Dream d1913-s: The Load That Holds

I had a dream where...

I had a dream where the Bellows Court was all red iron and heat, the forge-engine massive at our backs, its breath cycling slow and enormous through every joint in the floor. We had been here long enough now that I knew the rhythm of it - the intake, the roar, the exhale through the vents above.

The problem had come in from the last crossing, not from this place. A power route running dirty through the new connection, the reading on the gauge jumping each time we drew load. Not the seated part, the Wireman was clear on that. Something upstream of it.

"Leave what's seated alone," he said, not looking up from the conduit he was tracing. He had one knee on the slag-floor and a small probe between two fingers, walking it along the route increment by increment. "The fix is here somewhere. I can feel it in the bounce."

The Builder crouched beside him with the book of readings open across her forearm, one finger marking the last stable line. "Jump is at load draw," she said. "Not at rest. That tells us where."

Oxy was stationed beside the gauge at the cool channel, pale against the grey stone, watching the needle. They had not moved in some time. The Listener had a hand on a secondary tap two joints down and was reading by touch what the rest of us read by eye.

"There," the Wireman said.

It was a corroded splice, mostly hidden behind a dead conduit, the kind of fault that hides behind noise until you trace it to silence. The Builder cut the bad length out and the Scavenger produced from his kit a proper sleeve, the right gauge, because it was always the right gauge with him. The Listener held the joint steady while the Wireman dressed it.

Lano had come down from the bench to sit near Oxy in the channel, her chin on her forepaws, watching. Her tail moved once when the Wireman straightened.

"Run it," the Builder said.

Oxy brought the load up slowly past the gauge. The needle climbed and did not jump. It held against the mark, clean and steady, the way a count should hold.

The Weather Reader, who had been standing at the vent reading the exhaust pressure for heat and current both, turned back to us with a small nod. "Stable," she said.

I had a dream where the Bellows Court gave us this one good repair on the sixth night of our crossing, the forge breathing its enormous breath around us, Rurik settled high on the engine housing, black against the red light, watching all of it with calm yellow eyes.