42: Deva
Deva
Deva lay on her back, working on the undercarriage of the Nyx. The metal still had that hot smell, residue of pressure from flight. There were streaks running fore to aft, scratches from low-level flying over the forest.
Hence the need for constant maintenance. Add to that salt corrosion from the island atmosphere—worse if it infiltrated through into cabling—and the dodgy entrance to this place, and it was a wonder these birds were still serviceable.
“How’s it looking?” Wrench called. Not his real name, but what everyone called him.
She focused on the cabling under the panel, but didn’t touch it. “Couple of exposed spots, but the whole sheath looks fractured. Reckon it’s been badly resined at some point.”
“Yeah. Don’t always get the proper stuff out here. What’s the
