7th Holymoon, 690 OV
Draklor Laboratory - Archades
Dr. Cidolphus Demen Bunansa stared grimly at the piece of parchment on his desk. His new design was all wrong. The glossair rings of this ship would never be able to spin fast enough to get the hatefully clunky fuselage any more than ten meters off the ground. The main core he had designed was perfectly acceptable - in fact he was quite proud of it - but the execution of the blasted ship itself eluded him more by the hour.
He crumpled the piece of parchment and threw it at the door in frustration.
A slight knock. "Doctor, a word?"
"Yes, come in. What is it now?"
General Zargabaath, captain of the S.S. Valefor, stepped into the room.
"Ah, Zargabaath. I apologize; I've hit a snag with the Aircutter design for the Solidors, and it's left me a little put out. What can I do for you, General?"
Zargabaath folded his hands behind his back. "I would speak with you a moment about the Valefor. My Head of Maintenance informs me there's a slight vacillation in one of the glossair rings that he does not know how to repair. She's a fine ship, and keen as ever in military drills, but I'm to understand that if this defect is left unchecked..."
Cid removed his glasses and held them up to the light, glaring at them in irritation. "The fore suspension glossair, yes, I remember it well. Damn it all. I thought I had that little malfunction under control. I'll re-check my ring design, and send over the supply list for a rebuild in the morning."
Zargabaath nodded. "My thanks, Doctor. Apologies for the interruption."
"Not at all, General. Carry on."
The man saluted, then turned and left.
Cid began to sketch the outline of the new aircutter once again. He scowled, frustrated at the renewed concern over his glossair ring design. If the standard build needed refining, what did that mean for future models?
"Father?"
Cid looked up from the parchment to the sight of his ten-year-old son leaning in the doorway. He smiled with relief and set down his pencil.
"Ah, Ffamran. Just the man I need. Come in."
His son approached the desk, a little frown in his golden-green eyes.
"What's glossair, Father?"
Cid raised his eyebrows. "Why do you ask?"
Ffamran indicated the door. "The general mentioned it. I don't know what it means."
Cid looked at his son over his glasses, tilted his head. "You heard that?"
Ffamran nodded, frowning apologetically. "I know I'm not to eavesdrop, but I didn't mean to."
Cid waved a hand in gentle dismissal. "No matter. Well, where to begin?" He glanced down at his parchment, chewed the inside of his cheek, and made a little note at the corner of his sketch. "It's rather difficult to..."
Ffamran shook his head, turned toward the door. "Never mind; you're busy. I'll come back later."
Cid looked up from the desk. "No. Please, my son. Stay. I could use the company."
Ffamran thought a moment, and nodded. He saw the crumpled bit of parchment on the floor, bent to retrieve it, and began to smooth it flat.
"You dropped this, Father."
Cid glanced at it and shrugged. "Threw it, actually."
Ffamran quirked an eyebrow at the crumpled sketch. "This is what you're working on?"
"The very thing. Awful, isn't it?"
Ffamran laid the rejected design on the desk and chewed his cheek at it, imitating Cid. "No. I like it."
Cid smiled and looked back down at his work.
After a pleasant, lingering pause, Ffamran spoke again, his eyes still on the crumpled paper.
"A glossair ring makes an airship stay in the air, doesn't it?"
Cid raised his eyebrows, impressed. "That's right."
Ffamran looked up. "An airship is like this..." He moved his hand flat through the air in front of him, like a bird in flight. "So, does that mean..." he looked back down at the sketch for a moment.
"That means an aircutter is like this?"
He held up his hands and rotated them in little flitting motions; it was a rather good impression of an aircutter's glossair rings revolving around the fuselage, lifting it into the sky.
Cid removed his glasses and regarded his son carefully. "That's exactly right. Very good, Ffamran."
Ffamran did not smile at the praise; he looked back down at the crumpled sketch.
"This one's broken? That's why you don't like it?"
Cid nodded. "Regrettably."
Ffamran made a small noise of understanding, but did not look up. His brow was knitted in concentration, trying to decipher the little notes Cid had made in the corners of the maligned drawing.
"What is..." Ffamran squinted. "M...G...C... and that's a T?"
Cid did not look up from his work this time. "Magicite."
"Ah. The stone?"
Cid hummed in the affirmative, doodled a few numbers on the back of his drawing, and squared them.
"And M.B.E?"
"Mist-based engine. Or mist-based engineering, if you'd like."
Ffamran chewed his cheek at the rejected sketch again. "So..."
Cid scratched out the equation and sighed. "Apologies, my son, but I think we should discuss this later. Why don't you take a pad of paper and a pencil and write down your questions for me? I'll look over them for you when I'm done for the evening, and we can chat about it on the balcony after supper."
Ffamran blinked at his father, a hopeful smile hinting at the corner of his mouth. "Promise?"
Cid blinked, taken aback at the earnest tone in his son's voice. "Of course, Ffamran."
The boy nodded crisply in satisfaction. "All right then." He held up the sketch he had been poring over. "May I have this?"
Cid nodded. "Be my guest."
Ffamran smirked, visibly pleased, and stuffed the crumpled parchment into his pocket.
"I hope you figure out your glossair thing, Father."
Cid smiled. "Thank you, Ffamran. Carry on."
