Lead Mapmaker Blythe Hemmingson

“Here’s your mapmaking materials,” I told Daisy, tapping the shelf twice as I set down the papers and charcoals. She looked around the room with wide eyes, like she’d never been in a mapmaker’s solarium before. Below the bowsprit, a tempered glass bubble protruded at the junction of the walls and the hull of the ship. Two swivel chairs, bolted to the floor, were to be our perches as we peered through the glass.

“The snow is so bright,” Daisy said. I stood next to her and we looked at the glare together.

“It won’t bother us when we’re drawing. Just keep your eyes moving and you’ll be fine.”

I sat down on my chair and rested my elbow on the tray, charcoal at the ready. Daisy sat on the edge of her seat. Her paper was crooked, and she held her charcoal clumsily. She sure didn’t seem like a genius mapmaker to me. Maybe she was having a tough day.

“Your paper is off center,” I reminded her. “And look, you can hold your charcoal like this for clean lines.”

She adjusted accordingly, just as the captain’s voice came through the intercom. “Mapmaker’s Guild, year 1897, project number 47. Captain Springett speaking. May Garland be with us. Reaching territory assigned in 3, 2, 1… Mapmakers, commence!”

The rhythm of the words, though familiar, made my heart pound in anticipation. My leg bounced, but my hands stayed still. Perfectly still - because they are mapmaker’s hands.

Daisy didn’t seem nervous at all. Actually, she seemed like she was out of it, kind of zoning out, staring through the bubble.

The airship turned slightly and the coastline centered in the window. I gazed at the land, not looking at my hand as it followed the outline. I couldn’t think of anything else as I drew, my only thought and total concentration in the pursuit of a perfect map. This is my only escape from the multitudes in my mind. This is the reason why I love mapmaking.

My mother, a mediocre mapmaker at best, taught me to follow in her footsteps. When I was 15, my skills surpassed hers. A normal parent would have been proud, would have encouraged their child. But I suppose my mother wasn’t a normal parent. She forced me out of her home. By pure chance, I bumped into Captain Springett - literally. I spilled my lap desk and charcoals everywhere on that busy street. She noticed the mapmaking equipment and we got to talking. I told her my story, and she decided to put me through the Guild’s school. Later, I joined her on the Quaerere. I’ve been here for ten years now, and I owe everything to the Captain.

Though, now that I think about it, I’m tired. Ten years on this same few square meters will do that to a guy. I’m still young. When we get back to Londinium, maybe I’ll use my guild seniority to get a cushy desk job. Pushing paperwork? So easy, after pushing charcoal for this long. I can settle down, find a wife, have a couple kids. Perhaps they can be mapmakers too.

I peek at Daisy out of the corner of my eye. Her brow furrowed, she made dark lines on the paper, twinning my map.

Would I be jealous, as my mother was, if this Daisy turns out to be more talented than myself? I doubt it. I like Daisy, and I hope that she can help our crew on this last adventure.

Junior Mapmaker Daisy Gunne

As it turns out, mapmaking is harder than it looks. At least, if you’re trying to be accurate. I try to copy Bly’s posture and concentration, but I’m sweating too much to see straight. I hope my map is passable. What could happen to me if they realize I’m not the prodigy they think I am?

The clock ticks on, its pendulum in the shape of a compass rose. After what seems like days, the captain again speaks through the intercom. “Mapmaker’s Guild, year 1897, project number 47. Captain Springett speaking. May Garland be with us. Leaving territory assigned in 3, 2, 1… Mapmakers, conclude!”

Bly picks up his charcoal with a sigh. “It wasn’t perfect,” he mumbles. He pats the desk twice.

“You’re expecting it to be perfect?”

“Of course, didn’t you learn that in school? We have to keep flying over our assignment until the maps are perfect. So the better the maps, the sooner we can go home.”

“Of course, I can’t believe I forgot that. School was such a whirlwind.”

