’

  VI

  A corridor of clouds disintegrated around the hull of an airship made of pine, silk, steel and nerve. Hitched on the back of the morning’s jet stream, the airship swept down from the cloud cover into the Britannic moorland.

  The Captain looked down her brass telescope from the bow of the newly advanced airship, focusing on the large containers in the distance. She made them her new enemy, five of them in total. She pressed the components of the instrument together and tucked it back alongside her holstered copper and wooden flintlock, long with a jet-black barrel; it featured modifications to the chamber giving it a rapid firing capability, a short-range scope mounted on the top of the gun and a robust gold firing pin. She wore tight black Seagrave Officer deck leathers, standard winter issue. Thanks to her outfit this morning, the crew knew she meant serious business.

  ‘Fourteen rotations to the port side and hold her steady, Mr Shanks.’

  ‘Aye, captain.’ The first officer carried out his order from behind the helm. The sharp bank flexed the bulk of the ship; the internal silk balloon compressed under the geo strain, but it’s titanium alloy cage didn’t budge. The deck crew with the sturdiest air legs locked themselves in. The ship twisted, caught a morning airstream in her bug-wing sails and accelerated, jolting the wooden and metal ship forward, pointing its bow, canons and bomb network relay system directly at the containers.

  With a fifteen-man crew, she was the smallest ship in the Seagrave Fleet, but what the Gypsy Moth lacked in armour, she made up in agility and speed. This run was nothing but a breeze, the captain knew it, the crew knew it, and all the Seagrave officials in the viewing platform knew it, not good enough, she thought. They had to gauge another record.

  ‘Mr Shanks, level her up and do what you do best.’

  He lowered his goggles. ‘Aye-aye, captain.’

  Her boot heels knocked against the wood. ‘Don’t forget, Paul,’ she whispered to the helmsman, ‘same as before.’

  ‘I well remember, Maddy, think the new modifications will take it?’

  ‘They’d better.’ She looked at the crew and shouted, ‘Yank her to the wind, boys and girls.’

  At the wheel, Shanks spun it full lock one way and then the next.

  ‘Free the gangway and bottle in hard.’ She lowered her shaded goggles to get a better look at her crowman. ‘How’s the wind, Mr Folly?’

  Up high in the crow’s nest, the white beard of an old man lapped away like the banner of a triumphant underdog. ‘Captain, we have gales blowing up a storm in our rears–’

  ‘What we like to hear, Folly you dirty air dog!’ Shanks shouted, as the crew let out an airworthy roar.

  ‘We’re gonna do it this time.’ Folly hung half his body over the side, some of the crew looked up at him and shook their heads.

  ‘Indeed we are, Mr Folly.’

  The Gypsy Moth’s hull threw to one side, sending it on a plunging approach to the first Container.

  ‘Bombs away!’ the Captains cry down a funnel echoed around the lower decks. A black bomb fell from the ship’s undercarriage, whistling freely through the air, and crashed into the container. The wood broke apart around the iron ball, separating as easy as an oar works through water.

  ‘ one bagged and tagged, five to go.’ As the ship banked upward the captain grabbed a gangway latch and locked her body on the hull.

  The ship climbed and the crew scrambled from the port to the starboard bow; some yanked ropes to adjust the sails while others latched themselves to the deck in a regimented drill smoother than Nightingale clockwork. The wooden hull creaked and strained as it tilted to face the next container.

  ‘Bombs away!’

  The next one bounced off the second container, destroyed it, and skimmed on top of the third.

  ‘Fantastic work, boys, two birds one stone.’

  VII

  Stood on the viewing platform of the compound’s box was Pete O’Halloran and his host Lucian Augustus Seagrave, each holding a cup of Britannia’s finest tea. ‘Not bad is she, Peter, for a small ship.’

  Pete’s saucer and cup rattled, spilling the tea with each explosion. ‘Yes, it’s, impressive. But I don’t understand how it’s able to stay in the air?’

  ‘Oh yes, of course, you mean with the absence of a balloon? You see, Peter, the hydrogen balloon is inside the hull of the ship. I refer to them as a hydrogen cell, rather than a balloon, especially because it’s inside the body,’ said Lucian.

