The Gauge War: Engine Ward, #2

By S C Green

In the bowels of London lies the Engine Ward, where one man rules with a heart of iron.

Now that the Sunken have been defeated, Isambard Kingdom Brunel can begin the task of making the British Empire great once more. All that stands in his way are the French forces closing in on the country, and rival engineer Robert Stephenson, who seeks to undermine Brunel's power by disobeying his orders at every turn. 

Nicholas Thorne once again finds himself caught in the middle of a war he does not believe in. Only now, Nicholas is assailed every waking hour by terrible voices – animals in excruciating pain pound against his skull, begging for release. Can Nicholas fight through the pain and retain control of his mind to protect the people he loves? 

Not content to lay idle while his empire is attacked and civil war looms, Brunel has one last great innovation to unveil. This new machine could be the salvation of England, or the destruction of them all. 

The Gauge War is the second book in S C Green's Engine Ward series, exploring the clash of science and religion in an alternatee history London where dinosaurs still survive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Grymm & Epic Publishing
• Release date: Oct 14, 2015
• ISBN: 9781524246556

Book preview

Prologue

1831

Charles Babbage gripped the edge of the steel balustrade so hard his fingers turned white. He stared up at the towering steel doors, at the smooth, gleaming façade, at the protruding mechanical gargoyles that pushed out stormwater, at the great clouds of smoke and steam that spewed forth from the mouth of the Chimney. He shuddered .

Francesca would never have allowed this. She would have sold the house, sold her pretty jewels, sold everything before she let it come to this.

Francesca's dead. The pain stabbed at his chest. Dead, dead, dead.

Babbage gazed down at the metal plate clasped between his fingers, noticing for the first time that he still had blood under his nails. Francesca's blood. Disgusted with himself, he fought back a sob as he rested his cheek against the cold iron door.

To his surprise, the door swung inward. Babbage stumbled over the step, sailing across the mosaic floor and landing hard on his shoulder at the foot of an elaborate iron grate. The metal plate slipped from his hand and clattered on the floor beside him.

Charles Babbage. A hand hovered in front of his face. He grabbed it, noticing how cold it felt despite the warm air inside the church, and allowed the man to pull him to his feet. Babbage opened his mouth to thank the stranger, but his breath caught in his throat when he saw he was face to face with the engineer Isambard Kingdom Brunel.

Brunel smiled, but his sunken eyes remained intense, focused. It was this intensity that so frightened Babbage. He knew it well, for it had been part of his own life, and had brought him nothing but ruin. But Brunel was different. His intensity did not seem to turn people away. Rather, it drew them to him, like moths to a bright flame. This unassuming, willowy man who stood in the shadows before him was the brightest flame of all.

First, Brunel had been invited to join the Council of the Royal Society, that illustrious body of learned minds whom Babbage had been proud to call his colleagues until they had excommunicated him. Brunel was the first of his kind – a Stoker – to ever innovate a machine. Then, Brunel had been made Presbyter of the Church of Great Conductor, a title usually only given to men with more than twenty years in the engineering professions. And finally, Brunel's Boilers – his army of mechanical workers – had saved London from the abominations of George III, the Vampire King. Now he was no longer Presbyter, but the Messiah of The Church of the Great Conductor, as well as Lord Protector of England, and if Babbage wanted any kind of life in the Engine Ward, he had to prostrate himself before this powerful, unreadable man.

Babbage immediately tried to kneel, but Brunel gripped his shoulder, forcing him to remain standing. Don't kneel. I hate it when people do that.

Yes … Messiah.

I've been expecting you for some time now. Brunel leaned his thin, wiry frame against the door, a curl of hair falling over his eye.

Much has changed since we last spoke, Babbage choked out. They're calling you the Metal Messiah now, all over London, because of what you did—

Brunel held up one hand. Babbage bit back his tongue.

Follow me. Brunel led him to the rear of the church, past the choir, empty now, and eerily quiet. Babbage heard strange noises skittering in the darker recesses of the church, darting between the steel pillars that lined each wall. From the ground the church appeared much the same as every other Engineer's house of worship, but as Babbage craned his neck to gaze up, he noticed the walls weren't really walls at all, but a complex pattern of pipes, valves and mechanisms. Steam puffed from the stacks and swirled upward, obscuring the peak of the nave in a cloudy haze. Above the altar was Brunel's new pulpit, a grand mechanical platform suspended high above the church. Babbage gazed up at the cavernous space, overcome with the sheer majesty of the interior.

Behind the gleaming locomotive chassis that served as the altar, Brunel pushed open a thick, arched doorway and ascended a flight of steps. Babbage followed, his hands searching for a hold on the smooth, iron walls, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

At last, Brunel emerged on a landing. Here, he said, spreading his arms wide. Here is where you will finish your calculating engine.

