Frontier City sprawled across the rugged terrain like a living tapestry, its architecture a testament to Archeon''s resilience. Buildings rose in a chaotic harmony of salvaged metal and local stone, their patchwork walls gleaming with the dull sheen of repurposed Federation hulls and the earthy grit of boulders hauled from nearby cliffs. Each structure bore the marks of survival—jagged steel beams twisted into rooflines, slabs of granite anchoring walls—stitched together with rivets and the stubborn hope of a people reborn.


    Vibrant murals splashed across the facades, their colors bold against the muted tones of hardship: fiery oranges and reds captured the supernova''s chaos, fading into blues and greens of airships soaring over fields reclaimed from ash. The morning air buzzed with life: the sharp tang of molten metal drifted from forges, the sweet waft of roasted grain cakes sizzled on portable grills, and the distant clatter of tools shaped the city''s future under a sky streaked with dawn''s first light.


    At its heart lay the central square, a pulsing hub where a communal forge roared with purpose. Flames danced in the open hearth, casting flickering shadows on sweat-streaked faces as hammers rang against anvils, their rhythmic clang-clang blending with the hiss of steam from jury-rigged pipes.


    Workshops flanked the square, their doors flung wide to reveal a hive of collaboration—mechanics hunched over salvaged rotors, artisans weaving wire into intricate tools, their voices overlapping in a symphony of shared knowledge. Apprentices darted between them, hands smudged with grease, eyes alight with the hunger to learn. A storyteller perched on a crate, his cloak as patched as the city itself, wove tales of the supernova''s aftermath for a circle of wide-eyed children, his voice rising and falling like the wind. Nearby, a musician plucked a lute-like instrument strung with salvaged wire, its haunting melody a tribute to the skies that cradled Archeon''s survival.


    Sunlight, weak but gaining warmth, cut amber streaks across the packed earth of Frontier City''s square. Dust motes danced slow in the beams slanting between patchwork huts—salvaged hull plating bolted rough to wind-scoured timber frames. The air vibrated: a low turbine hum from the city''s edge, the sharp CLANG... CLANG of a hammer striking anvil steel in a nearby open forge, the sizzle and pop of grain cakes hitting hot metal on a portable grill. Voices rose, fell—sharp calls of barter, lower murmurs of shared morning greetings.


    Sunlight, weak but gaining warmth, cut amber streaks across the packed earth of Frontier City''s square. Dust motes danced slow in the beams slanting between patchwork huts—salvaged hull plating bolted rough to wind-scoured timber frames. The air vibrated: a low turbine hum from the city''s edge, the sharp CLANG... CLANG of a hammer striking anvil steel in a nearby open forge, the sizzle and pop of grain cakes hitting hot metal on a portable grill. Voices rose, fell—sharp calls of barter, lower murmurs of shared morning greetings. Anna Freedman moved through the shifting bodies, boots scuffing worn stone, her path direct between jostling elbows and stacked crates. Beside her, Milo clutched his tattered book, dark eyes wide, gaze shifting quick across the overflowing stalls, the bursts of color from woven cloths, the glint of metal tools.


    The market sprawled raw at the square''s edge. Stalls, built from salvaged planks and stretched canvas, sagged under heaped goods. Baskets overflowed with orchard fruit, deep red skin gleaming under the strengthening sun. Bundles of wiry, gray-green shrubs lay tied with rough twine. Heaps of salvaged tech spilled across tables—viewscreen shards dark, wire coils catching light like trapped snakes, dented gears piled beside heat-warped chassis parts. Anna navigated towards a specific stall tucked beneath a faded blue awning, its counter piled high with canisters and spools.


    Torvin stood behind the rough plank counter, broad-shouldered beneath a stained leather apron. Grease streaked his thick fingers. He wiped them on the apron''s worn surface as Anna stopped before him. His head lifted, eyes finding hers.


