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Henry Mayne ascended the throne at the age of 43.
The coronation was held at Winchester, at the great cathedral. Though shaken by recent events, thousands still flocked to the city to greet their new ruler. King Henry IX, as his first act, chose Winchester as the new capital of Britain. He opened the gates for all refugees seeking shelter and held an address to the nation, broadcasting on all channels and radio frequencies a message of hope that despite the threat of nuclear annihilation the people of the United Kingdom would endure. His power, centralized for the first time in decades, was used to unite the beleaguered survivors of the apocalypse.
Henry walled off the impact sites and detonation zones where the nukes struck. The cities, transformed into necropolises, were declared off-limits. Through this, he minimized the threat of contamination. But the poison of radiation, it changed the land.
Over time, the islands became locked in perpetual winter. The soil yielded crops and ferns twisted by the atom. Infertility grew rampant among future generations. The new era bred monsters, malformed and malevolent, to roam the wilderness while the dwindling populace huddled behind concrete walls. It was through the intervention of the Pendragon Corporation, one of many organizations to rise to prominence in the latter days of the Great War, that helped the fledgling empire from certain doom. Their technologies, revolutionary even for their time, addressed the needs of sustenance and security. Pendragon armed them with the means to combat the harsh new world and eke out a crude living through its unforgiving climate. Pendragon built the first domed habitat at Winchester, then many more around the islands. In return for its service, the corporation was given a yearly tribute of resources for its development programs. With those resources, the corporation helped build up the vital components of the kingdom's infrastructure.
For twenty years, they enjoyed relative peace. For twenty years, behind domed walls and artificial environments, Henry's people clawed their way back from the brink of extinction. And when those twenty years were done, Henry at last began the great crusade for reclamation- to tame the wastelands far from Britain's borders.
Amidst the twisted skeletons of nuclear-blasted buildings, white mounds of compressed snow and crooked highways of the Old World, sat the capital of New Britain- Winchester City. Its hyper-modern dome, held together by steel and composite barriers, stood strong against the elements. It warded off radiation, the storms and freak nuclear blizzards that assumed the fifth seat amongst the four natural seasons. For many of the survivors of the new age, the dome was their world. Shrunk down and confined within six hundred square kilometers of solid concrete and reinforced alloy bulkheads.
To address the growing dilemma of space, the hab-blocs were overhauled into stacks, which created a labyrinthine megacomplex of cramped living sectors. These were divided into six districts, and some unique subdistricts, according to their classifications:
District 1 was for administration, a place reserved for the offices of New Britain's officials and the command tower of the King. The district was located in the middle of Winchester City, with the tower as the centermost structure. District 2 was for the military, which boasted a number of facilities for training and housing members of the Royal Armed Forces, who formed the backbone of New Britain's infrastructure.
District 3 was for commerce, a long and flat series of hab-blocs filled with all manner of merchant houses and distribution centers, aimed to cater to every citizen's needs. District 4 was for all production, the largest district where the hydroponic farms, factories and foundries kept the city in working order.
District 5 was designated as Habitat, a cramped living space of towering stack-houses where most of the population of Winchester was interred. The district was divided into the Highstreet boroughs of the elite, Midstreet suburban stacks for the working class and the Lowstreet slums- where the dregs of society resided.
Finally, District 6 was exclusively Pendragon property, the corporation responsible for the construction of the dome and its maintenance. As part of a contract sealed between the Crown and the organization's enigmatic CEO, Pendragon was granted some measure of autonomy within the kingdom. This included a piece of every domed city be reserved for the corporation's continued march for progress. Every year, the hidden experiments conducted within Pendragon's underground facilities yielded a host of new and impressive machines, which improved much of the living conditions of the haggard populace. Although initially held with much scrutiny, Pendragon gained popularity by its consistency- to cater to the demands of its consumers.
