Year of our Lord 1887
Richard watched as Mister Rayder and his three companions disappeared into the smoke of New London from the bay window, pondering on his next actions.
"So," Miss Bird asked, "Why did you give him the revolver? The man clearly doesn't know how to use it."
"But when he finds out how," he mused, "Mister Rayder will realise its potential. And he'll know where to obtain more."
"...How dastardly, Mister Aynesworth."
"These are primitive people, certainly, in a primitive time," Richard pulled his gaze away from the streets, "We are only a city of some six-hundred souls. We must make do with what God offers… you have encountered primitives before, have you not Miss Bird?"
"I've explored Japan at the behest of Charles Darwin," she confirmed, "Even the Ainu were a wonderful sort of people, however. Much unlike these creatures."
Miss Bird had taken up his seat at the desk, busying herself with composing a map, her pen gracefully sliding over the vellum paper as she described mountains and valleys. From time to time, she would consult a mess of torn-out papers stacked to the side.
"So Edye's lot had the right of it," Richard contemplated, "We are no longer on Spitsbergen."
"After a fact," Miss Bird absentmindedly agreed, "This Mance Rayder has all but confirmed our suspicions. There is no point in deluding ourselves any further."
Richard pulled a chair beneath him and dropped onto it, slumping tiredly.
"Some act of God, no doubt," he pinched the bridge of his nose, "But is it truly a blessing? We are surrounded by savages and barbarians, in a wholly unfamiliar land. And what of those creatures made of ice in the north?"
Isabella scoffed, "A tall tale, most certainly. The Japanese believe in all manner of gods and monsters, not to mention their stories of the Ainu. Likely, these natives are facing a manner of Hun threat, and the stories of them made fantastic by rumours."
He sighed deeply, "God help me, how shall I break this to the people?"
"Something like that…" Miss Bird mused, setting down her pen, "I suggest you leave it with Mister Wren. I dislike the man, but I cannot fault his work ethic."
The Propaganda Centre lay to the northwest of the city, deep within the Borough of Clerks. It was a hulking beast of a building, built more like a fortress than an office. Henry Wren was no kind man, and though he was undeniably skilled in his job, so too was he a little too zealous at upholding the principles of the Order. But Wren was loyal - to New London and to the British Empire, no matter how far it had fallen. And that was a virtue that made him indispensable.
"These people…" Richard scratched his chin, "What do they call themselves? Free folk? They are a dangerous bunch. Especially so many of them, merely a stone's throw away from New London."
"And yet you invited them to our gates."
"You do me an injustice, Miss Bird," he smiled, "It is precisely because they are dangerous that I invite them here. People like Tormund Giantsbane and Harma Dogshead… they are proud, unbending creatures. It makes them perfect leaders. But those who they lead? New London promises warmth, food, and security."
"You are trying to tear them apart," Miss Bird stated, "It is not a plan devoid of risks, Aynesworth. If they come to suspect us, we may be on the receiving end of their ire. You've seen Edye's report; giants and mammoths! Seems hardly believable, but thirty men saw it with their own eyes."
Giants and mammoths and creatures made of ice. If this was the Lord's interpretation of blessing, Richard couldn't say he preferred it.
"When do you reckon Miss Hammer's party will return to the city?" he asked.
Isabella paused, before producing a notebook from her coat and consulting it.
"O'Six," she replied, "At first light."
"Call a meeting for that afternoon, would you?" he reclined, closing his eyes, "We must decide how to proceed with our new circumstance."
"Miss Hammer will not be pleased," Isabella said dryly.
Richard sighed, "I'll deal with her."
The following day, the ruling council of New London gathered in the common room of the house, where a large table had been set up. The children had been ushered out in the morning, and at this hour of the day were likely enjoying their break from their engineering apprenticeships.
It was a day colder than before, and though the boilers were fired, they were not as heated as they could be. The chill in their bones allowed for straight heads, Richard had found, serving constant reminder of the duty they bore - and the price of irresponsibility. These were all men and women who had served New London from the very beginning, when they were still irresolute rabble reeling from the loss of the Bellerophon.
Hell, not an insignificant number of them were the original crew of the land dreadnought.
"Miss Bird?" Richard started.
