Chapter 1: A tale of two cities

February, and the Dagr was chasing the tail end of a storm along the south coast of New Paradise. The storm had whipped and swelled into a congregation of cotton candy cloud stocked with curls of lightning, and it had been spotted at the top North-East corner of, what the locals called, P2. An adequate name for the prospect of New Paradise which was similar to it’s original, except for the fact that it was bereft of criminal activity. Much unlike P1 which had come to feel the pains of theft and murder as the centuries old high-rises began to crumble and collapse from a lack of care. The storm had drifted past, snapping at the chrome dipped meso-rises of the P2 district. They were relatively new inventions, meso-rises, they lumbered tall above the clouds and roughly stood thirty-fifty kilometers higher than sea level. The Government had regarded them as the greatest invention of the 25th century.
“Mankind’s shining light aimed towards the future of our civilisation”
as the adverts would say; and yet, you would only find them here, in New Paradise, where the wealthiest lived. The money-deficient mass would huddle in the older, smaller towns in their grossly large populace, rag-torn. The air-shipping lanes that had once run through P1 no longer existed as there was no business to be made there, other than selling cheap rations to the poor but this was simply handled by the
“disease-ridden simpletons”
that thrived in the area-as the P2ers had referred to them. The new shipping lanes would take cargo around the old city, over the coastal waters, and into the new city. We had been on our way to the south-east corner of New Paradise when our lookout spotted the thunder filled clouds forming out to the east. Combined with the strong onshore winds found lower to the ground, it would force the storm into the city and once there be taken high by the updraft from the meso-rises.
South would then be the direction that both the storm and our ship were travelling. Now, the Dagr wasn’t particularly large by any standard. In fact, compared to the cruise-liners so often used by P2ers, it would be considered minute. The Dagr wasn’t useless though, she had fight, and she was mighty.
Well, mighty enough for a cabin worker such as myself. It was the third airship I’d worked on, the first two; The Jambolin and the Golightly were both small schooners made only for the shipping of 23rd century tech which allowed the P1ers to run their ground vehicles. The Dagr; however, was much larger and was purposed for the delivery of parcels, and so my job as cabin worker would be to help any who needed it, mostly it was the cook who needed it. An older gentleman, his parents had owned a vineyard in an old country, he had learned the secrets of French cuisine from them, before making his way into the airship business. His head was devoid of hair, apart from the thin silver fringe that skirted around the back of his head, this is what earned him his on-board nickname, Grey. He was, in his own words
“Getting too old for this ‘cooking on ships’ drivel.”
and so I would often be tasked with helping cook the for the crew. The night-times would often be the same ritual of prepping meals for the other seven, cleaning up afterwards, and then listening to each crew member talk about their days before this airship. Grey would go on to tell of his culinary experiences in his home country, Abdul, our navigator would recount the endless cartographic findings over the Pacific Ocean. Jacks and Anthony, were our two engineers, although Anthony would spend his time mostly as the lookout. They were sardonic in their tones only, and would constantly remind us all of how they should be working in high-class universities teaching the students the,


“obvious basics of mathematical function within engineering.”
that the rest of us had obviously had no knowledge of. I would often follow up with sarcastically asking what their job on-board was, to which they would grill me with their vast knowledge of our ships KKER UL260 quad engine, MP-spinal-3 balloon, and the carbonite cover exterior hull. This was all, of course, after Ava, our medical officer, had explained the how the changes in atmospheric regulation in newer built cities would allow humans to thrive without pollution. Mark Thatch, our captain, would go on about the history of where the Dagr had docked, where it had flown over, and who it had housed. The nightly dinner schedule would finish when Thatch would check on M-A962, our ships very own metal man to which we gave the nickname Manny, and his autopiloting. The crew, returning to their stations and I was always, undoubtedly tasked with the clean-up. Tonight, I decided it was my job to check how our engines were doing, and on the way; I might happen to take a moment peering off the open rear of the ship. I held tight to the railing and sat just underneath it, my legs swinging off the edge of an airship that was mediocrely skirting the coastline of P2. The slowly crashing sets of waves lumbering onto the shore seemed undermining to context and seriousness the meso-rises exuded. The sound of the waves washing the shells on each other gave off a sound like thicker chunks of sand tumbling aimlessly through an hourglass. There was no specific noise, just a horde of tinkling and clinking noises against the backdrop of our low-humming KKER engines interspersed with wooshings of the Titanium twin propellers coming from around the front of the ship. It reminded me of home, back in an old town sitting about a meso-rises length north of Old Paradise. It was small, and those who came, usually passed through straight away or stayed in the little town of Brightilon. My house, a shack really, sat right on the coast, placed between two other, larger hotels. My Grandparents had kept it despite the pressure put on them by the estate department to take a deal and have the place demolished in exchange for money. The house had stayed that way until they passed away, I promised myself I would take care of it, but when the time came, the estate dealers came with a simple warning.

