Fires of Industry

English North Sea, 1885.

Pick leaned against the rails of the top deck and breathed a sigh of joy as the Connery sailed through the ocean waters on its maiden voyage. He smiled as he saw the seagulls glide lazily over the water, watching as one dived in and returned to the air, a fish caught in its beak. He was so happy to have a job here, on this great ship, and out of the dark and dirty streets of London where he had come from.

The ship he was on, The Connery, was the first of its kind, a revolutionary ship that had roused up a storm during the Great Exhibition when it had been unveiled. What had made this ship so special was that it did not require coal to run. Instead, it had this specialised engine that could run on one small crate of fuel. It was genius, one of the pioneering outcomes of this age of industry, and Pick was glad to be a part of it.

"Boy!" Pick heard Paxton call him, and reluctantly left the rail to see what he wanted. It had been the kindness of Paxton that had seen him here today, for he had been the one who had recruited him for the crew as an errand boy. Paxton was a burly man, with a deep tan from his time on the sea. He also had a huge jagged scar running down the side of his face, which Pick was curious about, but didn't have the courage to ask.

"Boy, come with me, I'll show you where the crates are stored." Paxton said as he turned to walk down the nearby stairs to inside the ship.

Pick followed as they went inside and walked to a iron cast door, which Paxton pushed open with a heave. Inside the room was a huge pile of wooden crates, all sealed tight. The room had a strange smell to it, Pick couldn't quite tell what it was, but in his mind he associated the smell from the docks.

"The smell takes getting used to, just grin and bear it." Paxton told him with a laugh, before he checked his pocket watch, "Refuelling time is soon, I'll show you what you need to do." He hefted up one of the crates and passed it to Pick, who grunted with exertion as he held its heavy weight.

"So the boat can really run on just one of these?" Pick huffed as he walked beside him.
"That's right." Paxton replied with a smile, "It can go for hours on just one crate, just be careful that you do this regularly, about every five hours, cos if you don't, the engine shuts down, and it will take ages to restart it- if we can." They stopped outside a rectangular slot in the hull wall, about the same size as the crate.

"Ok, so just shove this down the chute." Paxton told Pick, "That's all."

Pick lifted the crate up to the slot and pushed it in. He saw the crate slide down the chute and disappear, as he peered down the chute, he heard a strange noise coming from the other end. It almost sounded like....

"Boy, we're done here." Paxton snapped sharply, "Don't hang around after you've dropped off the crate." He started to walk away, "Come on, the cook needs a potato peeler."

Pick followed him away from the chute, confused as they walked to the kitchens. He didn't know what that sound was, it had to be coming from the engine. But it sounded like... growling.


Pick was in the kitchen, peeling a mountain of potatoes for the cook. He had been here ages, peeling potato after potato, but he was only halfway through the pile. The cook was a short portly man, who was working Pick like a slave driver, constantly cussing and berating Pick while he worked.

"Come on, you runt!" the cook yelled, "These have to be ready by 7'o'clock!"

Pick looked to the clock on the side of the oven, and saw it was 5'o'clock, time for the next refuelling.

"I have to go." Pick told the cook, "time to refuel the engine."

"Fine, but come back when you're done, boy." The cook cheered.

Pick left the kitchen, the potato peeling knife still in his hand, he was curious, he had a lot of questions about what exactly was powering the ship, and right now, he was going to start with the fuel. He got to the crates room and approached the nearest crate. Using the knife, he worked enough leverage into one of its planks to pry it off.

He carefully reached his hand into the crate and felt around. The fuel seemed squishy, and the smell intensified. Grabbing a handful of it, he removed his hand to reveal...  a fish head.

"What the?" he exclaimed as he looked in the crate. It was true; the whole crate was full of fish.

This engine must have been really bizarre if it ran on this, Pick thought to himself. He picked up the crate and hefted it down the hall to the slot. He pushed it down the chute, but stayed to see what he could hear. He heard the crate smashing as it reached its destination, the same growling, and then a chomping noise.

Then Pick realised, he wasn't fuelling an engine, he was feeding something. The chomping noises continued as whatever was down there ate. Suddenly, one of the engineers came out of one the doors, a stern look on his face, so Pick abruptly walked away back to the kitchen. The engineer looked on as he left, probably making sure Pick did not come back.

What was it down there? Pick had no idea, but later, when everyone was asleep, he would find out.



It was mid-night. Everyone was in their cabins, getting enough sleep so they could make it through tomorrow. Everyone that is, except for Pick.

He quietly sneaked his way down the hallway, until he finally made it to the slot. There was a door nearby, which most likely went to the engine room, but as Pick tried to open it, but he found it was securely locked.

