Dark Age (The Reckoning Turbines Book 1)

by Robert T. Bradley

  ‘Something like along those lines.’ He smiled distantly, looking beyond him as though expecting his brother to have a companion. ‘Where’s Baxter? Here as well? Or did you leave him with the animals?’

  Nicholas stood still. His shoulders strained forward as though some elemental force were warping him inward, desperate to implode him to another realm. ‘You didn’t hear?’ he asked.

  Alfred offered his human hand. ‘What is it, what’s happened to him?’

  ‘The village was attacked shortly after you left. I couldn’t find Baxter, so I came looking for you in the hope he’d try and locate you.’

  ‘Attacked?’

  Nicholas looked up at his brother nervously, and peered over at a few of the drawings on the desk. ‘It was Seagrave, he sent one of his agents to scope us out. Somehow he broke into our home and discovered us as Nightingales. I failed in protecting Baxter, Alfred. I was trapped in the stable’s rubble. Eventually, after much effort, I freed myself and Baxter was–’

  ‘What are you saying, is my son dead?’

  Nicholas stood. ‘No, he’s come here, looking for you.’

  ‘I’ve not seen him,’ Alfred said, shrugging. ‘You sure he would even know the way to the city?’

  ‘Jesus, Alfred, the boy isn’t an idiot.’

  ‘I know that. So, where is he? Terrible job trying to find me, I’m here at my old workshop, you found me for pity’s sake.’

  Nicholas fogged his brother’s gaze. ‘He’s yours and Beatrice’s son.’

  Alfred ignored his plea and went about trying to find another bottle.

  Standing in front of him, Nicholas halted his enquiry. ‘We need to find him.’

  ‘Later, I have more pressing concerns and you need to help me.’

  ‘What can be more pressing than finding your son, Alfred?’

  ‘It’s long time you treated that boy, as a man, Nicholas.’ Alfred waved a finger around loosely at his brother.

  ‘A man? He’s barely eighteen.’

  ‘I was already two years an air trooper with the Royal air command.’

  ‘It’s different with Baxter–’

  ‘How?’

  Nicholas paced away from Alfred, he picked up a turned over glass, inspected its sticky residual and smelt the rim, a sharp sting of aniseed recoiled Nicholas’ nose in fast disgust. He placed the glass back on the table. ‘He didn’t grow up here.’ He said, back to his brother. ‘Things are tougher in the city.’

  ‘You think so? You don’t think you or I weren’t hard enough on the boy, getting him ready for the real arseholes the world has to offer? Come on Nicholas, you do the boy no favours.’

  ‘No favours? Rather rich, coming from a father who spent his time locked away in a tower, scheming over ways to murder his enemies.’

  Alfred barged past him. ‘I don’t have time for this, you are either helping me or you’re leaving.’

  ‘Help you do what? Murder? Murdering Seagrave won’t open up some time vortex and bring her back. She’s gone and killing a man in cold blood won’t give you anything besides a modest level of satisfaction to mask the pain in your heart.’

  Alfred stopped pacing and put down his tools. ‘It’s not just my heart, brother. I feel the pain everywhere.’ He held up his clockwork arm; the spokes shone with an amber glow from the candlelight. ‘My life is in ruins because of him.’

  ‘Madness,’ Nicholas said, walking away from his brother. ‘This isn’t you, killing him won’t fix anything.’

  Alfred whirled around and faced his brother. He struggled to focus, as though his sober mind were at the reins of a poisoned oaf, desperate to give substance to his grabbled rhetoric. ‘I guess you’re a fine one to talk about killing.’

  Nicholas clenched both his fists, stood over Alfred and gave him the heat of his breath. ‘Don’t venture there, Alfred.’

  ‘You mean to tell me you didn’t enjoy wiping the fiend’s smile off his face?’

  The veteran boxer placed both his hands under his armpits, trapping them in fear of what they’d do next. ‘A tragedy, and not one day passes when I’m not haunted by it.’

  Alfred stepped in closer. ‘You killed him.’

  ‘Stop, this is a different set of circumstances…’

  ‘How is it? You hated each other, he taunted you, spat terrible things about you, your fights, how they were staged…’

  ‘Alfred, stop. You’re ill and saying such things you don’t mean. Your words will only poison your mind further.’ Nicholas walked away from his brother.

