Dark Age

by Robert T. Bradley

  There was a regret in his voice. Abigail picked up on it, said nothing and carried on looking out across the sky to the cascading blue to white to yellow of the horizon.

  ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, it is.’

  ‘I often wonder why we insist, so many of us, to live in the city with its constant noise, threats of violence. When out here you’re alone, one with nature.’

  Abigail faced him; although older than her, his round spectacles magnified the naivety behind his eyes. ‘Nature? The Rabids, aren’t particularly natural, now are they? Hundreds of them out here, why’d you think we have the Walls and guards at every settlement?’

  Hans lowered his head and cleared his throat. ‘You don’t believe it though, do you Inspector?’

  ‘They were cast out during the Rabid plague.’ She’d never seen one, nor had she in her three years working for the Royal Police ever come across the department responsible for carrying out such a task.

  ‘I think you’ll find it a conspiracy theory. We have the cure for it now,’ Hans claimed, pushing his thin glasses back up his pointy nose. ‘Don’t have to pay those city clean air taxes out here.’ He threw his arms out wide and closed his eyes, tilting his head back, and took a full gasp of it. ‘Free clean air, and not a Seagrave airship in sight!’

  ‘Apart from the one we’re stood on,’ she said.

  He put his hands down. ‘Yes, well this might have been built by him–’

  ‘And designed.’

  ‘Yes,’ Hans said, peering down at her. ‘But at least this one isn’t owned by him.’

  Abigail peeled off a part of the paint covering the wooden railing and threw it over to the night sky, revealing the original varnished wood underneath. ‘He owns everything, Hans.’

  Abigail left her fellow Inspector to the side of the ship, and picked up the file containing the report, sat resting next to the mast. At the hull hatch she opened it and climbed the spiral stairway.

  The room was narrow with several boxes and barrels, many of them claimed to hold wheat and sugar. With the hatch open, the deck’s lamps let enough light in so she only had to light one of the lanterns. Resting the file on a barrel, she opened it. Inside were two photographs, the first of the village and the second of the drones. Behind the pictures were several statements. Picking up the first, she held it closer to the lantern.

  It was around noon; the market had opened. Many people were in the square. We heard this noise coming from the village gates, then sporadic gunfire. The village sirens rang, and everyone panicked. I grabbed my son who was with me and ran back to the house. As I ran, I saw them. About ten of these round flying objects came spiralling out from above the buildings, they moved erratically, much like a young wasp does when trapped inside someone’s home. They circled the square and opened fire, many people died. Some of them were acting strangely. One of the machines had joined the rest from a different direction from the others, it looked as though it came from the Beechcroft House. It opened fire on the rest using some kind of lightning bolt which shot out of its sides. It managed to destroy a few of them. None of the others attacked it, like they were only concerned with the people on the ground. After it had killed them all it shot off back the way it came, I didn’t get to see exactly where it went.

  She scrutinised the other three eyewitness accounts, only one mentioned the appearance of a rogue drone. Abigail folded the reports and the photographs back in the folder. She had questions, and they lay steady in her mind. This one wasn’t going to be the fuckup like the last one, she told herself, it was going to be her most methodical yet. If it were the Brotherhood, something as high profile as this, they’d surely take her off the case. Being the only female in the department had its drawbacks, no doubt the paperwork was monumental. But it did have advantages, she knew it, although confusing to guess what the reason was behind giving her this case – was it because she was the only woman? She was a good detective. Many of her superiors, having been born in the Middles, acted over the top around her. Funny, it’s like the whole world’s gone full circle, and now they can’t do enough for you.

  IV

  As the morning sun cast its fresh light over the moor the airship tipped. A cry from the speaker rang out about coming in to dock, and to strap in. She did her best, most of the other passengers on board didn’t cross their belts how her father had taught her. Avoids the whiplash, he used to say. She looked over at Hans, he had crossed his and Pixies. Had he copied her, she wondered?

  The ship pulled down against the negative thrusts of the engine, weight against energy. Then the ship came to a hover and motioned slightly across the moor, aiming at the village.