Babbage sucked in a breath. The enormous space spanned three storeys, rising up in a series of connected platforms towards the vaulted skylights above. Two walls were open to the church below, so he would stare down from a dizzying height on the congregation while he worked. Benches lined the walls, spread with every tool imaginable. An ornate oak draughtsman's table stood against one wall, the dark wood offset by gleaming steel appendages.

It's … remarkable, Babbage breathed, quite overcome. But how will I move my machine—

Brunel gestured toward the rear of the space, where a long, thick platform waited, secured to a complex series of pulleys and levers. It can support several tons, he said. You're too important to have a mere ground-floor workshop. Up here, you can lose yourself in calculation, far from the plebeians in the church below.

I cannot afford—

Nonsense. You do not pay me for your time here. Think yourself a professor in my school of possibilities. I'll provide you with Boiler machines to conduct the manual tasks – fitted with specialist tools for fitting and manipulating minute parts. Your job here is to finish the engine, with cost as no object. I ask only that, from time to time, you allow me to consult you for various projects.

What will these projects entail?

Brunel stared straight ahead. I can create valves and pistons that propel actions. I can create machines that do the work of men, but my machines cannot make decisions and store information for future use. With the input of pre-determined rules, a machine such as your Analytical Engine could make the hundreds of tiny decisions a man needs to make in order to be a master of his work.

My engine works on the basis of these pre-determined sequences, but I don't think … the engine is only theoretical … what you're asking is impossible—

Brunel held his finger to his lips. Nothing is impossible, Mister Babbage, until we deem it so. I think you and your calculating machines will be quite at home here.

Part I

The Threat

1831

They rode as far as Newbury on the new broad gauge line built by the Boilers only two weeks before, before disembarking to switch to a half-complete standard gauge line – Stephenson's first foray into the South of England before Brunel had demoted him and cut off his funding – which would take them to Exeter and the beginning of the atmospheric line .

Aaron had never been outside London before. He leaned against the supports and stared at the countryside – endless green hills rolling away, towns with medieval walls blanketed in soot from nearby factories, industrial wastelands littered with scrap metal. His soul soared.

They disembarked in Exeter and boarded the atmospheric train, which currently ran only five miles out across the vast swamps that covered the majority of southern and western England. The locomotive – still only half-built, but made by the Stokers already stationed in the swamps, not Boilers – quickly accelerated to an unprecedented speed. Rather than the usual clatter of rails, the train seemed to glide over the countryside, interrupted by a jolting thump each time the train skidded over the vacuum pumps.

Aaron sat in the first carriage with the Stoker council members and priests. The workmen and their families crowded into four open-roofed carriages behind. He sat by the window and stared with joy at the encroaching swampland – the reeds brushing against the cutting, the damp, acrid smell that wafted in the open windows.

And the life! How he'd longed to hear it pounding against his ears with such vibrancy. Thoughts threw themselves against every corner of his skull, the loneliness of a young iguanodon, left behind by its herd because of a broken leg, the determination of a group of compies scrabbling for insects in a nearby pool, the watchful eyes of carrion birds soaring overhead. He leaned his head out the window and drank it all in, ignoring his wife Chloe's pleas to get back in the carriage lest he be decapitated.

The train carried them to the last stretch of complete track, and the Stokers poured out onto the damp, boggy earth, their faces strained and nervous. The older workers – those who remembered their parents who'd worked as ivory hunters in these same swamps – smiled and chatted with excitement, but most looked wet, miserable and cross.

As Aaron disembarked and sucked in that first breath of fresh country air, even more voices jumped inside his skull. Every creature for miles around seemed to deposit their thoughts within him, and he yelped in surprise as his own thoughts drizzled away under the onslaught of images.

Aaron reeled, swaying on his feet and grabbing his wife's arm for support. One of the Stoker priests saw his strange behaviour and shot him a reproachful glare. His head spinning, Aaron jogged after the priest, who was on his way to talk to the driver.

Hunger, pain, anger, joy, envy, exhilaration, fear … every gamut of animal emotion flooded Aaron's mind, pushing out his other senses, till he could no longer feel the thick droplets of rain pelting his face, nor the soft ground squelching underfoot. He stared, eyes glazed over, swaying on his feet, while the driver gestured to one of the priests. Faded snippets of conversation penetrated his consciousness. … Stoker camp … said the priest. … Oswald and Peter—

Last I heard, said the driver, pointing in a south-westerly direction, there was a work camp thirty miles that way, but you'll …

The priest nodded, satisfied with whatever the driver had said. He clapped Aaron on the shoulder and ordered everyone to pick up their bags and begin walking.

Aaron followed the others, pressing his fingers against his temples and trying once again to regain control of the sense, trying to sort through the multitude of voices, to recognize different species … to pick out individual thoughts and follow them. He linked arms with his wife and he allowed her to pull him onward while he attempted to sort through the voices in his head. Chloe stared at him, her face concerned.

