The wind howled, a frigid, deafening shriek that tore at Zibya’s clothes and threatened to rip her from the hurtling propulsion frame. Her fingers, white-knuckled and aching, dug into a seam where two thick plates of burnished bronze met. Below them, Qart-Zab was a glittering carpet of scattered lamplight, shrinking with dizzying speed. Clouds, previously distant wisps, now swirled around them, cold and damp.
“Any brilliant ideas, Captain?” Bodasht’s voice, though strained by the gale, held its usual calm. He clung to a series of diagnostic ports, his limbs splayed with surprising purchase against the curved hull.
Zibya squinted, her eyes watering. “Brilliant? No. Desperate? Always. Where’s Tzik-Tzik?” She glanced around, a flash of panic tightening her gut. The brass iguana was nowhere in sight.
Just then, a small, six-legged shape scuttled over the curve of the iron plating, tail whipping like a tiny, delighted flag. Tzik-Tzik, a loose screw clutched in his jaws, chirped indignantly before burying his head into a nearby ventilation grate, the vibrations clearly a soothing purr.
“He seems to be enjoying the scenic route,” Bodasht observed, a faint amusement in his tone. “Regarding the lack of directional control: your satchel. Any... creative solutions?”
Zibya’s eyes lit up. “My satchel! Of course!” She wrestled a heavy canvas bag from her shoulder, nearly losing her grip on the bronze ribbing in the process. Inside, nestled amongst various tools and half-eaten nut-bolts, were her meticulously crafted low-yield directional charges. Not truly intended for propulsion, but they emitted a focused blast of magnetic repulsion. Maybe… just maybe.
“Bodasht, can you access the external power conduits near the aft plating?” she yelled, pointing to a lattice of cables disappearing beneath the tail fin. “We need to hot-wire these to a controlled burst, use them like impulse thrusters.”
Bodasht nodded, already shimmying towards the designated area with unsettling grace. “Affirmative. Requires precise timing for vectoring, otherwise we risk a catastrophic spin. And... a steering wheel would be more efficient.”
“Humor me,” Zibya muttered, fumbling for her wire strippers. She pulled out two of the compact, cylindrical charges. Their polished brass casings gleamed even in the low light. These were her ‘minor inconvenience’ problem solvers, usually reserved for jammed doors or particularly stubborn bolts. Never for high-altitude maneuvering.
Working quickly, her fingers numb with cold, Zibya stripped the insulation from a pair of exposed wires on the rigging. The raw magnetic energy hummed, thrumming against her fingertips. She secured the first charge to the starboard side, cautiously twisting its activation wires into the rig's power lines. A faint, internal whirring indicated it was armed. Then she repeated the process on the port side, mindful to position them for optimal, albeit uncontrolled, thrust. If they misfired, they’d be flung into the stratosphere.
“Ready when you are, Bodasht!” Zibya shouted, clutching the last pages of her past-self’s diary, which she’d miraculously kept tucked into her flight suit. “Just a quick pulse! One second bursts!”
“Understood. Initiating port-side ignition sequence in three… two… one…”
A sharp *CRUMP* rattled the engine housing. A bright blue flare erupted from the port side, pushing them violently to starboard. Zibya was thrown against the hull, her head thudding. Her vision swam. Then, a second *CRUMP* from the starboard side, and they lurched back, momentarily stabilizing.
“That’s… surprisingly effective!” Zibya gasped, rubbing her head. “Now, about this drift… Bodasht, I need a moment. Check the main power relays, see if we can get anything more than raw thrust.”
As Bodasht moved, Zibya unfolded the final page of her diary. It was smudged with soot and sweat, but the looping script of her past self was unmistakable. She’d avoided reading this page, a nagging fear holding her back. Now, suspended between earth and sky, she had no choice.
*“If you’re reading this, Zibya, it means the fail-safe worked. The memory wipe. I had to. I couldn’t face him. Couldn’t face Bodasht with the truth. The city… Qart-Zab… it’s not just the Regatta. It’s the magnetic field. It’s collapsing, Zibya. Slowly, imperceptibly, but it’s failing. The city isn’t going to sink, it’s going to… unravel. Fall apart, piece by piece, until it’s just debris scattering across the Sea of Whispers. And I knew… I knew he’d see the sheer panic in my eyes. The absolute certainty that I couldn’t fix it. Not alone. I had to believe in the Zibya without the fear. The Zibya who wouldn’t know how close we are to the abyss.”*
Zibya stared at the words, her lungs seizing. The ink swam before her eyes. Not just the Regatta. Not just the High Syndic. The *entire city*. Her past self had wiped her own memories, not to hide a dark secret, but to protect Bodasht from her own overwhelming fear. The fear that she, the tactical genius, the master artificer, couldn't stop Qart-Zab from crumbling into the void.
A cold, hollow ache settled in her chest, far deeper than the biting wind. She hadn't been plotting against the city, she’d been trying to save it, and she’d been so afraid that she’d erased herself in the process. A single, hot tear traced a path down her sooty cheek.
Bodasht reappeared, his face impassive as always, but his usually distant gaze seemed to hold a flicker of something she couldn't quite place. “Zibya. Are you… distressed?” His voice was gentle, devoid of judgment. “Your blink-rate has increased by 17.3 percent in the last minute. A clear indicator of emotional perturbation.”
Zibya quickly wiped her face, trying to compose herself. “No, no, I’m fine. Just… the wind. It’s biting.” She forced a smile, but it felt brittle. “Just realized something about the plan. It’s… bigger than I thought.”
Bodasht tilted his head slightly. “I am aware.”
Zibya frowned. “Aware? How could you be aware? I just figured it out.”
He met her gaze, his expression unchanging. “Your confidence is an intricately constructed façade, Zibya. Always has been. The slightly too-loud pronouncements, the exaggerated hand gestures, the way you chew on the cap of your oil pen when you’re truly uncertain. And, as I mentioned, the increased blink-rate. It is an extremely reliable tell.”
Her mouth fell open. “You… you knew? This whole time? You knew I was panicked?” Her anger, a familiar, comforting heat, began to push back the fear.
“The precise degree of your panic was unknown,” Bodasht clarified, “but the presence of it was evident. However, your fear has never hindered your ability to formulate audacious solutions. It merely provides an additional data point for analysis.” He paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, “I find your genuine apprehension to be… a rather compelling aspect of your character, Zibya. It indicates a realistic assessment of risk, despite your outward bravado. A valuable trait.”
Zibya stared at him, utterly speechless. All this time, she’d thought she was fooling him, maintaining her cool, collected persona, even as her past self had gone to extreme lengths to bury her own fear. And Bodasht, the hyper-literal engineering genius, had seen right through it all, not with judgment, but with a quiet, unwavering understanding. It was infuriating, humbling, and, in a strange, comforting way, utterly Bodasht.
“So, my fear is a ‘valuable trait’ now?” she managed, a shaky laugh escaping her lips. “Next you’ll be telling me my low-yield charges are a ‘precision steering system’.”
“Given the circumstances, they are performing adequately as such,” Bodasht stated, entirely serious. “However, I detect a significant energy signature approaching from the north-east, rapidly gaining altitude.”
Zibya’s head snapped up. Through a brief break in the swirling clouds, a dark, imposing silhouette materialized. Its massive hull, bristling with weaponry, was unmistakable. Lord Hadraba’s flagship dreadnought, *The Ironclad Retribution*, loomed over them, its enormous shadow engulfing their tiny craft. Before Zibya could even react, a thick, barbed harpoon shot from the dreadnought’s bow, arcing through the air with a shrill whine, and slammed into the very center of their propulsion chassis.