The Providence Engine: A Steampunk Novella Series: Episode 1 (The Crimson Blade)

by Ed Zenith

  Ash looked up at the clock and saw to his horror that it had reached 11:59, the two hands perilously close to touching. He glanced around, his heart beating loud in his chest like a cannon on a field of war. Bruce saw him and gave him the slightest of nods. The second hand ticked by, climbing the slope to meet its companions.

  Tick.

  Tick.

  Tick.

  And then it was time. A horn sounded to denote the changing of shifts and Ash looked over to the centre of the forge. Bruce was there, staring daggers at everyone. At random, he chose a sparring partner and pushed him over. The usual shouting and shoving continued, every one in the vicinity looking on, including the attendant guard, who was merely entertained by the spectacle in front of him. Ash saw his opportunity and walked swiftly out of the forge.

  As planned, all eyes were on the fight, but Ash didn’t have time to look back. He walked boldly up to the Providence Engine and the Stoker he had seen earlier. Hinton Blewitt handed him a spanner and pointed him toward the side of the Engine, where pipes and dials sprang out of the main body like it was putting down roots. Ash saw the pipe he needed, a large steel cylinder, big enough to fit a child. He spied the isolation lever and pulled it. The sound of water gushing down the inside of the pipe immediately stopped. Blewitt poked his head around the corner once more.

  “You know what you’re doing?”

  Ash laughed as he traced the pipe down and found the service hatch, a small panel that the engineers would use to clean the waste pipe with. He loosened the bolts.

  “Not a clue. Will it work?”

  “Dunno,” said Blewitt. “Never isolated the waste pipe before. Should be interesting.”

  Ash threw the service panel open and lifted himself in, squeezing his already small body into the impossibly cramped space. He nodded to Blewitt, who closed the hatch on him without a second look.

  It was dark in the pipe and in his panic, Ash momentarily forgot which way to crawl. It’d be just my luck, he thought, to crawl the wrong way and end up perishing in the flames of the Providence Engine. He felt around and found the isolation panel, a worryingly thin piece of steel separating gallons of waste water from him. He had no idea how long it would hold back the immense pressure of the water, so he began to crawl with haste.

  It was slow progress. The tight confines of the pipe meant that he couldn’t move his arms as much as he would have liked and he would only be able to move a yard a minute, he estimated. It was then he noticed a hole in his plan, or rather, a gaping gorge. He hadn’t told anyone how long he would be in the pipe, so he just had to hope he was clear of the Home before Blewitt released the isolation lever, releasing tons of water down the pipe.

  *****

  Back in the forge, Bruce was giving the fight his all, certainly more than the mere distraction technique it was designed to be. The guard who was watching the fight had been given a stern look from his commanding officer and so reluctantly went to break up the fight. He unhooked his pneumatic truncheon from his belt and stepped over to the brawl.

  “Alright boys, fun’s over,” he said. He pointed the truncheon at Bruce and pressed a button. It released the pneumatic mechanism, extending it to three times its original length. Bruce doubled over as the tip of the truncheon hit his gut and his opponent was floored seconds later by a swift backhand swing from the guard.

  “Clear that blood up, then get back to work,” he ordered. It was a shame really. Being a guard was a desperately dull job and the odd fight helped to spice the day up. Still, he considered, it paid the wages, so he tried to do his job as best he could. He threw a rag to Bruce and went to do a head-count of his workers.

  *****

  At the Providence Engine, Hinton Blewitt stood impassively as he surveyed the dials and gauges that told him how the magnificent machine was going. One gauge interested him particularly today; one marked ‘pressure’. It has been steadily rising and any lesser man would have panicked as it climbed higher and higher, from green (safe),to yellow (moderate), to orange (worrying). Blewitt however just hummed an old folk tune he knew and cast his eye to the waste pipe.

  “Better get a wriggle on boy,” he muttered to Ash and smoothed down his moustache.

