The Great Balloon Sabotage

The Whole World in One Sky

Dedicated to my Mum, the biggest nerd I know

           The evening primroses had closed up. Clara looked at them disappointedly, she'd hoped to get there early enough to see them in full bloom. Amongst all the metal and refinery of her modern, artificial world, this was one spot where the flowers always bloomed.

           Oh well, she thought, looking up, I can't take them into the sky with me.

          It was a very bright morning sky, she reflected, the sun had only just risen a few minutes before, and gave off a soft, cool glow so pale it was practically silver. Clara enjoyed that if not the flowers, then got up from the ground, and started over the metal swing bridge that separated the countryside from the industrial, cobblestone streets of Lancaster, Britain.

           These streets were quiet on the west side of town, where by all accounts one may have supposed that the residents were still asleep, but Clara knew better. Sure enough, when she reached the east side of town she was greeted with a great swarm of people, busily setting up tents for puppet shows and booths for games and prizes. It was a little early, but everyone wanted to make sure they had a good spot for the festival that was to take place that evening.

           After  the race, of course. Children and old men may look forward to games of chance and carnival food, but the race was what Clara was most looking forward to. It was the 64th Annual Internationally-Inclusive Great Britain Lancaster and Shrewsbury Township Hot Air Balloon Race.

           Really, the race was held almost entirely over the wide expanse of Lancaster, but the mountain range to the east meant that the racers had to dip into a valley just inside of Shrewsbury borders in order to stay on course. The folk of the town demanded recognition for this intrusion, and so their name was added to what Clara thought was already a rather bloated title.

           Still, it was a point of pride in Lancaster that every year, no matter the number or variety of competitors, one of their own always made the podium. And there certainly was a variety. Clara saw that quite plainly as she walked off of the cobblestone and onto the grass that carpeted the large clearing where the race was to commence. Within it she saw the flags of a dozen nations: Spain, France, Kenya, Australia, Italy. But a competitor may come from the moon itself, and Lancaster would not be intimidated. The town's pride was rooted in only two things: its victories at the balloon race, and its delicious spiced peaches. And it wasn't peach season.

           Clara accordingly ignored the other balloons around her and walked up to her own near the middle of the starting area. She reached down with hands gloved in dark leather to pull at the ropes hanging over the side of her basket. The rest of her was clothed in the fashion of her mechanically-inspired era, with a loose, white, ruffled blouse tucked underneath a tight leather vest that was buttoned up only so far as the ruffles allowed. She wore a brown skirt cut a bit too high for her mother's old-fashioned tastes, and a thin black belt around her waist. Black stockings and boots completed the outfit, with decorative gears attached behind her ankle which, when flipped down, created a ready heel for the otherwise flat shoe.

           Her mother didn't approve of those either, but then Clara was nineteen; confident and impulsive, and inclined to make any decision that came into her brown-gold-haired head with complete confidence. Her eyes shone with such self-assurance, and were of a burnished, copper brilliance her grandfather had fawned over ever since she first opened them.

           "Like a brass pocket-watch," he would say over and over again. "A good, polished brass pocket watch."

           Clara carried one in her skirt pocket at all times just because of him, and had on her forehead her grandfather's own vintage copper goggles. She checked the watch now. Quarter past 7, they'd be starting soon.