Four technicians converge upon a single one of the pair of half circle steel plates that slot into the vent cowling. Together, the pair provides a seal to keep the fumes contained within the vent. Each technician is armed with a hooked rod that is used to pull the cover free. When not in use, the vent covers sit on rollers to either side of the vent itself, ready to be shoved into place quickly in case of an emergency. 

I scowl at the vent cover by my feet, then simply hook my fingers around the grips on the cover. My strength is such that I can tug the cover away by myself. It is not easy, and I can feel the strain of it in my shoulders and legs. The vent covers are enormous. But my Denzai heritage is still enough that I have a portion of their strength, even at my young age. 

The covers part with a pulse of heat and sulfurous fumes, immediately rushing to fill the room with their searing toxicity. Yet another of my strange gifts comes into play here: I have never needed a respirator to survive these fumes. My lungs are not vulnerable to the combination of gasses that makes the thermal vents such a hazard to humanity. Every other individual in this room must hide behind the respirator masks. Yet I can stand with uncovered nose and mouth at the edge of this vent and feel no difficulties in breathing. 

So many of my abnormalities are on display in this one moment. If I were to stop and consider it, I might cave in to the desire to flee. I have been mocked for my differences so many times already. But in this moment, I cannot afford the time it would take to even consider such a thing. Instead, I merely redouble my efforts and slide the hulking half of the cover away to reveal the entirety of the thermal vent. Let them think what they will. I now hold the power to terminate their employment should they choose to make light of my inhuman heritage.

Once the vent is fully exposed, I pause a moment to catch my breath. I am only panting due to exertion. And that I can control. A couple of deep breaths later and I regain my ability to speak. “Lift teams! Pull slack and get ready to raise the drive! Control teams, keep the base of the drive confined to the circle of the vent at all cost! Once the drive is in full suspension, lift will pause to allow control teams to align the drive before beginning the lowering portion. I will direct the control teams, Jakara will call count for the lift teams. Proceed!” My voice is not nearly as strong as I would like; it crackles with overuse from all my singing. But none question my words, and Jakara’s count follows immediately.

Slowly, meter by meter, the drive shaft inches toward the ceiling. The teams pull on counts of one and three, resetting on counts of two and four. Grandy approaches long enough to hand me one of the control lines. Slack is taken out and tension placed as the drive nears vertical. I find myself becoming more anxious as the critical moment of full suspension nears. Until with a scrape of metal on stone, the drive lifts clear of the floor. 

“Pause lift! West, get that swing under control! South, increase tension!” I frantically shout direction to the control teams while praying under my breath to the Dark with a second voice and bracing my heels upon the lip of the vent cowling to keep the drive shaft under control as it hangs in midair. “Half of North, assist West!” The drive is perilously close to swinging into the scaffold that only I can perceive. I quickly take up slack and divert it from careening into one of the legs. “Stop that damn swing!”

It is a near thing. The base of the drive shaft misses the scaffold by less than the width of my hand. I am screaming invectives in Denzani, knowing that it is not the fault of my technicians and yet blaming them anyway. My ancestors and the founders of the sub-city get a share of the misplaced blame as well. Only when the drive shaft hangs perfectly still do I remember to breathe normally again. Oh Dark. That was entirely too close for my comfort.

“Control teams, maintain even tension. Jakara, call count for the drop. One quarter pace to lift speed. Lift teams, keep it balanced. Proceed!” 

This is the most dangerous phase. We must seat the base of the drive shaft into a collar nearly ten feet below floor level. A bad swing could drag technicians on the control lines into the thermal vent. I need to be standing right at the brink, making sure the base seats fully into a collar that is only marginally larger than the shaft itself. The control line I hold pulls me in, while the safety line keeps me from plunging head first into the vent.

“Almost there! West, increase tension! North, a little give!” I manage my own line by instinct, feeding it out or taking it in as I call out direction to the other lines. The drive sinks lower into the vent as I watch, heat blasting out into my face as I lean in to monitor and fumes making me want to sneeze more as each moment passes. 

The first attempt at seating the drive is off target. I have to instruct the lift teams to pause so that the control teams can adjust the base of the drive shaft by probably five centimeters away from me. A second attempt snags badly, as does a third, and both of them require a slight lift to clear the lip of the collar. Attempt four succeeds, but with a faint shriek of metal on metal as the drive shaft slides down the slight flange that is in place to facilitate placement. There is no sound that accompanies the final seating of the drive shaft, but I can watch as it sinks into the collar and comes to a rest.

“All teams, freeze!” It is the only warning they get before I open up into song once more. Stepping back from the lip of the thermal vent, I unbuckle my safety harness with unsteady fingers even as I give voice to a hymn of unity. I let the control line drop to the floor so I can dance freely. Iridescence begins to shimmer into existence at my command, streamers wavering up from the technicians to echo those already in place within the scaffolding. 