  *****

  Ash crawled and slithered through the pipe, now more desperate to make some headway. He had quite a speed on now, but realised that he had no idea how long he had to go; it could have been miles or just a matter of yards. He could hear the bangs and clatters from the shop floor below him, which made him think that he was somewhere over the laundry. Not far to go then until he reached the outer wall, but a while to go before he was clear of the Home itself. He crawled faster. After all, there was no turning back now.

  *****

  The guard counted the workers again. He had never been that good at counting and didn’t want to get this wrong. He went around the forge again and again and counted on his fingers.

  Oh dear. One was definitely missing. He strode to the wall and flipped open the communication tube.

  “Forge to base, forge to base over?” she shouted down the small funnel. The tube carried his voice to the communication office.

  “Base to forge, go ahead, over,” came the echoed reply. The guard licked his lips and stammered as he attempted to say the words that no one wanted to hear. If he was wrong and it was a false alarm, he’d be in for an almighty kicking from Bishop Cannings. If he had indeed let an inmate escape, he’d be in for an almighty kicking from Bishop Cannings. That made him stop. It didn’t look good for him either way.

  “Go ahead, over,” repeated the tube in his hand.

  “I…er…request time check, over.”

  “Time check 12:15. Look at a bloody clock, over.”

  He had lost his bottle. The worker would be noticed missing eventually, but at least it wouldn’t be on his watch.

  *****

  Hinton Blewitt’s cool demeanour was being tested. He gazed at the pressure gauge in front of him, which rose slowly from orange to red. Soon, it would reach the danger level and failsafe mechanisms would start to be activated.

  He hoped. They had never tested for this, so he had no idea really. He looked up at the giant spherical engine above him, currently belching out smoke and steam from the chimneys above it and wondered how much more it could take and how much longer Ash would be in the pipes. How much longer did he wait before releasing the waste water? As it turned out, he didn’t have to wait long for these answers and it wouldn’t be his decision anyway. The Providence Engine spoke.

  It started to emit a high-pitched whistle, which Blewitt soon discovered was steam escaping from a tiny hole where its welding was beginning to crack. It then omitted a few sickening sounding cracks, like a giant cracking its knuckles. A few workers stopped their work and looked up at the great steel beast that controlled them.

  Blewitt finally tried to do something.

  “Sorry boy,” he muttered to Ash inside the pipe, as he walked swiftly around the base of the Engine, pulling levers and turning wheels. The engines ceased its cracking and Blewitt smiled.

  It then started to moan and groan and his smile dropped. He glanced at the dials and gauges around him, which confirmed the worst. All the lever pulling in the world now wouldn’t do any good. The waste water had backed up around the system and was causing the pipes to expand. Blewitt caught a few workers’ eyes and nodded toward the exit. They got his meaning and darted out. The attendant guard started to yell at them for deserting their post. He had just unhooked his truncheon from his belt, when the Providence Engine let out a thunderous bang from within its belly, as though there were a dragon inside wrestling to get out. The guard turned and saw the steam escaping from the engine. Rivets began to blow, firing off around the building like bullets. He yelled now at the workers to make it stop, but they had all fled. He reached up to the communication tube and yelled down it.

  “Engine to base; engine to base! Code five, repeat, code five! Over!”

  A
shrill ringing sounded throughout the Home and the guard ran for cover.

  *****

  Ash could hear a terrible kerfuffle below him and suspected he might have had something to do with it. A hundred yards below him, the engine was imploding. He heard a bang, a siren rang out and he crawled ever faster. Back at the Providence Engine, the waste pipe isolation lever gave way and the next thing Ash heard was thousands of gallons of water rushing up behind him.

  -6-

  Swindon, England, 1898

  The messenger walked at speed along the corridor which should have led to Her Majesty’s private quarters, but he could no longer be absolutely sure. Ever since Buckingham Palace had been moved to its new grounds on the outskirts of Swindon, nothing in the royal household had ever been the same.