  ‘That whore, the one you claimed to have fallen in love–’

  ‘Enough!’ Nicholas screamed, tears exploding from his eyes. ‘It was an accident, for God’s sake, man! I never wanted to kill him.’ He reached over to the desk to support the weight of the guilt unleashed within his heart. ‘I don’t know why it happened.’

  Alfred stood; he towered over his brother. ‘You had your vengeance, now let me have mine.’

  III

  The inner grip keeping together Nicholas Nightingale’s workings of gentry snapped. Both of his fists tensed. His eyes met his brother’s. The mask of determination Alfred wore on his face fell, revealing the fear as fists propelled towards it, ready to smash all the lunacy clouding his judgment. They impacted, driving Alfred’s body back to the desk and breaking it in half. Alfred’s jaw tightened and his nostrils flared; the madness had already boarded. Nicholas hurled headlong, another punch, caught mid-air. The mechanical arm swung up from the desk; Nicholas was quick to block it, cracking his forearm, splitting the skin. The power behind it was immense. He did his best to back away, to gauge his brother in battle behind the veil of anguished rage. Alfred charged at him and gripped Nicholas at the waist. He punched him in the back, slamming down both hands until the sickened fool fell to the ground.

  ‘You are my brother!’ Nicholas shouted. ‘You think I want this? Your son Alfred, he’s your last link to her – forget Lucian!’

  Alfred wiped the blood from his lip and stormed forward at him once more.

  Nicholas collected his composure and with expert precision struck his brother on the tip of his chin, sending Alfred to the unconscious abyss.

  IV

  From behind the workshop’s filthy window a zeppelin buzzed overhead, blasting its spotlights on the overgrown vines which riddled the ground, casting white light into the room and giving the instruments a shine of life which lasted seconds. It awoke Alfred back from his short coma.

  ‘Would Beatrice approve of this madness?’ Nicholas asked as he threw his brother the cleanest rag he could find.

  It landed in his lap as his head rolled around between the shoulders, his eyes opened and were steady with purpose. ‘Don’t mention her name again.’

  ‘Alfred,’ Nicholas said in a small, caring tone. ‘I’ll make a deal with you.’

  ‘What deal?’

  ‘If we find Baxter, together, we take him home. I’ll leave you to do whatever you wish afterwards.’ The deal wasn’t good, but he knew it was all he had.

  ‘Home, Nicholas? Home is in here,’ he said, pointing a mechanical finger to his broken heart. ‘Where she is.’

  Nicholas fell silent and collected his hat and jacket.

  ‘You’ll help me?’ Alfred asked.

  ‘I want no hand in murder, this madness is yours. But if you choose to help me find Baxter, then I shall stay out of your way.’

  Alfred spat a pool of blood from his mouth to the floor. It landed on one of the weeds and flooded its crack. ‘You’re not in my way.’

  Nicholas clenched his jaw and held up his fist. ‘Believe me, Alfred, if you abandon your son for vengeance, I am.’

  He coughed up more blood. ‘Water wouldn’t go amiss.’

  Nicholas sighed and said, ‘Glasses?’

  ‘There should be some just over there.’

  Shaking out his fist, Nicholas cracked his knuckles. The glasses were stacked behind some papers, beside them a tall green bottle of Franco
Absinthe 1912. He looked back at his brother. Alfred hadn’t noticed the bottle. He picked it up carefully and slid it inside one of the paper rolls nearby.

  ‘I can’t bear it, Nicholas!’ Alfred shouted. ‘Fifteen years without her! All I want is to see her again!’

  Nicholas returned with the glasses of water. ‘But Baxter–’

  ‘But Baxter nothing! I can’t bring her back, but I can damn well avenge her! It’s all I have, Nicholas.’

  Nicholas offered his hand to help him to his feet. Alfred refused it. ‘You have me, and you have,’ he hesitated, ‘your son. Let’s go and find him, I’m sure we can fix all of this together. We’re Nightingales. We fix things.’

  Alfred’s eyes were bloodshot, cheeks swollen and bruised. ‘Are you sure?’ He sniggered. ‘We seem better at breaking them.’ He got to his feet. ‘Leave me in peace, I have work to do.’

  He retraced his steps back to the desk, picking up the components scattered along the way.