I'll need to practice thinking them away.

In almost single file, the Stokers followed the half-finished atmospheric line for another ten miles. The rain didn't let up, and they had to stop several times to dislodge boots and walking sticks that had become stuck in the mud. In places, their boots sank knee deep between the sleepers. Groups of compies, the tiny reptilian scavengers that been introduced from the continent as noblemen's pets and had multiplied at an alarming rate, chattered from the reed beds at either side of the track. The compies had systematically solved England's rat problem by replacing the rats with creatures even more intelligent: themselves. Scavengers of the worst sort, they could smell the packages of salted meat the Stokers carried to sustain themselves, and followed along, unafraid, waiting for their chance to steal a free meal.

Their thoughts – mostly hungry pangs and inquisitive questions about the strange party of humans wandering through the swamps – popped in and out of Aaron's skull. He tried to will them away, but the effort made pain shoot through his head. Now I understand why Nicholas sought comfort in machines. I need to gain control of this, and soon, or I'll go insane.

They travelled slowly, for there were many women and children with them and the thick rain weighted every step. It was another hour before Aaron spied a square signal tower and pump station peeking over the horizon. He picked up his feet, splashing across the track till he could clearly make out the shape of it. He stopped, spying the barrel of a rifle peeking over the lip of the control room, and called for everyone to halt.

He cupped his hands over his mouth and called out, I'm Aaron Williams. Brunel sent us to join the Stokers working on the atmospheric railway. The gun remained pointing at them, and was shortly joined by another.

Get back! Aaron pushed Chloe back into the crowd. Move back across the tracks. I'll go and see what's happening.

Aaron hung a soiled white kerchief on the end of his knife and held it above his head as he walked toward the station. No one shot at him, but the men didn't lower their barrels.

As he walked, more and more little minds filled him, until a great swarm of compies buzzed against his skull. Frenzied, devouring, crazy with bloodlust, these compies had found food, and nearby. Aaron's mouth watered as he tasted raw meat sliding down his throat. Fear crept into his stomach.

He reached the rotting wooden door and recoiled in horror. He'd found the source of the compies' excitement. Hundreds of them swarmed through the lower story of the turret, their lithe bodies darting along the walls, across the wooden benches, along the rafters, and surging, scrambling, crawling over each other in a great compie mountain, each beating aside its brothers and sisters for a morsel of what lay underneath.

Aaron cried out as the voices grew louder, as the putrid smell of rotting meat suddenly became delicious, as he sensed his own presence, and the thought passed from mind to mind that together, they could take him down.

They'll eat me alive. Run, I've got to run.

He willed his legs to move, but the screaming of the compies pushed aside his commands. Compies turned toward him, their eyes gleaming as they raced toward him, down the rafters, across the walls, pulling on the legs of his pants.

Run, you idiot, run!

In the rotting wooden ceiling, a trapdoor clanged open, and a heavy wooden ladder clattered down. You're gonna want to move mighty fast, boy, a voice from upstairs growled.

His blood surging, Aaron leapt for the ladder. The tiny lizards leapt too – clawing at his trousers and tearing splinters from the rotting wood in their frantic quest to reach the upper storey. He cried out as three scrambled through his hair, darting up the ladder toward victory.

A pair of strong hands reached down and yanked him up, scraping his belly painfully against the splintering floorboards. He rolled across the floor while one of the men lit an oiled rag and tossed it down the ladder, shook off the screaming compies with his knife, pulled the ladder up, and slammed the trapdoor shut.

I saw three of those buggers race up here, you good-for-nothing blagger, and you're not leaving this room until you've wrung every one of their necks.

Aaron laughed as he looked up into familiar eyes. Quartz?

The old man grinned. Aaron bloody Williams. Why aren't you back in the city, obeying his Lordship's every command?

He's no lord of mine, not anymore. He's replaced every Stoker in the Engine Ward with Boilers. He murdered the king, Quartz, and took the credit for destroying the Sunken—

The what?

Men and women the King imprisoned in the castle and fed on lead and flesh till they became cannibalistic monsters. We called them the Sunken because their skin shrank around their bones, as if they were sinking into themselves. You know that secret railway I built? It was to bring the Sunken into London. The King locked every gate on the Wall, and released those monsters into the streets to gorge themselves on his own subjects. Brunel knew all this, and he did nothing to stop it. He had me work on this, knowing what it would be used for … I couldn't stand it. So I convinced William Stone and several others to come with me into the city and we set about destroying the Sunken. We must've killed hundreds of them, but then Brunel's Boilers rolled in and took out every last one, and that's all the people remember. The machines who saved London. Brunel manipulated the city into believing he's a hero, and now he's calling himself the Lord Protector, and the whole country is worshipping him. He sent me here, along with every last Stoker in London, to get us out of his way. He's razing our houses to the ground to build workshops for his Boilers. We're to hunt animals in the swamps and send him back live specimens, apparently, and complete the atmospheric railway right up to Plymouth.

