Unbound Horizons

[Keeper]

Chapter One

Where the World Ends

There were few places upon the western coast of Brunel that inspired less curiosity than Strumble Head.

Cartographers marked it with little enthusiasm, sailors acknowledged it only because the lighthouse prevented them from driving their ships upon the rocks, and travellers passing along the lonely coastal road rarely found reason to linger. The headland itself was bleak for much of the year, its grass cropped short by relentless Atlantic winds and the occasional sheep determined enough to call the place home. A whitewashed lighthouse stood upon the cliffs like a solitary sentinel, its lantern sweeping patiently across the dark sea each night exactly as it had for generations. Beside it clustered a handful of stone cottages whose occupants concerned themselves with fishing, tending the light and wondering why anyone would willingly choose to live somewhere less peaceful.

To every mapmaker, every passing mariner and every official in the Empire, that was all Strumble Head had ever been.

It was, in every conceivable respect, an unremarkable corner of Wales.

That was precisely how the Varr family preferred it.

For beneath the weathered stone of the lighthouse, hidden behind masonry that had not been disturbed in almost two hundred years, lay a doorway older than history itself. It possessed neither grandeur nor ornament. An unsuspecting visitor might have mistaken it for an abandoned service tunnel, had they ever been permitted to find it, but few secrets survived by advertising themselves. The heavy brass mechanisms that secured the ancient portal had been maintained by successive generations of the Varr family with almost religious devotion, not because they fully understood the craftsmanship before them, but because they understood the consequences should it ever fail.

Beyond that doorway the world simply... changed.

The damp smell of Welsh stone gave way to warm, dry air carrying the familiar scents of flowering gardens and freshly cut grass. Atlantic winds were replaced by a gentle breeze that stirred ancient oak trees lining a broad gravel drive, while overhead the grey skies of Brunel surrendered to clear blue heavens beneath which summer seemed reluctant ever to end. The transition was so immediate that newcomers invariably stopped walking, not because they feared what lay beyond, but because the mind required a moment to accept what the eyes insisted upon seeing.

This hidden realm possessed a sky of its own, a coastline of its own and an ocean that stretched towards a horizon no navigator had ever reached. Whether it represented another world, another dimension or merely an impossibly large fold in reality itself remained a subject upon which Zachary Varr refused to speculate. He had long ago concluded that the universe cared very little whether mankind understood it.

Upon the highest point of the headland stood Strumble House.

It had never overlooked the Welsh coast.

As far as the house itself was concerned, Wales did not exist.

Built from warm honey-coloured stone, its broad windows looked out across green lawns that descended towards dramatic cliffs overlooking the endless sea beyond. Ivy climbed lazily across parts of the southern façade, roses framed the terraces during the warmer months and smoke curled contentedly from tall chimneys whose fireplaces had welcomed generations of the Varr family home from journeys across worlds. It was neither a palace nor a fortress. Wealth had certainly built it, but comfort had shaped it. The result was a house that felt lived in rather than displayed; a home first and an ancestral seat second.

Beneath its foundations lay the true reason for its existence.

An enormous freight lift, cleverly concealed within the estate's oldest cellar, descended hundreds of feet through solid rock into a cavern vast enough to humble cathedrals. The first engineers who had accompanied Zach into that subterranean void had described it as impossible. The second time they saw it, they merely called it the dock.

The Unbound Horizon rested there in dignified silence.

She occupied the cavern with the effortless confidence of something that belonged. Three graceful hulls of brass, bronze and riveted steel floated above massive docking cradles, their polished pipework catching the warm glow of hundreds of electric lamps suspended from iron gantries high overhead. Steam drifted lazily from safety valves before disappearing amongst the darkness of the vaulted roof, while the occasional clang of a hammer echoed softly through the immense chamber. Workshops lined the cavern walls, each filled with lathes, presses, furnaces and machinery whose purpose could often be identified only by the person operating it. Everywhere there existed the quiet industry of skilled people engaged in work they genuinely enjoyed.

The dock possessed its own rhythm.

One learned it quickly.

A steam whistle from the machine shop announced that another casting had cooled sufficiently to be machined. Somewhere aft, a boiler inspector argued amiably with a pipefitter over the merits of replacing a perfectly serviceable valve. Crates disappeared from one end of the cavern only to reappear aboard the Horizon minutes later without anyone quite remembering who had organised their movement. Nothing appeared hurried. Nothing appeared disorganised. Yet by some unspoken agreement every task found its proper place, each completed in its own good time.

Visitors often mistook this quiet efficiency for luck.

The crew knew better.

It was simply how things had always been.

Zachary Varr himself was almost impossible to distinguish from the engineers working around him.

