Dust swirled faint in the first thin light striking through the workshop''s high, grimy window. Anna stood just inside the threshold, the closed doorframe a solid presence near her shoulder. Cold air pressed inward, thick with the scents of grease, cold metal, and the sharp tang of dust stirred after weeks of stillness. Her knuckles, raw from the key found last night, pressed against the worn leather of her father''s journal clutched tight to her chest. Beyond the shafts of pale light, the workshop stretched into shadow—tools hung silent on racks, benches cluttered with inert metal shapes. Near the far wall, beneath its heavy tarp, the Cloudchaser rested, a vast, slumped silhouette.
She drew a breath. Air scraped cold, dusty, into her lungs. One step forward, boots scuffing grit on the floorboards. Another. Stopped near the main workbench. The journal''s weight felt heavy, its cracked leather cool against her fingers. She laid it open on the bench''s scarred surface, pages rustling loud in the quiet. Her finger, smudged with yesterday''s grime, traced a diagram—complex lines showing propeller lifts, angles marked with his bold, familiar script. Notes crowded the margins—torque ratios, blade pitch differential, gyroscopic stabilization. The terms swam before her eyes; she paused, staring blankly at the ink for a moment. Heat pricked behind her eyes. She pressed the heel of her hand hard against the page, the solid paper, the known lines. Basics first... then fly.
Basics. Her gaze swept the shadowed workshop, landing on a shape beneath the Cloudchaser''s tarped wing—a spare propeller assembly, surfaces rusted, blades slightly warped. She moved towards it, boots crunching over stray bolts scattered on the floor.
The heavy, stiff tarp corner resisted her pull, canvas scraping rough against the floor. Dust puffed out, thick, clinging. She wrestled the propeller free from its cradle beneath the airship''s underbelly—a mass of warped metal, heavy, cold. Its blades, dulled, caught the weak dawn light in flat, gray glints. We''ll get it right next time, Anna. His laugh warm against wind roar… a thought, sharp in the silence. Her arms trembled under the object''s weight, muscles straining. Boots scraped, digging for purchase on the gritty planks as she dragged it, inch by slow inch, towards the skeletal test rig near the forge—a tangle of pipes and brackets he’d welded together, gleaming faintly under layers of dust.
She wrestled dented screws, metal biting cold against fumbling fingers. A warped bracket resisted her wrench, metal groaning against metal, refusing alignment. Goggles, his old brass-toned pair, slid down her nose, lenses fogging with the heat rising from her skin in the chill air. She shoved them back up rough. Her knuckles scraped raw against a rusted bolt head; a thin line of red welled, bright against the grime. Wind found entry through cracks in the tin roof, whistling a high note, rattling loose panels overhead. She finally seated the last bolt, metal screeching faint. Stepped back. Chest heaving. Breath pluming white.
Her hand reached out, trembled slight, found the rig''s power switch. Fingers fumbled, then flipped it. A low hum started deep within the rig''s base. Gears engaged with a grinding sound. The propeller spun—a wobble, then faster—a stuttering whirl lifting it a meter off the cradle. Dust lifted around it. The hum steadied to a low drone. Her breath caught short. It’s working!
Then, the workshop''s main door, unlatched, slammed open inward, caught by a sudden, violent gust. Wind roared through the space, cold, carrying the scent of pine and damp earth. The force hit the spinning propeller sideways. A high-pitched whine tore the air. Blades blurred, tilted sharp off-axis. Metal shrieked, tearing. The propeller assembly ripped free from the rig mountings. Sparks showered hot, stinging her cheeks, arms. It crashed heavy onto the floorboards—a final, echoing CLANG. Fell still. Blades twisted into jagged shapes. The test rig shuddered, sparks spitting from its fractured base, then collapsed inward with a groan of stressed metal.
Anna stared. Silence rushed back in, thick, broken only by the wind’s low moan through the open doorway. Smoke, acrid and sharp, curled up from the wreckage, stinging her nostrils. Her wrench slipped from lax fingers. Hit the floor. Clatter. She didn''t flinch. Just stood, watching the smoke rise, the twisted blades gleam dull in the pale light. It''s all about balance, Anna. Smallest misstep throws it all off. His voice, clear, from a sunlit flight deck... remembered. Now, wreckage. Twisted metal. Cold seeped up from the floorboards, into her boots, into her bones.
A low groan tore from her throat. Her knees buckled. She sank to the floor beside the smoking ruin, dust coating her trousers. Tears welled hot, blurring the scene into wavering shapes. She pressed her forehead against the cold, gritty floorboards. Couldn’t fix it. Never enough.
