Dark Age

by Robert T. Bradley

  CHAPTER 24

  The clashing of crystal glasses, people laughing without control, shouting over the music; the blending of pitches rang through the corridors of Baxter’s drunken mind, repelling his body toward the balcony doors. A servant opened it and Baxter trod out to the terrace, placed his hands on both knees and took in the polluted air with green Moorlander lungs, yearning for the world to stop spinning. The door closed behind him, muffling the insanity. Factories’ fires sent flurries of heat at him, and they helped. He straightened himself. Behind the flames, the city structures and their connecting levels and platforms glowed with their gas lit brilliance in the night. He felt the enormity of structures around him in every direction, encased in its steel and stone. The paralysis of humanity; strange people behind those doors hungered for ears to absorb their sagas. Home wasn’t here, but he wasn’t sure where it was.

  ‘The City is a dangerous place, Mr Nightingale, or is it Beechcroft?’ The woman’s voice came from behind him. It was Madeline, alone with two drinks in her hand, she gave one of them to Baxter. He refused it.

  ‘Suit yourself.’ She bent down and placed it on the ground.

  Her body’s curves stuck outward in the fitted dress; the image sent a feeling of wild blood pumping from his heart, wrapping around his spine, making him quiver. Baxter failed to resist looking at them.

  ‘It will hypnotise you know if you stare too long,’ the Captain said, peering into him through his open eyes.

  ‘What will?’ Baxter asked, breaking his glare back to the skyline.

  ‘The City,’ she said, ‘like looking in a fire, isn’t it? Plenty to burn you down there too, if you’re not careful.’ She stepped closer to him, ready to say something.

  Baxter removed the pelt and held it up in front of her. ‘Here, take this. I won’t be needing it.’

  Madeline looked down at it, fighting back the tears. ‘I don’t think I deserve it, Baxter.’

  ‘I, I’m not, I don’t care about that, it’s cold.’ He wrapped the pelt around her shoulders. ‘Besides, it doesn’t go with my outfit.’

  She thanked him. ‘Well, it certainly does get chilly up in the clouds.’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ He stroked the fur. ‘There are more clothes in my new quarters than I could ever wear.’

  ‘You’re living in the compound?’

  ‘Yes, Lucian wants me to help him with some designs.’

  ‘I see,’ she said, taking a sip of her drink. ‘I had no idea the clockwork was your work.’

  Baxter smiled and struggled to find a reply after the compliment. ‘Were you going to say something, before?’

  ‘No,’ she said, running her finger around her glass’s rim. ‘I was just going to say that blue suits you.’

  ‘Oh,’ Baxter said, adjusting his posture. ‘Well, white suits you too.’

  The silence between them was long enough for the Captain to finish her drink.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘goodnight.’

  As she walked away, Baxter cried, ‘Care for a dance later?’

  She looked back and lowered her head. ‘I’m heading back to the mess, got to be up early for tomorrow’s big launch,’ she replied, and vanished back to the party.

  ‘Nice work, Baxter,’ he said as the door closed behind her. His uncle’s charm never once rubbed off on him. Two zeppelins moved over the top of the compound. Feeling slightly better, he picked up the drink and watched as they hovered together over the Districts.

  II

  Lucian noticed Baxter stood outside, the pillar of self-pity. He ordered a girl over; a lovely little thing called Bell. ‘Bell, darling, I have a tiny job for you.’

  ‘A job, my Lord? I didn’t think you dished those out until after these lot left,’ she giggled.

  ‘No, darling, not a job for me, a job for him.’

  ‘Who?’ she inquired excitedly.

  Lucian pointed over at Baxter. ‘You see that handsome young fellow there, swallowed up by sadness, reflecting away to himself?’ Her eyes glided down his arm to the crowd which eventually parted, and there he was.

  ‘That one?’ she said, pointing. ‘Wearing an identical jacket to you – a man of taste?’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ Lucian said. ‘Well, Bell, there he is. Now hurry along and put a bloody smile back on his glum face, will you?’

  III

  Baxter didn’t like his jacket, he decided, turning himself around in it. The fabric was too thick.

