Year of our Lord 1887
For the first time since the first founding of the Order, the red-black banners of the dastardly institution were stricken from the towers and walls.
Before the Home Guards were officially created, peace was enforced in the streets by the Watchmen - neighbourly men and women who volunteered to patrol the streets and keep them safe from delinquents and gangsters. Afterwards, however, they were disbanded. But now, the Watchmen were on the streets again - like-minded people who had enough of the Order's callousness.
Richard watched from the upper floor of the City Hall as the Watchmen heaved on two chains, lifting a massive steel cross onto the face of the Generator. Metal prods extended from the Generator radially, long at the bottom and steadily tapering in length to the top, all bedecked with anything the New Londoners thought valuable. From furs to shiny metals found in the mines to brilliant glowworms, the artificial Christmas tree at the heart of New London stood grand and tall, larger than any pine or fir.
A pastor was delivering a sermon from the Execution Platform, and the faithful listened attentively. From Christmas Eve to New Year's Day, there wasn't to be a single hour of work. An entire sennight of recess - and it was a saddening thought that even this measly break was considered a relief to New London. All the more reason to treasure it, he supposed. With this, the massacre a few days past would gradually fade from memory.
Richard cast his gaze to the outskirts of the centregrounds, where the Watchmen and the Guards were standing face to face in a terse stand-off. There was no real heat behind it, however, as it was only a show for the sake of it. Not a single one of either side wore an Order armband, thank the Lord, for Christmas' timely reminder of the good Faith has struck deep into their senses.
This was no time for conflict - they were all united by God.
It was why the Brotherhood of Order had seen to take down their banners, as a gesture of goodwill in this hallowed hour.
Our Father, Who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name.
The prayer rang out, a chorus of a hundred voices filling the great bowl that was the Pit, like an overflowing wine cup.
Thy kingdom come; Thy will be done on earth as it is in Heaven.
Snowflakes danced in the light, the winds an icy serenade, like the Lord's angels come to knit their voices with that of men.
Give us this day our daily bread; and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us; and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.
A layer of frost covered the windows as snow did the streets and rooftops, pure and unstained - and unmelting. Richard had never seen it before, not since the hellishly cold nights of the Frostlands. The heat of New London has always melted the snowfall before it could reach the ground, but not this time. The Generator had been shut down for the first time since the Ninth of October, when Richard himself had led the first eighty men into the Pit. The automatons have fallen silent, stony statues frozen in time. It was a new, fresh page for New London, heaven-given by the Lord's grace.
It was all quiet, the last vestiges of the Old World in solemn prayer.
He resolved to not waste away the miracle they were given.
The pastor lifted a loaf of bread and cup of wine, and the children rose to grab the pallets to distribute the Lord's Supper. After every person in the mass had their elements, the children dispersed into the streets of the city to knock on every door and window - there wasn't to be a man or child going hungry tonight. Richard could even see some of the free folk standing near the edges observing the Communion with hesitant curiosity - only surprised when a wee girl skipped up to them offering a tray of bread and drink, lichen laurels woven into her hair.
He turned back to his table, and picked up his own elements. When they ate the leavened host, so did he, and when they consumed the sacramental wine, so did he.
There was a soft thud as Henry Wren placed his cup on the table.
"It is time, sir," he said quietly.
"Not yet," Richard shifted anxiously, glancing out to the outpost depots, "The courier Outpost Twelve promised us have not arrived yet."
Mister Wren crossed his arms and gazed out the window, searching the faces among the dispersing mass leaving the pastor's sermon. Some had stayed behind to enjoy the rare snowfall, casting themselves back to more peaceful days, raising forts and men of snow and flinging balls at each other in laughter.
He wondered if all their men beyond the London Bridge were giving time to themselves, too. They should be; a radio transmitter had been fitted to the Beacon, sending far-reaching signals to the array of radio towers spanning the mountain range. It was Christmas, it was Sabbath. Their first in a long age. Work may as well be a sin.
Richard stood up at last, and began making his way to the common space downstairs - now converted into the new Legislative Assembly of the City Hall. The Assembly took the space afforded to it by the two adjacent houses - the walls betwixt knocked down - and a long steel table spanning the length. There were no chairs or seats, for there wasn't the room for it.
Richard and Wren had been the last to arrive, it seemed, for the newly formed Assembly was all present.