  When Prime Minister Brunel had decreed that the new capital of England was to be a small market town in Wiltshire, naturally the Royal family had objected, or at least, they had raised an eyebrow. The ageing Queen Victoria at this point in time was no longer engaged with politics and could only be relied upon for a few public appearance a year. When the order had come through to move the palace entirely, the staff that attend to Her Majesty thought it best not to consult her at all. Instead it was arranged to transport Buckingham Palace brick by brick while the queen herself was holidaying on the Isle of Wight.

  This was a major undertaking and had involved the assistance of the Army, every available member of the Royal staff and a good few hundred citizens. Each brick, tile and slab of marble had been lettered and numbered and placed on freight trains which took them the ninety miles to its new home to the west of Swindon. Literacy and numeracy skills being somewhat underdeveloped however, combined with a short timescale, meant that the reconstruction of the Palace was more of a slap-dash affair. Builders became confused and the west wing now stood primarily in the south, the kitchens had been placed on top of the guest bedroom and it was now possible to step from the stables to the portrait gallery in one single stride. On their return to the palace, the royal family did not notice any changes and it is currently believed that they remain under the impression that they are still in London.

  The messenger arrived at the door to the Queen’s private drawing room (or was it the broom cupboard?) and straightened his tie. He started to knock, but his extended knuckle was caught mid-air in the grip of a leather-gloved hand. The young messenger had not noticed the Queen’s Chief Equerry lurking in the shadows, but he could be forgiven for overlooking him. Christian Malford was a small man and whilst he was rather plump in stature, he had perfected the art of the lurker. He was able to secrete himself away into any nook and cranny and not be noticed. In fact even if he stood in broad daylight, it was possible to walk straight past him, so adept was he at avoiding detection. Asked to describe him, most men would say; “Oh, I dunno. Some short bloke.” The fact that Malford was so forgettable and indescribable was part of the reason he was held in such high regard at the palace. He was given the title of Chief Equerry to Queen Victoria with Special Responsibility to the Security of the Crown and Empire, due to his ability to take charge and do whatever is necessary to protect his country. All orders spoken by him were carried out without question and with swift efficiency as thought they had come directly from the Queen herself.

  “Her Majesty is resting,” he said in a low tone.

  “B-beg pardon Sir,” stammered the messenger. “Urgent telegram from Bishop Cannings.”

  “I’ll take it.”

  “For Her Majesty’s eyes only Sir.”

  Malford stepped into the light and the messenger saw him clearly for the first time. Pale white skin, that of someone used to the shadows and the cold dead eyes of an eel. Malford’s hand closed around the boy’s, giving a sickening crack as his knuckle gave to the pressure. The boy dropped his telegram and ran off to nurse his broken hand.

  Malford opened the envelope with a flick of a wrist and unfurled the message within. His face was like a marble statue as he read it, no emotion seeming to pass through his body, until he parted his lips slightly and a sigh emanated.

  “Trouble, Malford?”

  Malford must have been losing his touch. Sir Blaikley Lane had appeared at his side without him noticing and usually nothing in the palace went unnoticed by Malford. Lane was a tall, thin gentleman. If one was to guess his profession using his appearance alone as a guide, one would say and undertaker, or an assassin, but in reality he was right hand man to the Prime Minister. He spoke with a clipped upper class accent, his hair slicked back on his head so he looked rather like a lizard in a Saville Row suit.

  “Lane. Where’s the engineer?”

  “Prime Minister Brunel is indisposed. He has requested I attend today and update Her Majesty on matters of the empire.”

  “Her Majesty is resting. You can tell me anything of consequence”

  “Resting?” said Sir Blaikley, with raised eyebrows. “She seems to be resting more and more these days, don’t you think?”

  The two men eyed each other.

  “Quite,” said Malford. “And the engineer appears to be indisposed more often than not, wouldn’t you say?”

  They both smiled. It looked unnatural on the two men, as if they were mocking each other.