Quartz spat on the ground. It seems you were right. Isambard Brunel is no longer a Stoker. But I told you not to come to the swamps, Aaron. Things are no better here. This railway is a disaster from start till finish. It will never run a line all the way to Plymouth. And as for hunting, we'll not be sending him another specimen, not after last time—

Got one! Without lowering his gun, the boy at the window held up a scrabbling compie by its long tail. He slammed it twice against the brick sill until it stopped screeching, and tossed it out the window.

What's wrong with the railway?

Did you see what's going on downstairs? At the centre of that writhing shitstorm is a barrel of tallow. The buggers love the taste – and what do you suppose his Holiness wants us to use to seal the leather flaps on the valves of this monstrosity? The little blisters are multiplying by the day – soon they'll be devouring the flaps as fast as we replace them.

"That frenzy downstairs … is over tallow?"

Mostly, and a rotting iguanodon carcass we tossed down there this morning. It keeps them off our case.

Have you brought this little design flaw up with Isambard—

I wrote a letter. Got no reply. Talk's a fine thing, lad. But if he's sent you out here with the rest of us, you know he's not in the mood to listen.

Aaron peered around Quartz to the young boy who diligently held his post by the window, the gun aimed at the Stokers below, still waiting outside in the rain. He saw William cup his hands and yell something up at them, but the din of the compies carried it away.

Could you lower your weapon, boy? Aaron said. They're Stokers like you and I. They ain't gonna hurt no one.

The boy shrugged. I wouldn't worry, sir. It isn't loaded.

What kind of a guard are you running here, Quartz?

The priests won't let us have ammunition. They says we're too dangerous. The boy lowered the gun, and pulled out a rusting telescope from the pocket of his jacket.

I rather thought that was the point of having a guard.

Your pox-riddled brothers seem to believe we'd kill the lot of 'em if we had the chance. Quartz's eyes twinkled. Perish the thought.

I told you to stay away from my brothers.

I've never listened to a Williams before, boy, and I don't aim to start now. Now, you can tell your people it's okay for them to continue along the Narrow, but Great Conductor help them if they get in the way of the compies down there. And you, Aaron Williams, should come back after supper tonight, and you'll see something real special.

You old scallywag, what have you done now?

Tonight, my friend, if they don't flay you alive beforehand. Be careful down at the camp – it's not like it was in London, you know. Out here, it's wild country. And we're all wild men. Now grab a slab of that meat over there – you'll need it to distract the vermin if you want to get out of here.

A half-mile through the swamp they entered a long cutting, its rough sides dribbling with clinging water. Every hundred feet piles of wooden sleepers lay beneath sodden canvas covers, the protruding ends blackened with rot.

They splashed through this miserable canyon for a couple more miles, till it came to an abrupt halt. Two Stokers worked with spade and shovel, dislodging the sticky peat in tidy brick shapes and piling it onto waiting canvas mats. They stopped work when they saw the group approach.

Aaron left the group back around a bend in the narrow, hoping the men couldn't count their number from their vantage point, and stalked forward. Aaron Williams, I'm the new foreman. Brunel has sent me here to—

The man fell to his knees and kissed the mud.

What are you doing? Aaron bent down to pull the man to his feet, but as his hand brushed the man's shoulder, the terrified worker pressed himself even lower, burying his entire face in the peat.

You! Aaron pointed to the other worker, whose face froze in fright, his knees sinking further into the mud. Aaron grabbed him by the collar and heaved him to his feet.

Get up, right now! Both men lifted their heads, their eyes filled with terror. Why are you burying your faces in the mud? Look at me! Answer my questions!

The men exchanged terrified glances. You're a-a-a Williams, the older man finally stuttered.

I am. What's that to do with anything?

You're a priest, a vassal of the Metal Messiah.

"I most certainly am not. I'm a foreman, a worker, just like you. Brunel's not a god. He didn't expect you to bow to him back in the city, so what's all this nonsense?"

The priests … they says bowing is proper, an honour of the Messiah's exalted position. Sir, are you here to punish us? Honestly, it ain't our fault that the Southern section slipped down – the walls are so slick, and without the proper supporting struts—

We're sorry, the other man stammered. We'll pay for the repairs from our wages, just as soon as we get some wages. We promise we will. We didn't mean to cause offense—

I've come for nothing, and you owe me nothing. I ask, as a man to a man, if you could point me in the direction of the Stoker camp?

It would be our honour to escort you, and your followers.