Royal Constabulary airships patrolled the airspaces above the hab-blocs, while hundreds of toiling citizens scurried along the crowded walkways or substations below. Gaily colored holographic advertisements floated openly in the air, as thick as the permeating stink of human sweat and industrial oil. Neon glow from cyber-esque hardware cast a multitude of bright palettes to combat the shadowy alleys, while the cacophony of a dozen different melodies blasted from the multitude of hab-bloc speakers that hung from every stack-house.
The fatigued worker wandering the damp alleyways for a pint in some rundown drinking den after a long day, the vigilant copper standing at a street corner where he could cover every angle, the whore pacing the opposite corner as the copper to lure potential customers with her amply displayed assets, the kingsman all decked out in combat gear marching down the road to quell some sort of disturbance downtown- all common sights in Winchester City. The sprawling metropolis, a mushroom whose growth was decided by economic highs and lows instead of a singular plan, was home to more than three million people. Dozens of different cultures and ethnic groups intermix and form homogenous communities that lent a distinct look to the districts they live in.
A multilayered diversity that added a sort of flavor to the industrial mess, embodying the greatest aspect that defined the city- contrast.
But there was a disease lingering in the population, a genetic rot that came as a byproduct of the nuclear holocaust. Though Winchester's number of occupants was by no means small, infertility grew rampant amongst the second and third generation.
King Henry, the Restorer, mustered a great deal of resources to build the dome port as part of his plan to conquer the wastes. Infertility would doom his people to a slow and agonizing death. They needed new blood, a fresh start to the genetic pool. They also needed land. The port was built into the dome wall, close to the main gate separating Winchester from the outside world. With Pendragon's technologies, the Royal Engineer Corps worked night and day to put together their first VTOL heavy transporters.
The first expedition brought them as far as the shores of the English Channel, a flowing glowing green body of death that seemed to bar any progress into the outside world. But the Brits were as stubborn as they were hardy. A tunnel had been erected beneath the channel before, so the Crown ordered several to be constructed in its likeness. Those that he could spare, he gave the task of combing through the ruins to siphon from the Old World's treasures. As the years wore on, a network of routes connected the domed cities from Brighton to Liverpool. And even then, the resources required to sustain New Britain imposed a heavy need on expansion, which necessitated a new venture outside the island's former borders.
And so, the Crown turned its attention towards the French Badlands across the English Channel.
October 24, 2105
Midstreet Stacks, District 5
Winchester City
"Bloody hell..."
Garrick Carnell woke up to the crackle of fireworks and the joyous cacophony of revelers outside his home in the Stacks. Grumbling, he sat up straight and flung the blanket from his body.
It was the 25th Anniversary of the Scouring, the day the Old World ended and the harrowing dawn of the new age. All throughout the districts, citizens were joining hands in celebration. Families, friends and coworkers indulged themselves in the rare opportunity to brighten up their monotonous lives. A parade was even held, starting from District 1 to 5 to commemorate the occasion. There was much feasting, drinking, and dancing. The people were a mostly modest lot, but for occasions like this anniversary, it was a good excuse to be a little rambunctious. Garrick didn't appreciate the noise, but decided it was probably time to wake up anyway. That day was an important day, especially for him.
That day, he was going to become a knight.
A few months back, he was just a soldier in the yeomanry, a volunteer jack- as the veterans teasingly called him and his lot. Knighthood was his reward for distinguished service to the nation, which involved securing blueprints for an experimental water purifier deep in the rubble of a corporate ruin. Garrick and the lads held off a scav raiding party for two hours, outnumbered three to one, until reinforcements came. Not a single one of his fellow yeomen were killed, whereas dozens of the scavvers lay dead all over the battlefield. His successful maneuver of an otherwise deadly debacle earned him a fancy silver medal, and the gratitude of the Crown.
He'd spent the last two nights memorizing the oath to perfection, so that he would recite it before the assembled lords and ladies at the Command Tower. As he put on his freshly ironed suit and regalia, Garrick reflected on his sudden change in fortunes. As he did so, he slowly scanned the sorry state of his humble abode. A small single-roomed house sandwiched between two other houses in a single stack, reeking of desperation and other implacable fumes. Garrick supposed he shouldn't feel that bad. After all, everyone in Midstreet had the same quality of life. The best part was that he was going to get one step ahead of everyone else, and that made his chest swell with pride.