I’m so exhausted from that first mapmaking session. I can’t believe we have to do this every day.

“That was a pretty long fly-over. Two hours. We have a big assignment this time. How did your map turn out?”

“You tell me!”

He stood and looked at my drawing, a quizzical look at his face. “Daisy, that’s… almost perfect. How do you do that?”

“It is? I hadn’t even noticed.” To me, the map is infused with the memories of my struggles for two hours. I can’t objectively determine the quality, because all I see when I look at it is sweat marks from my hands.

“That’s amazing,” Captain Springett said. I didn’t even notice her entering. “Good work, Daisy. Bly, Let’s bring the papers to the drafting room.”

Bly carefully picks up both of the new maps and we enter the adjacent room. He lays the pages on top of each other on a huge table in the center of the room. The captain flicks a switch on the wall and part of the table lights up. “Time to trace. My least favorite part.”

Captain Springett puts a fresh sheet of paper on top of the two maps and weighs the three pages down with magnets that connect to the table. “Daisy, why don’t you start? Don’t forget to average the lines.”

“Um, sure.” Average the lines? What does that mean?

Bly hands me a darker charcoal as I sit down. The light shines through the pages, clearly illuminating the lines for me. I notice a few places where the maps diverge, but overall they are very similar. I begin copying the lines. But averaging? I guess that means meeting the lines in the middle? Where the lines part, I draw right between them.

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The room stays quiet, and I sweat less while I’m tracing. The result is a clean, fresh map of the icy coastline we fly over. Looking at the clock, another hour has passed. I put away the charcoal and realize my eyes can barely stay open. This is ridiculous! Why is it so taxing to draw for a few hours?

Captain Adelaide Springett

This day marks one of my last mapmaking flyovers. The new girl does exceptionally well on the initial mapmaking, though I can tell that the tracing has sapped her energy.

I remember feeling like that. Which is crazy - a young person, so exhausted from doing practically nothing? I get tired from simply getting out of bed. But it’s a mental exhaustion that mapmaking brings. The focus and willpower of a mapmaker must be top-notch. The more maps you make, the easier it becomes. It’s a learned skill.

And yet, I dream. I often dream that I’m back in the bubble as a mapmaker. The airship flies faster and faster over the land, and my arm can’t keep up. I keep dropping my charcoal, and still the land speeds by, faster than my eyes can even recognize. My mapmaking partner, long dead, is there also. I like seeing him in dreams, but this time I am too stressed to enjoy it.

Someone smarter than me would probably have something to say about this dream. But I don’t know what.

Perhaps after I retire and leave Quaerere behind, the nightmare will subside. Without the familiar halls, maybe my subconscious will come up with new terrors. I’m fine with that. I’ll be fine with anything, as long as I’m retired.

Head Cook Kiona Bream

Daisy moves slowly around the kitchen, and when I ask her what’s wrong, she only says, “Nothing.”

I think I recognize the look in her eyes, the gaze into nothing. It’s been decades since I’ve stepped foot in the bubble, but I still remember the mind-numbing effects of mapmaking.

“Today you made your first map, correct?”

“Yes,” she replies, without any inflection.

“You seem… tired.”

“Of course I am!”

I ignore the outburst and try to remain friendly. “I remember what that’s like. I felt it every time I finished a map. And yet, the tiredness was nothing compared to when I gave the original to the Archives. I’d spent days practicing my insignia. So now there is a piece of me that lives on, as it will after my passing, in the maps that I made with my own two hands.”

“That’s nice,” she said. “Why did you stop making maps, if you liked it so much?”

“I developed wrist problems. So the captain assigned me to the kitchen, and I’ve been here ever since. I’m so glad to have you as an extra set of hands to give mine a break.”

She kept chopping the vegetables. I hoped that I’d reached her. Let her know that she wasn’t alone in this. We all knew what it was like.

