A Cracked Cereal Bowl

Pak’s breakfast was a failure of physics. One moment, the synthetic corn-flakes were sitting in a pool of grey milk. The next, the bowl was a projectile. It hit the ceiling with a wet thud. The milk didn't splash; it formed a wobbling sphere of liquid in the center of the room. The ceramic bowl shattered, its white shards hanging in the air like frozen debris. It was Spring in Aetheris, the time when the Sky-lilies bloomed on the underside of the islands, but the air inside the apartment felt stagnant and heavy.

"Pak, the floor has ceased to function as a floor," Randi said. She was gripping the leg of the bolted-down table. Her feet were drifting upward. Her pajamas, patterned with tiny green buds for the spring festival, billowed around her knees. She looked at the floating sphere of milk with a mix of disgust and fascination. "I believe the Sun-Engine has finally conceded its struggle against entropy."

"The plates are losing their charge," Pak said. He didn't look at her. He was looking at the diagnostic screen on his wrist. It was flickering red. He kicked off the wall, his body moving with the practiced ease of a surfer. He caught a floating piece of toast mid-air and shoved it into his pocket. "We have exactly twelve minutes before the island enters a terminal descent. If the engine doesn't restart, we hit the toxic clouds by noon."

"You must rectify this immediately," Randi said. Her voice was formal, a shield against the terror of falling three miles into a caustic abyss. "I do not wish to meet the surface today. I have plans for the evening that involve remaining alive."

"Stay in the anchor-room," Pak commanded. He grabbed his gravity-board from the rack by the door. "The emergency magnets there should hold for another twenty minutes. Do not leave until the gravity stabilizes."

He didn't wait for her to reply. He shoved the door open and launched himself into the hallway. The corridor was a disaster. People were shouting, their bodies colliding with the ceiling and walls. A neighbor's cat was spinning in circles, claws out, catching on a hanging light fixture. The noise was a jagged mix of alarms and human panic. Pak ignored it all. He needed speed.

He reached the Sector-9 hangar in four minutes. The air here smelled like burnt copper and ozone. The massive hangar doors were jammed halfway open, revealing the bright, clear spring sky outside. The sun was a pale disk, filtered through the thinning atmosphere of the upper islands. Below, the green moss of the lower districts was already beginning to brown as the heat-shielding failed.

"Halt!" a Sector-9 Guard shouted. The man was struggling to keep his boots on the ground using his magnetic cleats. He leveled a shock-baton at Pak. "All flight operations are suspended. Return to your designated safety zone."

"The safety zone is about to become a crater," Pak said. He didn't stop moving. He used his board to bank off a shipping container, flying over the guard's head. "I require the interceptor in Bay Four. It is the only craft with a reinforced hull capable of the dive."

"That vehicle is state property!" the Guard yelled, his voice cracking. "You are committing a felony of the highest order, Pak!"

"Add it to my tab," Pak replied. He landed on the wing of the interceptor—a sleek, battered machine made of burnished copper and carbon-fiber. He punched the emergency bypass on the cockpit canopy. The glass slid back with a hiss. He dropped into the seat, his fingers flying across the haptic interface. The engine hummed, a low vibration that shook his teeth.

He slammed the throttle forward. The interceptor shrieked as it tore out of the hangar, narrow-ly missing the jammed door. The wind hit the craft like a physical blow. Pak gripped the flight stick, his knuckles white. He looked down. The island was tilting. The great chains that held the districts together were straining, the metal groaning under the weight of a world losing its lift.

He pointed the nose of the interceptor straight down. The 'Gravity Well' was a vertical shaft that ran through the center of the floating archipelago, a direct line to the planet's core. It was a tunnel of blue light and chaotic energy. As he entered the slipstream, the G-force pinned him into his seat. His vision blurred.

Small, dark shapes began to cling to the hull. Parasitic energy-leeches. They looked like oily leeches the size of housecats, their bodies glowing with a dull, stolen light. They fed on the heat of the engine, their mouths grinding against the copper plating. The interceptor groaned. The speed dropped.

"Get off," Pak hissed. He flicked a switch, sending a pulse of kinetic energy through the hull. The leeches exploded into sparks, but more took their place. The descent was becoming a crawl. He was losing time.

He reached the core room after five minutes of frantic maneuvering. The interior was a vast, hollow sphere of rotating rings. In the center sat the Sun-Engine, a massive orb of contained plasma. But it wasn't glowing. It was a dull, bruised purple.