  A mishmash of stone and wooden houses, some removed and replaced with rubble. Piles of wood stacked up and giant holes where houses had been reduced to their foundations. A lot of explosions, Abigail thought.

  As the airship steadied, Hans was the first to loosen his shackles. He picked up Pixie and latched her to his back, then whispered something to her. She nodded her little head, he smiled, grabbed a rope and plummeted himself over the rail, landing neatly on the moorland below.

  ‘Come on!’ he shouted up to Abigail and the others.

  ‘No way,’ she cried. ‘I’m not an acrobat.’

  ‘Neither am I!’

  ‘You could fool me, Hans!’

  A flush of heat appeared under her cheek and ran down her neck, and she clawed its path; Hans had an attractiveness to him. He behaved like an airman; there was more adventure in him, a spirit under his skin waiting to bust out to the world. Something held back, a personality hidden from her and the others. He wasn’t classically attractive. He had a pointy red nose which looked like he’d seen his fair share of evenings under the Absinthe tap, a bald patch, dark eyes and the hunch tall people have when they feel insecure about their height. Her face tingled as she watched him, wandering around with the odd little girl on his back, taking in the Moorland. Yes, she was attracted to him.

  The jetty pushed outward and down, causing a smooth ramp. One of the crew wound a pedal next to Abigail and the steps sprang out. The village looked every bit as she imagined. Old houses separately built, a mixture of two different designs. The walls were high with one house distinctly larger than the rest. The village gates framed the devastation. Collapsed houses circled a paved square and clock tower, and beyond them, scorched terrain, reminiscent of a funeral pyre.

  She tracked the movement the drones must have made attacking the guards at the entrance tower and hovering over to pick off the people in the square. Around the market stalls, many broken and falling apart with bullet holes and scorch marks, two of the drones were smashed to pieces on the ground.

  ‘Hans.’ She called him over, his long legs purpose-built for the uneven terrain. ‘Were any animals killed in the attack?’ she asked. ‘I didn’t fully finish reading the report.’

  ‘As far as I know, Inspector, the only casualties were human.’

  ‘Ok, thanks,’ she said, holding her leather-gloved hand to her lips.

  ‘Why, what are you pondering?’ he asked.

  Abigail reached round to her satchel, pulled out a pen and notepad and began to write. ‘Seems odd only humans got killed, which suggests these drones were controlled...or,’ she added, ‘they’re robotic.’

  ‘Robotic?’

  ‘Yeah, I know. A silly idea, isn’t it?’

  ‘And I thought I was the mental one harking on about conspiracies. They’ll have us both locked up, Inspector!’

  She knew he was right, but it didn’t make sense to her. How do drones know to only attack humans? She pondered over the answer and crouched down to inspect one of the drones. It had several compartments and features she didn’t recognise. Taking her notepad, she drew a sketch.

  The top three chambers appeared to be empty, with a solid metal rock type of object in the centre. Around it seemed to be copper casing and a shaft which moved up through the entire structure,
only shattered at the top. She wasn’t the best at drawing, but it had to do. She was surprised no cameramen had taken a photograph of it.

  ‘Hans!’ she cried out again.

  He stood talking to a group of three men who looked like farmers; he apologised and came back over. ‘Yes, Inspector?’

  ‘Why didn’t the crime scene photographer take any photographs of the drones’ internals?’

  ‘He did.’

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘where are they?’

  Hans swallowed. ‘They never came out.’

  ‘How many did he take?’

  ‘Eighteen shots.’

  ‘Eighteen shots?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why wasn’t I informed of this earlier? Isn’t there a photographer here now who can take a photograph of this...thing?’

  ‘We sent them back to the city.’

  She loosened her tension. ‘Why?’

  ‘We had no need for them. Apart from the buildings, all of the pictures from the drones were wiped, which is expensive.’ He took a step back from her.

  His hesitant movement registered. ‘Don’t you think it’s a little odd?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said scratching his head, ‘come to think of it.’

