The Sunken (42 page)

Shaking his head in a vain effort to dislodge the voices, he searched the shed for the tools he needed. “Hurry!” he yelled at Peter. “Grab shovels and wood.”

Like any furnace, the Boilers needed a long time to heat up to full capacity. Luckily, Brunel had ordered that several be kept stoked up constantly at a low temperature, in case they were needed for an urgent job. Forty-five units lined the sloping metal belts in front of the coal pit, steam rising from their twin chimneys and snaking along the iron rafters. The shed held a further two hundred Boilers, a number that had never made Nicholas feel uneasy until he was forced to look into the rows of their unseeing faces. Shoving his hands into thick gloves, Nicholas flung open the belly of the first Boiler and began to shovel in more coal.

As the flames climbed higher, licking the edges of the belly, he slammed the door shut, pumped the injector, and set the dials at the back to send the Boiler to furnace room B. With a lurch, the machine set off across the workshop and disappeared down one of the specially constructed Boiler shafts. Peter’s unit soon followed it.

He flung open another Boiler and began tossing the coal inside. Bringing them to heat so quickly put intense pressure on their iron bellies — and Nicholas saw a crack appear, radiating out from the hinge of the firebox door. He slammed the door shut, grabbed Peter by the collar, and pushed him to the ground, flattening his body on top of the priest as the Boiler skidded toward the shaft, sparks streaming from the crack along its belly.

After an hour of shovelling his hands were raw and bloody, his face soaked with sweat from staring into the flames, and his eyes screwed shut against the soot and debris. But worst of all, his head throbbed as a different kind of fire consumed it. The sound of so many animals, caught in so much pain, burnt the sides of Nicholas’ skull.

They sent all forty-five Boiler units down to the furnace rooms. A team of Navvies, the sleeves of their dress uniforms rolled up past the elbows, arrived and got to work firing up the cold units. Nicholas tossed aside his gloves and walked outside. The lights were back on, and the familiar vibration of the earth under his feet told him the pumps were working again.

Walking back toward the Chimney, he met Isambard, dressed in the robes of his priesthood and surveying the lit-up streets with satisfaction. He waved Nicholas over to him.

“You did it,” he said. “The pressure is back down to normal, and the fire in C is being dealt to.”

“The Boilers did it,” said Nicholas. Isambard laughed.

“Isambard, is it safe to go down?”

Brunel nodded, his attention diverted by Peter, who was dragging him back toward the Chimney. Nicholas heard trumpets, and could see the King’s carriage — bedecked in flowers and followed by a regiment of Royal Guards — entering the gates of the Ward. He had only a little time before he had to be at the sermon. He located a nearby entrance to the underground tunnels and clambered down the stairs.

He headed straight for Pump Deck F, located directly below the Boiler workshops.
If the voices came from anywhere, they must have come from there,
he reasoned. As he climbed lower, their intensity increased. He could still not pick out individual animals, but could discern different species — an unceasing cacophony of rodents and compies and even — were those
pigeons
— all in excruciating pain, and all pounding at his skull, calling for help, for freedom.

The fire doors were shut. He rammed them open with his shoulders, and barged into the furnace room, not sure what he expected to see, but anticipating a horror that must accompany the pain of the voices.

But as he slammed open the door to Pump Deck F, he was confronted with something quite different. There was not an animal in sight.

Boilers crowded the tiny space, each one doing the work of five men, stoking and firing and checking the pressure gauges, watching with unseeing eyes as the beam engines creaked and swung through their rotations, adding water to the condensers. Nicholas peered under their feet, watching for the skitterings of compies between their skids. He checked every corner of the room, watching for shadows along the pipes that ran the length of the room, but he could find nothing.

I’m going mad,
he thought, pressing his palms against his temples. The voices assailed him, calling through their pain ’till he could take no more, and fled back up the tunnel. He stumbled through the fire door, pushed it shut behind him, and whirled around as another wave of pain shot through his head. More voices, more animals crying out in agony. But where did they come from?
Where?

His legs gave way and he slumped to the floor, his hands clawing at the iron grating.
What’s happening to me? Is the sense somehow broken?
The animals didn’t answer, of course. They only sang their sorrows louder, the pain slicing across his temples.

