Skylar groaned like a person on the verge of death and forced his eyes to crack open, letting in painful slivers of light. Everything looked bright and blurry. Instantly, his eyes snapped shut again. His head throbbed. His ears rang. His whole body seared with pain. A bile taste filled his mouth, and his stomach churned as if he were going to vomit.

He tried to breathe deeply, to calm himself.

What happened?

Pain.

He groaned again before slipping out of consciousness under the weight of it.

Several hours later, consciousness tugged at him again. He did not immediately open his eyes, but laid still, waiting for the tidal wave of pain to overtake him again. It didn't come. His head no longer throbbed. His ears no longer rang. The nausea had passed. The rest of his body felt fine, with only some minor discomfort in his left arm. His head, too, ached a little; nothing compared to his previous agony.

He ventured to open his eyes. They still protested under the sudden brightness, blinking rapidly. After a few moments, they adjusted to the light, and Skylar took in his surroundings. He saw little worth seeing. Bare metal ceiling and walls. Blinding white lights. A steel cabinet. Nothing to give him any clue as to his whereabouts.

Not feeling sufficiently strong to turn or lift his head, he left off inspecting the remainder of the austere chamber.

"Where am I?" he wondered aloud, then shut his eyes again and attempted to remember what had happened to him. Evidently, he'd been hurt. How, though?

"Feeling better, are we?" came a raspy voice.

Skylar started at the sound of it and opened his eyes. A thin, crooked nose and huge pair of eyes stared down at him.

"Don't be alarmed, my boy," said the figure.

Skylar made no reply.

The figure, whose voice sounded like a rusty hinge, was an elderly man with sunken cheeks, pointy chin and wing-like ears, bushing with sprigs of gray hair. He wore a pair of bulbous goggles, which amplified his wide-eyed stare.

"Now," the old man continued in his creaky voice, "let's have a look at your hurts, shall we?"

The old man produced a light and shined it in each of Skylar's eyes, blinding him again.

"Good...excellent," he said with a strange sort of satisfaction. "Now, how are our little surgeons doing? Let us have a look..."

Placing a black visor over his goggles, the man moved his face uncomfortably close to the side of Skylar's head. Skylar tried to watch out of the corner of his eyes. What was he doing? Was he a physician?

"Almost done," said the queer old man, as if speaking to himself. "Yes, yes...a fine job. They always do. Almost done."

The man removed the visor and smiled at Skylar. Several of the man's teeth were missing, and of the remaining, all pointed in different directions.

"Uh...who's almost done?" said Skylar. "And with what, Sir? Where am I?"

"The boy wants to know where he is," responded the old man, as if there were someone else in the room. He chuckled lightly. "Why, in the infirmary, my boy, where else?"

"What infirmary?"

The old man chuckled some more. "'What infirmary?' he asks. The Cloud Harbor infirmary, of course. Dr. Beezin, at your service."

"Cloud Harbor!" cried Skylar as his memory came rushing back to him.

The convoy...Captain Arturo...

Suddenly, he remembered everything.

"What happened to the convoy ship?"

"Don't distress yourself, my boy. The convoy has long since docked."

"And Captain Arturo?"

"Long departed, I'm sure, my boy. In an awful hurry, I hear."

Skylar closed his eyes, gritting his teeth. Everything had gone wrong-terribly wrong. Arturo was gone. Rasbus would never let Skylar near the dock again. In one brief moment his dreams of joining Arturo's crew were crushed.

"Was anyone else hurt?"

"All is well. Don't worry yourself. You're still weak and need your rest. If anyone else was injured, they were not brought to me."

"That was quite a fall you had-I'm told," continued Dr. Beezin. "You're lucky to be alive, I'm told. If I were you, I'd be grateful I only lost my leg."

"What!" Skylar craned his aching neck to see down the length of his body. A white sheet covered his torso. Nervously, he attempted to lift his right leg. The sheet lifted with it. He still had his right leg. Almost too fearful to try, he slowly made to lift his left leg. For a heart-stopping moment nothing happened. But it was only his mind playing tricks on him. The sheet rose. His left leg was still attached.

Skylar let out a sigh of relief and let his head fall back on his pillow. A gleeful laugh erupted from the doctor.

"They always fall for that one. Oh, I do love that trick!"

"Very funny," snapped Skylar. He felt in no mood for games or tricks. Not after the utter disappointment he'd just suffered. Still, he found it difficult to feel too angry, so great was his relief to find both his legs still attached to his body.

"It's alright to laugh, my boy. It is a good jest. No, the only thing wrong with you-medically speaking-is a fractured skull. And our little helpers have just about mended that."

"What little helpers?"

"The littlest of the little helpers. Synthetic osteoclasts. Bone builders. They are inside that thick cranium of yours doing some construction work, you might say."

