Trent Jamieson - Night's engines

MIRRLEES-ON-WEEP, TEN YEARS AGO 1500 MILES NORTH OF THE ROIL EDGE

Two days after the great storm when, for the first time in a generation, the mighty gates to the levees had been closed, Stade walked through a city swept clean. But that could never hide the nature of this suburb. Excrement remained excrement, no matter how you scrubbed it.

Tomlinson Pharmaceuticals was built in a neighbourhood less than salubrious, places that Stade tried to avoid because he had grown up in them. He did not like to revisit the scrambling hell of his childhood, but there were times that such excursions couldn’t be avoided. And he could trust this work to no one. Two Vergers walked with him, a new recruit by the name of Tope — who had already proven himself loyal — and Mr Sheff, an old and canny bastard Stade had known since he’d first joined the Council. Sheff knew when to whisper and when to murder, and could differentiate between the two.

A young boy tried to sell them the latest street drug, fresh blood obviously, or he would have recognised two Vergers. Sheff snarled at him, Tope reached for his knife, but at a headshake from Stade, he slid it back into its sheath. And the boy, wide-eyed, sprinted for his life down the nearest alleyway.

Stade smiled, then frowned. He'd been that boy once, he wished him well. Tomlinson himself met them at the door. A nervous bird-like man with owlish glasses that he kept sliding up and down his nose, an irritating tic that had made it easy for Stade to hate the man from the beginning.

He led them through a building that was the picture of industry. Machines whirred, men and women worked at various conveyor belts, sorting and packaging. Tomlinson's staff must have numbered at least a hundred people. Obviously the production of salves and map powder was quite lucrative.

There was no small talk — certainly no talk of the Grand Defeat. Stade only got that in the halls of Parliament now, thanks to that damn Medicine Paul. At least Tomlinson was deferential, he opened the door to his office, a big room on a mezzanine with a window that afforded a view of the workers below. Stade wondered if they were as terrified of Tomlinson as the chemist was of him. At a nod from the mayor, Sheff pulled the blinds to the window closed. Stade could see sweat beading on his host's brow.

Stade could tell that Tomlinson hated him. No matter how hard the chemist tried to hide it, or his fear, it shone bright in his eyes. Still, he walked to his desk, picked up a clipboard and scanned its contents, as though the mayor was just like any other client.

“All of the subjects have acted similarly under the drug,” Tomlinson said. “A low level of euphoria, a gentle calm. Though it can have side effects, a certain haphazardness of character, moments of clarity giving way to confusion. An addict could be quite conflicted, almost mad.”

“Everything is weighted with… consequence, Mr Tomlinson.”

“To scramble the mind so, it is-”

“Exactly what modern medicine does, and this is a very specific form of medicine. Now, the drug is easy to produce?”

“Yes, and to produce cheaply. We can have it in the… facilities within a month.”

Facility was a polite way of saying prison, those groaning, fetid pits where the damned would cling to a drug like this. Stade chewed on his cigar. It would start with the prisons and spread out from there. He said, “Good. The, um, recipe

— I want it distributed as widely as possible.”

“Isn’t that dangerous?” Tomlinson rose to his full height, almost as tall as Stade. “This drug will reduce the will of a city.”

“Mr Tomlinson, I am not putting it in the water. “ Stade loomed over the chemist, tapped a little ash onto the ground. “Believe me, there are far more dangerous things than this drug you have invented. Far more dangerous things.”

Tope cleared his throat. And Tomlinson’s eyes grew pleasingly wide.

Stade said, “Of course you have nothing to fear. This is a legal contract.”

Tomlinson took a deep breath. He walked to his desk, watched closely by Tope and Sheff. He pulled a file from the teetering pile of notes. “Everything you need is here.”

Stade walked from the building; the boy was back on the corner, but the moment he saw Stade and his Vergers, he ran. Tope gave him a look, and Stade shook his head, in a few weeks he would be selling Stade’s new drug. Though perhaps not on this corner, there would be too many bad memories here.

The production of drugs was such a dangerous activity, all those chemicals. Fires got out of hand all too quickly. It would be a terrible tragedy of course, and as a mayor who had risen on the back of small business he would speak at the funeral. One did such things for important constituents: it was a sign of respect.

He couldn’t risk anyone in Parliament finding this out. Not even Warwick, he wouldn’t understand. His friend wouldn’t understand a lot of things that Stade had put into action. A week after the Grand Defeat, and still no one seemed to understand that the world was ending.

Rain clouds had gathered. Stade pulled Tomlinson’s file under his jacket, and scowled. He hadn’t thought to bring an umbrella.

Part Two

Drift

I should have taken David with me, not left him with the monster Cadell. Though in truth where I had ended up was just as dangerous. The worst thing was all the time I had: to doubt, to regret, to grow fearful. I'd been left alone, my companions murdered, my city squandered for something that was already lost to it, an Underground that had been overrun by Mayor Stade's enemies.

We were all haunted by the past, by the ghosts that drift and challenge. In a kingdom of the dead with night drawing close, what else could you expect? I don't think anyone slept easily in those last few weeks. We were waiting, every single one of us, for something to come. Roil or not, we knew it would be bad.

And it was.

Whispers in the Dark, Medicine Paul

THE CITY OF TATE WITHIN THE ROIL BUT NOT OF THE ROIL

Margaret increased the night sight of her field glasses and swept the horizon, tracking the thin pale line of Mechanism Highway. No matter how she adjusted her field glasses, the convoy did not appear.

In the south-eastern quarter, Sentinels fired at a drift of floaters blown in too close to the walls. The Sentinels' bullets punctured the creatures' gas sacks with a wet slap. Margaret turned towards the sound and watched the last floater, its jaws snapping uselessly, crash to the ground like a burst balloon.

Another threat efficiently dealt with, as all threats were here. Footsteps crunched on the ground behind her.

“Go home,” Lieutenant Sara Varn said, her breath escaping in plumes from cracked lips as she spoke. “You're not meant to be here until tomorrow and I will not have a weary sentry on my wall. Get some rest.”

Wrapped in the standard black cloak of Tate's Sentinels, Sara’s single concession to Halloween was a tiny silver skull pinned to her collar. She wore heavy spiked boots. Strapped to her back were two ice rifles, while a rime blade and ice pistols were holstered around her waist. Ice weaponry proved effective against the creatures of the Roil, but was inefficient. It took considerable time to charge up and reload each gun, so Sentinels bristled with weapons, swapping and changing from pistol to rifle and (if severely pressed) to blade.

The city itself remained the best weapon.