He thrashed about, his hands clamped on his skull, reality and his nightmares becoming one. Sweat poured down his face, and somewhere in his torture he heard himself calling to Aaron, as if by some miraculous occurrence he might be hiding nearby, and would understand his distress and come to him, say that he too heard the voices so deep within the iron, and offer a logical, rational explanation. One that didn’t lead to the most obvious conclusion — that Nicholas was going mad.

But Aaron didn’t come. Alone in the darkness, Nicholas lost himself. Hours may have passed, or days, but to him they were but one unending spiral of torture.

Hands grabbed him under the arms. Someone lifted him to his feet. He slumped, falling again. More hands steadied him, and voices, real
human
voices, called him back from a dark place.

“Here you are,” Buckland said. “Brigitte was worrying herself sick about you.”

“I should be preparing for the sermon, not chasing after wayward architects.” Brunel pulled Nicholas’ arm over his shoulder and began dragging him back toward the entrance. “Nicholas, is something the matter? You look in a dreadful state.”

“You were calling for Aaron.” Buckland had Nicholas’ other arm over his shoulders. “That was how we found you.”

He felt tempted to tell them the truth, but he remembered hanging over the edge of the church pulpit with Isambard’s hands clasped on his throat. He remembered struggling for breath and seeing the Presbyter’s face contorted with — what? Not anger, but a kind of serene indifference. No, he wanted Isambard to remain in the dark about the voices — just in case. Besides, telling Isambard meant revealing Aaron’s secret, and that wasn’t right by Aaron.

“I’m fine,” he managed. “I was looking for Aaron … worried about him, and I must’ve … tripped and fallen ….”

“The church is filling with people, and the King has settled on his balcony. Your woman is waiting for you, and I wanted to see your face as I read my sermon,” said Brunel. “You picked a fine time to run off on a fool’s errand.”

“So you haven’t found Aaron?”

Isambard shook his head. “Let him hide. After tonight, I have no use for Aaron, or the Stokers.”

It was strange being down in the tunnels and not feeling the ache of an evening’s work in your shoulders or the blast of hot air across your face. Down this deep there were hardly any animals, save the worms in the ground and an occasional wayward compie. Aaron’s mind felt clear.

He hoped the clarity would last, for the lights and machines would’ve ceased working in Engine Ward, and that familiar hum under the streets had changed to an erratic shudder. Isambard would know by now what he had done, and Aaron wondered nervously what his response would be.

His thoughts were interrupted by a tap on the shoulder. He turned to see a man, about Quartz’s age, with thin grey hair and a face scarred by burns. “Excuse me, sir. I don’t mean to bother you, but I’ve just come from the central boilers. The pressure is still unstable in room C.” The man paused, as if he were debating something in his mind. After a few moments, he said: “I know we’re meant to be on strike, Mr. Williams, but I’d hate for all those people up there to burn, an’ it be my fault n’ all.”

Aaron agreed. He sent William Stone and two other men back up to check on things. “If it’s critical, I want you to bring the pressure down to under one-sixty. But you’re to touch nothing else. It’s Isambard’s responsibility now.”

William nodded, and raced away. Chloe nestled up against him.

“Some of the women wish to sleep now,” she said. “The children are beginning to fuss. I’ve sent them all to K magazine with orders to send the men back here, but you’ll want to have some men keep watch.”

He embraced her, pulling her to him, and pressed her warm hands tight against his chest. “Thank you,” he said, his voice cracking. “Thank you for everything.”

They sat in silence, holding each other, for several minutes. Chloe said, “I’m scared, Aaron. I don’t feel safe down here.”

“It’s the safest place we have. We’re Stokers, if we leave the Ward and go out into London, who do you think will hide us? We’re much safer in our own tunnels, where we know every secret place and every—”

Above their heads, the lights flickered on. The walls gave a great shudder, and began humming again.

Aaron swore. “I told them to get the pressure back to normal and come straight back. How can we have a strike if they keep
fixing
things.”

William sprinted around the corner and collapsed against Aaron’s shoulder, his breath coming out in ragged gasps.

