City of Steam

I stand at the edge of the city, looking out beyond the precipice that plunges into the obscurity of clouds. At my side rests my invention; a collection of patchwork fabric stretched over metal poles that is the result of months of exacting labor. As far as I know, nothing like this has ever been crafted by the denizens of this place. Most would consider me crazy, at best. The contraption is untested, its success undetermined. I am risking my life on the precision of my theories and the exactitude of my blueprints.

At my back, the constant pumping of the town's engines emits the ever-present rhythm of metal and pressurized steam. Like some spitting metallic beast, gears vacillate and air hisses from release valves. I shake my head not for the first time as I think on those machines. The townsfolk spend their lives keeping the machines in perfect working condition. Camshafts are polished and oiled, sprockets are repaired and replaced, brass fittings are cleaned of their patina, and water is continually added to the holding tanks. All of us are raised with the expectation that we will dedicate our lives to one element of the machines.

I am the Polisher of Flues.

We are trained from a tender age in the intricacies of our specialization, and lectured repeatedly throughout life on the importance of keeping everything running smoothly. All of this, despite the fact that we have yet to determine the purpose of the machines.

We did not build the machines. As we all learn in youth, the city was crafted by hands very different from our own. Everything here is on a scale much too large for our kind. Doors are twice our size, stairways must be climbed hand over foot, and the machine's controls are set well overhead. This has necessitated the creation of all manner of ladders and scaffolding in order that we might reach the various handles, cranks and dials.

No record of the Creator Race exists. No likeness remains to show us what they may have looked like. The nature of their biology, origins and daily lives is little more than the source of idle debate. They left behind very few clues when they, for whatever reason, disappeared from the city. All we have left are the machines.

And, of course, the city.

The city is constructed entirely of uniform stone bricks, cut into various shapes and set without mortar. Every wall, every staircase, every street is made of the same sand-brown stone. The origin of the mineral is a mystery. On all sides of - and even under - the city, there is naught but clouds. Some theorize that at some point the city in its entirety simply materialized into existence. Others scoff at this idea, and instead explain that the Creator Race obviously brought the material from the same place as the machines.

Theological debate like this goes on without end, like the pumping of the machines. At some point, though, I began to realize that it was just talk. No one was willing to seek answers to their questions. Quite to the contrary: everyone is quite content to remain within the confines of the city, slaving away at maintaining a contraption whose purpose and origin is unknown. I, on the other hand, have decided to seek answers.

My construction of the object that now sits at my feet started as a vague plan in my mind. I would invent and discard ideas as I polished flues. I grew lax in my duties, preferring instead to brainstorm and theorize. My superiors became increasingly angry with me, noting my dereliction in their performance reviews. Friends and family were astonished when I showed indifference to these negative reviews. They wondered if I was ill or depressed.

As ideas concretized in my mind, I drifted further away from the concerns of my job, eventually causing a scandal throughout the town when I stopped going to work entirely. I shut myself in my home for months to draw up plans and commence construction of my device. It took several more months to finish building it.

And now here I am, ready to put it into action for the first time.

I turn in place and look at the gathered crowd of onlookers. I had expected an angry mob to come looking for me, but instead they came as placid as sleepwalkers. As if watching a dream, they simply stand in place looking lost and forlorn. Perhaps they think my impending departure signals an end of an age for us.

Or the end of an innocence.

I prefer to think of it as a beginning.

And so I hoist my invention, lifting it to my back and securing it in place by winding the straps of the harness around my torso. I cinch buckles until they are tight about my chest and, grabbing a hold of the crossbar, lift the thing in its entirety from the ground. The main wings extend on either side of me like extensions of my own body. I can feel my chest reverberate with anticipation. The palms of my hands, slick with sweat, fail to maintain a secure grip on the crossbar. Shaking, I clear my throat and take a few deep breaths to calm my nerves.

This is it; succeed or fail, my vision will be tested as I carry through with my convictions.

I take a couple of steps backwards before dipping into a crouch. I lunge forward and bound forward to the edge of the city in long, loping strides. The edge draws closer, and for the briefest of moments, I wonder if I am doing the right thing.

But the moment ends abruptly as I reach the edge and push off of the precipice with all of my strength, launching myself and my flying machine into the air.

With a jolt, the wings of my creation catch the wind, and I am launched aloft, carried high above the city before I begin to glide. Wind ruffles the fabric of my invention and tosses my hair to and fro. The sense of weightlessness washes over me like a shower of euphoria, and an unabashed grin spreads across my face. Unable to contain my excitement, I laugh out loud, shouting to the tiny people below with all the force my lungs can muster.

From up high, the stone walls and brass machinery of a place I had heretofore thought a prison seem somehow serene. The billowing steam rising from the numerous release valves seems to enfold the city in a protective embrace. I circle around the perimeter of the city and gradually return to the precipice where everyone has gathered. As I drift slowly past my launching point, I look one last time at the faces of my people. Friends, family, neighbors and coworkers watch in fascination as I glide by. They rush to the edge of the cliff to watch as I descend from view.

And in a moment, I am enveloped by the clouds.