and I can tell which way’s up and which is down.
All the alarms are silent.
And to my complete surprise, it turns out I’m alive.
The Skysinger’s nose is crumpled in around my legs from the impact, pinning me in place. Every bone in my body hurts, and, and … there are flames coming out of the altimeter and the tilt indicator and the whole back of my glider is scorched.
“Skyfall,” I mutter. For an instant, the sudden truth of the curse—that I just did fall from the sky—hits me, and semi-hysterical laughter tries to well up in my throat.
I frantically hammer at the exit hatch release button, then reach up with my other hand to push at the roof of my cockpit, trying to force it up and open. But the sides of the glider are buckled, and it’s jammed in place, trapping me inside with an instrument panel that’s on fire.
I force my body forward, ignoring the new bolts of pain this awakens, yanking my arms this way and that in the confined space as I wrestle my jacket off, distantly hearing my own shout as I pull the sleeve down over a gash in my right arm. Then I’m pressing the jacket over the dashboard, holding it in place to smother the flames, folding it in on itself as one spot burns through.
The cockpit fills with smoke, and I choke and cough as I slap at the release button again, the glider’s buckled dome screeching a protest that puts the council back in Alciel to shame. I use my good hand to bash once more at the dome itself, this time shoving it up and away, the warm night breeze hitting my face as the smoke dissipates.
I suck in a lungful of air, tilting my head back, the stars blurring into a faint tracery of white lines through the tears in my smoke-filled eyes.
I’m on the ground.
I’m Below.
I’m … dead.
I should have died in the fall, but soon it won’t matter. There’s no way up, no way home. The Skysinger’s engine allowed it to gain altitude, yes, but there’s not nearly enough power to launch from the surface—assuming it was even intact. Assuming it hadn’t burst into flames a few minutes into my flight.
How did this happen?
The thought does laps around my head as I find the seat release and push it back, slowly and carefully easing my legs out from underneath the crushed hood so I can check that they still work. After strapping my chrono back onto my wrist, I brace my left hand against the edge of the cockpit, grit my teeth, and grab at the other side with my injured right hand. I push myself up as I wriggle my hips, and I can’t muffle the noise that escapes me. White-hot pain takes my vision.
When it clears, my breath’s coming quick and jagged, but I’m crouching on my seat, surveying the ruins of my glider.
There’s just no way the Skysinger failed. I check her over constantly. Tinkering around with her is my favorite thing to do, after flying her.
I lower myself down over the side and land with a splash in ankle-deep water. I grab the remnants of my jacket and wrap them around one hand as I wade up to the front of the glider. And yes, I’m aware I’m focusing on solving a tiny problem to avoid the fact that I can’t solve a much, much bigger one.
We rely on thermals and momentum to glide from island to island in the sky—we have no way to fly up. That was the whole point of the engine I promised the council. But I haven’t built the damn thing yet, and without it, there’s no way for me to get home.
There are stories about those lost beneath the islands—about those who fell, never to be heard of again. The kind of stories you tell in the dark, late at night, to scare your friends. It’s only really happened once that I know of, back before I was born—a man from one of the smaller islands, who fell, and—
It takes a few bashes with my wrapped-up hand, but I manage to push the panel away to reveal the engine.
It radiates heat that forces me to look away, but I see the problem the instant I turn back, shielding my face with my hand.
Something—someone—has sliced through my supply lines. It’s a clean cut across the lot of them. A tool did this, not the crash. This was