I don't need escorting— but the men had already thrown down their shovels and began scrambling up the slick sides of the Narrow. Aaron sighed, trudged back to the group, and gestured for them to help each other out of the Narrow.

When the men saw the familiar faces emerging from the Narrow, all carrying rucksacks and dragging children, all weary and soaked with peat, their faces broke into broad smiles, and they bowed before Aaron once more. He pulled them to their feet and growled that if they wanted to be useful, they could help the women navigate the steep-sided trench.

I don't like what we're walking into, he whispered to Chloe. I'm afraid for what my brothers have done.

With you looking after us, I cannot feel afraid, she whispered back, but she clutched his hand extra tight.

One glance at the Stoker work camp, and Aaron's blood boiled over.

Even though he knew Isambard had supplied a decent sum for the Stokers to purchase materials to build shelters, this work had clearly not yet begun. Makeshift lean-tos made from scrap metals and rotting railroad sleepers, half-sinking in the mud, formed the only shelter. Women flocked between these hovels and the cooking fire, carrying baskets of … Aaron reeled, his face pale. Piles of compie carcasses were stacked in the baskets, their tiny bodies mangled by crude claw traps.

"You eat the compies?" Aaron spat on the ground. The thought was too horrible to contemplate.

We've limited supplies of porridge and grain, one of the men explained. The nearest village is thirty miles walk, and they're too afraid of the swamp dragons to come here for trade, so our deliveries are often late. We cut peat and dry it for trade, but it's difficult to transport. We're none of us hunters, so the compies are the only food we can catch.

I find it difficult to believe my brothers would resort to this, Aaron hissed through gritted teeth.

The priests eat apart from us, and their food is befitting their station. You mustn't worry, your Holiness, we take care of them that ensure the sanctity of our souls.

One building stood apart from the others, raised on dry ground at the top of an embankment. A solid structure, built from an old Rothwell locomotive – complete with boiler, chassis and a covered carriage – likely dumped in the swamps by Stephenson after he ceased work on his southern railway. In the filth of the swamp she gleamed like a beacon, her smooth, clean sides catching the light.

The church, one of Aaron's guides said, reverence in his voice. You'll find the holy brethren inside.

The voices pounded inside his skull. He clenched and unclenched his fists, unable to believe the audaciousness of his brothers. The rulers of their own little swamp kingdom, are they? Well, we shall soon see about that.

Before Chloe or the men could stop him, Aaron stormed up the embankment, pushed aside the guard, and barrelled his way inside.

He expected at least to find them praying. At least then they could have made the excuse that they, too, worked for the good of the Stokers. But what he found upon entering the most holy of holies was seven men in meticulously ironed and folded black robes, sitting around an old packing crate decorated with bright-coloured scarves, drinking and playing cards.

At a glance, Aaron took in the silver coins stacked on the table, the bottles of grog in their hands, the package of salted meat and bag of dates open between them. His eldest brother, Oswald, jumped up, and paled when he saw Aaron. He opened his mouth to speak, but Aaron cut him off.

"How dare you? How dare you? Have you even stepped outside and seen what your own people are forced to eat? You've lived here near six months now – where are your shelters? Where are your livestock? Your crops? Why does every man I talk to hurry to bury his face in the mud?"

Little brother, you need to sit down—

"I will not sit down. I don't understand you, Oswald. Brunel gave you clear instructions; you were to come here, build a railroad, and build a work camp that could sustain us for a number of years. The one doesn't get done without the other. He said nothing about declaring yourselves swamp emperors and getting rich off the backs of hardworking men."

"I'd hardly call this rich, little brother. The Messiah sent us to the middle of a blasted dung heap, where insects crawl over our bodies day and night, and mud stains our skin brown. We decided, he gestured to the table, to make the most of it."

"And what of our men, who come home from a full shift to a meal of compie?" The very thought made Aaron's breath catch in his throat.

Oswald shook his head. Don't tell me you're that naive, Aaron. The men want someone to rule them, to tell them what to think, how to pray. They're the ones who bring us offerings of meat and bread and wine. They're the ones who built this church for us. They want us—

He's just jealous, Peter, the next eldest, said. He folded his black robes over his knees. "He was the Messiah's childhood friend, but it looks like Brunel's abandoned him as well—hey!"

Aaron grabbed the bottle from his hand and smashed it against the floor.

Isambard sent me here to clean up your shit, he said through gritted teeth. "I am the new foreman of this project, and all this will stop, right now. It's bad enough in London, with all this Messiah madness and those cursed Boilers running about taking jobs from hard-working men, but you cannot bring that madness out here. You cannot."

Smirking, Oswald removed a crumpled, rain-splattered envelope from the folds of his robe and placed it on the table.

Read it, he said.

Aaron picked it up. The seal, broken, came from Brunel. He unfolded the note and read, every word sending a shiver of fear down his spine.