"We'll see about that." Pick said to himself as he reached into his pocket and pulled out his prize possession. It was a pair of steel lock picks he had been given by his brother, Locke, before he had died. Pick wept a silent tear as he inserted the lock picks and began to pick the lock. Locke had been a great brother, Pick would not have survived as long as he had on the unforgiving streets of London without him. Locke had been the one who had taught him how to pick any lock. Together, no door, no window, nothing would be closed to them, and they could get whatever they needed to survive. But he had succumbed to the brutal cholera, which had crippled him until it finally killed him.

There was a click, and then a snap as the door was unlocked. Pick removed his lock picks, kissing them as he put them back in his pocket. He hesitated for a moment, steeling himself, before he opened the door.

It was dark in there; Pick couldn't see his hand in front of his face. He peered into the darkness, trying to see what was in this engine room. As he looked, he thought he could make out two green eyes peering at him...

Then there was a huge WOOMPH! as a torrent of flames blazed though the room, heading for Pick.  He dived out of the way as the flames swept through, barely missing him as they hit the hull behind him. By the new light from the fire, Pick was able to see the beast in front of him.

It was a dragon, and it was big, at least fifteen feet. Its scales were a dull red, the colour of rust, and the two horns that projected from the back of its triangular head were jet black.  

The dragon hissed at him, and Pick heard a unfamiliar voice, male and harsh, cry "Enemy!" before it let loose another torrent of flames. Pick dodged the fire, feeling the hair on the back if his arms smoulder as the heat washed over him. He ran out of the door as fast as he could, trying to escape.

He turned back to the hallway. The dragon was not there. Curious, Pick walked back to the engine room, where the dragon stayed there, glaring at him. Why had it not chased him?

Then Pick saw the chains. The dragon was bound to the floor by huge cast iron chains, giving it enough freedom to move its head, but nothing else. Pick could see blood and sheared scales where the chains had tore into its flesh. Its wings were pinned to the floor by two huge metal rivets, where they bled profusely. There was also a jagged iron hook imbedded in the dragons neck, digging in deep through the scutes.

"You're trapped here?" Pick asked, "Why?"

The dragon narrowed its eyes, but did not open its mouth. Pick was able to see two holes in the hull wall beside it. There were broken wood and leftover pieces of fish underneath one of them. Hoping it could understand, Pick pointed at the busted crates, then at himself "Food... I brought the food."

The dragon peered at Pick. For one moment, Pick was terrified it was going to breathe fire again. But, to his surprise, it closed its eyes and lowered its head slightly, an almost understanding nod.

"Friend." The voice Pick had heard earlier said. The word was clear, but there was no one around who had spoken them.  Pick put his hand to his head. The voice had been the dragon, somehow able to communicate to his mind. "Is that how you talk?"

"Yes." The dragon replied, there was heavy emotion in his reply. The dragon was sad, Pick could feel its depression as if he was feeling it himself. Pick approached the dragon carefully, both hands in the air so that he did not look threatening.

"What's your name?" Pick asked as he came closer.

The dragon looked directly into Pick's eyes, regarding the human in front of him. Eventually, Pick felt its reply. "Drocyon."

Suddenly the chain that the hook was attached to was jerked through a hole in the hull. Drocyon roared with pain as his neck was forcefully yanked, stretching the wound in his neck. He tugged against the hook, but relented as the hook was jerked again, and his head was in front of the other opening in the hull. The hook was jerked once more, strong and harder than before, and Drocyon opened his mouth and let loose a blaze directly into the opening.

Finally, the hook was released, and Drocyon's head fell down to the floor with a crash.

"They use you to power the ship." Pick said as he realised the horror of it all. "They trap you here and force you to breathe fire, so that they can heat the water in the boiler and power the ship." Pick turned back to Drocyon and saw he was crying. Pearly white tears crawled down his muzzle as he wept. Pick could feel his emotions, he felt so sad, so scared, so alone.

This was barbaric. Pick had seen some very inhumane things, being an orphan in London's streets had revealed some shocking truths to him. But this was at the top. It was cruel, it was wrong. Pick remembered some wise words Locke had told him, When you're in a tight spot, you can do something smart, or you can do something stupid...

"...as long as you do something right."   He went to the chains that held him in place and found a huge padlock, made of gilded steel, which was keeping all of the chains attached. "Ok, let's get you out of here." Pick pulled his lock picks out, ready to break the lock and set Drocyon free.

"No you won't." said a voice from behind him. Pick turned to see Paxton in the doorway, with a iron crowbar in his hands and a glare that could melt steel. "Boy, get away from there, right now!"

Drocyon hissed at Paxton. He simply smiled, and waved out to someone in the hallway. The hook in Drocyon's neck was drawn all the way in, and Drocyon was violently slammed into the hull wall, unable to move.

"How could you do this to him?" Pick shouted at Paxton.

