I arrived in New London on the Bckwell Phantom - a hybrid of a gas engine and the newfangled liquid combustion system. Running on fmmable liquid - how familiar. The machine looked as if it had been designed by engineers on horse tranquilizers. Its body was made of polished bronze and dark wood, with copper pipes winding along its sides like veins, floating nterns with a faint blue gas glow, massive wheels more suited to a locomotive, and exhaust pipes that released not smoke, but a light silvery steam. It didn’t smell of burning - it smelled of sea salt and something metallic.
Inside - leather seats, a control panel littered with dials and levers. Everything one needs to pray to the new technocratic gods.
The engine rumbled low, like a beast not fully tamed. The Phantom’s hydrogen motors promised silence, but nothing in New Engnd is ever truly silent - even the machines whisper to you that you are not home.
The city appeared on the horizon like a shadow in the depths of a dream. Tall, narrow buildings covered in thousands of tiny nterns cut through the sky like cwed hands reaching for the slipping light. Trees twisted, as if their roots were trying to escape from something lurking underground. Spires rose among massive port cranes that looked like giant metal spiders, ready to snatch anything that moved.
New London was unlike other American cities. No one here built skyscrapers of gss, concrete, and ambition. The entire city looked as if it had been taken from Old Engnd street by street and reassembled on foreign soil. Steep roofs, bck brick walls, delicate bridges spanning between houses, the signs of ancient pubs still proudly promising "the finest ale in the colonies." The empire on which the sun never sets - because it never rises, not here, not anywhere on this sinful earth.
Every streetmp bore a fog repeller - strange contraptions resembling skeletal spheres with fragile gss inserts. They flickered pale blue, then white, and sometimes let out a faint crackle, as if actually doing something, and people believed it helped. They also believed in leprechauns, unicorns, and honor.
New Engnders walked fast and tense, as if prepared to bolt at any second. They wore long coats, high colrs, some hid their faces behind half-masks with thin filters. Cautious, superstitious, alien.
"Welcome to New London," my driver said without looking at me.
Of course, he was polite. How could it be otherwise? Until now, he had been silent as a grave and looked much the same. A narrow face with sharp cheekbones, long fingers gripping the wheel like the st hope. I had started to hope he was mute, but then I remembered - luck was never on my side.
The road to the estate felt like a dream where you move but never get closer. Narrow, framed by trees that rose to the sky like cracks in reality. The Englishman stopped the car at the massive bck gates. Longford Manor stood before us - majestic, cold, utterly detached. The house had grey stone walls, heavy wooden doors, and a roof with carved gargoyles. These gargoyles didn't stop the rain, but gave the feeling that the house was always watching.
"Wait, I will open the door for you," the driver stepped out.
I took a drag from my cigarette and adjusted my coat colr. The ordeal had begun.
Stepping out of the car, I adjusted my hat and approached the gate. Distant dog barking and the wind accompanied my arrival. The gates were massive, wrought iron, their patterns resembling interwoven branches. The driver pushed them open, and I followed the path leading to the house. Cobblestone, worn smooth, as if it remembered the footsteps of everyone who had ever walked upon it. Statues stood along the way - angels with bnk faces and stone wings, capable only of crumbling. In some pces, the manor’s walls bore ancient prayers carved into the stone.