Pak landed the interceptor on the maintenance catwalk, the landing gear snapping as the craft skidded to a halt in the zero-G environment. He jumped out, his boots clicking onto the metal floor. He saw them immediately: three figures in heavy, lead-lined suits. They were cutting through the main power conduits with industrial lasers.

"The Surface-Returners," Pak whispered. They were a faction of fanatics who believed the sky-islands were a sin and that humanity belonged in the toxic dirt below.

"You are too late, surfer!" one of the saboteurs shouted. His voice was amplified by his helmet, sounding metallic and theatrical. "The era of the clouds is over! We shall return to the earth and be cleansed!"

"The earth is a graveyard of acid!" Pak shouted back. He didn't have a weapon. He only had his hands. He felt the familiar itch in his palms—the kinetic spark. It was a genetic glitch, a rare trait that allowed him to store and discharge motion. He sprinted toward them, his feet barely touching the catwalk.

One of the saboteurs swung a heavy wrench. Pak dived under the blow, the air whistling past his ear. He grabbed the man's arm and discharged a week's worth of stored momentum. The saboteur was launched backward, hitting the far wall with a bone-crunching thud. He didn't get up.

The other two closed in. Pak was a blur of motion. He used the zero-G to his advantage, spinning through the air, kicking off the rotating rings of the engine. He was a human pinball. He took a hit to the ribs that made his lungs burn, but he didn't stop. He landed a palm-strike on the second man's chest, the kinetic discharge blowing the visor off the man's helmet.

But the third saboteur had reached the final circuit. He raised his laser. "For the soil!"

He fired. The circuit board shattered. The last connection to the Sun-Engine was severed. The purple glow of the engine faded to black. Silence filled the room—a terrifying, absolute silence. The vibration of the world stopped.

"No," Pak breathed. He looked at the broken copper wires. They were frayed, the gap between them too wide to bridge with metal. Outside, he knew the islands were beginning their final plunge. Randi was probably screaming now.

He stepped toward the broken circuit. The smell of ozone was thick enough to taste. He reached out with both hands.

"What are you doing?" the last saboteur gasped, cowering near the engine base.

"I am becoming the wire," Pak said. He grabbed the two ends of the high-voltage cable.

His world became white. The kinetic spark in his blood didn't just discharge; it ignited. His nervous system became a conduit for the engine's jump-start. His muscles locked. His teeth ground together so hard he thought they would shatter. He could feel the heat melting the skin of his palms, but he didn't let go. He was a bridge. He was the sun.

With a sound like a thunderclap, the engine roared. A wave of golden light exploded from the core, washing over Pak, the saboteur, and the interceptor. The rings began to spin, faster and faster, creating a roar that drowned out the world. The gravity plates slammed back into alignment.

Pak was thrown backward by the surge of power. He hit the floor of the catwalk as gravity returned with a vengeance. His body felt like lead. He looked at his hands; they were black and trembling, but the spark was gone. He had given it all to the machine.

He scrambled toward the interceptor as the engine's heat began to rise to lethal levels. The air was becoming a furnace. He climbed into the cockpit, his movements slow and agonizing. He didn't look at the saboteurs. He didn't look at the damage. He just hit the ignition.

The interceptor shot out of the core room just as the emergency heat vents began to open. A wall of fire chased him up the Gravity Well. He pushed the throttle until the engine screamed in protest. He burst out of the shaft and into the open sky.

Below him, the islands were surging upward. The chains were taut again. The green moss was still there. The sky-lilies were still blooming. The world was level.

He flew the battered interceptor back to Sector-9. He landed it roughly in the middle of the hangar, the metal groaning as it cooled. He sat in the cockpit for a long time, watching his hands shake. The Guard was there, but he didn't move to arrest him. He just watched.

Pak climbed out and walked home. His ribs ached with every step. When he reached his apartment, the door was open.

He walked inside. The gravity was perfect. The air was cool. Randi was sitting at the table. She had a broom and a dustpan. She was sweeping up the white shards of the cereal bowl.

"The breakfast was a total loss," she said. She didn't look up, but her voice was thick. "I have managed to save some of the toast, however. It is slightly cold, but edible."

Pak sat down across from her. He looked at the clean floor. He looked at the bright spring light coming through the window. He reached out and took a piece of cold toast.

"Thank you, Randi," he said. "Cold toast is exactly what I required."

They sat in silence as the island drifted peacefully through the spring morning, three miles above the clouds.