These Wretched Wings: A Savage Seas Universe novel by Rebecca F. Kenney

Author:Rebecca F. Kenney [Kenney, Rebecca F.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2021-09-13T05:00:00+00:00

14

Together we carry the enormous mechanical wings and their harness outside, to the grassy dunes overlooking the flat stretch of sand. The ocean surges gently, its blue deeper and darker since the sun set. A strip of orange light and purple cloud marks the boundary between sea and sky.

I dash back into the workshop for two lamps, and I set them along the sandy path between the dunes. Galen is struggling into the harness, and I step forward, drawing the buckles tight across his chest. His heart is pounding through his shirt, a galloping beat that makes my heart trip over itself.

As I lean forward, tugging at the straps, I hear him inhale softly, almost as if he’s smelling my hair. I look up, but his face is impassive. “Do the straps for the arms, too,” he says.

While I’m fastening them, he mutters, “That’s another problem with this design—humans won’t be able to use their arms while flying like Sky-born can. The entire arm is needed to work the mechanism that moves the wings.”

“The flight itself is the important thing.” But even as I say it, I mentally compare the gigantic mechanical contraption in front of me with my own beautiful wings, and my heart sinks. As wonderful as Galen’s creation is, as finely designed as the clockwork and pulley system may be, it’s no replacement for my reality—natural, unaided flight.

“Check the back, Idra,” says Galen. “Make sure the sail-fin is centered. And give that fourth anterior spine a tweak—see how it’s bending?”

I follow his instructions, adjusting this and that, until I lose patience. “Galen, it’s as ready as it will ever be. Time to try it.”

Just then, a gust of wind rushes over the beach, and Galen is nearly lifted off his feet.

“Yes!” I cry, clapping my hands. “Go, go!”

And Galen runs down the beach, his arms pumping the wings. The wind catches him, he angles the wings, and he’s up in the air, feet rising above the sand. One second, another—but the wind dies, and he thuds back to earth. Again he tries, and again—different angles, pumping his arms slower, faster, adjusting his running speed. Every time he lifts off, he stays up for only a few seconds before touching down again.

I gnaw my lip, hands twisting. I want to help him. I want to make it work.

But it won’t. He knew it wouldn’t work, and he was right.

I can tell he’s tiring, his arms moving slower and slower. At last he stalks back to the dunes, his face a livid mask.

“Maybe if you tried someone with more upper body muscle—” I say.

“They’d be too heavy.”

“Bigger wings?”

“Added weight and drag. Won’t work. Get me out of this thing.”

Feverishly I unbuckle the straps. He’s breathing hard, and his shirt is drenched with sweat. He reeks of bitter effort and disappointment.

As the last strap falls away, he wrenches himself out of the machine, casting it recklessly to the ground. “Useless!” he cries. “Completely useless. Months of work, wasted!”

He kicks one of the wings viciously, grinding it into the sand under his boot.

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