  A girl with light cream, blonde hair, wearing a short light blue dress which flared out at the sides stood laughing loudly at him. Baxter looked around to see if her insult was for some other poor soul.

  ‘Hello, sir,’ she shouted, ‘I’m Bell.’

  Baxter faced her and stood upright, correcting his posture. ‘Hello, ma’am, it’s a pleasure to…’

  ‘Take my hand,’ she interrupted. ‘I’d like to show you something.’

  Baxter did as she commanded.

  IV

  Downstairs Lucian pretended to listen to some boring conversation he was half involved in, but his mind was more intrigued and busy imagining the lust and fulfilment his new little project must be having upstairs. Bell was good, he thought, she knew her way around a man.

  Clocking eye contact with Madeline from across the party, she looked at him with longing, he had seen such eyes before watching him, and he knew he’d see them again and the absurdity they held.

  CHAPTER 25

  The sun rose high in the blue-sky morning and the city’s metals frosted, twinkling back their muted reflections of the charlatan blue. Alfred had been awake all night preparing it.

  The bronze and copper casing held it all in place. He regretted he hadn’t had the time to build a remote device. Radio parts were hard to come by unless you were crafting them yourself. He paced about the workshop, making sure he had got everything correct. Inside his mind, he toiled with the notion of conscience. A part of him tried to reckon with his remaining reason, the message the bomb could kill others echoed inside the empty chambers of his being. He hoped Lucian had his family there. They’d endure most of it. Vengeance was finally in sight.

  He tidied away the remaining evidence. He had no idea where he’d go if he survived this impending ordeal, he didn’t care, he wanted Lucian Augustus Seagrave dead. He grabbed everything he needed, applied his mask and left the workshop, becoming one with the hustle and bustle of the city morning. It was a Saturday, lots of people around, families spending the day together. Alfred got on the Seagrave locomotive and headed toward Plainchant District. Looking out of the window he saw the city go by. In the distance was an abandoned set of tracks, his monorail now a ruin, and he wondered why it hadn’t been torn down in the last fifteen years. It was a cruel reminder of a life running parallel in a different universe, a place where she still existed. A few seats in front of him a small family, father, mother and a toddler, sat playing. The father covering his face playing ‘peek a boo.’ At first, Alfred ignored it. Then the father took his child’s hands.

  ‘Stop hitting yourself, stop it, Baxter.’

  He watched as the father pretended to make the young boy hit himself. The little boy giggled in protest. Alfred laughed as he watched them.

  ‘Next stop, Seagrave Corp.’

  A group of tourists with maps around their necks stood up and blocked the exit. Alfred waited for the train to come to a complete stop and stood behind them, shuffling out of the train. One of them had a leaflet in their pocket; he grabbed it. On the front was an artist’s impression of the new Seagrave train. It looked like something had escaped from the depths of hell. He tucked it in his pocket and followed the crowd, they all appeared to know where the show was going to happen.

  II

  Abigail’s airship touched down at the Seagrave compound. Hans had, this time, decided to stand waiting with her.

  ‘When his presentation has finished,’ Hans shouted trying to make his voice louder than the winds on the roof, ‘he’s ours for questio
ning. Finalised your list?’

  She looked at him, puzzled. ‘What do you think I’ve been doing for the last four hours?’

  ‘Good. Now Seagrave is a bright man, he’ll try and worm his way out of anything, especially if he feels threatened.’

  ‘Jesus, Hans!’ she said, trying to hide her suspicions. ‘You sound like we’re going to interview the culprit!’

  He didn’t reply and just looked at her; it was enough to know what he was thinking.

  ‘Right, then,’ she said. ‘Shall we make our way down?’

  A hatch opened, a few men and one woman came out to greet them, wearing Seagrave regalia.

  ‘Greetings,’ the young lady said most formally. ‘I am Captain Madeline Barknuckle. Welcome to the Seagrave Corp compound. My crew will need to take all your weapons.’

  Abigail gave the tightly-dressed girl a scan. ‘I don’t think so, Captain’ she said, holding on to her pistol. ‘We’re here on official royal business.’