"Pretty well, considering what it did to me." Paxton answered as he pointed to the scar on his face. "It took 4 mens lives capturing him, and another 2 restraining him in the ship. It's a monster, a beast, and I will not let it loose."

Pick got up and paced towards Paxton, his fists shaking. "This is wrong!"

"This is industry, boy!" Paxton yelled. "Get used to it!"

Pick lunged at Paxton, in an attempt to attack him. Paxton smiled, then swung his iron bar. Pick felt a crack as it hit the side of his head and fell to the floor. He heard Paxton tell someone nearby, "Take him to the brig, we'll fling him over the edge in the morning." before the world went black and he lost consciousness.



"Wake up...

"Wake uppp..."

Pick opened his eyes as he heard Drocyon's voice. His head was in agony, he put his hand up to where Paxton had hit him, and it came away sticky with blood.

"Please wake up..." Drocyon begged.

"I'm awake, it's alright." Pick got to his feet and surveyed the brig. He was in a cold dark cell, lit only by the moonlight emanating from the port window behind him.
"Are you ok?" He asked Drocyon.

He didn't know if the dragon could hear him, but was relieved when he eventually heard him reply bitterly, "I'll survive."

He went up to the heavy iron door in front and pushed against the door, to find it was locked. Pick felt for his picks, but they were gone, probably taken by Paxton before they left him in here. He turned and slumped against the door. He couldn't get out, and he would be dead tomorrow morning.

Pick looked around the cell, trying to find something, anything, he could use to escape. But all he could find was the chamber pot and the mattress...

The mattress!

Pick remembered a friend of his brothers, a rancid old fellow who went by the name of Berkely, who had served some time in gaol, for a crime he had not committed. Berkely had stayed the whole sentence because there was regular food, and because he had a mattress, a recent invention that used springs to support the sleeper's body.

These new mattresses had been installed with the ship. If they were the new ones like what Berkely had used...

Pick ran over to the mattress and ripped it apart. Sure enough, there were metal springs inside. Glad to see something was going right, he removed one of the springs and proceeded to straighten the metal out by banging it with the chamber pot. After half an hour of effort, Pick grabbed his work, two lengths of metal thin enough and long enough to use as lock picks.

He went over to the door and inserted the makeshift picks, he twisted them around, trying to jiggle the chambers in the lock free. He cheered with joy as he heard a snap and the door swung open with a creak.

"And that's why they call me Pick!" he said with a sigh of relief.

"What happened?" Drocyon asked him curiously.

"I'm out of the cell,  Drocyon" Pick answered as he opened the door slowly and quietly, "Hang on, I'm on my way."



Pick silently managed to get to the engine room where Drocyon was waiting, carefully sneaking past the cabin doors so as to not awaken anyone. The door had been locked again, Pick used his makeshift picks to unlock it, and heard the same snap as the door unlocked. As Pick pulled the two mattress springs pieces out, he saw that they were starting to bend. He figured they could pick one more lock before they were bust.

Drocyon turned his head as the door opened, regarding Pick with his emerald eyes. "You came." He said.

"I said I would." Pick told him as he approached his flank, where the padlock was. "Let's get these chains off."

Pick placed his lock picks in the padlock and began to pick the lock. He got frustrated as the padlock refused to unlock, it was old and rusted, which made it harder to gain purchase on the chambers inside the lock. Suddenly, there was a snap as one of the picks broke.
"Damn." Pick cursed. He was just about to pull them out, when he remembered some advice Locke had given him. When a pick broke, sometimes enough of the work was done so that one hard twist would finish the job. With no apparent alternative, and nothing to lose, Pick firmly held the picks in his hand and gave it a quick jerk.

He heard several metallic snaps and then a ping as the lock unlocked. Pick quickly yanked the padlock off and loosened the chains.

Drocyon shoved his forelegs out of the chains and yanked them off of him, snarling slightly as he peeled them off of the sore areas on his flank. He held his left foreleg in front of his face and flexed his claws, before using it to slowly pull out the hook in his neck, roaring with pain as it slid out, covered in blood.

Pick went over to the rivet holding Drocyon's left wing down. Seeing that it screwed into the floor, he quickly unscrewed it and threw it away, leaving the wing free. Drocyon pulled it closely to his side gingerly as Pick went to free the other wing.

Finally, Drocyon was free. He stood to his feet, and swayed slightly. He had not moved in a long time, and he was still weak from the inactivity. Even so, he still looked intimidating, and there was a look in his eyes, a cold calculating fury Pick could feel.

"Now we got to get out of here." Pick told Drocyon.

They walked down the hallway of the ship quietly, Pick looking around corners for anyone who might be awake, Drocyon trying to be as stealthy as a dragon of his size and make could be. They made it to the main hall, the door to the top deck, and their escape, was in sight, at the top of a flight of stairs.