    "Freedman," his voice came out low, gravelly. "Knew that turbine noise yesterday''d bring you."


    "Morning, Torvin," Anna said. Her hand rested on the counter''s edge, calloused fingers brushing splintered wood. The grain felt rough beneath her touch. Her hand lifted, index finger extending towards a squat metal canister among others. "High-temp sealant? And the filament wire?"


    A grin spread across Torvin''s face, revealing a dark gap between his front teeth. He hefted the indicated canister, placing it on the planks with a solid thunk. "This batch? Southern run brought it. Sticks hard." He slid a tight spool of wire across the counter towards her. Thin wire, gleaming faint silver. "Reinforced. Pre-meltdown spec. Hard find."


    Anna picked up the spool. Turned it in her hand. Felt the wire''s unyielding tension against her fingers. She uncapped the sealant canister. A sharp chemical tang hit the back of her throat, stinging slightly. The metal felt cool against her skin. "Should hold," she said.


    She pulled a weighted pouch from her belt. Ore nuggets shifted inside with a soft, heavy rustle. She placed the pouch on the worn wood. Torvin picked it up, hefted it once, testing the weight. A low grunt sounded deep in his throat. He nodded, then stowed the pouch beneath the counter.


    "Keep that ship of yours flyin''," he said.


    Anna slid the canister and spool into the heavy canvas satchel slung at her hip. The new weight settled solid against her side. "Trying to," her voice was low as she turned away from the stall.


    Milo''s head snapped up from a nearby display of polished gears. His boots scuffed dust as he fell quickly into step beside her.


    They moved away from the square''s dense press of bodies and noise. The sharp clang of the forge hammer grew fainter behind them. New sounds replaced it: the rhythmic creak and groan of cargo pulleys operating near the upper docks, their mechanisms straining under load. Wind whistled sharply between tall stacks of freight containers, a higher pitch than the low hum permeating the square.


    The path beneath their boots changed, angling upward. Packed earth gave way to bolted metal plates. Each step now produced a faint ring, a harder resonance compared to the scuff of dirt and stone. The air shifted too, the thick mix of cookfire smoke, grain dust, and metal fumes thinning, replaced by a cleaner, cooler breeze carrying the tang of ozone and engine lubricants from the docks above.


    Dock Alpha Three came into view. Cloudchaser loomed there, moored tight against the platform restraints. Its familiar shape cut a silhouette against the pale sky. The broad curve of the patched balloon canopy swayed slightly in the breeze. Sharp angles of riveted hull plates caught the morning light. The bat-like sweep of the folded wings remained static.


    The air changed again, sharpening. The specific scents of Cloudchaser cut through the general dock smells – warm engine oil, the faint musk of aged leather from the cockpit seats deep within, and beneath it all, the sharp, almost metallic trace of her father''s unique sealant formula clinging to the older hull sections. Anna''s breath hitched imperceptibly, held for a beat, then released slow.


    An engine access panel near the port rotor hung open, exposing the dark, complex machinery within. Tools lay arranged on a square of heavy tarp spread beneath: wrenches aligned by size, spanners gleaming faintly, upright oil cans, rags stained black with grease.


    Anna dropped her satchel beside the tarp. The canvas landed with a soft thud. She reached down, selected a specific wrench from the aligned row. Its weight settled familiar in her palm, the cold metal warming slightly against her skin. She moved towards the open panel. Placed a boot onto the low metal scaffold positioned below it, gripped a handhold, and hoisted herself up. The scaffold frame groaned faint under her weight.


    Inside the housing, pipes and conduits – brass, copper, dull gray alloy – crowded the space. Anna''s fingers, smudged black, found the main rotor coupling near the assembly''s core. Faint hairline cracks webbed the metal around a primary bolt head. She traced the fine lines; the metal felt cold, solid beneath the surface flaws. Milo peered up from the platform below, holding the new sealant canister ready.


    "This the coupling?" Milo asked. His voice echoed slightly inside the metal enclosure.