  ‘Why wasn’t it in the report?’

  There was silence between them.

  Hans looked like he knew the answer, but then hesitation got the better of him.

  ‘We think these blocks...’ He bent down and pointed at the metal block inside of the drone. ‘...are magnetic, and somehow managed to wipe the film.’

  Abigail stood up and looked around at everyone. All the people within earshot had twisted to listen to their conversation. ‘Hans, you’re telling me you believe that?’

  ‘What can I say? I’m not a photographer.’

  ‘Right then,’ she snapped. ‘Compass, anyone?’

  They exchanged vacant glances.

  ‘Get a photographer here, right now, and let’s set up a darkroom and see for ourselves.’

  ‘Very well, Inspector,’ Hans said, bowing his head and giving an orderly King’s Guard a snap with his fingers. The guard came running over. Hans looked back at her as she crouched down, ignored his eye contact and pretended to write notes.

  CHAPTER 18

  Cogs rotated in unison and prised open the large decorative iron doors of the Seagrave Officer’s Mess. A waft of aftershaves blew out an invisible wave of masculine musk, it reeked more of cinders than sandlewood. Few Captains this evening had made it on time. Some tipped their caps to Madeline, while the others, pompous old boys scoffing on outdated conversations, slouched against columns and refused to meet her eyes. Madeline had never been a fan of the Mess, not its inhabitants, food or even its decor. It reminded her of the artist’s impressions of a Greek Doric temple.

  ‘Captain.’ Paul broke away from a group and gave her hand a gentle kiss. ‘As always you’re looking every bit as air-worthy in your uniform.’

  ‘Can you just stand behind me, Paul?’

  ‘What is it?’ he asked, but then noticed the older officers mechanical eye fixed on Madeline’s behind. The eye spun around in its socket.

  Paul moved between them both. ‘That’ll teach the leering bastard; how about a lovely shot of my hairy airman’s arse!’

  Madeline peered around her first officer and held her glass up to the pervert Captain. ‘I don’t know, Paul, there are far worse arses in the fleet to get stuck behind.’

  A girl carrying a tray of Absinthe passed them, and Paul snatched two. ‘To my arse, then!’ Their glasses met in a clash of expensive crystal.

  ‘Look at them,’ said Madeline, ‘any idea which of these fools we’re having to sit next to tonight?’

  ‘The Hucksley, Maddy.’

  ‘What a fudge,’ she muttered. ‘No doubt Captain Ann is going to chew my ear off.’

  Paul chuckled mid-sip of his drink. ‘Jeffers? She’s not all bad, I used to work helm with her back when she was a deck hand on the Wellington.’ A few drops escaped the corners of his mouth. ‘She’s green, but come on, what do you expect?’

  Madeline handed him a handkerchief. ‘So many young girls taking up Captain’s posts of late. It makes me question it wasn’t my competence in leadership which got me the job.’ She caved in her chest, aware the same Captain with the eye was still staring. ‘Don’t leave me with any of this stuffy lot of fools, Paul, I won’t forgive you.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he mocked, ‘I won’t leave you.’ Their eyes held contact for a little longer than a second as a heat developed in her chest. ‘Maddy, relax. This is the last one of these,’ he waved a finger and wore a frown like an Upper judging unfashionable décor, ‘then it’s three days leave.’

  ‘You’re right,’ she said, laughing at his animated gestures. ‘You know me, Paul. I don’t belong here in these melodramatic affairs.’

  Paul relaxed back and offered the Captain his arm. She took it, and he escorted her to dinner.

  The dining hall was red with murder; curtains ran with it, paintings featured it and the chairs were upholstered in the deepest range of crimson.

  ‘I was carrying fifteen Rabid bodies on-board. All of them were dead, so no risk of infection,’ said the young Captain Jefferies behind her plump red lips.

  Paul reached over the Captain with his knife. ‘The bodies still carry the disease,’ he said, carving off a hunk of meat. ‘It’s carried in their blood.’

  The blonde female air Captain’s face paled like a spring new moon.