Her gaze, unfocused, snagged on the workbench across the room. The open journal lay there, pages riffling faint in the draft from the door. Her eyes tracked to the lines of ink visible even from here. “I''ll keep building until my design flies on its own.” His words. Build. Try. Fail. Build again.
A shudder ran through her. She pushed a hand flat against the floorboards. Grit pressed sharp into her palm. Slowly, pushing against the floor, she got back to her knees. Reached out. Her fingers, trembling, touched a piece of the twisted propeller blade. Cold metal. Sharp edge. She drew her hand back. Looked at the smear of soot across her fingertips. Then, she reached again. Picked up a fallen bolt—heavy, cold. Gathered a bent piece of the frame. Hauled herself upright, muscles aching. Carried the fragments back towards the workbench, each step heavy, slow. Laid them beside the open journal. Cold metal clinked against worn wood. The lantern cast her shadow—small, hunched, but upright—across the workshop''s heart, a silhouette etched against the silence. "Okay," she whispered, the sound scratching raw in her throat. Her gaze rested on the open journal page. "Okay. Next try."
Lantern light pulsed faint gold across the workbench. Anna sat hunched forward on the low stool beside it, the open journal resting beneath her hands. Smudged sketches showed on the water-stained pages—purifiers, propeller-lifts. Notes crowded the margins: "Test angle—try again." Her finger traced the lines of his handwriting across the page. "Measure once more, Anna—adjust the angle." The words, a faint echo formed in her mind. The tarp rustled outside, a dry scrape against the wind''s moan. Wood creaked within the workshop structure.
Night deepened. Light from the aurora pulsed faint green and gold through the cracked window, casting shifting patterns on the floor. Anna pushed upright from the stool, wood scraping faint. Muscles across her back pulled tight. She walked towards the main door, boots crunching over loose gravel and stray metal filings scattered across the floorboards. Pulled the heavy door inward – hinges groaned – then stepped outside onto rocky ground. Cold air hit her face, sharp, carrying the scent of damp stone and distant pine. She pulled back the stiff, heavy tarp corner covering the Cloudchaser. Ducked beneath.
The airship''s hull plates gleamed dull under the shifting celestial light—a patchwork of steel surfaces, some scarred deep, others rivet-studded, reflecting the faint greens and ambers from above. The main propellers sat inert, blades angled downward. High above, the balloon canopy, layers of patched fabric barely visible, stretched taut against its anchoring struts—metal arms riveted to the gondola''s reinforced top, stretching upward into darkness. Bat-like wings folded along the hull drooped low in the stillness. The structure looked solid, grounded, incomplete.
Her hand moved to her chest, fingers closing around the rusted propeller pin key tucked inside her vest—a shape felt through layers of cloth, its edges familiar, worn. Cold metal pressed faint against skin warmed by exertion. She pressed her fist harder against her chest. "You''re all..." The sound scraped low in her throat, barely audible against the wind. Tears spilled, tracing hot paths through grime on her cheeks. Images flared behind her eyelids: farmland spinning below, his large hand covering hers on the yoke, the airship''s engine hum a low vibration felt through the deck plating. The airship stood silent before her. Her gaze swept its familiar lines—hull plates, wing struts, canopy curve. "I''ll make you soar again," she whispered, the sound tight against the wind. She placed a hand flat against the cold hull plating near the cockpit.
Months passed. Anna, thirteen now, moved with a new intensity through the workshop. She scoured the plateau edges, dragging back twisted metal coils found glinting near frost-covered rocks, prying thruster casings loose from wrecked skiff frames half-buried in scree slopes. The workshop filled with these finds. Tools clattered. She tightened bolts, knuckles turning white, wrists sending dull aches up her arms. A scavenged metal square guided propeller alignments. The wrench turned, weight settling familiar in her grip. Her brass-toned goggles, lenses scored with fine scratches, stayed perched on her forehead or pulled down snug, their faint pressure a constant companion. Steam puffed white from her lips in the cold air, mingling with the sharp scents of oil and heated steel.
One afternoon, sun weak through high haze, she worked on a small auxiliary rotor assembly laid out on the bench. She wore a white blouse, sleeves rolled high, a red vest cinched tight over a brown leather corset belt fastened with brass buckles. Dark leather gloves covered her hands. She moved around the rotor, adjusting a patch on its casing with nimble fingers, securing it with fine wire twists. Lifted the assembled rotor—lighter than the main blades, but dense—carried it to a test mount near the generator. Hands bolted it into place. Metal scraped faint against metal. She connected power leads, double-checked fittings. Stepped back. Flipped the mount switch.