Isabella produced a leatherbound journal and handed it to John MacLachlan, the leader of the first scouting party, and a man of the Imperial Exploration Company. The man inspected the pages of the book for a long while, before passing it onto Joseph Edye, the skipper of the airship Dragonfly. He named it after Professor Hawkins' - the inventor of the steam core - prototype steam core aeroplane, which crashed in the English Channel, tragically losing all hands onboard, including Hawkins himself. Likely, Edye was spitting in the face of God and seeing how far he could take it.
It was his squadron who first encountered the free folk host along the river - named the Milkwater, as it were.
"We had a rather profitable conversation with the leader of the small army marching up the river," Miss Bird said, "This is the transcript of the conversation. As you can tell, Mister Edye's suspicions were confirmed to be true."
"Sweet Mother Mary," muttered the Chief Engineer of the Bellerophon, Israel Bankes, "What foul manner of sorcery is this?"
Richard waited for the transcript to go around the room, all the while inspecting the faces of the men and women who read it. Joseph Edye bore a small, satisfied smirk - clearly pleased at being vindicated - while Bankes cradled his head in his hands. MacLachlan seemed anxious, clearly deep in thought. As he counted the number of people in the room, however, he noticed one person missing.
Richard leaned over, and whispered in Isabella's ear, "Where's Elizabeth?"
"Miss Hammer appears to be absent."
"Yes, I know that," he replied impatiently, "Where is she?"
"I believe she prefers to take a kip at this hour."
"God damn her," he muttered.
Charlie Richman suddenly spoke up, "Some of Rayder's folk wandered around the city last night, thinking we weren't keeping an eye on them. We didn't stop 'em, just as you ordered Mister Mayor."
"Very good," Richard nodded, "Have any of them caught your eye?"
"Well," Richman mused, "Can't say. Too bloody dark for that. We had shooters trained on them the whole time, kept the lights out in the guard stations see? They didn't notice a thing."
So long as there were people to spread word of New London, he would consider it a success. Humans were simple creatures who gravitated to security, and even the most stubborn man would rather escape the cold than not. Currently, these free folk led by Mance Rayder were the largest threat posed to New London - one closer than he would've liked.
The free folk were barbarians, Richard had no doubt about it. From what Mister Edye had reported to the countenance of Rayder's party, he could consider them nothing more than that. And history had proven time and time again that the most dependable way to defeat barbarians was to pit them against each other. Just as doubtlessly, there would be those who would wish harm upon New London rather than join them.
That was why the people of the city must be ready.
"Mister Wren," Richard leaned forward, "Can I trust you to spread this news to the people?"
Henry Wren was a long faced man with dull eyes, the mop of ink-coloured hair on his head concealed by his flat cap. He seemed to live in a state of continuous apathy, that face of his impenetrable as the night.
"Our first printing presses will be available in a short while," Wren said, "The New London Times will release its first issue in two days. Rest assured, the people will be made aware of our situation."
"Is two days enough time to edit all this, Wren?" asked Amelia Jenkins, the only Yankee among them, "No one will fault you for releasing the paper a little late."
She was the Navy Corpsman of the USS Hephaestus before its fateful demise. When MacLachlan's party discovered the dreadnought landing, they had found the Yankees huddled around the dying corpse of the ship, taking in its final breaths of warmth. Since their return to New London, Miss Jenkins had made herself irreplaceable to the city, though she still refused to go by doctor.
Richard hadn't realised the United States Navy allowed women to enlist, nor had he quite believed it - until he learned from the American refugees that the Frost came early to the New World by some fluke of nature. It came in the form of an apocalyptic ice storm, plunging south as far as Mexico City and glaciating the earth in its path. With the eastern seaboard left a wintry hellscape and the interior an inhospitable tundra, the death toll was innumerable.
The United States Navy was forced to hasten their evacuation, and in the process allow women to enlist in order to refill their ranks. Thanks to the Rocky Mountains, most of the western seaboard was left relatively untouched by the Frost, along with their naval bases. Most American dreadnoughts departed for Alaska, but those trapped in the east were forced to embark on the few surviving dreadnoughts such as the Hephaestus and Prometheus over the Atlantic.
It suddenly made sense, why the Empire had lost all contact with the Dominion of Canada in the twilight months of the Old World.