  ‘I understand,’ Madeline replied, aware the woman had taken an instant disliking to her. ‘It’s our policy to ensure the safety of all our guests. As you don’t have a warrant to be here and are here purely due to Lord Seagrave’s invitation, I will have to refuse you entry if you’re carrying any firearms with you.’

  Abigail exchanged a glance at Hans. ‘Invitation?’

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  She flicked her jacket back to reveal her holstered pistols. She unpinned them both and pulled each out, twisting their handles over. A young boy stepped forward, bowed and took them from her. At least they had manners.

  ‘This way please and watch your step, it was raining here earlier and these gangways can get rather slippery.’

  Taking the lead and turning back to Hans, she said, rolling her eyes, ‘What a delight.’

  The young captain led the group down a narrow shaft, and as the last member of their party entered the hatch, it closed, sealing them inside. Abigail’s eyes widened, filling her mind with disbelief. Thousands upon thousands of gaslights covered the colossal hall. A band had set up playing harps, a cello and a duo of violins on the gangway.

  Hans nodded. ‘How lovely, a bit of Vivaldi in the morning. Winter too, my absolute favourite. Good show.’ He gave them a muted leather gloved clap, as he passed.

  The massive walls were covered in murals and artwork, some of which were embedded in the wall. Abigail, in awe of the room, followed their guide down the stairs to a side section of the viewing gallery. In front of them was a platform with a large copper speakerphone attached to a lectern, and behind it, a giant object shrouded in a dark red velvet cloak.

  Hans removed his hat. Sweat glued his thinning hair to his scalp.

  She wiped clean her own in rapport. ‘Everything okay there, Hans?’

  He appeared agitated, looking around the room trying to find someone. ‘No, it’s just, I’m not accustom to these kinds of gatherings.’

  The lie made his eyes look sinister. She put her hands on her hips and tilted her head. ‘Someone as eloquent as you I’d have thought would be in his element at such events.’

  ‘Well yes,’ he corrected. ‘I guess I’m also a little worried about leaving Pixie.’

  Abigail placed her hand lightly on his shoulder. ‘She’ll be okay with Helen and Sarah; you saw how happy she was running around with them on the way over here.’

  Hans nodded. ‘She’s a special girl.’

  Abigail’s heart sank slightly, warming her soul to hear a man talk so fondly of a child. ‘She’ll be okay, Hans.’

  It was quite the crowd; why hadn’t they waited a little longer to land instead of opting for a roof anchor? She hadn’t seen her hair, but if Hans was anything to go by, she imagined it was quite the state.

  III

  Nicholas followed the crowd, still no sign of his brother. Without his weapon, he felt confident if Alfred were aiming to enact his attack here, at least he’d have whatever he’d brought with him confiscated. He knew his brother, though, his intellect surpassed many. Insanity clouds judgement, an inconvenient ally, but it was all he had. Applying his goggles for better courage, he searched the faces. Still no sign of him or his contact from the brotherhood. He wondered if they’d even got the message.

  IV

  In a small side room, behind one of the many paintings, Lucian adjusted his tie in the mirror, his hair slicked back. Cronos stood perched peacefully on his shoulder. Behind him, in the reflection, the newly-confident approaching shape of Baxter Nightingale.

  ‘Had yourself some fun last night at the party, Baxter?’

  He stopped a few feet away and narrowed his eyes at Lucian. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘No thanks to you, though, I’m sure.’

  Lucian twisted his mouth open, conveying a look of animated shock. ‘Baxter, I’m offended!’ he claimed. ‘That young spirit of a thing had been asking questions about you all night. I only weaved her along… Was she as much fun as she looked?’

  Baxter snickered. ‘Yes, Lucian; she was a delightful girl,’ he said. ‘Spirited being the best word.’

  ‘Ha!’ Lucian cried. ‘So, the Nightingale does indeed know how to sing, how splendid. Well get used to it, my dear boy, there’s plenty more like her under my spell.’

  Baxter dipped his head and scratched the back of it, having felt a slight feeling of heat prickle his cheeks. The embarrassment made him slightly awkward. It came over him for never having talked about such things with men from a higher generation.

  ‘It’s ok, Baxter,’ Lucian said calmly. ‘Sex is the wick to which we burn. Without it, we’d be a poor individual, caught up in our nonsense of self-image and loathing. I’m sure you’ve met these sexless types in your travels.’