Head Navigator Sydney Cannard

The day that Captain Springett retires will be the best day of my life. As head navigator, I’m second in command. There’s no doubt that the Guild will appoint me the next captain, especially after my stellar years of service here on the Quaerere.

So I bide my time and count the days. The first thing I’ll do as captain is upgrade the suite. I’m so tired of sleeping on a bunk bed. I want my bedroom to be as luxurious as a five-star hotel in Venezio. But I suppose, with the funds that project will consume, I might as well just buy a whole new ship. The Guild won’t like that, they’re a bunch of miserly penny-pinchers. How can I get them to fund a new ship? Let me count the ways.

Okay, after much deliberation (seriously, this took me two days to think of), I have a plan. Let me write it down so I won’t forget:

1. Sabotage Quaerere in some way.

2. Let it crash and burn.

3. While it’s burning, heroically rescue someone.

4. After the stress of the crash, Captain Springett will retire immediately.

5. The Guild, after seeing my heroism and cool under pressure, will grant me the title of Captain on a brand-new airship.

6. I assemble my trusty crew members and we fly into the horizon.

See? Six quick steps, and all my dreams come true. So how can I sabotage this ship? I’m a navigator, not a mechanic. I’ll go talk to Barry and see what he thinks.

Head Engineer Bartholomew Boysen

This ship is a piece of junk. The Craftsman’s Guild doesn’t make ‘em like they used to. Or maybe they just set a bunch of apprentices loose in a scrap yard.

When Sydney asked what I was working on, I had a whole list of things in my head to tell him. “Well, yesterday we had to send poor Hallie out to the main prop. The prop shaft was getting too loose and so our engines had to work overtime for the same amount of thrust. We wanted to make sure everything was in tip-top shape for the flyover today. So Hallie had to grease it up and tighten the bolts. She’s scared to death of heights, poor thing, but she’s the only trained mechanic that’s light enough to be on the harness system. Then today during the flyover we realized that the left bank temp gauge was inaccurate, and our spare parts haven’t been organized since they all fell on the floor last month. It took the three of us close to two hours to find that spare thermometer! And then Cale bruised his hand because he dropped our biggest wrench on himself. I swear that boy walks around with his eyes closed half the time! I should apprentice him to someone else!”

I would have continued along the same vein, but Sydney asked another question: “Do you have any ongoing problems, anything that you’re particularly concerned about?”

“Well, this morning the captain expressed concern about her altimeter. It seems to be malfunctioning, saying that we are at a higher altitude than we actually are. Which is a problem, I don’t need to tell you that. And then Kiona asked Hallie to look at the kitchen sink because it’s leaking. You know, sometimes I feel like this is a sinking ship and my team is running around plugging the holes with their fingers. Someday, we’re going to run out of fingers. I just hope we have the right tools to make it back to Londinium in one piece.”

“It sounds like you have a lot on your plate, so I’ll leave you to it,” Sydney said smoothly. He shook my hand. “See you at suppertime.”

Chief Mate Paul Yardley

Rope. Rope. Rope. Rope! In thirty years, in travelling all over the world, all I’d been able to see was rope. The Guild always seemed to give us the most raggedy pieces of rope they could find. And I took no pleasure in the repair and upkeep.

Sometimes my rope-related despair got bad. In those times, I trudged around the top deck, watching my traitorous feet in case they decided to throw me over the edge.

And the crew members below me were no better. I watched as they coiled the ropes and climbed the rigging. Charlotte and Jemmett, their faces constantly chapped by the wind, couldn’t stand the sight of another rope.

Today I was bundled up more than I’d ever been. Sure, the Arctic was cold. But Antarctica was even more brutal, particularly hundreds of feet in the air.

We took turns going on the deck, so as to not freeze ourselves. I wished that Captain Springett understood these ordeals. She’d been so busy with the new mapmaker that I hadn’t had a chance to speak to her about these appalling conditions. Perhaps tomorrow I could find a good time for a chat.

In the meantime… rope!