"Look, we're almost there," Pick whispered to Drocyon, "We've nearly made it."

"Freedom." Drocyon replied in Picks head, with a tone of joy.

Suddenly the door swung open, bathing the hall in moonlight , and through the door came Paxton, along with a gang of five burly men, all armed with metal rods and harpoons. Paxton had a look of anger and hatred on his face.

"Boy, I know I should have killed you when I had the chance." He yelled with fury. "Now we have to kill the engine too!"

"He's not an engine, he's a living being!" Pick shouted back.

"No, it's a monster!" Paxton walked forward, hefting his iron bar.

Pick lunged forward, ducking under Paxton's first swipe and delivering a punch to his chest causing him to stagger back. The men behind him came in to try and subdue Drocyon, who roared and hissed at them with anger.

Pick was able to give as much as he got to Paxton, punching him as much as he could in the chest, while trying to block the blows from Paxton's bar. Paxton kicked him in the stomach, and winded him long enough to whack him across the face with the bar. Not knocked out, however, Pick rose back to his feet, spitting out blood before attacking Paxton again.

Drocyon had his claws full trying to keep the men surrounding him at bay. They jabbed his sides and his chest with their sharp harpoons, to which he responded by slashing at them with his razor claws. He managed to hit one of them, who shrieked with pain as the wounds on his chest spurted blood. Two of the others lost their mettle and ran off down the hallway, screaming with fear. This left one remainder, a huge engineer, at least seven feet tall, hefting a sledgehammer, which was able to nimbly dodge Drocyon's swipes and make crushing whacks on his side.

"Give up, boy." Paxton sneered as he swung at Pick with his iron bar.

"Not a chance." Pick dived away from Paxton's blow and kicked out with his foot directly at his face. Paxton reeled back from the blow, his cheek black with Pick's boot-print. However, he was able to regain his composure and swung his iron bar again. Pick didn't see it coming, and was hit across the back. He fell to the floor, his back burning with pain.

Paxton wiped a trickle of blood away from his mouth, and laughed as he held his iron bar high to deliver the finishing blow. "Then you're going to die like your dragon over there..." his voice trailed away as his eyes widened with shock.

Drocyon stood there, with the engineer lying dead at his feet, a look of ferocity in his green eyes. He approached them menacingly, his blood stained claws ringing off the metal floor. Pick, his back still in agony, was barely able to crawl away from Paxton, who dropped down to his knees.

"Please, have mercy." Paxton pleaded. "I don't want to die!"

Drocyon glared at Paxton, studying his pleas closely. Then, with a snort he walked past Paxton, brushing his scaly tail past his leg. He paused as he reached the door, turning back to him.

"You have caused me great pain." Pick heard the dragon say, "But more pain is not the answer. Heed my words, human, and remember my mercy."

Paxton got shakily to his feet, scared out of his wits. His hands shook as he dropped the iron bar in his hand, letting it fall to the floor with a dull clang . He turned his head and took one last look at Drocyon, who returned with an icy stare, before he sprinted off down the hall.

Drocyon watched keenly as Paxton sped off, then turned to Pick, who was still on the floor, "Are you Ok? " he asked.

Groggily, Pick grabbed the floor and unsteadily got to his feet. His back still hurt, but he was able to move again. "I'll survive." He replied as he tentatively walked over to Drocyon.



They walked to the stairs and left to the boats top deck. It was still night, the stars hung serenely in the sky and the only sound was the water quietly lapping against the Connery's hull.

"So how do we do this?" Pick asked Drocyon, "Can you fly, or should we take a lifeboat?"

Pick heard a chuckle in his head as the dragon spread its wings wide. He grabbed Pick by the collar of his shirt and took off into the night sky.

They flew high over the ocean. The whole time neither of them said a word. It was so quiet, so tranquil. All Pick could hear was the steady thumps of Drocyon's wingbeats, a subtle rhythm that never sped, never slowed.

Eventually, they made it back to the mainland, and landed at the top of a cliff. Drocyon let Pick go, carefully placing him onto the grass. He stayed where he was as Pick took a few steps, before happily sitting down in the grass and breathing a sigh of relief. He was glad to be off the ship, and glad to be alive.

"Thanks," Pick said to the dragon, "For getting me off of the ship."

Drocyon raised an eyeridge, "It is I who owes you my gratitude, human. You saved me, helped me escape, even when it meant your certain death. Such compassion is rare among humans."

Pick smiled, "Ok."

"I must go," Drocyon told Pick as he spread his wings once more, "You have made a friend among dragons this night, know that well."

"Will I see you again, Drocyon?" Pick asked.

"Maybe, Pick." Drocyon replied, with an emotive air of pure happiness, "Maybe." he took off high into the air. Pick watched as he flapped his mighty wings and flew away into the brightening sky of the oncoming dawn.