“What are you
doing?
” Aaron yelled. “You were only meant to check the pressure, not get all the lights—”

“Boilers,” huffed William. “Boilers … took over. They’re manning the Engine Room … and repairing the furnaces …”

“Who’s operating them? Who set their controls?”

“No one … I can’t see … I don’t know.” William covered his face with his hands. “There’s no one there.”

Aaron bolted from his chair. Chloe grabbed at his shirt sleeve, but he wrenched himself away and stomped down the corridor.

The sight that greeted him turned the rage in his veins to ice. Three Boilers blocked the gangways running across the Engine Room, steam curling from their smoke stacks as they opened the firebox doors, shovelling coal inside, and watched the pressure gauges with unseeing eyes.

Everything I feared is coming true.

To keep the Engine Ward running in the absence of the Stokers, to ensure his sermon went ahead without delay, Brunel had done what he promised Aaron he would
never
do — he’d given the Boilers men’s jobs. And Aaron could already see that they were better than the Stokers could ever hope to be — three units were doing the work of eight men, and they were
fast
— their hose-like arms stretching and bending in ways no human could ever dream of. They would never need food, never get tired, never make mistakes.

They are the perfect workers, and I’ve just given Brunel the chance to prove it. Everything we’ve achieved today has been for naught
—
the Stokers have been replaced.

It was standing room only inside the Chimney, as engineers, Council members, and the high society of London jostled for space. Women decked out in their finest clothing and weighed down by heavy jewels and clockwork parasols huddled together in tight circles, their mouths moving like steam-driven pistons as they shared the latest gossip. The whole room throbbed with anticipation.

The doors had been shut and bolted, for outside thousands of people crowded the streets, corralled behind barriers by the constables but clambering over each other for a good spot. Isambard had rigged two giant gramophones to project the sermon over the whole of Engine Ward, and it seemed every man, woman, and child in the whole of England had turned out to hear the Presbyter speak.

Sandwiched between Buckland and Brigitte, who had not let go of his arm since he’d returned, Nicholas watched Oswald and Peter — the hems of their robes stained with peat from the swamps — make the final preparations on the altar. Isambard had disappeared up into his pulpit, that iron platform suspended fifty feet over the congregation. He wanted to make an entrance.

Nicholas scanned the crowd for Aaron, but could not see him anywhere. He saw Robert Stephenson — the man who’d spoken to him most peculiarly beside the Wall yesterday — as he took his place of honour beside the other Messiahs at the front of the church. His retinue followed behind him, Navvies all dressed in their formal coats, pushing the lesser dignitaries and their wives toward the back of the room. Nicholas watched them filing past, his gaze flicking over all the faces in the room, looking for Aaron.

Wait, it can’t be
—

His stomach churned, and he jerked his head down so hard his neck cracked. Heart thumping against his ribs, he shuffled closer to Buckland and dared a peek across the room.
Has he seen me?

The man hadn’t turned around. Behind the altar, Peter turned a handle, and the lamps dimmed. The crowd fell silent; the only sound the shuffling of feet and someone coughing. Nicholas leaned over further, watching the man as he faced the altar, his head bent towards Stephenson as though they whispered to each other.

It can’t be. It simply cannot be.

There was meant to be a choir of Stoker boys to begin the ceremony, but Nicholas guessed their mothers had dragged them down into the tunnels to join the strike, so instead the crowd watched in silence as Joseph Banks rolled the King behind the altar, the squeaking wheels of his chair echoing through the vaulted room. The King wore a turban of silk scarves, entwined together like coiled snakes, that covered his entire head. More scarves were wrapped around his hands, so none of his skin was visible.

“Let us pray,” he said, in his heavy, clear voice. He bowed his head, and so did everyone in the room, and he spoke the prayers to the Gods of Industry, his voice never wavering, his fingers clutching the arms of his chair like talons, twisting and contorting as he recited the ritual. Nicholas watched one of the scarves slip, and he saw the leather straps around the King’s wrists.

The room seemed searingly hot to Nicholas, and beads of sweat rolled down his neck. He dared to shift his gaze from the King back to the figure, whose head was still inclined toward Stephenson. The King’s voice — rising as his prayer grew more fervent — faded in Nicholas’ mind, replaced by the frantic beating of his heart.
Maybe it’s not him. Maybe I’m mistaken.