Isabella Bird and Fanny Butler, Amelia Jenkins and the officers of her Medical Corps. The commanders of the Watchmen and the Guards, Charlie Richman and First Lieutenant Barton. The eleven aviation machinists standing in for their skippers abound, Israel Bankes and William Adams and Henry Bovey and all the leading engineers and minds of New London. Even in the enlarged room, it was still brimmed to the walls like a chicken pen, the musk of sweat mixing with the cool taste of melting snow.
"Someone turn off the bloody boilers," he grumbled, "I'm sweating in my knickers here."
There was a trickle of muffled laughter as the atmosphere cleared up.
"How uncouth," Miss Butler muttered, though she had to raise a white-gloved hand to her mouth anyway.
The front door was slammed open, sending a gust of freezing wind into the house. John MacLachlan stumbled through, along with his First Scouts. Their breath steamed in the cooling air, all five people clearly exhausted the bone. Their burdensome packs were still heavy on their backs, and the snow settled on their shoulders immediately began to melt in the insulated house. The last man to enter dragged a sled behind him, barely fitting through the expanded doorway.
Richard reckoned they had to power through the final leg of their return journey, to arrive in time.
MacLachlan raised a sloppy salute, his bag falling to the floor with a heavy thud.
"We heard the carols from afar," he forced out breathlessly, "Thought we were too late."
"Even the scouts've come," Richman said in surprise, "What's this, then? Captain, you summoned us all without a word - it's Christmas, and I reckon half of us here'd rather be in the pub."
"I have to be, Charlie," MacLachlan groaned, "I'm the witness on behalf of the IEC. Alvin, Bishop, get the case on the table."
The two scouts reached for the sled and lifted the great wooden case on it - as large as any dinnertop, and just as flat. Alvin's prosthetic arm whirred as it multiplied its strength, easing the weight off the two men as they heaved the crate onto the table. As they pushed it to the middle, meltwater slid off the stainless steel and dripped onto their boots.
Isabella Bird produced a stack of papers and placed them on the case as if it was a despatch box. Henry Wren retrieved another file, and arranged it opposite of the stack on the box.
"It is the Twenty-Fifth of December, the year is Eighteen-Eighty-Seven," Richard stated.
"Agreed," MacLachlan marched up the table, shedding his scouting furs and revealing his Imperial Exploration Company dress beneath. The man ran a hand through his hair in a banal attempt to tame it, as if the cold winds hadn't already frozen them solid.
"Hold on a moment," one of the artificers demanded, "What is happening here? What's with all the official-sounding hogwash?"
"We are accepting reality," Wren said simply.
A beat of silence as the table tried to make sense of the statement.
Miss Bird released an aggrieved sigh, "This land is owned by the Imperial Exploration Company, as are all the Generator Sites and their perimeters."
She gestured to the papers on the table; a royal charter awarded to the Imperial Exploration Company by the Crown. It was writ along the same vein of the charters awarded to the East India Company or the Hudson's Bay Company - defining its boundaries in the Arctic north, its rights over the employment of British nationals and convicts, and its responsibilities in cultivating and developing Generator Sites in the face of the Great Frost.
By bureaucratic technicality, they were all employees of the Imperial Exploration Company. It was why Richard Aynesworth still held himself officially as Captain. Even the Bellorophon was technically owned by the Company, and he was an employee.
"By now," Richard explained, "We are expected to receive any manner of message from Her Majesty's Government in New Birmingham. We have not. We do not know for certain why - it may be because they have not been transported to this new world with us, or because, and God forbid it; they did not survive the Great Storm. It may very well be the case that we are the last of the British Empire, and the entire Old World with it."
The boiler must have been shut down, because the cold was setting in now. Not drastically - the Housing Committee's designs were remarkably well thought out, and New London's tenement housing were insulated down to the cellars - but enough that the temperature drop was obvious.
Someone audibly huffed in disbelief.
"The IEC's royal charter expires on the Twenty-Fifth of December, Eighteen-Eighty-Seven - or in other words, today," MacLachlan crossed his arms, "The message from New Birmingham is supposed to give us orders - a renewal, or anything else. But that has not happened."
Henry Wren flipped open the file, "Of course, Parliament accepted that this could be one of the outcomes. This here is the Polar Settlement Act, passed a year ago. A copy of it was stored on every land dreadnought bound for the north. Article Four states that once the IEC's charter has been terminated, and no information is had on the status of Her Majesty's Government, this act may be triggered to grant us Dominion status, with a responsible government."