    Anna reached down, taking the canister without looking away from the joint. "Yeah. Port coupling." Her other hand picked up a small, flat spatula tool with a worn wooden haft. She squeezed the canister trigger. Thick, pungent sealant flowed into the joint around the bolt head. The chemical smell sharpened inside the confined space. She worked the spatula, guiding the sealant into the cracks. An even layer formed, gleaming wet under her task light.


    "Strained pushing through Veyra''s ash cloud," she stated, the words sounding against the metal walls. She set the canister aside. "This needs to cure. Heat first. Then cooling. Cannot rush it."


    She fitted the wrench onto the bolt head. Leaned into the tool, muscles bunching under her jacket sleeve. The wrench turned, meeting resistance, then yielding gradual increments. Metal bit against metal, held firm. She gave it a final turn, felt the resistance solidify. She removed the wrench.


    She wiped sweat from her forehead with the back of her wrist, leaving a darker streak of grease across her temple. She slid down from the scaffold. Her boots hit the tarp-covered deck with a muffled thud.


    "Sealant needs a full day," Anna said, picking up a clean rag from the pile. She wiped sealant residue from her fingers. The cloth moved back and forth across skin. She tossed the rag back onto the pile.


    A sharp electronic chime sounded from the comm unit clipped to her belt. The chime repeated, its pitch cutting through the dock sounds. Anna paused, head tilted. She unclipped the unit. Thumbed the receive toggle. Click. Static hissed, then stopped.


    A tinny voice sounded through the speaker: "Freedman? Iris Hollow survey dispatch. Contract confirmed. Weather window closing fast – need departure within three hours for optimal scan conditions. Repeat, three-hour departure mandatory for parameter lock. Confirm ETA."


    Anna stood motionless, the comm unit held near her ear. The distant clang of the forge hammer sounded from the square below. Wind whistled around the Cloudchaser''s hull structure. She looked down at the comm unit speaker, then lifted her gaze to the sealed joint visible inside the open access panel. The sealant gleamed wet, undisturbed. A muscle pulled tight along her jaw. Her lips pressed into a thin line. She thumbed the transmit button.


    "Dispatch, Freedman," her voice sounded, the pitch lower than before. "Departure delayed. Airship undergoing critical component cure." She released the button. Silence from the unit. Then, static hissed again.


    "Negative, Freedman," the voice returned through the speaker. "Contract parameters absolute. Three hours. No delay accepted. Alternate transport required if primary unavailable. Confirm acknowledgement."


    Anna''s fingers tightened around the comm unit. The knuckles showed white beneath the grime. Her gaze remained fixed on the sealed joint. She brought the unit closer to her mouth. Thumb pressed transmit again. "Acknowledged," she said. The sound cut off. She released the button, then thumbed the unit off. The display went dark. She clipped it back onto her belt. Stood still for another moment, looking at the open panel.


    Footsteps crunched on the metal platform grating behind her. Heavy boots. Anna turned, the motion stiff. Eldrin approached, silver-streaked hair catching the sun, his stout frame solid against the backdrop of stacked cargo containers. He stopped near the open engine panel, peered inside at the fresh sealant gleaming wet.


    "Morning, Anna," Eldrin said. His voice rumbled low. "Surgery successful?" His eyes crinkled at the corners.


    Anna gestured towards the sealed joint with the wrench still held loose in her hand. "Port coupling sealant applied. Needs to cure slow now. Won''t take stress."


    Eldrin peered closer. His head dipped once. "Good work. Can''t have her shaking apart mid-flight." He straightened, thumbs hooked in his belt. His gaze swept over Cloudchaser again, then shifted back to Anna. "So, that Riverbend run day after tomorrow still on?"


    Anna looked down at the wrench, turned it over in her hand. "Maybe." She looked up, met Eldrin''s gaze. "Got a contract call. Iris Hollow. Needs departure... now." Her voice sounded. "This sealant won''t hold for that run yet."