Oswald

Although I'm disappointed that no further specimens have been delivered to me from the swamps, I am pleased with the work on the railroad so far, and will shortly send a larger party of workers to supplement your camp. Your brother, Aaron, will be the new foreman.

He's been acting most peculiar lately and is intent on stirring up discontent and rebellion within the Engine Ward, and I no longer require his presence in London. He is to be welcomed into the priesthood, but remind him that his duties are to manage the workforce, and oversee the capture and transport of my specimens, and not to participate in the overall management of the camp or its religious practises. Do not allow him to poison the thoughts of the men. I trust you to see to this.

Yours

Isambard Kingdom Brunel, Lord Protector of England and Messiah to the Great Conductor.

This is— Aaron turned the letter over, unable to believe its contents.

Those are our instructions, straight from the top. Oswald announced. Despite what you believe, you have no power over us, or the men. It's time you understood – we're in charge here, and if you want to change anything about the working conditions here – anything – it's best not to be our enemy. We're family, and you shouldn't forget that. Here. He pulled a black parcel from a nearby trunk and tossed it to Aaron.

I don't need robes.

You're a priest of the Metal Messiah. We all wear robes.

I'm no such bloody thing. As Brunel has so kindly pointed out, I'm a foreman. I need overalls, not religious garb. And last thing I remember, Aaron stared disdainfully at Oswald's robes, you weren't ordained to the rank of bishop, brother.

Oswald bowed his head. The London rules don't apply in the swamps. Brunel charged us with keeping peace out here, at all costs. These men follow superstition – they listen to priests. And they needed a head priest, so I volunteered.

"You can't just don a robe, call yourself a bishop and become a ruler of men! You have no right—"

Isn't that exactly what your friend Isambard did? He called himself an engineer, even though he was not entitled to do so, and now he rules the country like a king.

Aaron's head snapped back. Oswald was right.

Brother, you've been too long inside the bowels of the Engine Ward. A few weeks out here, and you'll come around. Here. He pressed the robes into Aaron's hands. I'll wager they're a damn sight more comfortable than those filthy overalls.

The first meeting of the Royal Society since the appointment of its new President was standing room only. Somerset House was still being refurbished following the fire-damage sustained in the recent attack of the Sunken, so the Society was meeting in one of the reception halls of Buckingham Palace. Engineers had come from all over the country to hear the new Lord Protector speak, crowding the boarding houses and taverns around Engine Ward with loud, drunken debates. Now they pressed against one another in the hall, striving to be the first to gaze upon him, to touch his robes in the hope his genius might rub off on them.

The three remaining members of the Blasphemous Men's Brandy & Supper Club arrived together. Buckland would be giving a lecture following Brunel, and after they'd hung their coats he was quickly swallowed by a crowd of admirers.

James Holman took a deep breath, turning his head from side to side so he could pick up snatches of conversation from throughout the room. Holman was blind, but had attuned his hearing so that he could navigate the world by listening. It's a tremendous attendance tonight. He said cheerfully. It seems every learned man in London is as eager as I am to exercise his mind again.

Your powers of optimism never cease to amaze me, James. They're not here to exercise their minds. They're here to see the Lord Protector, the Metal Messiah, the man who saved the city, even though this Society shunned him for so long. They're here to pander to him and flatter him and ask him for favours.

Not all of them. Buckland just comes for the brandy.

Nicholas glanced around. The room was stifling under the press of so many bodies, and men were removing their finest coats to reveal even finer silk shirts and cravats. He saw the glint of gold pins – in the shape of the Stoker cross – shining from several waistcoats. Bright conversation floated across the lively room.

And yet no one in this room, save himself and Isambard and James, had been in the streets the night the Sunken were loosed upon the city. Not one man had stood up against those creatures, had looked in the eye of those men-that-were-not-men as they tore apart their prey. Only Isambard Kingdom Brunel had formulated a plan to save the city, sending his Boilers to destroy the horrific creatures. None save Nicholas and Isambard had stared into the eyes of the Vampire King, had walked over the piles of dead bodies in his chambers, had watched the life leave their monarch's eyes. Not one of these men woke screaming in the night after the nightmares overtook them.

Although the city had buried the dead and scrubbed the bloodstains from the cobbles, the memories of what he saw that night seemed burned upon Nicholas' eyelids.

Nicholas turned away. He was feeling sick again. I should never have come.

Holman placed his hand on Nicholas' shoulder. You did not have to come tonight, if you were not up to it. He would have understood.

I will be fine, James. I have to put it behind me, for Isambard's sake. Please, don't let my mood spoil your evening.

Nicholas left Holman talking with some other writers and took his place beside his master on the podium. He hated being up there, looking out over the men who had no place in Isambard's court. He twirled his hands nervously in his lap, biting his lip to keep himself focused. Beside him, Brunel regarded the crowd with his usual stony ease.