There was a photo, wedged between a cracked glass and a wooden frame, sitting on top of his nightstand. As Garrick prepared to leave, he took one last look at the happy trio posed in the picture. A younger Garrick and his parents, Mr. and Mrs. Carnell. They were firefighters, both of them. Both died of radiation burns two days after the Scouring.
The soldier's eyes lowered as he grew wistful. He stared at the final vestige of his family, reflected on brighter days when the apocalypse was the furthest from everyone's minds. He recalled the moments when he was piggybacking on his father's broad and muscular back, or tangling his tiny fingers into his mother's brown hair. At least, if he looked in the mirror, he could see a reflection of Mr. Carnell looking back at him. That mix of brown hair, pale green eyes and chiseled cheekbones.
"Oh if only you two could see me now." Garrick put on his hat and left the room, locking the door securely behind him.
He emerged into the packed streets just as the bulk of the parade reached the front of his stack. Young men in colorful suits played a plethora of shiny brass instruments, while pretty girls showed off their pretty legs with every deliberate swing of a step. Smiles all around, fake or genuine. Garrick turned to see a government car with a pair of constables waiting for him. Coppers, tasked by the Crown to escort him to the Tower. They had such fine dashing uniforms, those two coppers. The Crown outfitted the gents and ladies of the law with ballistic plating, painted with the checkered black and white with a bright yellow line at the borders. Their armor made them look as tough as the squaddies in the Army, but much more eye-catching to let the lawbreakers know they were coming. And they wouldn't be ever without their iconic custodian helmets. Even their robot companions, the ubiquitous Squire hover drones, were painted the same. The football sized drones, given flight capabilities by their twin rotor wings, weren't much in a fight. They functioned more as records-keepers and aided cops with the boring paperwork of their day-to-day.
The constables helped Garrick into the car. It wasn't long before the six-wheeled squad car, for all its swiftness, became bogged down by traffic. One of them sent the Squires ahead to open a path for the car to speed up the trip. At least the routes they were taking were scenic enough. Garrick spent most of the travel musing on the history of each notable building or construct they passed.
From the statue of King Albert at Abbey Gardens to the old Winchester Cathedral where the surviving clergy of the Anglican Church crowned Henry IX, much of the Old World was preserved within Winchester. The amalgamation between the ancient infrastructure and the new invoked a contrasting esthetic, for which the city was better known for. They passed the Monument of the Unforgotten, a monument of white marble and gold dedicated to the victims of the atomic holocaust. Its archways and obelisks lined a perfectly square area, decorated with monolithic statues depicting stalwart and unwavering representations of the unsung heroes of that horrible time. Every one of those obelisks had the names of the fallen carved artfully into them, and there were millions inscribed.
Just across the monument was a police station. A parking lot containing all the squad cars, and a motor pool for the heavier vehicles, were neatly positioned in a reversed horseshoe shape. Sentry towers with robust automated laser-turrets stood at key entry points along with the pervasive surveillance cameras, a trait of the Old World to remind the populace that the government was always watching.
The old laws concerning the bearing of arms didn't change much. Everyone except the police and the Army had to comply, although that didn't entirely mean that they were at all defenseless. Most people carried a concealed knife or foldable sword, rich folks had their ceremonial blades, fancy weapons with silver or gold decorations but sharp enough to some damage. The laws kept gun violence to a minimum, but that didn't stop incidents concerning blades. Lots of folks wound up in the ER with stab wounds.
Located on an artificial mountain, lined with a winding staircase-like arrangement of hab-blocs, was the Highstreet Boroughs. Opulent and imperial, the houses of the elite embodied the oft distant attitude of its rich residents. Far and removed from the common rabble, the boroughs were the subject of much consternation and awe. Towering skyscrapers, bustling nightclubs, med-centers with the best healthcare money could buy. Should Garrick rise above the lowest rank of a knight, he would one day have a house up there.
