by Nick Travers
Chapter 8
The Western Post Hub. An entirely free floating, wood construction of six levels; a garrison, in addition to a postal distribution center, for whichever city state is on convoy duty that month; a whole town has grown up, down, and around the postal operation, to serve the needs of visiting crews; a seedy, cosmopolitan, but law abiding warren.
A shoal of shark—tailed post—packets flit in and out like fish round a coral reef, distributing mail to the city states.
Despite the bustle, our momentum grinds to a halt as we queue for a birth to dock the Shonti Bloom. I fret and pace at the delay, eager to solve the mystery of Felix’s death so I can return to my quest.
Eventually, we are shepherded into a dock on the lowest level, by a stubby tug with engines protruding at all angles. This means a long calf—aching climb up rickety steps to the sorting office at the very top of the stack.
Trent insists on bringing a parcel and some letters with him. “Your uncle would have wanted me to post then.” So devoted to Felix, even in death, it makes my heart melt.
Crammed in the lower levels are the hangers on—those who scrape a living from the crews, the garrison, and occasional visitors like us. Higher up live the postal workers, who sort and distribute the mail, and the garrison who protect the post—drawn in rotation from each of the city states that rely on this post hub.
Trent bounds up the steps like a man on a mission. “Got to hurry, some of the post-packets look ready to sail.”
Wearily, I start the long climb at a slow pace, thinking of Uncle Felix.
Before leaving, Trent and I built a funeral pyre while Scud, Fernando, and Izzy replaced the Shonti Bloom’s bio-engines with the new ones I had spied on our arrival. I had no qualms about taking the engines: everything probably belonged now to either Izzy or I anyway, and if not, the new owner would never know.
We restocked the Shonti Bloom with everything we needed for a long journey. I took as many coils of new rope as I thought we could carry, though I couldn’t spare any time, just yet, to replace old ropes: we had a message to chase.
We wrapped Felix’s body in a blanket, heaved him on top of the funeral pyre, soaked everything in bio—fuel and attached a hydrogen balloon to the little platform. Then we all gathered round the pyre not knowing what to say.
As captain, it was my duty to lead the funeral service. Maybe I’d missed that module at flight school, maybe it was still ahead of me, or maybe it’s just something you learn on the job, like now. I’d never done anything like this before and would rather have ducked out, but there was no avoiding it. What do you say about someone you hardly know to speed them on their way to heaven or hell?
In the end I just spoke to Uncle Felix. To his boots, actually, which was the only part of him I could see on top of the pyre. How much easier to speak to someone when they’re not actually present. “Um, sorry, uncle that I didn’t know you better. From what I do remember, you seemed an ok guy, a bit rough round the edges, but ok. We… um, well, all of us hope you end up where you want to go in death and that you like it there.” Even as I spoke, it sounded embarrassingly lame. Really cringe-worthy.
Trent said what a wonderful employer Felix had been—like a Father to him. And Izzy said what a rubbish father he had been, but she would miss not getting to know him someday. I felt tears prick at the corners of my eyes at her missed opportunity. Or did I weep for my own?
Sometimes, when mourning another’s loss, we actually mourning our own loss—it sounds selfish, but it’s an unconscious thing, difficult to tell apart. Even doing something practical can be a response to our own guilt.
We lit the fuse on the funeral pyre, watched it splutter to life, and launched the whole lot into the prevailing wind. It drifted slowly away. Nothing visible happened for a while, then suddenly it burned brightly. The funeral pyre rose rapidly as the heart of burning wood heated the hydrogen in the balloon.
I bet Scud the ropes would burn through first. I was wrong. With a flash and a faint “pop,” the balloon disappeared and the whole contraption plunged, like a flaming meteor, into the grey cloud below. We watched in respectful silence until the angry glow disappeared.
Looters would probably strip the place in no time, like vultures homing in on a fresh kill. Before we left, I thought I spied an airship in the distance, but even as I thought I saw something, clouds swept in obscuring my view, it was probably nothing. In an attempt to protect the stock we left the plague flag flying. The platform looked cold and deserted even before we departed.
