Chapter 60: Chapter 59: The City in the Sky

Time Remaining: 36 Days, 17 Hours. (Status: Parked in shadow. Tires are critical. Traction systems empty.) Location: Sector 3 – The Sky-Docks (The Boneyard).

The shadow of the pylon was the only thing keeping them alive.

Outside the shade, the Glass Plains were baking at 65°C. Inside the shadow, it was a cool, manageable 40°C. The Iron Horse sat idling, steam hissing gently from the radiator. It looked like a wounded beast. The front bumper was missing (ripped off at the Gate), the paint was bubbled, and the tires were slick with melted rubber.

Arthur kicked the front left tire. It felt soft, like chewing gum. “We can’t cross the rest of the plain like this,” Arthur said, wiping grease from his face. “Without sand for traction, we’re just sliding. And without tread on the tires, the next heat-wave will pop them.”

“We need grit,” Vivian said, looking at the smooth glass ground. “But the whole world is glass. There’s no sand left. The nuke melted it all.”

Arthur looked up. He craned his neck, staring at the rusted steel skeleton of the Sky-Dock towering above them. Five hundred feet up, suspended by chains thick as tree trunks, hung the airship Icarus. It was a massive, rusted hulk of iron and canvas, swaying gently in the thermal currents.

“Airships,” Arthur murmured. “They run on hydrogen lift.”

“So?” Zack asked, pouring water on the radiator.

“So,” Arthur pointed. “To control altitude, airships use Ballast. Heavy bags of weight they drop to go higher.”

“Sandbags,” Vivian realized. “They used sand.”

“Tons of it,” Arthur grinned. “If that ship is still loaded, it has enough sand to fill our traction-boxes ten times over. And… it might have spare rubber hoses. Or canvas patches for the tires.”

“We have to climb that?” Zack looked up at the rusting ladder that vanished into the sky. “It’s five hundred feet straight up.”

“You don’t,” Arthur tossed him the wrench. “You and Julian stay here. Keep the engine running. Cycle the coolant. If the Wyrm comes back, honk the horn.”

“I am on guard duty?” Julian asked, sitting in the shade. “With him?”

“Bonding time,” Arthur said. “Vivian, grab your hammer. We’re going scavenging.”

….

The ladder was hot. Arthur wore leather gloves, but he could still feel the heat of the sun-baked steel. They climbed in silence. The wind howled through the skeletal ribs of the dock, making the metal groan. Below them, the Iron Horse shrank to the size of a toy. The Glass Plains stretched out for miles—a blinding white mirror broken only by the ripples of the Silica-Wyrm patrolling in the distance.

“Don’t look down,” Arthur muttered, testing a rung before putting his weight on it. CREAK. The bolt held. Barely.

“I love heights,” Vivian said from below him. She was climbing one-handed, carrying her hammer like it weighed nothing. “It makes the fall more exciting.”

They reached the docking platform. It was a metal grate, rusted through in places, connecting the tower to the airship’s hull. Arthur stepped onto the gangway. It swayed. He reached the airlock door of the Icarus. It was sealed with a wheel-lock.

“Stuck,” Arthur grunted, straining against the rusted iron.

“Allow me,” Vivian stepped up. She didn’t turn the wheel. She hit the door hinge with her hammer. CLANG. The rusted hinge shattered. The heavy steel door fell inward with a deafening crash.

They stepped inside. The air in the ship was stale, dry, and hot. It smelled of old canvas and diesel. Rays of sunlight pierced through holes in the hull, illuminating dust motes dancing in the dark.

“Bridge or Cargo?” Vivian asked.

“Cargo,” Arthur said. “Ballast is in the keel.”

They descended into the belly of the ship. It was a labyrinth of pipes and catwalks. Arthur ran his hand along a pipe. “Copper,” he noted. “Valuable. If we had time, I’d strip this whole ship.”

They found the Ballast Hold. It was a cage near the floor vents. Inside, stacked in neat rows, were dozens of heavy canvas sacks stamped with the Imperial Crest.

Arthur slashed one open with his knife. Golden, coarse, dry sand spilled out.

“Gold,” Arthur whispered, running the sand through his fingers. “Pure silica grit. This will give the tires bite.”

“How do we get it down?” Vivian asked. “Carry it?”

“Gravity,” Arthur pointed to the floor vent. “It opens directly to the air. We park the train underneath, pull the release lever, and drop the sand directly into the truck bed.”

“Smart,” Vivian nodded. “Let’s go tell Zack to move the—”

She stopped. She held up a hand. “Listen.”

Thump. Thump.

It was coming from the deck above them. Footsteps. Heavy ones.

“I thought the ship was abandoned,” Vivian whispered, gripping her hammer.

“It is,” Arthur whispered back. “That’s not a crew. That’s a squatter.”

They crept up the stairs toward the Bridge. Arthur peeked around the bulkhead.