One could only hope and dream.
As the squad car rounded the corner, Garrick spied a convoy of bright silver armored trucks from the Pendragon corporation. They started out as most Pre-War organizations. Pendragon International was based primarily in the United Kingdom, but had business operations worldwide. Following the apocalypse, Pendragon had to limit their reach. But the corporation, as opportunistic as they come, capitalized on the needs of New Britain. Boasting a plethora of hyper-modern technologies, which the Crown heavily depended on, it was no secret that the organization played and continued to play a vital role in both the military and civilian sectors. Vehicles, appliances, and equipment bearing the corporation name were a common sight throughout the domes cities. In Winchester, even more so.
The squad car entered the district checkpoint separating District 5 from 4. Up above snaked the monorail and bullet-train tubes, supported by the steel and concrete pillars built to withstand a nuclear attack or an earthquake, which carried both passenger and produce to and from the districts. Garrick thought it would've been much quicker if he took the tube, but whoever sent the escort was one for regulations. The squad car was waved through by the soldiers manning the booths.
Once they were inside District 4, the scenery changed quickly. All around them loomed the industrial giants, the factories and foundries that the district was known for. The hydroponic farms were located underground, while the greenhouses were located at the top floors of every building. About 60 percent of the population was employed in District 4, and as the city population begat the next generation of dwellers, so did its needs. The constant hum and clamor of machinery could be heard throughout the city, for within District 4 throbbed the heart of the New World empire. Everything that the city needed, except for Pendragon produce, was constructed there. If one wanted the good stuff, they had to make the long trip to District 6, and that stuff was expensive.
Just as they entered the next checkpoint, Garrick noticed a couple of policemen chasing down a ragged man on the sidewalk. Reserving his judgement for a minute, the soldier watched the chase until the fleeing suspect tripped on a crack in the pavement. His arms flailed desperately, releasing a dozen canned goods to bounce all over the street.
Another thief looking to make a shortcut in life, probably a worker in one of the assembly lines. Garrick turned away as the coppers gave the man his deserved beating. The law was pretty strict especially at the capital, toeing the line between fairness and brutality. When one was caught stealing, it wasn't a slap on the wrist- it warranted quite the ass-kicking. As far as Garrick was concerned, if one tries a hand at thievery, might as well do it right. Not exactly a knightly virtue, just a bit of realism.
At least the idiot was going to wind up in the Penal Battalions and actually do some good for the kingdom.
The next district was a little like a stroll through memory lane. Garrick took in the familiar sight of the towering walls of the fortresses, the bunker-like barracks and the muster fields where hundreds of soldiers drilled all throughout the day. Tanks and armored cars sat idly in the motor pools and hangars, tended to by the finest engineers of the kingdom. Garrick had spent a great deal of his adult life at the military district, it almost felt like coming home. He remembered PT up and down the grounds of the muster fields, the shooting range and the specialist courses. Unfortunately, Garrick could only pass as an ordinary grunt. There was always someone much much better at stuff than him, so it was a pleasant surprise that he was a candidate for knighthood.
They passed the Correctional Megacomplex where the Penal Battalions were being prepped for a mop-up campaign, which largely involved pacification of the savage wasteland wildlife- or more commonly the fiendish raider warbands roaming the irradiated wilderness. The criminals that wounded up serving there were among the lucky ones. Most crimes, like murder or rape, were given the death penalty. Those who committed crimes of a lesser nature were forcibly conscripted into the Penal Battalions, to serve the Crown in the wastes. They were adequately equipped for the job, but were always kept on a tight leash.
"Ah finally." Garrick sighed, seeing the white concrete grand plaza beyond the boundary walls surrounding District 1.
Office complexes, looming black marble archways and administrative presidiums formed the underlying infrastructure of the nerve center of Winchester City. And in the middle stood the Tower, a symbolic amalgamation of dieselpunk and futuristic technologies courtesy of the brightest minds in the kingdom. It stood at a height of 400 meters, from base to peak. Perhaps taller and more domineering skyscrapers built in the past would've overshadowed this marvel of architectural engineering, but none of those skyscrapers stood the test of nuclear detonation. The Tower did, and the determined King saw it as an opportunity to cement its statement to the world. It was an industrial mix of black and gold, smooth in its textures and robust in its constitutions. If there was a building that embodied the hardy spirit of the Brits, this was it.