  ‘Fine,’ Nicholas said. ‘If you need me I’ll be at our old tailors, if he’s still trading.’ He looked down at his dirty clothing. ‘I need a new suit.’ It was no use, Nicholas thought. The others needed to be found. Together they’d take him, bring him back from the abyss he now dwelt.

  Nicholas left his brother. There was a hollowness appearing inside his gut, it felt like a hole was opening inside of him and everything was being slowly sucked in. He had to keep a close eye on him, but he had no other choice, the Brotherhood was his only hope now. They’d know what to do, and he had to find them fast.

  CHAPTER 21

  ‘This will be your workshop, Mr Nightingale.’ The chief engineer cracked open the double doors, standing to one side for Baxter to pass. His breath had a scent suggesting a tooth sat rotting on one of the rows.

  ‘Only you have access to this room,’ the engineer said. ‘Keep it locked. Although the engineers and fellow mechanics are friendly, some wouldn’t think twice about stealing your ideas.’

  Baxter understood and tried to take the key from him, but the engineer’s grip was solid.

  ‘Especially from a Nightingale,’ the engineer added.

  The grip loosened, yet the eyes cut into Baxter, giving him the impression he read thoughts as clearly as he stirred nerves.

  ‘There’s a manual on the desk, explains where you’ll find tools, and an outline on the testing procedure.’ The engineer’s tone suggested he’d said it before.

  ‘Where are the stores located?’ Baxter asked.

  ‘Third level down but don’t worry too much, you’ll never need to visit them, we have a requesting chit service.’ The engineer walked over to a sheet of paper poking out in the wall and tore it off. ‘Scribe your request on this form then post it through the hole, here.’ He shoved the paper in. ‘All chits are dealt with daily. It can take up to three days for specific parts to be delivered, so have patience. Morris the quartermaster only has one set of hands’

  ‘Great, thank you.’

  The two separate pieces remaining of the Orb on Baxter’s workbench caught the engineer’s eye. He walked over and peered down at it. ‘Best of luck with your project,’ he said, reaching to lift one of its hatches.

  ‘Thank you.’ Baxter shuffled over, paying close attention to the engineer’s hands.

  ‘Silver? How clever, must have been expensive to install.’

  ‘Yes. Well, I didn’t really–’

  ‘I’m surprised the Brotherhood would leave it in. Surely, they’d have sold it on? I understand they could use all the money they can get.’

  ‘Maybe they felt its presence would serve better in its function?’ Baxter closed the hatch.

  The engineer faced him, his rancid breath ebbing from his sullied teeth.

  ‘Who are the Brotherhood, exactly?’ Baxter regretted the question as the words tumbled out of his mouth, thinking such a lack of knowledge might label him dim-witted.

  The chief engineer held the silence and turned back to the Orb, behaving as though he was handling his own design. ‘Ex-nationalists, trying to press their ideas on others. They want to take all the money and spread it evenly, untie Eurasia and Britannia as one nation. You never encountered them on the Moor?’

  ‘Never, until the attack.’

  ‘They’re religious rebels, against Mother. Think the word of God should be read by all of us including the Lowers, not just the select Uppers and Clerics.’

  ‘Word of God?’

  ‘Yes, from the Vulgate. The Brotherhood believes we’re not living in the way we should, and something’s wrong with us.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The readings from the clerics are all carefully controlled and selected, the conspiracy theory is...’ he lowered his voice and stepped closer to Baxter, ‘...the words in it go against the humble life, and if the words were deciphered to common, the people would revolt against them.’

  ‘I thought the words were in common?’

  ‘You see, it’s what they want you to believe, clever bastards. But blowing up buildings or assassinating old members isn’t going to bode well with your cause if you keep killing people.’

  Baxter couldn’t tell if this man was mocking him.

  The engineer smiled a row of rotten teeth. ‘Of course, they don’t and I’m clearly living in the wrong part of Britannia. Got nice girls out in the Moorland villages?’

  Baxter clenched his jaw. The man had the same air about him as the ticket conductor. ‘The girls aren’t like the city ones,’ he said, remembering Tabitha. As the man carried on talking Baxter decided to write to her, explain everything, how he was sorry for dragging her to the city. He wished he could go back, force her to stay at the village. Next time he has a conversation with Lucian, he’ll tell him about it. He seemed wise and if his father trusted Lucian then it was good enough for Baxter.