Amelia Jenkins scoffed, "What? So this entire phoney pretension is just an excuse for more bureaucracy? You fucking limeys-"
"Calm yourself, miss," Richard said seriously, "This is no longer just pretension - this is symbolic. If we trigger the Polar Settlement Act, we are recognising and accepting that the British Empire has fallen until we learn otherwise. This may not mean anything to an American, but to us…"
It meant they were officially alone, in the world. A single island of civilization in an ocean of frost and wilderness, teeming with unknown dangers. They do not know the fate of New Birmingham or New Manchester or New Liverpool or that of the Germans or the French. Should they accept the status of Dominion, they accept that New London is alone. Their own future is now fully in their own hands - and that was a far more terrifying thought than a man might admit, no matter how straightforward it sounded.
Should they ever reunite with the British Empire in some lost future, they would do so estranged.
The gravity of this decision visibly fell on their shoulders.
"All of you gathered here hold an official capacity in New London," he said, "You are decision-makers. Your actions and orders decide our society. As such, I find it fitting that it is you that decide our next action. Shall we put it to a vote?"
"Wait," someone held up an open palm, "Who is to be the Governor-General, then? You?"
"That is a foregone conclusion," First Lieutenant Barton said tersely, "Unless you have your own candidate to push forward?"
"If that is the case," Richard said softly, "Let us hear it."
Silence.
"Very well," Wren snapped, "All in favour of triggering Article Four of the Polar Settlement Act?"
A forest of limbs reached for the ceiling.
"All against?"
Every hand dropped, and not a single man or woman made to move.
"Then the act is passed," Wren officiated, "We are officially declared the Territory of New London."
"I witness this resolution on behalf of the Imperial Exploration Company, and accept it," MacLachlan said mildly.
"Pardon me," one of MacLachlan's scouts spoke up, "May I propose an amendment?"
"Luvenia," MacLachlan spun around, "What is it?"
She shifted, "Outpost Twelve is growing. While we are unearthing and repairing the Hephaestus, some of the natives in the valley had decided to join us. Is that not the same for Outpost Thirteen as well? New London cannot be expected to control everything with these mountains… so I propose that we recognise ourselves as the Confederation of New London instead."
"Like Canada?"
"Just like Canada."
"But we are not a confederation," Richard pointed out.
"A simple change will do," Wren suggested, "The United Territories of New London."
"I like the sound of that," Miss Jenkins grinned, "A vote?"
A show of hands later, and their new nation officially decided upon the United Territories of New London.
"Now that all that effect was given our time," MacLachlan reached for the box they had brought from the Hephaestus, "We open this."
After the papers were removed, the scout Alvin used his prosthesis to pry off the lid, revealing a row of brick-like tomes and two folded flags; the Union Jack, and the HMS Hephaestus' naval ensign.
"What's this?" everyone leaned over to catch a glimpse.
"Nation-building instructions and commandments," Richard said.
"Will the Jack be our flag?" Miss Butler asked, "I had imagined we no longer associated ourselves with the Empire beyond titularly."
"I propose we fly the Hephaestus' ensign as our flag," Richman suggested, "There isn't a man, woman or child in the city who does not recognise it."
"I concur," Bankes nodded, "It has never led us wrong before."
"Shall we put it to a vote?"
As the vote passed, Richard Aynesworth couldn't help but feel a star of pride twinkling in his heart.
The day was the 26th of December, in the ordained Year of our Lord 1887. The sun rose over a rosy morning, and New London was greeted by two flags flying high above the brilliantly decorated Generator - one flying higher than the other.
The lower was the Union Jack - blue, red, and white - fluttersound in the crinkling ice. It was the symbol of the United Kingdom and her Empire beyond the Seas. It told them; this was home, now. They were here to stay.
And above, was the flag that led them from the Old World to the frozen north. The flag that flew unwavering in the harshest of storms and snows, the flag that pushed them across the unforgiving sea. It was the naval ensign of the HMS Hephaestus - a snow-white field with the Union Jack in the canton, defaced by the badge of the land dreadnought. A golden gryphon, standing resplendent over the snowy fields.
The day was the 26th of December, in the ordained Year of our Lord 1887. The crowds gathered in the heart of the city, six-hundred souls teeming in the square and in the streets, watching from the rooftops and the windows.
And thus it was declared; it was a new day in the United Territories of New London. The first step towards an unknown future was taken.