  ‘I see, makes sense. And what exactly are these smaller airships used for, my Lord? And why are they blowing up those crates?’ Pete raced the tea cup to his lips knowing the next bomb could get his borrowed clothing, the finest he’d ever worn, covered in tea. He shuddered at the thought of the Chinese steam-cleaning bill.

  Lucian glanced at Pete’s notebook. ‘They’re communications and correspondence Zeppers.’

  Pete put down his cup and rubbed the side of his temple with the tip of his pen. ‘Correspondence Zeppelins, fitted with bombs?’

  ‘Practice, dear Peter, as our communications are often scrambled. Those bombs help to free up the communication lines.’

  ‘And the canons fitted at the front of the ship?’

  ‘You’ll find there are all sorts of characters floating around in those skyways above us. I mean, look at her, Peter.’

  The Gypsy Moth thundered over the compound. Tea left every cup. Pete was quick to return his to the table. ‘Who would rob them? Air pirates?’ Pete sniggered, hoping his host wouldn’t notice.

  Lucian gave Pete a thin smile. ‘Yes. Exactly, Peter, air pirates. Come, I’ll show you something far more thrilling than a balloon blowing up boxes.’

  VIII

  ‘Nice work, Mr Shanks.’ The crew applauded his efforts as he stepped away from the helm, taking a bow.

  ‘No, bravo my fellow plonks, your efforts as always are first class.’ Said Shanks, looking down to the captain he continued. ‘Not bad guidance from you as always, Maddy.’

  ‘Shanks, enough.’ She tilted her brow in salute. ‘But thank you.’

  A buzz of spirited satisfaction made its way around the deck.

  As they drifted over the auditorium, Captain Madeline Barknuckle leant over the side of the ship and adjusted her goggles to see if he remembered. Peering into the company box, everyone else was there – apart from him.

  CHAPTER 3

  Many miles west of the city, beyond the moor, her speckled hamlets valleys, covens tors and mountains, on top of the highest tree in the Orgotten Forest, A pointed nosed man concluded his assent. Purposefully j
amming his left pointed climbing boot in the remaining trunk, Hans Goldberg’s long thin legs trundled for a better balance. The tree leaves created a surface, removing the vertigo. He felt naïve as he’d done it a thousand times before, but was sure this climb had been a personal record. The morning sunlight pierced a sootrail cloud as though it had torn it apart, allowing Hans to get a clearer inspection of the uninfected bark. In front of him, and unlike the rest of the tree, the branches were brown, the way they should be. He grabbed the base of an orange branch and tugged it close enough to inspect. The orange bacteria appeared to singe the wood before it engulfed it in the plague. Hans’ eyes narrowed. The edge around the fungi bubbled, and he held his ear to it. The bark crackled an inconsistent melody, and in-between each crack he heard little screams of various pitches accompanied by a sweet aroma like burning marsh mellows over the fire at boys’ camp. The orange substance had consumed the bark. He adjusted his magnifying glasses, made a mark and counted its progression crudely in his head, tracking its growth. Then he grabbed his rope saluted the sun in thanks and abseiled back down the tree where the Herbalist Maximus Herdgill stood waiting for him.

  ‘It’s as you suspected Max, the curse is moving at a rate.’ Hans removed his watch and made the calculation. ‘Three inches a minute I say roughly, in the most conclusive of terms.’

  Max stood up from his satchel, his hands bright and covered in orange.

  ‘I wouldn’t get it on your hands, old boy.’ Hans tilted his head and flicked his glasses. ‘I’m pretty confident a colour as bright, means nothing short of trouble.’

  Max removed a hanky and wiped them clean. ‘It doesn’t, at least not to us. This fungus eats wood and not much else. If I were to ingest it, you’re looking at another matter altogether.’ He held up a hanky for Hans to take.

  Hans eventually snatched it. ‘A polite, round the houses way of saying, it would kill me?’

  ‘Far worse, it shuts down all your motor systems and makes you paralysed, which is the first stage.’ Max put down his coloured vials and looked every bit ready to get all animated with hand gestures. ‘After about two hours your heart rate drops and the chemical eats a hole through your stomach, unleashing all of the acids. You end up helpless and in terrible amounts of pain and because you can’t talk to tell anyone what you’re feeling, it makes for one of the foulest deaths a man could ever endure.’