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At night, when the tanks and the wereships grind to a halt, you can hear the propellers that keep the island afloat. Massive bladed turbines suck the air up and around the hovering hunk of dirt, suspending it half a mile above the rippling green ocean below and the wasted grey lands. If you listen closely, just beyond the rushing howl of wind and groan of rusted breeze catchers, you'll hear rhythmic drone of those great fans, humming under the ground far beneath your feet.

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I’m told that there are tunnels leading out from the old factories, trails and tubes that spiral down through rock and iron, to the old engine rooms, where no one has gone in a century. Silly thing to purport, that. No machine could go so long unattended. Even the autotanks need daily maintenance.

Still, I’ve been working this shop for nigh on fifteen years, and never once have I met a soul who’s been down below. Perhaps it’s best just not to wonder.