  Baxter smiled. ‘I dare not inquire what you got up to last night, Lucian,’ he laughed, ‘or should I say who with.’

  ‘Oh Baxter, despite your obvious brilliance you are still quite the Moorlander in your naivety,’ he said, throwing his jet-black velvet jacket over his shoulders. ‘I don’t care for such pursuits of the flesh, not anymore.’

  ‘I struggle to believe that.’

  ‘Well then, Baxter, you shall just have to continue to brawl with yourself. It’s power, Baxter. Once you’ve tasted it, well, there’s no number of women in the world you’d feel on the tip of your tongue and have it be any sweeter.’

  ‘I’ll take your word,’ Baxter said, dusting off the shoulders of his jacket.

  Lucian stopped and walked straight over to him. ‘I promise, you will taste power sooner than you think, and then it will please me greatly to watch you try and resist its temptations. It’s a feeling far greater than any tight cunny can give you, my boy.’

  Baxter’s face flattened.

  Lucian’s eyes were wide and wild; the black of his pupils narrow to a point. ‘Baxter, let’s go. Got your pistol?’

  ‘Why, do I need it? I didn’t think we could take guns…’

  ‘You should always carry your gun with you. You never know when you might need it.’

  Baxter, annoyed with himself, had left it back in his quarters upstairs. ‘I’ll go and get it.’

  ‘Good, last thing we need is some heathen getting away with attempting to kill me...’ Baxter disappeared, ‘...only to have the King cast him out to the Moor,’ uttered Lucian as the door closed behind him.

  V

  The crowd were uncomfortably close. A horde of Middle gents laughed in blistered spats, waddling drunk as Prussian bishops, pushing and barging past Alfred.

  ‘I don’t care what’s underneath that giant hanky,’ said one of them, ‘won’t be anything compared to the Nightingale Spirit.’

  ‘Why’d they call it the spirit train?’

  ‘Cos it was a ticket to the spirit world?’

  A female voice cut through their gaggle. ‘Don’t listen, Alfred.’

  ‘What?’ He twisted to look at her, nothing, she wasn’t there. Another trick, he thought, his sober mind up to punishing games. The mind was at
war with him, he’d teach it a lesson, drown it out in Absinthe. There had to be a bar here, he thought.

  He plundered some pockets and the bulge of metal stopped him fast in his search. The cold casing of the bomb reminded him swiftly of the task. For a moment he’d forgotten about it, his only goal to quench the desert of thirst in his throat. Did he have time for a drink? Something to calm his nerves? Regain that focus? He’d forgotten why he was there. But the bomb wouldn’t let him forget, the bomb had a purpose, the bomb was more important than a drink, the bomb was for Beatrice. A brass ball packed with gunpowder, triggered by a motion gyro when spun freely in the air that unlocked the impact sensor as soon as it connected to pressure. And that would be the end of his pain.

  Then another thought came to him, delivered to the front of his mind from a place he wanted to forget, that stupid farm, and the tone of his brother; “What about the metal?” he heard him say. The metal case of brass and copper, would the gunpowder vaporise them both from intense heat? No. Alfred hung his head, hearing his brother’s voice, that stern, steady voice of reason. Metal shards would spray out of the explosion in all directions at a speed faster than any thought or feeling.

  The hesitation could slash the muscles from his bones, and it was back again. The noisy conversations rattled nearby like marbles, and set a light inside his mind. High pitches, low hums, his stomach churned as the sounds grew louder and more people poured into the room. They pointed at Lucian’s artwork, wearing expressions of wonder, their chins babbling like they knew what secrets they held. An enthusiastic mob collected around sculptures and the front of the podium; young men, women and children.

  ‘It isn’t too late, Alfred,’ said his brother, again back from that moral high ground wedged in the corner of Alfred’s mind. It shouted at him, ‘You are a Nightingale, you create, you don’t destroy!’ He gripped his skull as a cheer from the back of the hanger made its way closer, an upsurge of impending fatality. Applause stalked Alfred like a wave rushing at his back, a white noise, empty of admiration but full of grovel.