A low whine started. The small rotor spun—smooth, blurring steady. No wobble. No stutter. The hum resonated through the workshop floor, a clean, even sound. Air stirred around it. Anna stood frozen. Watched the smooth spin. The sound filled the quiet space. Heat pricked behind her eyes. Tears blurred the spinning metal. The hum resonated through the floorboards. An image formed behind her eyes: his face leaning close years ago, watching a larger rotor spin, a grin crinkling the corners of his eyes. His voice, a warm rumble: "See, Anna? She''s coming to life." Her hand rested near the humming rotor casing. She watched it spin.
Dusk deepened. Anna climbed onto the airship''s broad upper hull spine, settling near the canopy attachment. The journal rested open on her lap. Overhead, the aurora pulsed, shifting green and amber light casting a shimmer across her grease-smeared hands. Her finger, trembling slightly, traced lines of faded ink: "Even the smallest rotor can lift a heart out of despair." The memory of the propeller crash. The hours spent on repairs. Today''s steady rotor hum. Images shifted behind her eyes. The airship''s hull beneath her showed scarred plates, patched seams. Bat-like wings folded still along its sides. Weathered curves reflected the aurora''s shifting light. The canopy structure above, balloon-like, rustled faint in the breeze. Air carried scents of dust and pine from distant ridges.
Fewer jeers followed her path through the village now. Sometimes, near dawn, she found spare bolts or salvaged metal strips left just inside the workshop door. A soft clink would sound as she gathered them. The rotor pin key pressed solid against her ribs inside her vest; rust marks sometimes showed faint on the cloth. She gazed down at the village lights. Lanterns flickered in the distance across the plateau''s dark expanse. Their light caught faint glints off the airship''s riveted plates. Her father''s words: Unity is our strength. Share what we have. Echoed. The metal left at her door. The changed glances. A pressure shifted inside her chest.
If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
She stayed perched atop the hull in the cool night air. The memory of the small rotor''s hum vibrated faint within her. She slid down the hull curve, boots finding the ground with a soft crunch. Gravel shifted underfoot. Metal plates gleamed under the aurora''s shifting glow. Bat-like wings drooped silent along the hull. The canopy shape stood dark against the sky. She pressed the journal close against her side. Her gaze swept its cover.
Nearby, the workshop door remained slightly ajar. Yellow lamplight spilled out, a warm rectangle against the cool, aurora-lit ground. The silent rotors cast long shadows. Muscles pulled tight across her back. Anna stepped toward the workshop door, fingers brushing the battered wood frame. Inside, the generator''s faint hum filled the space. She flicked off the overhead lamp switch. Its light guttered out. Shadows shifted across the walls.
Lantern light pulsed weak against the dust-filmed surfaces near the makeshift cot. Anna walked towards it, boots scuffing loose debris. She set the journal on the bench beside the cot with a soft thud. Peeled off the goggles, metal cool against her skin. Wiped sweat from her brow with the back of her wrist, leaving a dark streak across her temple. An image formed behind her eyes: his face close, wind-chapped skin near his eyes crinkling, watching her guide a welding tool; his large hand settled over hers, guiding the slow movement. Outside the workshop walls, the airship''s propeller blades remained still. She sank onto the cot, rough canvas creaking beneath her weight. The lantern flame flickered, its amber light casting shadows that stretched and contracted on the walls.
Her breathing slowed, deepened. Muscles across her back and shoulders ached. The cot''s rough fabric scratched faint against her skin. Outside, wind murmured low against the workshop''s metal panels. The scent of pine and dust filled the air.
A sharp noise – wood striking wood – sounded near the entrance. Anna’s head lifted. Old Tobias stood in the open doorway, his shape dark against the aurora''s shifting glow filtering from outside. He stepped inside, boots crunching on grit near the threshold. He held a small wooden crate. Set it on a nearby chair with a soft creak of wood slats. Polished steel engine brackets showed through the crate gaps, catching the lantern light.
"Found these," Tobias murmured, scratching his beard, the sound rough against the quiet. His gaze flicked towards the workbench, then back to Anna. "Old skiff parts. Thought… maybe useful."
Anna pushed herself upright. "Thank you," she said. Her voice felt steady. Tobias dipped his head once, a curt movement, then turned and stepped back out into the night. His boots crunched away on the gravel path outside.