  “Drink?”

  Malford led Sir Blaikley out across the courtyard, through a guest bedroom, up a tower and into the staff mess, where they helped themselves to a glass of the Queen’s two-hundred-year-old brandy and sat down in a pair of green leather chairs. Over the years, Lane and Malford had come to an understanding. Malford would speak for the aging and increasingly ambivalent Queen, while Lane took over the more political matters of the Prime Minister’s job, leaving Brunel himself as a figurehead, always available to shake some hands and appear in public, but in reality dedicated to the Ministry of Engineering, the government department tasked with developing steam technology and cementing England’s position as world leader in battle, commerce and ingenuity. The arrangement suited them both. It left Sir Blaikley free to assert his power, without the inconvenience of responsibility, while Malford was able to direct and protect the affairs of the Crown. He did so loathe the modern fashion for steam power and technology anyhow. After all, one entered the service of the Queen to be surrounded by history, not the future.

  The men relaxed into the chairs and sipped at their drinks. The two gentlemen looked normal, if a little boring, but to all intense purposes, they ran England, the empire and the world.

  “So what’s new in Old Town?” said Malford, slipping into his native cockney twang. Old town was the site of Parliament and home to the Prime Minister.

  “Not a great deal old boy. The Ministry of Engineering think they’re a step closer to finishing the Steam Soldier. I wouldn’t hold my breath though. What was the note?”

  “Telegram from Cannings.”

  Sir Blaikley looked up. “Bishop Cannings? At the Home? Nasty piece of work. What does he want?”

  “A promotion,” Malford handed the telegram to Sir Blaikley, who studied it idly. “He reckons he’s got the Blade.”

  “The Blade, eh?” said Lane. “That must be…sixty years it’s been missing. Are you going to give him what he wants?”

  The two men sipped at their glasses of brandy, Malford considering his options.

  “I don’t think so. Cannings is a pain and an embarrassment to the Church and the Crown. The drink, the laudanum, not to mention the murders. Between you and me, I’ve been looking for a way to get rid of him for years. I thought putting him in charge of that Home would be more than enough to keep him quiet, but it seems the power has gone to his head.”

  Sir Blaikley read through the telegram once more.

  “Of course, this could read as blackmail. Enough to put him away for good.”

  “Nah. He won’t go quietly. Perhaps your army boys could…”

  “Ah now hang on,” said Sir Blaikley, waving a finger in warning. “I pull his strings, you pull hers. This is clearly
a palace matter.”

  Malford sighed once more. “I was afraid you’d say that.”

  “You know what you need to do old chap.”

  “I know, I know,” said Malford. He downed the last of his brandy. “I need to call in KRUM.”

  -7-

  They said you could hear the explosion as far away as London itself.

  The Providence Engine went up like a balloon bursting at a child’s birthday party, the top of its giant spherical tank opening out like a flower, its iron petals springing open and releasing its pollen of red hot coals and liquid into the Home.

  Most workers in the vicinity of the Engine had long since scarpered however, so casualties were kept to a minimum. Only a few slow-witted guards were caught by the flying debris but as they too were fleeing the Engine room at the time, the only injuries they received were a few small pieces of shrapnel being wedged into their fleshy buttocks.

  The extreme release of pressure led to damage of the inner walls of the Engine room, the glass roof shattering overhead, complete systems failure of all the mechanisms that were dependant on the Providence Engine and the expulsion of a great deal of waste water, which is where Ash started to regret his hastily-planned escape from the Home.

  Ash had never seen a circus, having been born in captivity, so he had no idea how much he resembled a human cannonball, as the thousands of gallons of water pushed him head-first down the waste pipe. He sped through nine hundred yards of pipeline in just twenty seconds and as he suspected, was spat out into a nearby river. The force of the water was so great however, that he missed the main flow of the river completely and landed head-first on the bank opposite. He groaned as he retrieved his head from the sticky mud and sat for a few moments, the world spinning around him.