  ‘Are they softer than the city women?’ The man’s voice pitched in unsettling sexual threat.

  Baxter wanted to knock those black teeth down his throat. ‘They’re not too dissimilar to the men, mucking in with the manual jobs, cleaning up the animal pens.’

  The engineer shivered and stretched past Baxter, pushing the door shut, behaving as though what he was about to tell him carried an important cost in knowledge. ‘Have you seen the airship Captain, Lucian has been promoting?’

  ‘I have.’ His thoughts sailed to the airship Captain on the moor.

  Footsteps came from behind the door as it slowly opened.

  ‘Daven’s managed to find you a workshop?’ said the head of Lucian Seagrave, peering round the door.

  ‘Yes, my Lord,’ Daven the engineer said.

  ‘Very good – is this room to your liking, Baxter? Have a check and make sure you have everything you need.’

  ‘It is, my Lord,’ Baxter said flustered, ‘Daven was just offering some advice on best practices.’

  ‘Best practices you say?’ Lucian bit his top lip and nodded. ‘Allow me to add one to the mix, take regular breaks. Work can get tedious. Set yourself small goals and big rewards as each is reached.’

  ‘Sound advice, my Lord,’ Daven said, standing up straight.

  ‘Indeed. Feel free to wander around the compound, but try not to get lost. We had this one mechanic wander off on his break, didn’t see him for six months, did we, Daven?’

  ‘Yes, my Lord, we found his body in the mines.’

  Lucian shot Daven a look, it turned the room cold. ‘Come, Daven, let’s leave my prodigy to get accustomed with his new toys – have fun, Baxter.’

  Both men left the room as Baxter returned upright from his shallow bow. The room had a high ceiling with a ventilation system suspended at the far end. Baxter had a look around for the switch, but instead a pulley system attached to a chain hung down from it. Pulling the chain, the motor came to life as a cool breeze of air rushed down to the ground. Baxter pulled it again but it wouldn’t turn off. Puzzled, he decided to leave it, opting to open drawers and inspect the tools.

 
; The Orb, cracked in half on the desk, presented an impossible task; a basket of fresh pasties next to it presented the opposite. Picking up the manual, he flicked through the pages. In the centre was a map of the compound. He pulled it out, looked at the Orb and decided to go for a walk.

  II

  Hallways led to more hallways in an endless repetition. Baxter took a bite of his pastry, careful to catch the crumbs. Eventually he reached a door which looked different; raised carved features dimly lit by a single gas light which hung over the outermost frame, casting shadows that looked like leaves, vines and trees. If Baxter didn’t know any better, he’d have imagined this door led to a grand garden.

  The door wasn’t locked and opened with ease. A rush of air hit Baxter, he squinted and stumbled backward. Behind the door was a straight, steep, wooden staircase. Baxter scuttled up the stairs, finally getting to a door identical to the last. The ivory knob rotated and brilliant light cracked into the stairwell, accompanied by wet air gritted with peat.

  The sky looked down through the glass structure of a domed room full of trees, grass plants and flowers. A small set of steps led to grassed ground. His shoes sunk in, it was summer here. Baxter removed his shoes and socks and let his tired feet absorb the goodness. He tilted his head, allowing a long sigh of humidity to escape him. Brilliant blue reflected off the glass domed roof, had he reached the top of the compound? Birds chirped territorial song in the trees around him, insects clipped their legs, and a wolf howled. Baxter crouched suddenly, readied, prepared to ignore his senses, frantic to interrupt his instincts. A wolf, here? Baxter slowly stepped forward, carrying his shoes as weapons. Around the side of a tree a butterfly perched, a rich assortment of colourful patterned wings flexed open and shut in time with the heavy panting of a large dog’s breath... The panting got louder, a tuft of grey between the leaves. Baxter paused, his heart thumped. He edged round the tree and saw the moist, porous surface of a black snout sniffing the air. Chained to the floor, the large grey dog startled by Baxter’s sudden appearance, growled and snapped his teeth. The beast’s chain was taut, he wasn’t coming any closer. Careful not to startle the animal with any sudden movements, Baxter put down his shoes and rummaged in his pocket, pulling out half the pastry he’d planned for later, he held it out.