A Script for The Singing of the Brass Colossus

by Jamie F. Bell

INT. GILDED ICARUS ENGINE ROOM - DAY

A vast, cavernous space. A cathedral of brass, copper, and iron. Pistons, thick as tree trunks, stand silent and locked. The great Centrifugal Drive, a sphere of glass and intricate brasswork, sits dormant at the heart of the room.

The silence is absolute. Heavy.

SOUND: The distant, mournful cry of a dockyard gull.

EVAN SAMPSON (70s), weathered and worn as the machinery around him, wipes his hands on a rag that is more grease than cotton. His movements are slow, his knees ache. The air, thick with the smell of singed copper and hydraulic fluid, shimmers with heat from the sun beating on the hull.

He runs a hand over the cool metal of a piston housing. A final goodbye.

> (muttering to himself)

> That is that, then.

> (a beat)

> Rest well, old girl.

He reaches for a wooden cane hooked over a pressure valve.

And that's when he feels it.

A VIBRATION. Not a sound. A deep, subtle tremor rising from the concrete floor, through the soles of his worn leather boots.

Evan freezes, hand hovering over his cane. He frowns, tilting his head.

Then, the HUM begins.

A low, resonant B-FLAT that emanates from the Centrifugal Drive. It vibrates in Evan's chest. Impossible.

> (a breath)

> Impossible.

He grabs his cane and hobbles toward the main console, ignoring a sharp protest from his hip. His eyes are locked on the primary pressure gauge.

CLOSE ON THE GAUGE

The needle, resting at zero, TWITCHES. Once. Twice. Then it begins a smooth, steady sweep to the right. Into the yellow. Toward the red.

> (hissing)

> No fuel. No combustion. Where are you getting the heat?

His gnarled fingers fly over brass toggles, checking readouts. All dead. All cold.

The HUM climbs in pitch. The glass casing of the Drive rattles in its frame.

On a nearby wall, a mercury thermometer SHATTERS from the sonic pressure. Silver droplets skitter across the floor.

Panic, cold and sharp, cuts through Evan's grief.

A voice booms from the gantry catwalk above.

> Mr. Sampson! By all that is holy, are you holding a séance in here?

EDNA GRISHAM (70s), theatrical and sharp, descends an iron staircase, a silk scarf trailing behind her. She wears her navigator’s coat despite the oppressive heat.

> (shouting over the rising noise)

> Madam Grisham! Unless you have summoned a poltergeist into the intake manifold, I suggest you descend immediately! The pressure is critical!

Edna lands on the deck floor, her boots ringing.

> Critical? The drive is dead, Evan. We toasted to its demise not an hour ago with that dreadful sherry.

> Tell that to the boiler!

He throws his shoulder against a large, rusted release wheel. It doesn't budge. Searing heat radiates from the metal.

> (grunting with effort)

> It’s climbing! Two hundred PSI. Three hundred! I cannot vent it!

Edna’s theatricality vanishes. She sees the gauge needle deep in the red. Her face becomes a mask of terrifying competence.

> The auxiliary vents are sealed manually from the exterior. We cannot reach them.

> Then we must divert. To the whistle. It will deafen half the county, but it will save the ship.

> (moving to a secondary console)

> The whistle line was severed for maintenance!

Her fingers fly across switches, her arthritis forgotten.

> Evan, look at the chromatic output. This isn't thermal expansion. It’s... it’s harmonic data.

> (roaring)

> I do not care if it is a bloody symphony! It is going to blow the rivets!

He abandons the wheel and lunges for a heavy, red-painted EMERGENCY BYPASS lever. He grips it with both hands, knuckles white. He PULLS.

It’s stuck fast. A groan of exertion and desperation tears from his throat.

> Help me, woman!

Edna is there in an instant. Her hands, covered in rings, clamp over his. Together, they haul back.

SOUND: A high-pitched SCREECH of protesting metal.

With a final, agonizing jerk, the lever gives way.

A DEAFENING BLAST of steam erupts from the floor grates. The room fills with white, hot vapor smelling of ancient minerals and lightning.

The HUM stabilizes, its pitch holding steady. The pressure needle wavers, then holds at the very edge of the red line.

Evan collapses against a railing, chest heaving. His hand trembles as he wipes sweat from his face.

Edna leans against the console, fanning herself with a clipboard.

> (gasping)

> Merciful heavens. I thought... I truly thought that was the curtain call.

The steam slowly dissipates.

The Centrifugal Drive is GLOWING. Not with the orange of heat, but a pulsating, rhythmic BLUE luminescence from its core.

Evan stares, his breath catching.

> Edna. The fuel lines are empty.

> (whispering)

> I know.

> (straightening up)

> Which implies, Mr. Sampson, that we are not running on fuel.

She walks slowly toward the glowing core, the blue light dancing across her face. She reaches out, her fingers hovering inches from the vibrating glass.

> It is a signal. A wake-up call.

> (pushing himself up with his cane)

> From whom? The Admiralty decommissioned the frequency. There is no one left to call.

> Not from the Admiralty.

She turns to him, her eyes bright with a terrifying, youthful spark.

> Look at the sequence, Evan. The pulses. Long, short, long, long... It is not Morse. It is the old navigational cipher. The one from the Founder's Journals.

Evan hobbles closer, squinting at the rhythmic light. The pattern is undeniable. A coordinate set.

> (swallowing)

> That... That points to the Blind Spot. The storm system in the Southern Hemisphere. There is nothing there but typhoon winds and ocean.

> So we were told.

She taps the glass with a manicured fingernail.

> But the ship remembers something we do not. Or perhaps, something was hidden in the drive core until the moment of shutdown.

Evan looks around the engine room. Minutes ago, a tomb. Now, it is alive. Dangerous. The impossible heat warms his aching joints.

> We are retired, Edna. We are old. The crew is gone. We cannot simply... go.

Edna laughs, a sharp, delighted sound that echoes in the vast room.

> Oh, Evan. Look at you. You are already calculating the coal requirements.

He is. He can't help it. His mind is already racing.

Evan looks from the glowing gauge to Edna's expectant face. He straightens his back, ignoring the twinge in his spine. He wipes a smear of grease from his cheek and adjusts his suspenders. The engineer takes over.

> (formally)

> The port stabilizer is sticky. And if we are to fly into a storm system, I shall require you to actually monitor the pressure valves this time, rather than composing poetry about the clouds.

A predatory, glorious grin spreads across Edna's face.

> I shall endeavour to focus, Mr. Sampson. Assuming you can keep this old kettle from boiling over.

Evan turns to the console. The blue light reflects in his eyes, burning away the melancholy. He flips a series of brass switches.

SOUND: A low, powerful THUMP-THUMP-THUMP as auxiliary systems begin to engage.

The singing of the brass colossus has begun.

About This Script

This script is part of the Unfinished Tales and Random Short Stories project, a creative research initiative by The Arts Incubator Winnipeg and the Art Borups Corners collectives. Each script outlines a potential cinematic or episodic adaptation of its corresponding chapter. The project was made possible with funding and support from the Ontario Arts Council Multi and Inter-Arts Projects program and the Government of Ontario.

These scripts serve as a bridge between the literary fragment and the screen, exploring how the story's core themes, characters, and atmosphere could be translated into a visual medium.