Ffamran gave his father an affectionate, sloppy half-salute and wandered out of the room.
8th Holymoon, 690 O.V.
from the files of Dr. Cidolphus Demen Bunansa
Ffamran shows remarkable aptitude for engineering, even at his young age. At supper yesterday evening he brought me a fresh pad of paper, each page filled front and back with questions about airships he had seen in Tsenoble, and also about the sketch I had rejected earlier that afternoon. He had taken a handful of colored pencils to my design, color-coding various main components of the ship, making abbreviated notes of his own: GLSR for Glossair Ring, ENG for Engine, FUS for Fuselage.
He asked me so many questions in such rapid succession that I felt I was being interrogated. In the end, I had to retreat into the library and fetch my old first-year Engineering textbook from Akademy. Ffamran regarded it so hungrily when I brought it to him that I felt compelled to gift him with it; he was so delighted I might have just given him a new toy.
At breakfast this morning he brought the book to me, complaining of a headache. The dear boy had not slept, instead marking everything in my old textbook that he could not decipher for himself. Needless to say, I was astounded. I sent him to bed -- amid resounding pleas for flying lessons -- and hid the textbook in my office.
From what I can deduce after studying Ffamran's notes, he would receive passing marks in a second-year advanced engineering class without so much as blinking an eye, and this at merely the age of ten. I cannot even begin to imagine what this may mean for the future of Draklor's engineering division. When he comes of age, I will be sure to petition for his placement in an elite division of the laboratory.
In the meantime, I must convince the boy that there is more to life than airships. He is only a child, after all. Judging from his sudden enthusiasm for the subject, however, this may prove unusually difficult.
C D B
13th Firamoon, 696 OV
(Six years later)
Ffamran Mid Bunansa, Judge Magister of the Redwing Armada's Seventh Division, moved on doubled strides away from the hangar elevator toward his father's office, jet-black armor gleaming, cape sweeping behind. There was very little time, and he had words for the man.
An apprentice researcher snapped to attention and saluted Ffamran as he passed, slight anxiety in her eyes.
"As you were," Ffamran said distractedly. The cadet scientist relaxed her posture, but she kept one eye on the young judge as he passed. Ffamran had gathered a reputation among researchers for his volatile mood, especially when preparing audience with Cid.
Ffamran strode into his father's office without knocking.
"You didn't tell me the YPA-GB47 was scheduled for demolition."
Cid did not offer any indication he had registered Ffamran's presence. The doctor stood with his back to the door, gripping the edge of his desk. His knuckles white, his shoulders drawn into his neck, he jerked his pencil in violent bursts across the great swath of parchment laid before him.
The office had fallen into chaos. Papers lay scattered in complete disarray around the edges of the handsome mahogany desk, with pencils and measures serving as occasional haphazard paperweights. The bookcase was nearly bare, and books were strewn across the floor, their pages rumpled and occasionally torn. Cid's handsome hand-painted model of the Aircutter Remora lay neglected on the floor, one of its glass glossair rings shattered.
Ffamran stood at full attention, waiting; when Cid did not turn, he decided to press forward.
"You should have consulted me first. The ship's design . . ."
"The ship's design is faulty. It will be scrapped tonight as was scheduled, Ffamran. . . What was that, Venat?"
Cid did not look up from his notes. Ffamran bit his cheek to keep from shouting, and watched the pencil flit across the parchment. When it stopped moving, he spoke again.
"The Solidors won't pay for her, but she'll still fly. Rather well, I would imagine."
He glared at his father's back, furious that the man was still paying him no mind; after a moment's hesitation he bore down on himself and adjusted the tone of his voice.
"I'll buy her, if I must. The price . . ."
Cid growled to himself, scratched out what he had just written with a flourish, and finally jerked his head a fraction to speak to the Judge.
"You have no use for a war-class cruiser. Now, leave me in peace."
Ffamran closed his eyes, forced himself to count to ten. He continued.
"The price is no object. I would have Zargabaath issue a freeze on my salary, if so required."
Cid bent closer to his work, his pencil clenched in a merciless fist. "Damn it, Venat, I understand. But if only this idiot would leave me in peace!"
The old man wasn't even listening. This was too much.
"GB47, Father. Glossair Bunansa 47 . . .We worked on her together. Had you forgotten? It took me three months to figure out the double wing design; I nearly went mad for lack of sleep. How could you be so glib about . . ."
"I said, leave me!" Cid whirled around, broken pencil in hand. The words were hot with anger, the snarl almost bestial in its ferocity. For the first time in his life, Ffamran looked into his father's eyes and saw that they were completely devoid of love.
He drew himself to full attention and gave a perfect salute to the madman before him. This done, he turned on his heel and walked back to the elevator.
When he reached his room he closed the door, took off his helm, and threw it against the wall.
"Damn you, Cid!"
It felt odd to speak this way, but clearly 'Father' would no longer do.
He went to his dressing table and picked up a framed half-sheet of parchment. It was a sketch of his father, young and smiling, cradling a bright-eyed infant in one arm.
"Archas Zu Cetria Strahl," he muttered to himself. The Greatest Birds Soar in Solitude.
He stared at the sketch for a long time, his face unmoved. At length he blinked, crossed to his bed and retrieved his traveling pack from beneath it.
He knew what he had to do.