You are still not sleeping, he said. Nicholas nodded.

I too see the Vampire King's face in my dreams. I hear the screams of the Sunken in the darkest corners of my workshop. It was a terrible business, Nicholas. But we can't shut ourselves off from the world while we heal. Not while England needs us. Not while there is so much work to do.

I know, Nicholas sighed. I wish I had your strength.

And I wish I had your compassion. I think it is time to begin.

The room bulged with people, each man pressed up against his peers, and still more stood in the hallway, unable to see, but simply honoured to be in the presence of the Metal Messiah. So many had turned up, in fact, that the Society had run out of brandy, and they had to make do with a few bottles of French wine found in a dusty corner of the cellar. Nicholas downed his glass in one gulp, hoping it would calm his nerves. He had an uneasy feeling something bad would happen tonight.

After the usual hymns and a quick prayer for the immortal soul of Joseph Banks and those other engineers who had perished at the hands of the Sunken, Brunel took the podium. Pinned on his green robe – the uniform of a Messiah – alongside the pin of crossed gauge nails that was the symbol of his church, was an iron seal declaring him the new President of the Society. Brunel was the most powerful man in England, and he looked it.

The crowd fell silent.

For too long now, Brunel said, London has been a city in decline. England has shunned the advances of the world and instead looked inward, backward, hoping to see our future in our history. But we were wrong. We have been sleeping, my friends, our eyes so clouded by petty squabbles and intellectual grudges we didn't even notice the monster in our midst.

The Vampire King's crimes were terrible, but they pale in comparison with our own. For each of us – every man here tonight who has been so clouded with ambition he did not see the world around him – is in part responsible for those crimes. We turned our backs while he stole children from the streets. We let him reign unchecked, we let him bring the Sunken behind our walls. Great Conductor help us, we could have stopped him— Brunel's voice cracked.

No one spoke. No one moved. Hundreds of eyes watched, mesmerized, as Brunel stared down at the floor, his shoulders shaking. Nicholas clutched the edges of his chair so hard he tore the fabric. The memories flooded him. Those creatures, men-but-not-men, tearing at the flesh of those people ... all those people, their faces burnt and cracked and caked with blood—

But now, Brunel drew himself up to his full height, "that monster has been vanquished, leaving a great vacuum through which we must assert ourselves. It is a savage world out there, ruled by dragons and monsters and mad kings. We are the gatekeepers of reason. We alone hold back the forces of chaos. We must open the portholes that have been nailed shut for so long, and together, we can rule the world once again.

Ever since that tragic day in 1805 when we lost at Trafalgar, France and Spain have dominated the lands and the ocean and caused our empire to fade and dwindle. Well, their time is over. When I first invented the Boilers, I saw them simply as workers, as a way to erect great engineering projects with the utmost efficiency. But after watching them fight off the Sunken, I am struck by the notion of my machines having a military use. I have no intention of turning the Boilers against a human army; that would be cruel beyond imagining. But with this technology on our side, the French will have no choice but to pull back from their bothersome blockade. I predict that within a matter of months, the blockade will be lifted and England will once again be the supreme power on the seas.

The floor shook as every scholar, engineer and ingenious mind leapt to his feet and showered the Messiah with applause. Nicholas clapped loudest of all. After all this time, the people of England will become part of the world again.

As the rumbles died down, Nicholas noticed a faint murmur rising up toward the back of the room. The door slammed open and shut again. Nicholas squinted, but couldn't see what was going on through all the candlelight in his face. Brunel carried on, unperturbed.

—but to begin with, we must deal with what has been left behind by this terrible crisis, and find a way to make peace with this tragedy. The Great Wall that surrounds this city was to have been my greatest engineering achievement, but it has been tarnished by the nefarious purpose for which it was unwittingly designed. I alone must live with that guilt. Brunel bowed his head. But we should not let this tragedy bar the road of progress. With the permission of the Council, I'd like to continue work on the Wall, to finish the structure and install the railway atop it, so that we may turn it from the monster it has come to symbolize to a beacon of industry, a symbol of our triumph over darkness.

The room erupted into wild applause. Nicholas thought he saw some commotion in the back, but it was quickly suppressed.

Next, this country needs an integrated railway network – the first in the world to crisscross the entire countryside, where a man can travel from Cornwall to Edinburgh without once stepping into a coach house. I'm issuing an edict that all new railways will be built of broad gauge, as the only size gauge capable of moving loads up to—

"Brunel," a voice snarled, hatred dripping from every syllable. Nicholas leaned forward, his eyes on the black-robed figure that pushed his way to the front of the room. He stood behind the row of candles separating the stage from the audience, and lifted off his hood.