    Eldrin''s expression shifted, lines deepening around his eyes. He glanced towards the comm unit on Anna''s belt, then back to her face. "Ah. Timing bites, then. Iris Hollow''s a rough flight path this season." He scrubbed a hand over his jaw, the sound rough. He surveyed Cloudchaser again, then pointed with his chin towards a different dock platform further down. A heavier, less streamlined airship sat moored there – the Stout Lass. "Lass is flight-ready. Engines serviced yesterday. Got survey mounts rigged." He paused, looked back at Anna. "Take her. She''s no Cloudchaser – heavier, slower on the turns – but she''ll get you there. Solid enough."


    Anna looked towards the Stout Lass. Its hull showed bulky, functional lines. No familiar patches, no brass fittings polished bright. She looked back at Eldrin. "And Cloudchaser?"


    Eldrin nodded towards the sealed joint. "Give that sealant its time. Needs the full cure cycle, like you said. Midday tomorrow, she''ll be solid." He met Anna''s gaze directly. "I''ll bring her out myself. Ferry her to Iris Hollow, meet you there. You handle the survey; I''ll bring your ship."


    Anna held his gaze for a beat. The wind gusted, swirling dust around their boots. She gave a single nod. "Alright, Eldrin. Deal." She set the wrench down onto the tarp. Metal clicked against canvas. "Need to brief the crew. Transfer gear." She turned towards the platform edge, towards the path leading away from Dock Alpha Three. Milo, who had been watching, moved to follow her.


    Eldrin watched them go, then turned back to examine the rotor assembly, running a hand over the cool metal near the freshly sealed joint. The distant clang of the forge hammer echoed across the docks.


    This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    The mooring platform beneath the Stout Lass vibrated with a different hum than Dock Alpha Three. A lower, heavier resonance came from the ship''s idle systems. Its hull plates, dull gray alloy, showed functional welds, lacking the polished brass and patched history of Cloudchaser. Anna gestured towards the Lass''s open cargo hatch.


    "Survey gear first," she said, her voice sounding against the platform''s open air. "Secure it—this ship handles rougher."


    Riva nodded once, directing Loch towards a crate containing sensor arrays. Metal scraped against metal as Loch dragged the crate across the platform towards the Lass''s ramp. Lian emerged from the Stout Lass''s engine access, wiping thick, dark grease from her hands onto a rag tucked in her belt. "Fuel cells topped," she called out. "Pressure''s holding."


    Anna picked up her own satchel and a coil of spare comm wire. Milo grabbed a toolbox, its handle clanking against the metal casing. They walked towards the Stout Lass. Anna paused near the ramp''s base. Her gaze lifted, sweeping back towards Dock Alpha Three. Cloudchaser''s silhouette stood against the pale sky, the familiar sweep of its wings motionless. Her hand lifted, fingers hovering inches from the air, tracing the line of the canopy. Her breath hitched, a faint pause in the steady rhythm of her breathing. She held the pose for a heartbeat, two. Then her hand dropped. She turned, the movement quick, towards the Stout Lass, her boots crunching on the grating as she mounted the ramp.


    Inside the Lass''s hold, the air smelled different—less worn leather and oil, more sterile lubricant and the faint chemical tang of newer insulation. The space felt larger, squarer, lacking the customized niches and worn anchor points of her own ship. Storage compartments lined the walls, their latches heavier, requiring a firmer pull to open. Anna directed the placement of the survey gear into one bay. Loch wrestled the main sensor crate into place; the metal frame groaned under the weight. Straps clicked as Riva secured it against the bulkhead padding.


    Anna moved towards the cockpit hatch. The controls visible through the opening looked bulkier, the yoke thicker, the display screens larger but emitting a cooler, bluer light than Cloudchaser''s amber glow. She ran a hand along the bulkhead near the hatch, the painted metal cool and smooth, lacking the dents and scratches etched by her own tools. Milo placed the toolbox near the co-pilot station access. His gaze moved across the hold, then rested on the open main hatch, the distant shape of Cloudchaser visible beyond the platform.