Standing in the center of the control room, staring out the shattered windshield, was a machine. It looked like a suit of armor, but purely mechanical. Brass gears, pneumatic pistons, a glass dome for a head. It was holding a broom. It was sweeping the same spot on the floor over and over again.

Swish-clack. Swish-clack.

[System Scan: Automaton – Series 7.]

[Status: Glitched. Logic Loop.]

[Battery: 2%.]

“A janitor,” Arthur realized. “A First Era service droid. It’s been sweeping this floor for three hundred years.”

“Is it hostile?”

“Only if we make a mess,” Arthur said. He walked into the room.

The droid stopped sweeping. Its head swiveled with the sound of grinding gears. A single red eye-lens focused on Arthur.

“Ticket, please,” the droid rasped. Its voice box was broken, sounding like static. “Boarding… pass…”

“We’re maintenance,” Arthur lied smoothly. “Here to refill the ballast.”

The droid processed this. The gears clicked. “Maintenance… delayed… three… centuries…” It lowered the broom. “Captain… is… waiting… in… his… cabin.”

“Captain?” Arthur frowned. “Is the Captain alive?”

“Captain… is… waiting,” the droid repeated. It pointed a rusty finger at a door labeled Commander.

Arthur walked to the door. He pushed it open. Sitting in the captain’s chair was a skeleton. He was wearing a tattered blue uniform. On his lap sat a leather logbook. In his hand was a revolver.

Arthur gently took the Logbook. He opened to the last entry.

Date: 300 years ago.

Entry: “The Mages dropped the sun. The glass is rising. We are trapped in the dock. The heat fused the release clamps. We can’t launch. The crew has deserted. I remain with the ship. If anyone finds this… the codes for the Western Gate are in the safe. God save the Empire.”

“Western Gate,” Arthur looked up. “Sector 4.”

He looked at the safe in the corner. It was open. Empty. “Someone was here,” Arthur said. “Someone took the codes.”

“When?” Vivian asked.

Arthur checked the dust on the floor. There were footprints. Not skeleton footprints. Boot prints. “Recently,” Arthur said. “Maybe a week ago.”

“Arthur!” Zack’s voice crackled over the iScroll (which was vibrating from a notification). Arthur picked it up. [Incoming Message: Proximity Alert.]

“Arthur!” Zack screamed from the ground. “The Wyrm! It’s back! It’s circling the tower!”

Arthur ran to the window. Below, the glass ocean was rippling. The massive Silica-Wyrm was coiling around the base of the pylon. It wasn’t attacking the train. It was gnawing on the metal supports of the tower.

CRUNCH. The entire tower shuddered. The airship swayed violently.

“It’s cutting the legs!” Arthur realized. “It knows we’re up here! It’s trying to bring the ship down!”

“Drop the ballast!” Arthur yelled. “Vivian! The release lever! Now!”

Vivian sprinted back down the stairs. Arthur grabbed the Captain’s Revolver (checking the cylinder—two bullets left) and the Logbook. He looked at the droid. “Come with us. The ship is falling.”

“Shift… not… over,” the droid said, resuming its sweeping. “Must… clean.”

CRUNCH. The tower tilted. The horizon shifted 20 degrees. “We’re going down!” Arthur screamed. “Vivian!”

CLANK. Below, the ballast doors opened. Tons of golden sand poured out of the ship, raining down five hundred feet. It hit the glass ground around the Iron Horse, creating a massive, soft dune.

“The ladder is gone!” Vivian yelled, running back into the bridge. “The walkway detached!”

Arthur looked at the drop. 500 feet. “If we jump, we die,” Arthur said. “Terminal velocity.”

He looked at the walls. The airship hull was made of Reinforced Canvas. He pulled his knife. “Cut the wall!” Arthur ordered. “We need a parachute!”

Vivian swung her hammer, punching a hole in the fabric. She ripped it open with her bare hands. Arthur sliced a 20-foot square of heavy canvas. He punched holes in the corners and tied them with the curtain cords from the window.

“It’s a drag chute!” Arthur shouted over the groaning metal. “Grab a corner! Wrap it around your wrist!”

“This is not a parachute!” Vivian yelled, grabbing the fabric. “It’s a bedsheet!”

“It’s drag!” Arthur yelled. “Jump!”

The tower groaned one last time and began to topple. Arthur and Vivian leaped from the shattered window.

They fell. The wind roared in their ears. Arthur felt the canvas snap open above them. WHUMP. It didn’t stop them, but it jerked them violently upward, slowing their descent from a lethal plummet to a terrified glide.

They drifted down, the canvas fluttering wildly, threatening to tear.

“Aim for the sand!” Arthur screamed.

They hit the dune. The impact was brutal. They rolled, tumbling through the hot, golden grit, sand filling their mouths and eyes. But they didn’t break. The sand absorbed the kinetic energy.

Arthur came to a stop at the bottom of the dune, coughing. Behind them, the massive airship Icarus crashed into the glass plains with a sound like the end of the world.

End of Chapter 59

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