As predicted, like calls to like. The streamers I take and weave together want to shy away from the drive shaft, but cannot abandon those which are already in place. This was the principle I was counting on to aid me in constructing this final side. Unity is a strength among emotions for this reason and why it is well suited to this task. 

The scaffold grows with agonizing slowness. It is a testament to my own fatigue more than anything. My leaden limbs do not want to cooperate as they should and it affects my work. Even with a full team of Denzai to sing this scaffold into place, this is the most difficult part. And yet I am here, alone, trying to pull this together. 

There is one bright streamer among the rest. One that stands out as a foundation piece. I dance around it, willing it to join its kin, asking it to give me support and lend aid. And it comes to my call. It almost seems to have a song of its own, so strong is its cohesion. It calls to the other filaments and they flock toward it eagerly. I draw it forth and let it slither across my arms, sliding like a shimmering serpent toward the scaffold, pulling other streamers in its wake. 

Bless you, Grandy. This is precisely what I need.

His unity clambers into place eagerly and entreats others to join it. And they do. They rush to aid it almost recklessly. I have to practically fight to get the shape I want for this, instead of directing the placement as I did with the sides of the scaffold. Such is the power my grandsire still holds over the hearts of this collection of individuals, that their emotions meld with his so seamlessly. They are loyal to him.

IO adores the fabled Ranger Zar.

When the fourth side finally snaps into position, I collapse to the floor. Everything hurts. My lungs ache from sustaining song and my muscles feel like water beneath my skin. The drain upon me is immense. Swaying on my knees, I can only stare at what I have wrought in a daze. 

“I built that.” The words slip from me unbidden, ragged between my gasps for breath. They are soon followed by a giggle as I find myself sliding toward giddy glee. “The single greatest thing I have built solo. And it is here. Right here. For all to see. I…am not finished.” The realization slips through the giggles and my humor vanishes like clouds torn apart by the wind. I choke down a sob of frustration. 

“Sir.” I wrench my blurry sight up to the technician that addresses me. Her name eludes me, blanketed as I am by the fog of exhaustion. “Permission to send the teams on break.”

I can only nod.

“Valeesa, slot the vent covers, get the room vented out, then get the techs fed and back here in 60 minutes.” Grandy comes to my rescue. May the Magnificent Dark bless my grandsire with all the prosperity he deserves in his retirement. I do not know how he is speaking clearly through the respirator with his injury, but he issues orders as though he has never been absent a day from IO. “There’s one more set of welds that needs to be put in place. I’ll want to get meals for myself and my grandson, as he needs to eat properly. When we come back from break, get each team assigned to one of the support beams for the reg-brake assembly and get a welding rig at each. I’ll take care of getting Tarriq where he needs to be, so just focus on getting the techs where they need to be.”

“Understood, sir.” Valeesa salutes crisply and turns away to bellow orders. 

I promptly tune her out as Grandy crouches before me. He mutters something in his native tongue, the only word of which I can pick out is his fond moniker for me. It ends up not mattering, though, for he switches back to English in the next moment. “Bambino, may I aid you in moving out of the way?” He holds his hand out to me.

I almost do not have the strength to place my hand into his. It feels like so much effort. “Thank  you.” My voice is almost unrecognizable, so cracked and hoarse is it. “Dark. I am tired.”

“I know, bambino. But you’ve done well. I’m proud of you. There’s just a little more to do, then you can rest. Can you do it? Have you got just a little more to give?” 

I see the worry in him. The way it coalesces behind his eyes, shades of green and blue and crimson that swirl together into concern. Even the edges of these are becoming blurred, such is my weariness. 

“There is no other choice,” I remind him. I dislike the weak quality of my voice, though there is nothing I can do to correct it. “I have to give more. Even if it costs me everything.”

“Tarriq.” I try so very hard to focus on him. But his features swim before me. Still, I can at least offer attention to the pain in his voice. “You said you’d be upset if anything happened to me. That goes both ways, bambino. I would be very upset if anything happened to you, too. Please try to remember that.”

It is so much effort to understand the implications of his words. But when I do, my eyes widen. I see him nod. See the damp in the corners of his eyes. 

Damn. I forgot there were others who actually care instead of just pretending to. 

“I hurt you.” My own eyes water and I look away in shame. “I am sorry, Grandy.” Though it is how I truly feel, I forgot that there are some things I should never say aloud. Perhaps it is the madness, or the fatigue. Either way, I forgot. 

“I know I’m no replacement for your papa. But your gram and I are still here for you. We’re on your side. And we’d be very upset if you left the way Tommarl did.” 

Oh Dark. That hurts. I can only choke back the first sob. Then I bury my face in Grandy’s shirt so no one else has to see me bawl like a spawnling. His arms go around me in a hug, but I only distantly notice. Grief has me swimming in a chokehold. My emotions take a nosedive into deep depression and guilt before ricocheting back to brief anger, then plunging straight through into an almost manic need to finish this repair. All within the span of a few seconds and all while sobbing brokenly into my grandsire’s chest.