    "Everything tied down?" Anna asked, her voice echoing slightly in the metallic space.


    Loch gave a final tug on a strap. "Solid," he confirmed.


    Anna nodded. "Alright. Seal it up. We move out." She turned towards the cockpit hatch, ducking under the lower frame.


    The pilot''s seat in the Stout Lass felt firmer, less molded to her frame. Anna secured the harness across her chest; the buckles clicked with a sharp, unfamiliar sound. Her hands moved over the control panel. Switches flipped with stiff clicks. Gauges illuminated—cool blue numerals against black backgrounds. The yoke felt thicker, less responsive under her grip.


    She looked through the forward viewport. Frontier City spread below—patchwork roofs, smoking forges, the distant geometric shapes of farmland domes against rolling hills.


    "Checks green," Anna stated into the internal ship comm. "Lian, engines to lift-off sequence."


    A deeper vibration started beneath the deck plates. The turbine whine outside climbed in pitch, became a roar. Anna pushed the main throttle lever forward. The lever moved with more resistance than Cloudchaser''s worn mechanism. The Stout Lass shuddered, then lifted from the platform. Its ascent felt heavier, less agile.


    Frontier City fell away below. Docking platforms shrank. The lines of moored airships blurred. The sprawl of workshops and stacked container structures resolved into textured patterns against the ground. Wind screamed past the viewport as they gained altitude.


    Anna banked the ship west. The movement felt less fluid, requiring more pressure on the yoke. Hills rolled into view, their slopes casting long morning shadows. Beyond them, the hazy outline of distant canyons emerged against the pale sky. Sunlight flashed off the viewport glass.


    The ship climbed higher. Plains stretched below, cut by rivers glinting silver under the strengthening sun. Anna adjusted the trim controls, compensating for the ship''s drift to port. She held altitude, her hands rested on the yoke.


    In the seats behind her, the crew settled into their stations. Riva''s fingers moved across the navigation console screen, plotting waypoints. Lian monitored engine output levels, her face illuminated by the console''s blue glow. Loch moved within the secured cargo hold, the sounds muffled by the bulkhead. Milo sat in the co-pilot seat beside Anna, eyes scanning the secondary sensor displays, calling out wind speed shifts— "Crosswind holding steady... minor sheer at three thousand..."—his voice clear over the engine drone. The sky stretched vast ahead, clear for now. The steady hum of the engines filled the cockpit. Archeon''s wilds unfolded beneath them.


    The Stout Lass''s engines maintained a steady hum. Below, canyons showed as dark lines scoring the rolling terrain. Anna held the ship''s altitude, her hands resting on the thick yoke. Beside her, Milo monitored the secondary console. "Minor wind shift, port," his voice sounded over the drone.


    A flicker showed on the main console screen. The barometer needle, an amber line against black, dipped. Held. Dipped again. Far east, the horizon line blurred, softened. A gray smudge spread against the blue sky.


    "Riva," Anna said. "Weather scans. East quadrant."


    Riva''s fingers touched her navigation console. Lines of data scrolled upward. Green text shifted to amber warnings. Her brow furrowed. "Interference," Riva stated. She tapped the screen; a vortex icon magnified. "Low-pressure system building. Data erratic. Wind vectors... changing."


    A vibration started in the yoke beneath Anna''s hands, accompanied by a push against the port wingtip. She moved the trim control levers; they slid smooth beneath her fingers. Milo looked up from his sensor display, pencil still. "Trouble?" his voice sounded, higher pitched.


    "Maybe," Anna said. Her gaze held eastward. The gray smudge had darkened, its edges churning like smoke. Engine whine increased a fraction. "Lian, port turbine pressure. Loch, comm cargo lashings." Milo''s head bent back over his console. "Milo, call pressure drops."


