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123rd of First, 1100 A.W. — We’re on our second day out. The peninsula has long since disappeared beyond the horizon. The falls once felt inescapable, but yesterday, they became a speck and faded away.

With the little sleep I have managed, I still dream of home. My duties aboard have kept my waking mind from drifting too far into homesickness. I am kept busy by my journals — filled with reports on how the crew is fairing and even the state of the airsail. These reports won’t just be of interest to the Scholars but also to the chief architect and the other members of the Air Guild.

The architect of the Heaven Sails, Bright Fish III, desperately wanted to accompany the expedition but couldn’t due to Council orders. The Council won’t allow one of their greatest minds to put himself at risk. Every member of the crew, including myself, is ultimately expendable to the Polity… Replaceable really… I’m not among the greatest of the Scholars — just adequate enough.

Beyond my journals, my ship duties have been very light so far. Captain Leaping Tiger II instructed me yesterday before boarding that I am to stay out of the way of the crew. I don’t think he even sees me as a crew member, just a passenger. Deadweight. I’m not worried about him, though. The Council chose him because of his unwavering loyalty to the Polity. He has even rejected marriage offers — regarding them as distractions from duty. He’s a skilled pilot, almost the best in the Air Guild. Still expendable. Pilots come in every generation, but architects, especially those like Bright Fish, do not.

Nobody seems to like me, but they also don’t seem to hate me either, not yet anyway. Supplies are still fresh. The gondola is cramped but still about as clean as she was when we left. There are no private quarters on board. Not even the captain is afforded such luxury. The air inside is a little chilly. However, on deck, it can be very brisk and treacherous. They say it feels a lot like being on the ocean. Not that I can relate…

There isn’t much to see now, with the peninsula far out of view. Aside from the bridge and the observation deck, there aren’t many opportunities to see outside. Small portholes line the walls of the gondola in most compartments, letting in some natural light but not offering much to see except glimpses of clouds and the sun. The ocean from this high above looks like a sheet of rippling melted blue glass.

It’s always loud inside. The ship never sleeps. There’s always work being done by the crew. I’ve never felt sick, and no one else has reported feeling ill yet. That doesn’t silence the cacophony of coughing at night. After a while, perhaps my ears will adjust to it all. It’s a far cry from the often solitary, quiet work in the Sanctuary… Only hearing the low hum of the falls and the scraping of ink on paper… Occasionally hearing faint echos of the bustling life in the Lower City…

Sometimes, I feel sudden panic, realizing how far above the sea we are. I hold on to whatever is nearby and close my eyes. It was a strange feeling on our first ascent. I felt a pressure and pop in my ears. Now, we mostly stay at the same altitude, but every now and then, the captain will order a descent and then a climb. The winds carry us constantly eastward, but gusts can be unpredictable. For the most part, it is a smooth ride — definitely smoother than riding a tame.

The physician on board, Doctor Fog Eyes, has been keeping track of the crew’s health. I copy their reports in my own journals. He notes the same effects as I have felt. Occasional panic, constant mild or changing sense of ear pressure, and difficulty sleeping. Regardless of their experience, no crew member, not even Captain Leaping Tiger, has been on an airsail for more than half a day at a time. The doctor’s pressing concern is the effect inadequate sleep will have on the minds and bodies of the crew as our voyage progresses. He predicts a gradual breakdown in performance, morale, and health. If our supplies get low and we are forced to severely limit rations, he worries about the real possibility of a mutiny. Without the captain, he does not believe we can make it home. The doctor, captain, and I are among the few designated as essential returning personnel. I will try to stay in their good graces.

The captain values what the doctor has to offer. The doctor is probably the eldest crew member. He could never father a child, a consequence of his impotence. His wife requested the Council for a divorce, which they granted. The Council practically never permits divorce unless they see it as a way of “freeing up a resource.” The doctor hasn’t been married since, and no younger woman is interested in him. The Council has promised him an arranged marriage with a lady no less than 15 years his junior if he returns alive from the expedition. A reasonable incentive… Not one I was offered — understandably. If they offered me that at my age, it would be like adopting a child. That would be more of a punishment than a reward.

If I do return alive, the Council has promised to grant me land in the Lower City, near the shores of the peninsula. Not that I will be able to enjoy it much before I retire… It’s a fair distance from the falls. Still, land is an increasingly scarce commodity. Wealth or land is what the rest of the crew are promised as well… In addition to a share of whatever riches we happen upon on our journey. The captain is the only one I’m aware of who is purely on board out of a sense of duty. The Council most certainly exploits his selflessness.