macblaze.ca

8:15

The normal cruising height of an airship was less than 300 metres. This allowed the captain and crew to keep an eye out on the weather and adjust accordingly. For some reason the builders had thus dictated that the heat from the engines could be pumped along the gangways and into the passenger cabins at need. Excess heat was circulated among spaces between the gas cells rather than vented outside.

This meant two things. One, the crew of a modern airship worked in an environment hotter than the engine deck of a steamship. And two, beavers’ well-insulated coats made excess exertion something to be avoided.

 

8:14

There were times the beaver wished he were a ruthless creature. A quick slash of a razor-sharp incisor, a bodily heave out into the cold sky, and he’d have a quick and painless solution to an unasked-for problem.

Unfortunately for just about everyone involved, the beaver, while irascible, was not homicidal, except maybe where a certain rabbit was concerned. That left the problem of the small boy currently staring at him without a quick solution. I don’t suppose I could just growl and him and send him scurrying for his covers? grumped the beaver, wishing not for the first time that beavers had a more wolverine-like reputation.

“Well, make up your mind,” the beaver snapped at the watching boy as he rose to his feet. “Are you coming or going?”

“Er, excuse me? Did you say something? Did you speak?” Albert moved excitedly towards the creature he had spotted. “Can you talk? Did you really say something?”

He slammed to a halt about a metre away from the large brown beaver. Suddenly what had seemed like a large stuffed animal took on a more ominous aspect.

“Um, are you a beaver? What’s a beaver doing on an airship? Did you talk to me? Can all beavers talk?”

“Oh, for god’s sake!” the beaver harumphed, cutting off the babbling boy’s steady flow of stupid questions. “Yes. I am a beaver. Yes. I am talking to you. And if you would just bid your flapping lips be still for a moment and let me get a word in edgewise, then yes, perhaps we could discuss what I am doing here. And, more importantly, what YOU are doing here.”

Albert paled suddenly at the reminder that he was somewhere he was not supposed to be. And that he’d just been caught. But … but … it’s only a beaver, right? He can’t get me into trouble, can he? He’s only fit for a hat; who’d listen to him?

Somewhere in all that rapid internal dialogue, Albert lost the thread of his thoughts and once again realized that a beaver was talking to him. And everyone knew beavers couldn’t talk. The very idea was ridiculous. If all beavers could talk, then they wouldn’t very well let us make hats and coats out of them, would they?

This thought seemed to prove a point to Albert. “Well, then. What is a talking beaver doing hidden away on a dirigible? Tell me that, then! Shouldn’t you be in a zoo now?”

The beaver took in the false calm of the boy and smiled to himself. Cheeky little bugger.

 

8:13

The beaver plopped down in an exhausted heap. Beavers, he mused, were not made for climbing. But this way at least the flight would be cheap. “’Cause I left my wallet in my other pants,” he snickered to himself.

Other than a sharp draft that wormed its way down from the mooring aperture, this was a comfortable enough spot to spend a day or two. The beaver wasn’t exactly sure how long the flight to Halifax was going to be, but the last he’d heard, the new aero-engines were chopping hours off the flight. He’d be snug here for now and, most importantly, out of the way and out of sight.

He wasn’t sure if he’d been followed to the aero field, but there was no point taking chances. There were enough ways this could get complicated without the rest of the world dabbling in his business as it had an unfortunate penchant for doing. Then, once he had left the overdeveloped conscious of the contingent behind, he might start getting somewhere.

Settling down against the silvery air bladder, the beaver decided a nap would while away a few hours and ensure they were well on their way.

And then he heard the distinct sound of a sharply indrawn breath.

 

8:11

Albert was not quite an orphan. It’s true he had parents and they were, as far as he could discern, his real parents. It was just that he didn’t much like them and so heartily, if a bit naively, wished that he was indeed an orphan. They didn’t neglect him or beat him or even cause him undue sorrow. It’s just that they were, well, rather boring.

Albert’s family was rich. They’d made their money as merchants and lived for the the trade. All of them. Even the women. Every day was filled with facts and figures, deals and the anticipation of new territories. Each meal was a strategy session, every family get-together a council of war.

Albert’s family had, as a school mate once quipped, more money than dirt, and all they could think of to do with it was make more money. No one suggested a safari to discover new lands; no one was interested in inventing faster and more powerful flying machines. There were no dashing uncles or mysterious cousins whose affairs were clouded in secrecy. They were, one and all, boring.