Had a stranger wandered into the workshop that morning, they would have searched instinctively for the owner of Varr Core Mining Company; perhaps a gentleman in an immaculate waistcoat issuing instructions from a polished office overlooking the dock. They would have searched in vain. Instead they would eventually have noticed a man kneeling beside the dismantled axle assembly of a steam survey wagon, his shirtsleeves rolled above his elbows, grease staining both hands as he patiently eased a stubborn bearing from its housing with the concentration of a watchmaker.

There was nothing theatrical about it.

He had not taken the task upon himself to impress his workforce.

The bearing simply needed replacing.

He happened to be there.

He therefore replaced it.

Those who worked alongside him had ceased finding this remarkable years ago.

Old Tom Wetherby, who had supervised mechanical maintenance for Varr Core longer than anyone could remember, wandered past carrying a crate of brass fittings and merely nodded in Zach's direction.

"Morning, Mr Varr."

Without looking up from the axle, Zach returned the greeting.

"Morning, Tom."

"Winning?"

"The bearing thinks otherwise."

Tom chuckled, shifted the crate onto one shoulder and continued on his way, entirely satisfied that if the owner of the company wished to spend his morning wrestling obstinate machinery, that was his own affair.

It was a curious thing, respect.

Zach had never demanded it.

He had simply earned it, one muddy trench, one broken excavator and one impossible expedition at a time. The men and women employed throughout Varr Core knew that should a steam shovel fail in the middle of nowhere, there existed every chance that Mr Varr himself would arrive on the next train carrying a toolbox rather than a notebook. It made complaining about difficult work rather awkward when the owner insisted upon sharing it.

The sharp report of a hammer striking iron rang across the workshop.

Zach paused, listening.

A second blow followed.

Then, after a heartbeat's silence, came a voice he recognised immediately.

"No, no... if you keep hitting it like that you'll frighten the poor thing."

A ripple of laughter drifted through the workshop before Zach heard footsteps approaching across the iron gratings overhead. He smiled despite himself and returned to the bearing, already knowing precisely who had interrupted the morning.

Audrey Kidd descended the staircase carrying a leather tool satchel that looked considerably heavier than she did. A loose strand of dark hair had escaped whatever determined effort she had made to tie it back, and there was already a faint smear of oil across one cuff suggesting she'd found something mechanical to investigate before she'd even reached the dock. She acknowledged several engineers by name as she crossed the workshop, accepting a cheerful greeting here, a question there, stopping only briefly to glance at a steam pump whose rhythmic knocking drew an instinctive frown before continuing towards Zach.

She reached him just as the offending bearing surrendered with a metallic crack that caused him to sit back rather more suddenly than intended.

"I was about to offer assistance," she observed, amusement dancing in her eyes, "but it seems you've persuaded it through diplomacy."

"I'm not sure diplomacy had much to do with it."

"No?"

"I threatened it with a larger hammer."

A smile touched her lips as she crouched beside him, studying the worn bearing in his hand with the easy familiarity of someone reading an old friend's handwriting. She turned it once between grease-blackened fingers before nodding almost imperceptibly.

"I thought so," she murmured. "The race has started to pit. Another few weeks and it would have torn itself to pieces."

Neither of them noticed that, several yards away, two apprentice fitters had abruptly found reasons to work considerably more slowly while watching the exchange.

Old Tom noticed.

Old Tom noticed everything.

He leaned towards the younger of the pair with the expression of a man about to impart great wisdom.

"Eyes on your work, lad."

"I was."

"No, you weren't."

"I was looking at the bearing."

Tom followed the apprentice's gaze towards Audrey before raising one bushy eyebrow.

"Were you indeed?"

The apprentice had the decency to look embarrassed.

Tom grinned.

"Don't worry. Happens every time Miss Kidd comes down here."

The younger man looked horrified.

"Does Mr Varr mind?"

Tom barked a quiet laugh.

"Mr Varr knows exactly who she's going home with."

With that he hefted his crate once more and wandered off, leaving the apprentice blushing furiously while somewhere across the workshop Audrey began explaining, with patient enthusiasm, exactly why the replacement bearing should be packed with fresh grease before anyone even thought about fitting it.

The morning settled once more into its familiar rhythm, and for a little while the only sounds were those of machinery, quiet conversation and honest work. Somewhere above them, hidden beyond hundreds of feet of rock and the peaceful rooms of Strumble House, the ancient Nexus Gate waited in silence.

Beyond it, on windswept Strumble Head, the lighthouse continued its lonely vigil over the coast of Brunel.

The keepers, had they looked down through the stone beneath their feet, would have seen nothing.

And that, the Varr family had always believed, was exactly as it should be.