Ember Coalwright stood in front of the bulletin board at the dock's edge, reading the listing for chief engineer one more time. The position had been open for six weeks. Three engineers had applied. None of them came back from their trial runs. The brass post gleamed in the morning light, its ornate gears turning slowly at the top. Below the listing, three names were stamped in weathered letters with dates beside them. The last one was only eight days old. Ember pulled his repair kit from his shoulder and set it on the dock stones. He opened the case and counted the pressure gauges inside — four of them, each one calibrated to different altitude ranges. The old engineer had taught him that redundancy kept you alive above the cloud line. The ship listed for the position sat thirty yards away, copper hull patched in three places. Crystalline vents along its engine housing flickered with unstable light. Ember could see the problem from here — whoever had rigged the compression system didn't understand how steam behaved at altitude. The vents were bleeding pressure because the feed lines were installed backwards. It was the kind of mistake that killed engineers on their second day above ten thousand feet. Ember closed his kit and walked toward the gangplank. Half the fleet thought he'd die trying for this position. The other half were watching to see if they were right. He didn't care which group was larger. The chief engineer seat meant access to the decision table, and access meant he could build what needed building. He stepped onto the deck and felt the ship list slightly under his weight. The listing was still open because no one else knew how to fix what was broken. That made the math simple enough.