Robert Stephenson stared at Brunel across the flames with such venom, such hatred, that Nicholas recoiled in his seat. Why has he come here? Even when he had been the Messiah, Stephenson hadn't come into London much – he'd always preferred his northern stronghold.

Greetings, Robert. Brunel peered down from the pulpit as though a particularly interesting bug had just wandered across his page. I'd offer you a seat, but there isn't one to spare.

I want nothing from you, Stephenson growled, save your body lying in a dark, cold grave.

A collective gasp echoed through the gathered men.

You come to our sacred chambers to hurl insults at me?

I've come to stop this madness, Stephenson hissed, his filthy cloak flapping against his ankles. "I received a royal edict just yesterday, informing me that I was ordered to pull up my railway network – the entire network – and lay it again, in broad gauge. I am told that if I do not comply, an army of steel contraptions called Boilers will arrive at Forth Street Works to do it for me."

Those are my instructions.

You've barely been ruler of this country a month, and you're already trying to ruin me? This is the man you choose to worship? The man you choose to run our country? Stephenson yelled. A man who wants to hem this city in with a giant wall that nearly killed everyone inside once already? A man who would have me dig up an entire railway and rebuild it? Who would have able workers replaced with machines? I have been a loyal servant of Great Conductor my entire life, as was my father before me. Is this how the church repays us, by digging up our life's work? You're fools to a man if you believe Isambard Kingdom Brunel will make this country great. He's got naught but his own interests at heart.

Surely you can agree on the need for a standardized system—

"There is a standardized system. That's why it's called standard gauge!

Ah, said Brunel, his finger raised. "But it is not the superior system."

That sent a ripple through the men, who stood back from Stephenson as if he carried some disease. No man wanted to be seen to support him against the Metal Messiah, the man who had saved England from the Vampire King.

Nicholas watched Stephenson's face contort in agony, and he felt a sinking feeling in his chest. The man obviously cared about his railway and his workers very much. It seemed a waste to demolish Stephenson's railway, but surely the engineer must understand they couldn't let personal matters thwart the growth of the nation.

The benefits of broad gauge far outweigh the initial cost of rebuilding, said Brunel. For the time being you can install a dual-gauge system, allowing both types of trains to run, but you're to cease building standard gauge locomotives immediately.

And my workers? You'll be putting good men out of work while I recalculate my cuttings and stations for broad gauge.

There will be plenty of jobs at the new Boiler factories in the Engine Ward. Perhaps you yourself will find employment there, now that you no longer have any duties to Great Conductor.

Stephenson howled. He turned on his heel, swept up his cloak, and shoved his way back through the silent crowd. On the podium, Brunel gave him a cheerful wave.

"My esteemed colleague Mr. Stephenson has brought to your attention in his typically uncouth northern way the need for co-operation between engineers. If he'd worked alongside the Council, instead of ploughing ahead unchecked with his railway, he wouldn't be in the predicament he is now. Brunel shuffled his papers. This is another issue I intend to rectify. I am currently hiring engineers into my employ. I need bright men to work on my Boilers and my steam engines and my other projects. This is employment only – I will pay well for men with ideas and intelligence, and I do not require that you convert to my church. In particular, I'm looking for men with expertise in the art of shipbuilding. For too long the art of the engineer has been tied to the worship of our gods, and that is something I believe should change. So if you wish to work with me, report to the Chimney at your leisure, and I may find some use for you. And now, I would like to introduce this evening's speaker, William Buckland, who'll be sharing his most recent discoveries about the ancient ancestors of our dragons."

While the crowd applauded, Buckland spread his papers across the podium and took a sip of brandy. Clearing his throat and tapping his cane against the podium to ensure absolute silence, he began.

We all know thousands of years ago certain creatures lived of which we can find no modern counterpart. Recently, I found a cache of bones in a quarry that may perhaps provide some answers. These bones are of a swamp dragon, but it is like no swamp dragon we've ever seen. This beast stands twenty feet tall; with a hand span easily the length of a man. Despite the enormous size, it has all the characteristics of the swamp dragon, but the length of the forelimbs and unusual tapering of the skull suggests it is a new species …

A ripple of excitement shot through the crowd. The identification of a new species, dead or alive, always caused great excitement.

Clearly, this species no longer exists, for I'm certain we would have noticed it. Buckland said, leaning over the podium. The audience tittered. However, if we look to historical and mythological texts, we find many references to giant, dragonlike beasts. I believe this skeleton represents the first recovered sample of the 'Great Dragon' referred to in myth—

Nicholas wasn't looking. He watched Brunel, who sat in a chair looking out over the crowd, his mind a million miles away. Nicholas knew he was thinking of Stephenson, and the marvellous things he would do with that railway once he'd got Stephenson and his Navvies out of the picture.

Over the course of the evening, the