Year of our Lord 1887
Richard scrutinised the front page of the newspaper for a long while.
BARBARIANS ATTEMPT TO MURDER MAYOR
The article dominated the page, drawing gaze to the photograph at the centre - of the savage Lord of Bones standing on the stage, lifting Hewett's head above. A murderer killing a murderer. The article harped on about how New London had welcomed these uncivilised wildlings with open arms, and how they repaid that favour by attempting to kill the Captain. It was a grandiose words and hot steam, waxing poetic of how the Home Guards skillfully put down the riot with minimal casualties.
All highlighted by the photograph - a grisly image that stirred up emotions indeed. Richard hadn't even known Mister Wren had arranged photographers at the scene, and from the perspective of the shot, he hadn't even an inkling of where the photographer was located. It was quality, nonetheless.
What wasn't quality, however…
Richard threw the paper onto his desk, sitting up. The muffled sounds of hammering and welding filtered through the insulated walls - they were working around the clock to combine the two adjacent houses together and knocking down the walls between to create the City Hall. Now that the worst was over, they had the luxury to start thinking of their long-term future. The City Hall would be the first step to re-introducing normalcy to New London.
He pursed his lips, waiting for a break in the drilling din.
"Explain yourself," Richard raised his head, "First Lieutenant Havelock."
"Sir!" Havelock saluted sharply, his armband wavering, "We had not expected the Lord of Bones to act so indecently. He attempted to rile up the free folk, and I considered it a safer option to interrupt him."
"By firing upon innocents," Richard steepled his fingers, "Women, and children."
Second Lieutenant Barton glanced at his superior nervously, a drop of sweat running down his cheek. He was a younger man, with only a thin slip upon his upper lip and the beginnings of a goatee. Barton swallowed, his apple bobbing.
"Sir!" Havelock protested, "They are… with all due respect, sir, Mister Rayder has warned us that this Lord of Bones is a charismatic fellow. People follow him. With the situation as it was, there was a real possibility he may have succeeded at turning them against us!"
"You were ordered to diffuse the situation, Lieutenant!" Richard slammed his his fist on the table, "Not cause a massacre! Miss Jenkins, what are your numbers?"
Amelia Jenkins crossed her arms, "Fifty-eight free folk, thirty-one casualties; twenty confirmed dead, eleven in triage. Fourteen guardsmen, fourteen casualties; six confirmed dead, eight in triage. A lot of good men are going to be half-machine, once we are through."
"You hear that, Lieutenant?" he demanded, "That's twenty-six bodies you have deprived us of. Twenty-six able bodies, working hands! Do you think men grow in the bloody hothouses!?
"Sir-!"
"Second Lieutenant Barton," Richard turned his head, "Tell me, lad. What happened?"
Barton wetted his lips, eyeing his superior anxiously. Havelock had sealed his lips tightly, and was glaring a great hole into the window over Richard's shoulder. The Generator was in sight, there, as were the centregrounds that had been swiftly cleaned up. The wildlings hadn't the honour of being buried in the city's cemetery, so they were being held in repose for visitation until the next harvest. Then their bones would be used as fertiliser.
"...We came down with the jitters, sir," he sucked in a breath, "It was all going to Hell. We knew something like this would happen, but we didn't think… when First Lieutenant Havelock ordered us to forego non-lethal force, none of us disagreed."
"The jitters, is it?" he met their eyes, challenging them, "First Lieutenant Havelock, if I recall rightly, you were one of the Buffs."
Havelock jolted to attention, "Yes sir!"
"You were a deserter," Richard stated bluntly, "You fled your post and snuck yourself onto my ship. And I let you stay because you were an army man, and I needed army men to keep order. When the Home Guards were formed, I charged you with them because you were the most experienced of us. Tell me, Lieutenant, why did I give you command of the Guards if you would allow them to become so undisciplined? Why did you, a veteran, let your nerves conquer your good sense?"
He let them stew in the silence. Richard knew the answer - they all did - but he wanted the man to admit it. Barton had suddenly found the floor most peculiar, scrutinising it in a way that reminded him of the time Mister Bankes had to inform him that two of the Bellorophon's steam cores had reached the end of their life. Lieutenant Havelock grinded his teeth, scowling over his shoulder.
Richard stood up, and forced him to meet his face.
"Well?"
"I was overhasty… sir," Havelock spat out at last.
"I do not fault zeal, Lieutenant," he tapped the table, "I fault carelessness. I fault negligence. You are hereby stripped of your rank-"
"Sir!" Havelock snapped to attention, his body going as rigid as a board, "I take full responsibility for the actions of myself and my men. Please, sir, I beg you to reconsider!"
"You are hereby stripped of your rank," Richard repeated, stressing each word, "And discharged. Second Lieutenant Barton, you are hereby promoted to First Lieutenant. Havelock, please confine yourself to your quarters until further notice. Rest assured, this mistake will not be the end of you. You may leave your sword and armband behind."
Havelock clenched his fists, and Richard moved to grab his revolver under the desk. He met the disgraced man's eyes, and stared him down, daring him to act out. At last, the man unfastened his baldric and tore off his armband, before placing his effects on the desk.