    Crew members moved. Riva''s hands traced lines on her console. Lian''s profile showed against the engine monitoring panel. A muffled thump sounded from the cargo bay. The gray mass ahead grew, swallowing blue sky, moving towards them. Light dimmed inside the cockpit; numerals on displays showed brighter. Wind struck the ship – a jarring nudge, then a harder shove. The hull creaked. Droplets spattered the viewport, sparse, then hammered loud against the glass, streaking sideways. Gray sheeting obscured the view. Visibility dropped. The ship pitched, then rolled sharp to starboard.


    The Stout Lass''s frame groaned beneath Anna''s boots. The engine hum warped into a growl. Wind hammered the hull, a drumming vibration traveling through the yoke into her hands. Her knuckles turned white against the yoke''s material as she applied counter-pressure. Muscles bunched in her arms, shoulders. The thick yoke pushed back against her leverage. Beyond the rain-streaked viewport, the world was gray-white turbulence. Lightning fractured the gloom – a white tear – illuminating the cockpit in stark flashes. A beat later, thunder crashed, a deep BOOM rattling the deck plates.


    "Brace!" Anna shouted.


    Riva held the navigation console edge, face pale, calling out numbers: "Wind shear seventy knots! Vector east – drift increasing!" Dials on Riva''s screen spun.


    "Lian!" Anna called, eyes flicking between viewport and gauges. "Starboard thruster—output!"


    Lian''s fingers struck the engine control panel – quick taps against glowing toggles. The ship surged with a jarring thump. The frame creaked loud, a sound of stressed metal. Milo clung white-knuckled to the sensor station housing. A loose panel above his head rattled against its fittings, a sharp, metallic drumming against the storm''s roar. "Sensors—static!" Milo''s voice sounded thin, over the noise.


    A sharp creak sounded from overhead, structures shifting near the mast anchor point. Anna''s gaze shot upward. The thick tether rope securing the scout skiff strained, swaying wide against the wind''s force. The rope pulled taut, groaned. Her chest tightened; breath caught shallow.


    "Loch! Aft cargo!" Anna yelled. "Milo, assist! Riva, level!"


    The ship pitched forward, then rolled port. Scraping sounded from the hold beyond the bulkhead, followed by a heavy CRASH. Loch''s muffled sound carried through, then the clatter of locking mechanisms. Milo grabbed a support strut as the deck tilted, moving towards the cargo hold hatchway. Rain hammered the viewport in thick sheets, gray, obscuring.


    The wind''s howl shifted pitch, lowered. Hull tremors lessened. Sideways shoves decreased; the rocking smoothed. Rain tapered to streaks against the glass. Patches of lighter gray appeared through mist. Less pressure showed against the yoke. Anna''s arms throbbed. She exhaled a long breath, the sound loud in the cockpit. The engines'' hum steadied.


    The rocking smoothed into a sway. Anna loosened her grip on the yoke, flexing fingers. Outside, gray sheets thinned to mist. Diffuse light filtered in, brightening the cockpit. Rain sounds faded. The engines droned steady.


    Anna looked upward again, towards the reinforced ceiling panel. The creak from minutes ago remained a sharp point in memory. "Tether took stress in that turbulence," she stated. Her gaze tracked a water drip near a viewport seal. "Skiff position feels off. Need eyes on the clamp."


    Riva turned from her console, wiping condensation from the screen. An eyebrow lifted. Riva looked toward the upper hatchway. "Up there? Now?" Riva gestured towards the viewport. "Looks gusty. Air''s choppy."


    Milo reappeared from the cargo hold hatch, wiping grime from his hands. His face showed pale. He looked up towards the hatchway, then back at Anna, eyes wide. "Gusts could catch you, Anna," he said, his voice quiet.


