by Jayden Woods
*
“Lever six one two. Pressure at thirty bars. Open gate 4B at the rate of two spans per second. Watch pressure. Turn auxiliary blades at fifty cycles. Now open gate 4C at the rate of—”
“Pressure climbing.”
“Pressure should not surpass thirty-three bars.”
“Pressure at thirty-five bars and counting.”
“What?” Eleanor blinked a few times. All of her senses came alive at once. Sometimes she forgot about them when she got swept up in the rhythm of creation. Often this was a good thing, for it meant that she synchronized with the great Earth Mechanic, whose pace-setting drum could only be heard beneath the noise of physical sensations and emotional turmoil. But in this case, she could not explain where her mind had just gone. She watched the undulating barometers and levers all around her, moving at uncanny rates. She peered through the small glass window into the waters beyond, churning with various shades of blue. The roar of the rushing water grew deafening outside the thin metal hull of their sub-station.
Every day, she climbed down the long ladder to reach the metal sphere suspended in the middle of the Churning Lake. Here in this lake, rivers from throughout the kingdom of Yamair came together. Generations ago, some of the first Yamairan Synergists realized that if they harnessed the power of the moving waters, they could use it to power other things, like gears and machines. Since then, Synergists had learned how to harness the power of other elements, like wind and even fire. But this lake was where it had all started, and it was the king’s duty to see that it continued to channel power through pipes and rivulets all over Yamair.
Except that while the king was gone, that duty fell to the king-wife.
“I told you to watch the pressure,” Eleanor snapped.
“Thirty-six bars.”
“No, it can’t be!” Eleanor didn’t understand. Where had she gone wrong? “Pressure should stay below thirty-three!”
“Thirty-seven bars!”
“Close the gates. Close 4B now!”
“4B closing ...” The cogman gulped and turned towards her. “It’s too late, King-wife. The supports will fold at this pressure. We should evacuate. Now.”
“Open the dorsal valve K17.”
The voice seemed to ring out of nowhere, crisp and confident. Eleanor turned in a daze to see that her own humble Scholar, Rebeka, had been the one to speak. She stood with her papers rolled in a bundle, her feather pen tucked behind her ear. Eleanor had never noticed Rebeka’s elegance until now, when her presence demanded everyone’s full attention. Her long black coat perfectly framed her trousers and blouse. She stood with impeccable posture, her solid shoulders straight, her strong chin stuck high in the air.
“K17?” echoed Eleanor in a daze. “But that valve leads to the southern channel ...”
“It will ease the pressure.” Rebeka’s green eyes blazed with confidence as she looked upon the king-wife. “Trust me, Majesty. You shall see.”
Eleanor did not know what other choice she had. Her heart pounded rapidly in her chest. Her blood burned in her veins and she knew without a doubt that her inner drum had been disrupted. When had it happened? Amidst her panic? Or beforehand? Perhaps it had been off before she even came into the sub-station. Perhaps if she had been better synchronized to begin with ...
“Pressure is dropping.” The cogman fell back in his chair with a sigh of relief. “The waters are stabilizing, King-wife. Thirty-five bars. Thirty-four ...”
“Thirty-three.” Eleanor’s voice barely rose above a whisper. Her cheeks flushed red with embarrassment. She could not meet the Scholar's gaze any longer. She struggled to douse conflicting feelings of anger and gratitude towards the woman. If she should feel any emotion at all right now, it should be shame.