THIS PROPERTY IS NO LONGER IN OWNERSHIP OF THE TENANTS DAVID AND MILDA HARBOURD, VACATE THE PREMISES OR YOU WILL BE REMOVED                          
                                              -BRIGHTILTON ESTATE

It took some careful word choices, and a plead to get the estate people to maintain a settlement offer that was even half of the original, but I got there in the end. The next thing I knew I was on my way to the nearest airship yard to sign up with a ship. After a month of trying to scrounge a job I finally got an acceptance, I was to be a cabin worker on the Jambolin. The last sight I had of the town was looking back over my shoulder as the captain called,
“All aboard! that means you Caleb Harbourd!”
To which I replied,
“Just Cal is fine.”
Then, with haste, we were off, leaving Brightilon and bound to the nearest port that offered a 23rd century tech delivery job. A year with them had brought enough experience to branch out, so I said my goodbyes and signed up with another tech ship, the Golightly. 6 months had passed before the airship became decommissioned, due to its captain spending all the money on getting the next high he could find. So, I became stranded in a Western town situated in a dried-up lake bed. Not a day had passed when I found the Dagr about to take off after delivering a large parcel containing a pneumonic drill. A quick chat with Captain Thatch had found me working in their vacant cabin worker spot, as it set to the sky in the direction North-East. Two years I had flown and three crew spots had been replaced, but I still remained, attached to the ship, feeling like this was a kind of nomadic home.

I had gotten so caught up in thought that I was almost lost overboard when the ship banked to port, dropped ten meters, and cumbersomely lurched forward faster than a minute before. If not for the railing I would have plunged terrifying toward the sea and hit it while it retained the surface tension of concrete. Luckily, I hadn’t, but I had been more than curious to find the reason I would be sporting sizable bruises on my ribs and rear. I decided to make a quick dash, with no more than four lunging steps I was, thankfully, back inside the Dagr just as the ship rolled starboard and threw me against the wall. Cursing myself for not being prepared, I gripped tight to the walkway rail and made my way, with haste, to the cockpit. The entire crew already situated in their own seats, I was greeted with a relieved smile from Grey, followed by,
“Hullo Cal, glad to see you didn’t make…harbourd with the ground.”
Jacks commented, to which Anthony added,
“Get it, cause your last name is ‘Harbourd’, get it?”
They both laughed manically at each other before Captain Thatch chastised them and drew the crews attention to the storm ahead with one question.
“Manny, why does it look like that storm is headed towards our ship?”
to which a very dislikeable reply was gained,
“The storm has begun to make its way back toward the North-East direction, if you like I can look-up searches for storm patterns, directions, airship navi…”
The captain cut Manny’s reply off with a quick interruption,
“No, that’s fine Manny”
Abduls voice piped up,
“Captain, the storm is folding in on itself, the direction change is causing any energy to go into a wash!”
“Is there any way we can flank it?”
Thatch replied,
“No, sir, it’s too late, we’re about to be dragged into the fringe and make our way to the centre, we can only move with it.”
Abdul informed with conviction,
“All hands, hold on!”
The captain relayed.

Chapter 2: Washed