    Anna unbuckled her harness. The click echoed. "Rope frays, we lose the skiff," she said, standing. Stiff muscles pulled as she stretched. The movement tightened skin near her ribs. She reached for a locker hatch. "Damage check required. Knowing now beats finding out later." She pulled out a heavy safety line harness, metal clips glinting. Slung it over her shoulder. Her boots thudded on the deck as she moved towards the upper access hatchway.


    She reached the upper access hatch. Twisted the heavy locking wheel; metal screeched against metal. She pushed the hatch upward; hinges groaned. Cold, damp air rushed down, carrying the scent of ozone and rain-washed metal. Gray light showed in the opening. She climbed the short ladder, rungs cold beneath her gloved hands. Her head emerged into open air. Wind struck her face, pulled at her breath. She pulled herself up onto the Stout Lass''s upper hull surface. Boots pressed onto textured plating, damp underfoot. She clipped the safety line hook to a deck anchor point near the hatch. The carabiner clicked shut.


    The sky stretched gray; clouds showed as thinning, wispy streaks. Below, the ground appeared as a blur of greens and browns underneath the receding storm layer. Wind pushed against Anna''s frame, tugging at her jacket. She moved across the hull plating towards the central mast structure. The thick tether rope stretched taut upward from its anchor point, dissolving into the cloud base above. It swayed side to side in a wide arc. Rope fibers looked dark, wet. Water droplets clung to the weave, reflecting dull gray light. The outline of the scout skiff showed faint, high above within the cloud, pulling against the rope''s tension.


    Then she reached the mast anchor point. Tested the main rope connection. Solid. She clipped her harness traversal pulley onto the main rope. Checked the safety line connection again. Click. Gripped the thick, damp rope fibers above the pulley with both hands. The coarse texture pressed against her gloves. She planted her boots against the mast base, leaned back, and began pulling herself upward, hand over hand.


    Muscles in her arms and shoulders tightened, straining against her weight. The rope felt slick; her grip tightened. Each upward pull scraped faint sounds against the rope weave. Wind struck her body, pulled her sideways; cold pressed through her jacket seams. The rope swung beneath her; her stomach muscles tightened against the motion.


    She glanced down once. The Stout Lass''s hull showed below, its dull gray plating shrinking. Far beneath that, the ground blurred, indistinct shapes lost in hazy layers. Her grip tightened further. Eyes snapped forward, fixed on the rope ascending into the gray cloud base above. Her breath puffed white, ragged in the thin, cold air. Arms ached. Muscles burned. Hand over hand. Upward.


    The cloud base moved towards her. Cool mist condensed on her face shield, blurring the view. She pulled upward into the thicker vapor. Shapes shifted indistinct around her. Then, the mist thinned above. A form solidified—the scout skiff. Its slender body, curved lines painted soft pink and white, hovered just above the main cloud layer. Translucent wings hummed faint, tilting slightly against unseen currents. Moisture beaded on its smooth hull, catching diffuse light, making the pink and white hues shimmer.


    Anna reached the skiff''s underbelly. Metal felt cold, smooth against her reaching fingers. She swung her body sideways, finding a handhold near the cockpit edge. Muscles bunched as she heaved upward. Hauled herself over the side. Landed with a thud on the small deck plating inside the open cockpit. The skiff dipped under her weight, swayed, then settled. Its wings adjusted position with a delicate whirring sound.


    Anna remained on the deck for a few breaths, chest rising and falling fast. The air here felt thin, crisp, colder. Pushing herself up, she moved towards the tether attachment point at the skiff''s nose. The clamp mechanism showed secure, bolted tight against the frame. She ran gloved fingers over the hefty metal clamp—no visible cracks, but the metal color looked slightly different near the main bolt. She examined the rope where it fed into the clamp. Several outer strands showed separated fibers, pale against the rope''s darker, wet core. Wear noted.


    Her gaze swept the skiff''s small cockpit. Controls appeared intact. A few scratches showed on the hull plating near the wing root—lines cutting through the pink paint. No deep gouges. No punctures. The wings hummed steady.


