And right in the middle of it all limped the ugliest, most pathetic-looking freight hauler you ever laid eyes on: a battered old sky rig everyone just called the Rusty Stack.
From a distance, she looked like she was one cough away from falling out of the sky. Her hull was patched with mismatched metal plates, rust streaking down the sides like she’d been crying brown tears for a decade. The massive smokestack that gave her the name belched black smoke in irregular puffs, as if the boilers were having an asthma attack. Half the running lights were busted, the envelope—the giant gas bag keeping her afloat—had more patches than original fabric, and the propellers spun with a pathetic whine that sounded like an old man complaining about his knees.
Most captains took one look and smirked. “That thing still flies?” they’d ask. Spacey’s standard reply was a shrug and a grin: “Barely. But she gets there. Eventually.”
Spacey—real name Jason, but nobody had called him that since he was twelve—was leaning against the railing of the open-air bridge, chewing on a cheap cigar that had gone out twenty minutes ago. He wore a battered leather duster, fingerless gloves, and a pair of goggles pushed up on his forehead. His two-person crew were the only reason the Rusty Stack hadn’t plummeted into the void years ago.
Coming soon