Garrick stepped out of the car and thanked the officers for the ride. He took a moment to admire the marble statues standing guard at the plaza square, the great quadfountain with the blooming cascade of a dozen different showers, the half-naked angels carved into the brass doors of the Tower entrance. When he'd finished taking in the sights, Garrick proceeded to walk the red-painted ceramic floor leading to the antechamber.
But before he could take another step, something big stomped its way across his path.
It was a Galehault assault mech. A nimble bipedal battle-rig with a smooth cylindrical cockpit for the pilot, and two tri-barreled autocannons for armaments. Model 2, to be precise. The first one was just a skeleton on stilts, functioning no more than proof of concept.
The mech lumbered off with a series of clicks, hydraulic hisses and loud thumps. Its pilot didn't even say anything to Garrick after nearly stepping on him.
The soldier shook his head and went on his way. The ceremony was a big one, with a crowd of lords and ladies, officers and decorated soldiers gathered in the great hall past the antechamber. Garrick was immediately approached by a group of attendants who bombarded him with the dos and don'ts, prepping him for the knighting should he forget and make a fool of himself on television. There, it hit the young soldier. The knighting was to be a public affair, and he realized that he didn't like the spotlight at all.
"Well...shit." The words rolled from the tongue carelessly as he looked upon the elites of New Britain. They all looked so fine in their sharp suits, bright dresses and glimmering accoutrements. And here he was, only in his ironed-out soldier's uniform.
As the fanfare played out, Garrick swallowed nervously and stuck to the script. He crossed the threshold and approached the King, who stood at the helm of his assembled honor guard of trusted knights. The monarch and his knights all wore power-armor, an American invention that managed to find its way into the hands of the country's closest allies before the apocalypse. For its rare constitution, power-armor was rare and expensive to maintain. Hence, a precious few was distributed only to the royal family and the knights of the Order of the Bastion, a knightly order created by the Crown a year after coming to power.
King Henry IX looked quite good for his age. He didn't wear a crown, but his power-armor more than made up for it. It made him look taller, tougher and with the accompanying regalia, more majestic. A lion's mane was draped across the armor's massive pauldrons, a golden chain hung from between the plates that covered his chin, while the coat-of-arms of House Windsor was proudly displayed on the tiny shield encranche on his torsal plate. A ceremonial greatsword hung from a giant belt around his waist.
The other knights had similar but uniquely decorated power-armor, etched with gold and silver markings to depict their many accomplishments. Garrick nervously knelt before the King and struggled to keep his composure as he recited his vows. It wasn't a long one, just primarily summarized into four core tenets that defined the Order.
To defend the Crown. To defend the Kingdom. To uphold justice and abhor lawlessness. To exhibit fairness, honor and loyalty. Above all, to be fearless in the face of death.
Garrick understood that to be knight in such times was not to get a better life. The comforts afforded by such a title was just a bonus. To be a knight, he would have to become a champion. To be a knight, he would have to lead in the front lines- to reclaim the lands lost to the nukes. Garrick understood all these, and the realization terrified him.
"Rise, Sir Garrick Carnell." King Henry declared, giving him a tap with his steel-wrapped hand that felt like a cold slap against the face. "Let that be the last time you let a strike go unanswered."
His power-armor was unveiled. Garrick's nervously trembling lips cracked into a proud smile as he laid eyes on that pristine fresh-off-the-assembly-line piece of hardware. All he could think was slab upon slab of pressed steel, stamped ceremoniously into each other like pancakes. His encranche was empty, for he wasn't of a noble house. But as a knight of the Order, he could have the stalward bastion painted over that little shield.
Tomorrow, he would undergo power-armor training. Tomorrow, he would take the first step on the road to greatness.
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