Anna walked to the chair. Lifted one of the brackets from the crate. Cold, smooth steel, heavy in her hand. Carried it to the cot. Sat down again, canvas creaking. Placed the bracket atop the closed journal resting there. Metal rested against worn leather. The lantern''s glow flickered again, casting shadows across the joined objects.
Sleep came slow. Air inside the workshop grew colder. Her muscles throbbed with dull aches. The cot''s rough weave pressed against her skin. She closed her eyes. Farmhouse lights blinked faint behind closed lids—a memory fragment, indistinct. Her breathing deepened, settled into a slow, even rhythm.
Dust motes drifted slow in shafts of gray morning light entering through wall cracks. Anna sat upright on the edge of the cot, pulling on her boots. Outside, wind whistled thin around the workshop corners. She stood, stretched, muscles pulling tight across her back. Walked to the workbench. Picked up a wrench. Turned towards the Cloudchaser hull, visible beneath the tarp cover near the open side bay.
Years marked themselves by the plateau''s swift seasons. Dust storms swept past, leaving grit coating every surface. Frost rimed the metal panels in the cold season. Sun baked the warped wood planks in the hotter months. The workshop changed. Clutter lessened from benches, replaced by organized tool racks. Bins filled with sorted fasteners—bolts, rivets, washers. The air held the constant scents of metal shavings, cleaning solvent, warm lubricant. Anna moved through the space, movements swift, efficient between the engine stand, the wing assembly jig, the hull structure. Her hands, no longer fumbling, twisted bolts secure, calibrated sensor connections, smoothed sealant into seams. Seventeen years showed in the steady set of her shoulders, the focused line of her brow beneath the scratched lenses of her goggles.
The Cloudchaser changed too. Bat-like wings, once slumped, now stretched taut, patched fabric secure against reinforced spars. Lines showed smooth where new hull plates integrated with older, scarred surfaces. The balloon canopy gleamed under a fresh layer of sealant, its patchwork origins visible but the structure solid. And beneath the main housing, the engine no longer sat inert. Its internal components, cleaned, repaired, replaced piece by painstaking piece, turned over now with a low, powerful hum during diagnostic runs.
Anna referenced the journal often. Its pages, worn thinner, showed more annotations—her own precise notes crowding his bolder script. She cross-referenced diagrams with salvaged Federation data fragments displayed on a flickering handheld screen. Couplings, regulators, power conduits—connections made, tested, remade. Each part seated, each system checked, moved the airship closer.
One evening, the primary engine coughed—a sharp, rattling sound—then stalled during a sustained power test. Yellow warning lights flared across the cockpit console. Anna hunched over the exposed engine core, goggles reflecting the internal diagnostic lights, wrench moving quick, testing connections. Sweat beaded on her forehead, dripping onto hot metal casings with a faint hiss. Wind howled outside the workshop, rattling the main doors. She worked through the night, tracing circuits, replacing a micro-capacitor salvaged from a downed survey drone, recalibrating fuel flow regulators based on a complex diagram deciphered from the journal.
Evening light, thick gold, slanted across the Orun Plateau, catching dust motes swirling near the Cloudchaser''s hull. Anna stood before the airship. The main rotors gleamed under the light, edges sharpened from weeks of calibration work. She moved towards the cockpit ramp, boots crunching on gravel. Her hand reached out, rested on the cold metal railing. Climbed.
Inside the cockpit, her fingers closed around the rotor pin key—brass worn smooth, edges familiar against her skin. Slid it into the ignition slot. Metal clicked against metal. She turned the key. Gauges flickered amber across the console. A low hum started deep within the airship frame, vibrating up through the deck plates. She flipped switches—engine pre-heat sequence initiated. The hum deepened. Needles on the fuel and pressure gauges climbed steady into green arcs. Her hand moved to the main throttle lever. Fingers closed around the worn leather grip. Hesitated a fraction.
She nudged the lever forward. Engines sputtered once—caught—then roared. The sound filled the cockpit, pressed against her ears. Deck plates vibrated hard beneath her boots. The hull shuddered, shifted slight against its mooring restraints. Outside, dust swirled thicker near the engine exhausts. The roar settled into a deep, resonant drone.
Her hand moved again, easing the throttle further. The airship lifted. Smooth. Vertical ascent. Canopy structure above swayed minimal. Rotors beat steady against the air—a powerful, rhythmic rush. She pulled back on the yoke slight. The hull tilted, banked gently away from the cliff edge. Below, the workshop shrank. Plateau edge fell away. Wind screamed faint past the viewport glass. Village lights twinkled yellow in the distance, scattered points against darkening earth.