Now Albert’s eldest sister was of the opinion that Albert was much too infatuated with the farthing fantasies that he spent most of his ready money on. She further espoused, whenever anyone would listen to her, that Albert needed to be sent off to the trade college as soon as possible so he could learn a proper attitude. Fortunately for Albert, everyone mostly assumed that she was more interested in Albert’s suite in the west tower, a privilege of being the sole male heir.

She would have probably been shocked out of her petticoats if she had known that Albert would gladly give up the suite, the allowance and all the many privileges of being heir if he could only wrest control of his own destiny from his familial legacy. He knew beyond all possible doubt that he was destined for adventure and discovery. Albert was to do great things, and while his studies had not yet encompassed Quintus Horatius Flaccus, he was quite prepared to seize the day.

Which explained why he was where he wasn’t supposed to be and saw something he wasn’t supposed to see.

 

8:10

As the dirigible slowly lifted off the elegant ironwork mooring and turned its nose away from the wind, the crew were busy securing the lines and stowing the ground-side equipment that would be useless in flight and not needed for at least a week, if not longer. The captain was closely monitoring the instruments in front of him and occasionally emitting small huffing sounds while his navigator’s eyes shifted back and forth from his nervous lookouts posted on the two small fly bridges and scanning the horizon himself.

This was the most dangerous moment of any airship flight and no one could ever forget the daguerreotypes that had captured the destruction of the Graf Wilhelm and the loss of more than two hundred souls in that horrible flaming disaster. Without exception the entire crew’s minds were on the delicate task of guiding their ship swiftly up and away from the dangers of low altitude and into the wide-open skies that were the massive dirigible’s natural environs.

And that’s why no one was aware that the passenger manifest for this particular journey was not in fact completely accurate. This conscientious crew had missed the small furry shape that had slipped aboard from the mooring tower and moved swiftly into the spaces between the gas-filled bladders that provided the tremendous lift needed to raise the ship high into the sky. And no crew member was likely to discover that shape comfortably settling in for the journey as these spaces were where all suspected the disaster of the Wilhelm had begun and most believed had been caused by careless off-duty crew. No one was likely now to violate the spaces. At least no one from the crew.

The young boy, however, had both disobeyed the brass sign warning him away from the lift chamber and been comfortably placed to watch the takeoff and observe the last-minute addition to the crew.

 

Scene 1
[scene: a cramped corner space with a small cluttered desk and two computers]

[camera starts tight on a grubby white keyboard and pulls back to reveal disheveled middle-aged man staring at keyboard]

Man: Fuck.

[Man’s eyes scan one of the screens as a computer game flashes by on the other. He distractedly hits a few keys on the keyboard partially hidden under food wrappers and pieces of crumpled paper]

[He rocks back in his seat and rubs his eyes]

Man: Fuck.

[Fade out]

Scene 2
[scene: a meticulous, Martha Stewartesque living room with an antique writing table in the corner and a small, expensive-looking laptop]

[camera enters from the hallway and discovers a young woman whose dress looks at odds with the style and neatness of the room sitting on a beautiful carved chair and staring down at the small screen on the laptop]

Woman: Still nothing. What’s taking him? He’s already a day late. [long pause]

Woman: Maybe he’s ill? Rancid oil? Bad pork?

[she sits back in her chair and stares sullenly at the screen]

[fade to split screen showing both man and woman from reverse angles, similar looks of desperation on their faces.]

Scene 3
[CGI-generated bright, overpowering light appears, becoming brighter and brighter engulfing the two characters.]

Scene 4
[outside a couple of townhouses]

[the light grows and grows and the cameras zoom into the second-floor windows cutting back and forth from Man to Woman until they simultaneously explode in a moment of self-generated spontaneous combustion, thereby cheating society’s attempt to immolate them in the nuclear holocaust cause by its uncaring and self-absorbed system of laws and morals]

[Fade to black]

[roll credits]

 

8:7

Edward turned slowly, trying to get comfortable on the now damp paper. He hopped over to a nearby discarded Times and settled down to wait some more. Glancing down, he saw this:

Word of the Day
Sloth
NOUN
1. Reluctance to work or make an effort; laziness.
2. A slow-moving tropical American mammal (genera Bradypus (three-toed sloths) and Choloepus (two-toed sloths)) hang from the branches back downward, and feed on leaves, shoots, and fruits

 

Bloody, stupid creatures they were, too, he mused. Can’t trust them and you certainly can’t get a decent day’s work out of them. Ought to be banned from the union, but oh no, can’t have that, can we. That would be speciesism…

At least they aren’t as bad as the damn beaver, though.