"This is under my purview, Miss Jenkins," Wren allowed a tint of annoyance to colour his voice, "Stay in your own business, keep out of mine. Do you not have patients to oversee?"
"No need to get your panties in a knot," Miss Jenkins flicked her wrist, "Ah, speaking of my posts, I was hoping for the establishment of a new infirmary. Many are severely ill after the Great Storm, especially from the outer rings, and we are quite overwhelmed."
"We do not have the steam cores to spare, unfortunately" Richard put a lid on the prospect, "Instead, we need hothouses to replace our food supply. Mister Bankes, I must have you draft up some plans."
"Hold on," Bankes said disbelievingly, "Are we just ignoring the fact that we are no longer on Spitsbergen - and potentially, no longer on Earth at all!? Why are none of you-"
"Because there's nothing we can do about it, you daft shit!" Jenkins said loudly, "No need pulling hairs out for this. Besides, who'd want to go back to Spitsbergen? Do you know how warm it is here? Forty degrees Fahrenheit! I've never seen a figure that fucking high since last summer, and I was in Texas then! For all I care, this is paradise!"
"I must agree with Miss Jenkins," Miss Bird coughed, "The Lord has seen to deliver us from the Great Frost. The British Empire will live on, no matter where, no matter when. Until we gather our bearings, we must work with what we have."
There was a round of agreement.
"Mister Bankes," Richard repeated, "How fast can you draft plans for a hothouse?"
"Hard to say, sir," the engineer said through gritted teeth, "But I'll get the lads in the workshops to rifle through our designs straight away. We only have three steam cores remaining, however."
"Then make for two hothouses in the Borough of Hunters. Search through all the files we brought from London, find anything that can help us produce our own steam cores. Use our last core for study - reverse engineer it, anything that you can do.
"Yes sir."
He then looked to MacLachlan, "And what did your teams discover around the city? Anything of note?"
"London's in a great big bowl," the scout replied, "We spied a few ways south through the mountains and marked them down. Otherwise, it's all white."
The door of the house suddenly creaked open, letting the bitter wind into the room, catching their attention. One Elizabeth Hammer, skipper of the Bitter Countess, stumbled through, visibly pissed out of her head. Miss Hammer unsteadily walked forward, tripping over her own feet - only to catch the edge of the table at the very last moment, saving herself from a mouthful of floor.
"Who calls a meeting at this ungodly hour?" she grumbled as she pushed herself up, strands of hair messily falling over her face.
"It's half past one, you utter blowse," Joseph Edye said, "The only ungodly thing in this room is you."
"Hah- ack!" Elizabeth tried to chortle, but decided to choke on her own breath, "I- I'll have you eat your words, Edye."
"I believe the only person eating their own words in this room is you, Miss Hammer," Isabella said mildly, "Are you alright?"
"Do I look like I'm alright, woman?" Hammer grumbled, reaching into her coat and producing a journal, "I've only got two hours of shuteye before some cock decided I had to be here, so I thought to myself - well that's rather worthless, innit? Rather get pissed in the public house with me boys!"
She slammed her journal on the table, before stumbling onto a nearby chair and slumping onto it like a limp dick.
"Joseph, man," Elizabeth asked, "You followed the river, aye?"
"That I did," Edye was terribly amused, "Followed it right up to its source, some melting glacier way west."
"Aye well," Miss Hammer hiccuped, "I went over the river, see? Pushed the Countess right o'er the mountains. Guess what I found?"
"Some mountain tribe?" Wren rasped.
"Nay, you wouldn't believe it- Hell, I didn't," she rubbed her nose, "So I went and landed there, turned the place upside down. And aye, it was the real thing. It's that nonce Nansen's outpost, on the ridge of a mountain."
The table was so quiet Richard swore he could hear the Wall Drills rumbling in the distance.
Israel Bankes shot out of his chair, sending it clattering onto the ground, "What did you say!?"
"Nansen- you rem'ber 'im?" she slurred, "The bugger who up and left with his lads to track the Storm and whatnot. And when John went'a rescue 'im he found that the dumb bitch went towards the Storm."