    Anna turned, scanning the surrounding clouds. Gray mist swirled in slow eddies. Then, movement below. A section of cloud thinned, fibers parting into wisps. Light pierced upward through the opening. The opening widened.


    The ground appeared. Sharp focus replaced the hazy blur. A vast canyon opened beneath the dissipating cloud layer. Its cliffs plunged downward, walls glistening wet. Sunlight struck the canyon walls at an angle from a gap far to the west, illuminating streaks of reds, greens, ochres against the dark, wet stone. The chasm floor remained lost in shadow. The visible walls carved a deep, winding line across the landscape below. Mist clung in pockets along the upper rims. Waterfalls spilled down sheer faces in thin, silvery threads, catching the light.


    Anna stood motionless. Her breath stopped. Her hand, resting on the skiff''s cold railing, tightened. She stared downward.


    Her hand moved to the comm unit clipped to her suit collar. Thumb pressed the transmit button. Static hissed brief, cleared. "Riva," her voice sounded, tight. "Adjust viewport camera feed... starboard, downward angle. View required."


    Silence for a beat. Then Riva''s voice through the helmet speaker, tinny: "Confirm view required, Anna?"


    "A canyon," Anna said. Her eyes remained fixed downward, tracing the glistening walls. "Large. Haze must have obscured it. No corresponding chart entry."


    A pause from Riva. Muffled sounds through the comm—voices, movement. Milo''s voice, louder: "That scale!"


    Loch''s rougher voice joined in: "Fissure rift! Matches visual?"


    Anna heard the sounds. Her gaze stayed locked on the view below. Need to chart. Add to logs.


    "Okay, Riva," Anna said into the comm. "Log coordinates. Max resolution scans from current position. Survey follows later—mission target remains Iris Hollow."


    "Coordinates logged, Anna," Riva confirmed. "Scan initiated."


    Anna gave the rope near the clamp another look. Its frayed outer strands glinted pale. Tapped the skiff''s hull once, a light sound with her gloved hand. Turned back to the main tether rope hanging beside the skiff. Clipped her harness pulley back onto the descent line. Checked the carabiner lock. Gripped the thick rope. Swung her body off the skiff''s deck, boots finding the rope. Started the descent.


    Downward motion felt faster. Gravity assisted. Hand over hand, gloves sliding against the slick rope, controlling speed. Wind buffeted less sharply now, lower down. The cloud layer rose, enveloped her again in cool, gray mist. Vision obscured. She descended through it. Then broke free below the cloud base. The Stout Lass''s hull reappeared beneath her, growing larger. Wind whistled past her helmet. The groan of the ship''s frame carried upward.


    Her boots hit the Stout Lass''s hull plating with a solid thud. She unclipped from the rope. Secured the safety line to the deck anchor again. Turned, pulling off her helmet. Damp hair showed plastered to her forehead. Milo stood near the hatchway, face turned towards her. His eyes looked wide.


    "The scale..." Milo said, his voice sounding over the wind. "From the books-"


    Anna raised a hand, palm outward. "Coordinates logged," she stated, voice showing effort. She ran a hand through her damp hair, pushing it back. "Later, Milo." She moved towards the hatchway. "Get inside. Sky to cover." She ducked into the hatch, boots thudding on the ladder rungs. The scent of ozone and recycled air filled her nostrils.


    Anna settled into the pilot''s seat. The padding felt damp. Secured the harness. Hands found the yoke. Gripped it steady. Riva tapped coordinates into the nav console. Lian''s face showed concentration, reflected in the engine readout displays. A muffled sound indicated movement in the cargo hold.


    Anna nudged the throttle. Engines hummed louder. The Stout Lass angled forward, moving towards Iris Hollow. Through the viewport, the storm clouds showed distant behind them. Clearer sky opened ahead. The hidden canyon vanished from view below. Iris Hollow awaited.