Her breath pushed out in a long, shaky exhale. Her grip loosened fractionally on the yoke. Light touch… let her settle. The thought, an echo against the engine roar. The Cloudchaser responded to the yoke''s minimal pressure, held altitude, flew steady into the dusk.
Through the viewport''s scratched glass, faint aurora ribbons began to shimmer high above—green streaks against the deepening violet sky. Heat pricked behind Anna''s eyes. Moisture blurred the lights below. "We did it," the words scraped low in her throat, barely audible over the engine drone. Air tasted thick, metallic. Her gaze swept the console—glowing gauges, steady needles—then out again at the open sky. The airship flew.
Villagers looked up from evening tasks when the engine roar passed overhead. Heads tilted. Hands paused mid-movement. Quiet nods exchanged sometimes on the path as Anna dragged salvaged plating back from distant wreck sites. The mockery from years past faded. Bolts appeared near the workshop door, left silent on the threshold. Gears. A coil of wire.
One afternoon, sun warm on the plateau rock, Lira stood hesitant at the workshop entrance. Held a thick bundle of weathered canvas, sturdy weave showing. "Canopy," Lira murmured, words low against the wind. Pushed the bundle forward slightly. "Tobias... said might help." Anna’s throat tightened. "Thank you," she managed, voice thick. Lira dipped her head once, turned, slipped away down the path. Anna carried the heavy canvas inside. Laid it across the workbench. Fingers traced the rough texture. Stitches. Needle pulled thread. Joined old patch to new strength.
Eighteen years marked themselves on the plateau. Dawn light struck polished brass fittings on the Cloudchaser, gleamed off reinforced hull plates. Rotors poised silent. Anna stood before the airship. White blouse sleeves showed rolled high. Red vest cinched tight over a brown leather corset belt fastened with brass buckles. Leather gloves covered her hands. Blonde braid caught the light. Goggles rested high on her forehead, amber lenses glinting. She walked towards the ramp.
Boots rang sharp on the steel deck. She settled into the pilot''s seat. Worn leather molded familiar against her back. Hands found the yoke. Rotor pin key clicked into ignition. Engines purred awake—steady, unbroken rhythm. Took a breath. Eased throttle forward.
Cloudchaser lifted. Clean rise. Wings carved air. Canopy swelled full overhead. Plateau shrank below. Village huts a patchwork grid. She banked west, towards rolling farmland plains. Windmills turned slow below, slender arms against green fields.
The flight felt... right. Airship responded to minimal inputs. Held course steady. Engine hum a constant pulse beneath the deck. Sunlight streamed through the viewport. Below, the valley unfolded—rivers glinting, dome structures catching light. Her hands rested light on the yoke. Her breathing evened out.
She brought the ship down gentle near the valley edge as dusk began to paint the sky. Boots crunched on gravel. Lanterns twinkled below near the first village houses. She pressed a hand flat against the Cloudchaser''s hull. Metal felt warm beneath her palm. "Fly higher," she murmured, voice low against the rising evening breeze. Air tasted cool, clean. The sky stretched vast overhead. Wind pushed faint at her back. She turned from the airship. Walked towards the path leading down. The engine ticked quiet behind her as it cooled.
Loose gravel shifted under Anna''s boots on the descending path. She moved with careful foot placement, gaze lowered to the uneven ground. Dusk deepened, shadows pooling thick between rocks. Air flowed cooler here, carrying the scent of woodsmoke rising from below. Yellow light showed in patches along the main village path ahead; brass lantern casings glinted dull.
The rhythmic CLANG of metal striking metal sounded from near the village center, then stopped. Children''s calls echoed brief, sharp, followed by lower voices overlapping from unseen spaces between huts. High above, the steady creak of windmill blades turning mixed with the wind''s low sigh.
Anna passed a hut where light spilled from an open doorway onto packed earth. Figures moved inside. Outside, near the path edge, a woman sat, hands moving through mesh netting spread across her lap. The woman looked up as Anna passed. Her hands stilled on the rough twine. Her gaze flickered towards Anna, then returned to the netting. Fingers resumed their rapid movements. Anna walked past, boots scuffing the path.
The air held the scent of roasting grain now, stronger, mixed with woodsmoke and the damp smell of cooling earth. She reached the path branching towards her dwelling. Light showed warm from its window. She stopped at the threshold. Placed her hand on the gear-wing handle. Cold metal pressed against her palm. Pushed the door inward. Air flowed out—smells of dried herbs, aging wood, residue warmth from the hearth. Stepped inside. Pulled the door shut. The latch clicked. Metal met wood. Silence inside, except for the wind pressing against the outer walls.