"We are well aware who Doctor Nansen is, Miss Hammer," Miss Bird held her notebook - which had been returned to her - firmly in hands. Too firmly, for her knuckles were white as freshly fallen snow, "Where exactly did you find his Storm Watch?"
"O'er the river, like I said," Elisabeth rubbed her eyes, "I drew it in me notebook. Hah! Who's the ungodly thing now?"
Richard snatched the notebook from the table and shuffled through it, finding detailed recordkeeping and scribbled maps worthy of a drunk woman flying an airship - until he reached the last used page. It was an outline of the route the Bitter Countess took in the style of a linear itinerary map, with all the notable landmarks and features annotated in detail. He passed it on to Miss Bird.
"MacLachlan," Richard knitted his fingers together, "Outfit a team to establish an outpost at Nansen's Storm Watch. I will have regular airlifts be sent to the outpost for supply."
"Can do."
"Mister Edye, Miss Hammer, prepare all your squadrons," the two skippers sat upright, even Hammer, "We must find out exactly how much had been transported with us by this act of God. Search for Tesla City, search for Winterhome, anything that does not belong."
"What of this Wall that Mance Rayder mentioned?"
"From his demeanour, I do not believe it to be terribly near us. Until we can secure our surroundings, let us not get ahead of ourselves."
"Aye, Capt'n."
"Mister MacLachlan, I want you to head south and find this Stirling Pass. If you encounter natives, stay well clear of them. Richman, I do not expect new guests so soon, but keep an open eye. Wren, Jenkins, Bankes you have your own duties."
"Understood, sir"
"We are in an unknown land now, ladies and gentlemen," Richard met the eyes of every single soul at the table, "And we must keep our wits about us. The fate of New London depends on it. The fate of the British Empire depends on it. If that is all…"
Elizabeth Hammer was the first to stand, already making for the door.
"Miss Hammer," Isabella called out, "I would like to borrow your journal-"
"Aye aye," she responded without looking back as she left, "Just return it before my next sortie."
One by one, the ruling council of New London disappeared through the threshold, until only three remained.
"Need something, John?"
John MacLachlan waited until the last back went out of sight, before speaking, "Sir, with Nansen's Storm Watch found… well, isn't there the chance that more Generator Sites have been transported?"
That could very well be, Richard mused, for he could name a number of Sites that were established on Spitsbergen apart from them. New London was never able to contact them however, before the Great Storm hit the city.
"I have a sister, you see," he continued, "Her name's Effie- Euphemia MacLachlan, also of the Imperial Exploration Company."
"You want to know if the city she was sent to could have arrived with us," he surmised.
"Yes sir," MacLachlan replied truthfully, "I believe she was assigned to the HMS Hercules… you wouldn't know where it was bound for, do you?"
That's right, only the captains of the land dreadnoughts were given privy to such sensitive information. Queen Victoria herself met with every single one of them to lay upon the honours of such a charge. The refugees and even the crews of each dreadnought would haven't a clue of their destination until they arrived.
HMS Hercules… the captain of that ship was one Jules Morgan, a close friend of his from the Royal Naval Academy.
"...Site One-One-Three, if I have the right to it. New Liverpool, I believe it was named."
"What turn of luck," MacLachlan muttered, "She helped build that Generator. Was it on Spitsbergen, by any chance?"
Highly unlikely. Parliament had mandated that the IEC separate their Generator Sites by a fixed minimum distance, so as to not place all their eggs in one basket. Richard Aynesworth frowned, combing through old memories of a lost time. He remembered that map of the Arctic, unfurled by the Queen's own hand, and all the insignificant dots littering the paper - the arks that would harbour the last remnants of the British Empire.
Site 113, Site 113, Site 113.
"Some spit of dirt on the southern coast, I cannot recall the name rightly," he answered, and John MacLachlan visibly deflated.
"I pray for her well-being," Richard offered, "So I do for all men in these times."
"...Aye, thank you sir."
Richard Aynesworth's gaze tracked MacLachlan's back as he left the council room. The chamber settled into a silence, leaving the dull hum in the air that was ever-present in New London. He tapped the table to fill the quiet, staring off towards nothing. Richard sighed deeply, something he seems to be getting into the habit of.
"Bollocks," he finally decided.
"God help us all," Miss Bird agreed.