Winter 1874 – Tearing the Weed of Empire Out by Its Roots


The sound of engines echoed through the catacombs. Even with the cotton in our ears we could hear the grind of gears and the hiss of steam. The air smelled of oil and the rock around us vibrated with exertions of the machines. We turned a corner into a great open chamber. 

The room was filled with perhaps two hundred of Windglass’s automen. They stood shoulder to shoulder, posture erect, eyes closed.