  ‘Did any have open wounds?’ he asked.

  Captain Jefferies’ eyes jigged in their sockets. ‘I don’t, I think… oh, does this mean I’m infected?’

  ‘Could do,’ Paul muttered, swallowing the last of the meat down his throat.

  The young Captain got up from her chair. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, her hands shaking as nerves overrode her reason.

  As she left the table, her pace triggered Paul to a fit of snotty sniggers.

  ‘You’re a right bastard.’ Madeline poked a fork at Paul’s chest. ‘The poor girl is going to be having all sorts of fits now because of you.’

  He rolled his eyes. ‘Come off it. What’s she doing picking up Rabids in the first place?’

  ‘We’re supposed to, Paul.’

  ‘We’re meant to pick up injured beasts and keep them in our hold. None of the ships do, you know that.’

  ‘At least she’s following her orders.’

  ‘You’ve never done it.’

  ‘We don’t have space on the Moth to bring them back.’ She sliced a carrot in two with one stroke of her knife.

  Paul put down his cutlery, wondered if she meant the carrot for his neck. ‘Yes we do, we have plenty of space.’

  She watched his inquiring eyes narrow, then spring wide, concluding he’d discovered a hidden truth.

  ‘Has he told you not to pick them up?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Seagrave.’

  ‘Not in so many words.’ She forked a potato. ‘Paul, we can’t discuss this here.’

  ‘Why not?’ he asked, paying close attention to her vegetable massacre.

  She didn’t respond but looked either side at the other Captains. They all happily got on with eating their scran.

  ‘Carry on, Paul. You and I both know where this line of inquiry will get us.’

  ‘Me, you mean. You’re his favourite.’

  Madeline screeched her chair backwards, scratching the varnished floor. ‘Excuse me?’

  A few of the men stood as the Captain stormed out of the mess hall. Paul motioned to follow her, thought better of it, and carried on eating.

  II

  Several locks clunked open and the large iron door to the dungeon screeched across the stone tiled floor, filling the dank corridor with light. Tabitha opened one eye and watched as a guard walked over to her cell. He stood in front of it and looked back down the walkway. A woman’s heels tapped against the dungeon’s stone. She stopped next to the gua
rd. ‘Is this her?’ she asked sceptically.

  ‘Prisoner,’ the guard shouted. ‘Confirm your name.’

  Tabitha looked at the two silhouetted blobs of human mass and attempted to speak. ‘Tabitha Parkin,’ she said slowly in a voice cracking under disuse.

  The guard looked at the woman. ‘Yes, fine, open the cell.’

  The guards untied the beaten Tabitha, her skin hung from elbows like a dead horse. The guard carried her to the main room for processing.

  More questions were asked, and words continued to crack from her mouth in the form of blistered answers. Later she was handed her clothes, washed and ironed. ‘Thank you,’ she said to a man behind a desk.

  She was led to the top of a spiral staircase where more men asked questions.

  One of them asked, ‘Papers?’ As instructed she handed him the parchment an orderly had given her and the guards escorted her up another staircase. The door to the keep opened, and the brilliant starlight broke in, assaulting her retinas. Tabitha shielded her eyes.

  ‘It’s all right madam, they’ll adjust,’ a blob ahead said sternly.

  ‘The carriage to the compound is cloaked and will keep much of the light out,’ said the other guard.

  Carriage? Compound? Tabitha stumbled forward, her legs weakened from the stress. A man’s arms scooped her up and placed her inside the darkened carriage. She sat in the silent darkness with her eyes shut, the cuts on both wrists, deep incisions, leaving a reminder of this excursion. Peace had finally come, taking form of soft furnishings. Opening her eyes a man with long black hair and a grey streak shone out even in near darkness. He smiled and handed her a glass of clear liquid.

  ‘It’s ok, Tabitha,’ said the man with the skunk hairstyle. ‘It’s just water.’

  She reached out and took it from him. She drank with haste, pouring drops down her chin. ‘Thank you, where are we going?’