Skylar had never heard of anything like synthetic osteoclasts. With a character like Dr. Beezin it was likely another joke. He decided not to pursue the subject further. Besides, the idea of any foreign microscopic object roving around in his head made him feel uneasy.

"How long was I unconscious?"

"'How long?' he wonders," replied the doctor. "How long...well, seven hours, twenty three minutes, as I calculate it."

Skylar was stunned. His mother would be beside herself with worry. Did she even know about his accident? He hoped not. As it was, she didn't like him working at the harbor. She considered it too dangerous. Everything was too dangerous in her eyes. This little incident would only give her more reason to dislike the harbor. Not that that mattered much now; Rasbus would certainly ban him from the docks.

It wasn't my fault, he disputed with himself. The winch stopped working. It was the only thing to do.

"Now just hold still, my boy," cautioned Dr. Beezin, disrupting Skylar's thoughts. "It's time to extract the osteoclasts. Just hold nice and still."

Less than Skylar liked the idea of foreign bodies inside his head was the idea of extracting them from his head.

"Uh, how exactly are you going to do that?"

"In the same way that they got in, of course. With this."

The doctor held up what looked like a gun, but with the long and disconcerting tip of a monstrous needle. Its highly polished steel contrasted sharply with the doctor's gnarled and bony hand, which gripped the device as though it were a noble saber. What a horrifying implement! It looked as though it should belong to a demented torture master, not a surgeon.

Dr. Beezin let out another laugh. "Easy, my boy. It'll be painless. Trust me."

Skylar, however, didn't feel easy. Bracing himself by clutching the sides of the bed, he prayed the doctor would not puncture his brain with the terrible needle-gun. He squeezed his eyes shut and waited for the pain. A high-frequency whirr sounded in his ear. Then he felt a sharp pressure on the side of his head. He clenched his teeth tighter.

You'd think he'd administer an anesthetic first, he though anxiously, expecting at any moment the sharp pressure to turn into unbearable pain. It never came. Before he knew it, the pressure vanished and Dr. Beezin was saying, "That'll do, my boy. You can release that death grip of yours."

Skylar let go his grip, opened his eyes, and let his tense body relax.

"What did you do?" Skylar asked after he'd recovered from the shock.

"Sucked out your brains, of course."

Skylar didn't laugh. Reaching up, he inspected the side of his head, expecting to find something different. A bandage, a hole, a bump-something. If felt as normal as could be.

"Am I free to leave the infirmary, then?" asked Skylar.

"Well-"

"The question is," boomed a familiar voice before Dr. Beezin could respond, "Do you really want to leave the infirmary?"

Skylar quickly turned his head toward the voice. There stood the massive form of Rasbus filling the doorway, glaring harshly at him.

Three and a half leagues separate Cloud Harbor from Kaladra, the main city of Haladras and Skylar's home. It might have been three hundred leagues for how long the trip seemed to take. Perhaps it was because of the awkwardness Skylar felt sitting beside Rasbus in the same transport with no one else around. The port master had remained mostly silent, sitting at the controls of the transport like a mechanical pilot. Skylar didn't know if he had ever seen Rasbus when he wasn't yelling at every poor soul who came into his line of sight.

Rasbus had insisted on taking him to his mother. And Skylar had only resisted a little. In truth he did not feel up to flying. His whole body felt bruised and weak with fatigue. His head swam when he stood up. He would have killed himself for certain had he attempted to fly home on his jetwing. Not that flying was an option. His jetwing had been severely damaged in the fall. News which had nearly brought tears to his eyes. The chances of replacing his jetwing were practically nonexistent.

That jetwing represented his most cherished possession. What would he do without it?

Could this day possibly get any worse? Skylar thought as he peered out across the desolate landscape, now mottled with long shadows of rocks and outcroppings. The sun had lost much of its intensity as it sank into the horizon. A cool breeze streamed across his face as they sped along.

"You're lucky to be alive, you know that?" said Rasbus in the quietest voice Skylar had ever heard him use. "If Kindor hadn't caught you with that lift..." he shook his head. "What were you thinking? I never saw anyone do something so stupid."

"Kindor caught me with a lift?" said Skylar.

"Quick thinking on Kindor's part. He broke your fall by a good ten meters."

"Kindor's alright, though, isn't he?"

Skylar, feeling suddenly very curious, forgot to whom he was talking-the man who spoke, but was not spoken to.

"He wasn't injured, no. But I've discharged him from duty. I can't have officers making idiotic decisions like that. You had no business manning that winch."

"I knew what I was doing. Kindor felt confident I was ready."

"Kindor was wrong!" boomed back Rasbus in a way that made Skylar's bones rattle. "Do you have any idea what could have happened if that cable had not been released?"

"Of course I do!" said Skylar, feeling his anger rise. "Why do you think I did what I did?"

"It shouldn't have come to that. It wasn't your job-"

"There wasn't enough time to deliberate the situation in a committee. I had to act."