Richard stood up as the two men saluted, and he returned the gesture.
"You may excuse yourselves."
The now-First Lieutenant Barton swivelled on his heel and marched out the room, and Havelock silently followed suit. After they stepped through the threshold, Miss Bird and Engineer-Captain Bankes allowed themselves to enter the room. Richard shared a glance with the now-Surgeon-General Jenkins, before slumping into his seat and releasing a great big sigh.
The inconspicuous red-and-black strip of cloth caught his attention, fraying at the edges where it was hastily ripped off. He reached out with a grunt, picking it up and inspecting the cog-and-fletching knitted into the design.
"The Order was founded to maintain law in the streets," he commented, throwing it back on his desk, "Now it has become a bloated corpse of an institution. Now they seem to think that they rule New London, rather than maintain rule of law. They have forgotten their purpose, those thugs and strongmen."
"That is only a small proportion of them, Richard," Miss Jenkins said with all too uncomfortable informality of hers, "Only the zealots with these hideous devices to worry about. Even that infernal skunk Wren doesn't wear this bull."
"How infected do you think the Home Guard is?" he mused.
"At least a third prance about with these devices," Israel Bankes pinched the tattered rag and held it up as if it was a foul sock, "Though that number is growing, after the Bobbies' little show."
"They will be a problem we must strangle at birth," Richard said grimly.
"The Home Guards are not professionals, though briefly trained," Miss Bird huffed, "Their officers may be, but not the soldiers. So long as the officers are made aware of this zealotry and do not compromise themselves… besides, the Scouts and the Hunters are professionals. And they are thoroughly detached from these workings."
"Indeed," Richard sighed, "It is as you say. Currently, nearly all of them are abroad. If the Order tries anything-"
Amelia Jenkins scoffed, "You churlish Brits. We do not have the luxury of all this dallying. If the Order has forgotten their duty, remind them. Their bigwigs are all commissioned officers aren't they? Stop treating them with silk gloves, treat them as they are; a military. If there is indiscipline, beat it out of them."
"I must concur with Miss Jenkins," Miss Bird scowled coldly, "There is no excuse for this meaningless slaughter. The soldiers who carried it out must be held as accountable as the man who ordered them. We must not expect the Lord to act on our behalf. Speaking of which…"
"You should assign Havelock to the Bitter Countess," Bankes scratched his nose, "Miss Hammer has absolutely no patience for shibboleth. Nor does her crew. They will beat the stars out of him."
"Miss Hammer is overseeing Outpost Eleven," Miss Bird set down a file, "This man must be made an example of. Such gross negligence cannot be made to stand! How will we face the Lord and His Son in heaven otherwise!?"
"Are you suggesting we execute him, Bird?" Jenkins pushed herself off the windowsill, "I never thought I'd see the day."
"There will be no executing anybody," Richard snapped, "Not for sake of morality or goodliness, but because we do not have the luxury of wasting lives. The Boreal Maiden is berthed for resupply, is she not? I hear Miss Dean commands her vessel with military propriety, and strict discipline. It will be better if he is out of the city as well, considering how the wildlings would want him dead."
"If any more wildlings come," Bankes said mildly, "The only reason why the survivors haven't left yet is because half their number is under the knife and the other half are their families. And if more come, they may hear from the survivors and decide to leave."
Richard dismissed the issue, "There is a horde of eighty-thousand a stone's throw away. We simply need to convince them to come here."
"I feel like that is easier said than done," Jenkins coughed.
"I think otherwise," Richard knitted his fingers together, "Mister Rayder brought an innumerable amount of souls into these inhospitable mountains for a reason. They are desperate - there is no other reason to risk such an unsound undertaking. They need something, that much is clear. I will gamble that we have that something; food, warmth, and shelter."
"They know that as well," Miss Bird pointed out, "It is why Mister Rayder is taking good care to keep himself in our graces, by informing us of the Bones fellow in advance. And yet, he himself is not moving. That can only mean they are searching for something more… specific. Something they can only find there."
Richard leaned back in thought. It made sense. But he had a plan indeed, for the best manner of compromise is one that benefits all parties.
"Engineer-Captain Bankes," he said, "How goes our expansion projects?"
Israel Bankes snapped to attention, "Our third outpost depot is complete, our fourth well underway. Both have larger elevators that can lift automatons. The street plans for the Outer Boroughs are in the finalisation stage. With less automatons needed for coal, we are adapting some for construction and lifting purposes."
"Our airships?"
"Two cargo airships have been completed, over twice the size of our flying hunters," he reported, "Our third… it will take some time."
"And why is that?"
"We are still working out the kinks in our hydrogen plant, sir. We need to optimise the electrolysis process - the separation of hydrogen from water, I mean, sir."
"I see…" Richard hummed, "These hydrogen airships are a priority of ours, especially due to the Wayfarer Squadron's discovery. Keep up the good work, and the rest?"
"Good progress has been made on Outpost Eleven, Twelve, and Thirteen," Bankes reached for the table and flipped open the file Miss Bird had placed down, "But all three will be impotent without this project, the railway."