"Don't get impertinent with me. I have half a mind to terminate your apprenticeship. A trained, experienced winch operator would know exactly what procedure to follow and how much time he had. You weren't ready, Skylar."

Rasbus sighed and his hardened features gave way to tired, careworn lines. When he spoke again his tone was calmer.

"How do you think I felt when I learned it was you who had fallen? I thought you were dead, Skylar-we all did. What would I have told your mother?"

Skylar made no reply. For the first time in the years he'd known Rasbus, he'd never seen Rasbus express any emotion but irritation. The moment quickly passed. Rasbus resumed his mechanical state.

Skylar stared back out at the desert.

"Dr. Beezin," said Skylar after a time. "He told me Captain Arturo left the docks in a hurry. Do you know why?"

"That's Captain Arturo's business, not yours," snapped Rasbus.

"But-"

Skylar broke off. He could tell from the taut muscles around Rasbus' jawline that he ought to keep quiet. Neither spoke for the remainder of the trip.

Like most inhabitants of Kaladra, Skylar's home was on the side of the rock walls that formed an immense gorge. The homes were carved into the wall, like grottos. The temperature of the stones helped keep them cool, in spite of the scorching Haladrian sun. It was a singular sight to behold those walls at night, all aglow with soft amber lights emanating from square windows like a mosaic of gold tiles.

Rasbus docked the transport outside Skylar's dwelling and helped Skylar out onto the narrow landing. Before Skylar was on his feet, his mother rushed out, her face full of concern.

"I'm alright," said Skylar before she could begin fretting.

Little good it did after she saw him grimace with pain when he tried to stand.

"What happened?" asked his mother, hastening to his side to help.

"I just had a little fall-nothing serious."

"A fall! It was that jetwing of yours. I knew I shouldn't let you..."

"Mom-"

"Let's get the lad inside, Dahra. Then I'll explain the whole matter," said Rasbus.

Once inside, Rasbus made good on his word, explaining the entire incident to his mother, taking care to leave out a few ugly specifics here and there. Thus he saved her from unnecessary distress and Skylar from having to convince her that he really was fine. Rasbus had impressed Skylar for the second time that day. The iron port master was nearly a different man around his mother. He was polite, agreeable, mild-tempered. Still, he avoided small talk, getting straight to business, so that soon after his arrival he was taking his leave.

"The physician says Skylar should get plenty of rest," explained Rasbus, his military tone returning. "I'm putting him under mandatory sick leave. He's not to come near the docks for two weeks. After that...we'll see."

With that, Rasbus stepped out into the growing darkness, climbed into his transport, and was gone.

No sooner had the port master left than Skylar's mother was at his side, looking into his face with her penetrating hazel eyes, trying to read his thoughts. She always did it whenever she sensed anything wrong. And she could always sense it. She never had to say anything to get him to divulge whatever was bothering him. It always just came out. Those eyes, that look, possessed some power of enchantment. Skylar usually didn't mind confiding in her. The two had always been close; they only had each other.

Skylar's father died in a mining accident just before he was born. His mother didn't speak much about his father. He assumed the memory was too painful for her. Skylar was their first and only child.

Despite his love for her, he resisted opening up to share the misery of his day, his unbelievable disappointment. He couldn't bring himself to do it. Of late, he'd been less and less inclined to talk openly with her. He simply said, "I guess you don't have to worry about me flying anymore."

She frowned.

"I'm sorry, Sky. I know how much that jetwing means to you. Do you know what's wrong with it? Can't it be repaired?"

Skylar shook his head bitterly, holding the jetwing's two cylindrical components in his hands. "The right-hand thruster is completely shot. No propulsion, at all. The coupling-field generator is destroyed, too. It might be repairable, but not cheaply."

He took the two thrusters and glumly connected their ends together, the way he did when we wanted to hang it from his belt as a single unit. All it was good for now was to use as a club, or as a cane for a midget.

He looked up at his mother.

Her face had fallen somewhat. It was obvious to him why. He had mentioned money, a scarce resource for them. Skylar knew it only too well. It had taken his mother nearly a full year to save up the money to buy him that jetwing, working extra hours at the textile mill, baking and selling bread to the neighbors, and other odd jobs she could manage. No, that was the end of the jetwing. Skylar wouldn't allow her to exert herself like that again. It shouldn't have happened in the first place. But she managed, somehow, to hide her scheming from him.

"Well," said his mother, forcing herself to sound cheery, "you never know what could happen." She tousled his sun-bleached hair just like she did when he was a young boy. "I'll get your supper."

Skylar went to bed early that night. His body was fatigued and his head still ached. As he lay in his bed, just before he drifted off to sleep, his thoughts turned to Kindor.

What's going to happen to him now?

And then his thoughts turned to Captain Arturo.

Why was he in such a hurry? Did something happen during the trade route?