The engineer spun the file around and pushed it under Richard's eyes. It was to be called the Frostfang Valley Line, with its central station at New London. An ambitious project indeed, with plans to carve out a railway through and over the mountain range. It will reach all three outposts, and can be expanded even further once more sites are found.
And most importantly, the railway will run straight through the location Mance Rayder had settled his people. Richard smiled thinly.
"Do we have a name for our new airships?" he asked.
"The Intrepid and the Valiant, sir."
"Their maiden voyage will also serve as their shakedown," Richard ordered, "Fill them with offerings of good nature - coal, food, clothes - and assign them to Miss Dean. It is our turn to court Mister Rayder and his fellows."
"Margaret Dean…?" Miss Jenkins seemed to test the name on her mouth, "Are you certain?"
"I have spoken with her before," he said, "She seems the most amicable of the airship captains, compared to the likes of Edye and Hammer."
"Ah…" she scratched the back of her head, "Margaret Dean is the kind of person who keeps her work and personal lives very separate. She's a sharpshooter, Richard, and all sharpshooters are either unfeeling bricks or utterly mad. Dean is a bit of both."
"Then tell her to treat being nice as work," Richard covertly stretched his back, feeling his spine pop and shiver, "Madmen and liars make the best diplomats anyway."
With finality in his tone, the discussion was over. Miss Jenkins and Miss Bird made to leave, but Israel Bankes remained behind, shifting as he eyed the two women. Richard leaned back in interest, and when the door was closed with a creak, Bankes immediately slammed his palms on the desk and leaned over it.
"Sir," he half-whispered, as if still afraid he could be heard, "I have some concerns about these wildlings…"
"If it is the possibility that stir up more trouble," Richard replied, "Then that is the reason we are building their homes outside the Pit, excepting the lack of space."
"I know, sir," Israel sighed, "I am the one overseeing the expansion of our power infrastructure - all the cables and pipes in the walls are my doing. What I'm saying is; we do not have the manpower to enforce the law. And, well, considering our railway station has to be built outside the Pit…"
Richard rested his cheek on his fist, pursing his lips. That was an issue lingering in the recesses of his mind, indeed - and though he did have ideas including automatons and airships, both were far too expensive an endeavour. Not to mention, automatons require steam cores, and Outpost 11 has not quite been established yet.
He inspected the engineer's face, and realised the reason Bankes was bringing the issue to his attention.
"What do you suggest, then?" he asked lowly.
Bankes cautiously reached for the file and peeled away the railroad plans, revealing another design underneath. Richard rose from his seat, curiosity spilling from his eyes as he absorbed the information on the page.
"When the Automaton Committee drafted the initial designs for autonomous machines," Bankes started, "They also realised the problem of manpower. Not to mention, the Home Islands were falling to chaos as well. Mass riots, desertion in the ranks of the Household Divisions… so they designed these; the mechanised lancers."
Richard Aynesworth recognised the machines. If the automatons were towering, lumbering giraffes and elephants, then the lancers were slim, sleek cats. Four limbs, but the similarities ended there. They stood low to the ground, only as tall as a man compared to the storeys the automatons lorded over. His eyes were inevitably drawn to the brutal lance attached to their bodies that lended them their moniker, and he was reminded of the blood that awashed the streets of London and Portsmouth. The bodies torn apart by unfeeling beasts of steel, of men and women fleeing before monsters whose orders could not be changed, it all lingered in his mind's eye.
There was no trial run for the mechanised lancers - there was no time for it - so their maiden tests had them baptised in the blood of Great Britain. From a pragmatic standpoint, the machines were undeniably effective. But Richard could only remember the faces of terror as he watched from the safety of the Bellerophon - and he could have only resigned at the thought that, perhaps, if there was no Great Frost, these fantastic inventions could have been used against the enemies of the Empire instead.
For all their technology, these machines were from a more antiquated, unenlightened time - more akin to antediluvian knights than a proper, civilised policing force.
"We can modify them for construction purposes too," Bankes pushed, "They don't need steam cores or ammunition, only steam hubs to refuel. They are much cheaper, too, and with all our designs, we only need a production line."
Miss Bird and Miss Jenkins would never accept this proposal, and it was a surprise Bankes was even able to sneak the design into the file. They had a woman's heart, one that would never understand the necessity of hard choices such as this. Isabella Bird especially, who was a keen supporter of indigenous peoples - such as the Ainu and the Manchus - and a devout Christian. If she ever found out about this… but it was necessary. Better waste a hundred primitive lives than that of another good man of New London.
It would also mean they would no longer have to rely on the increasingly problematic Brotherhood of Order.
"What do you need?" Richard asked at last.
"Our current factory is streamlined for automaton and prosthesis production," Bankes said, "We need a new factory, a new production line."
Richard bit his cheek, "There are two defunct child shelters between the pub and the factory. Dismantle them and fabricate a new industrial plant - not only for these lancers, but for guns and munitions as well."
What he meant was clear; disguise the production of lancers as ordinary materiel.
Israel Bankes grinned, clearly pleased, "Aye sir! I'll see it done."