The Sky Is Falling.

Brother Jurel of the Omnian Church was having a bad day. This was not an unusual occurrence; most of his days were bad. In fact, all of his days were verging on the truly atrocious. But he’d grown used to it over the years. It was the constant reality of arcane theological debates turning into inquisitions. That and the fact that the inquisitions were often conducted with blunt instruments. And the whole business was further complicated by the ever-present possibility that the Great God Om would change His mind about something crucial. Like gravity for example. Or rain. Or day turning to night.

Unfortunately, today seemed to be shaping up to be worse than usual.

Jurel stood atop the Great Temple of Om, staring at the heavens. He often did this. People thought he was knowledgeable on the subject of the heavens. In fact, he’d found it to be a way of getting a bit of peace and quiet that was well worth the neck-ache it bought on. Today though, the sky, which was generally regarded as the sort of thing that stayed put, was displaying a glowing, fiery object plummeting down towards the Disc. In Jurel’s experience, this was very likely not to be a ‘good thing.’

Jurel did what any good priest would do. He ran inside the temple and biffed the Holy Gong of Om. He bonged it twice, mainly because he liked the sound, and then announced to the gathered acolytes:

“The End is upon us! The Great God Om has finally had enough!”

There was a pause, then one of the younger priests, Brother Seb, said hesitantly, “Are we sure it’s Om’s doing?”

Jurel gave him a withering look usually reserved for heretics about to be enlightened by a sudden onslaught of heavy stones about the bonce. “Do you think it’s some other god? Look at it! Fire, speed, and almost definitely smite-shaped.”

Brother Seb peered outside. “Well… up to a point, I suppose. To me, It’s sort of… wibbly.”

Jurel folded his arms. “Om moves in mysterious ways.”

They watched the falling object in silence.

“Maybe we should pray?” Seb suggested.

“Yes,” Jurel agreed with a resigned sigh, “because that always works.” In his heart of holy hearts though, he was fairly certain that even a mega-super-uber-quota of holy blithering wouldn’t stop what was coming.

Meanwhile, Doctor Po of the Imperial Celestial Bureau, a serious man who prided himself on knowing more about the sky than anyone else in the Agatean Empire was also studying the sky. Doctor Po’s pre-eminence in all things sky was partly because he was very intelligent and had studied celestial movements for many years, but mostly because he had, quite simply, outlived all his competitors.

Astrology was a dangerous profession in the Forbidden City. If an emperor’s horoscope predicted doom, the doom often first visited the astrologer in question. Hence Doctor Po’s longevity - him being firmly of the view that we can all do without too much doom spoiling a good breakfast.

But right now, the heavens were offering him a very large side order of ‘you are in trouble, prepare for some imminent doom’.

“Fascinating,” Po murmured, stroking his long beard as he watched the bright, flaming object streaking downwards. It was moving far too erratically to be a natural star.

His assistant, Quick-Number-Two, looked up nervously. “What is it, Oh great Master of the skies?”

Po considered lying, but he was old and could no longer be bothered with such things. “A catastrophe, I should think.”

Quick-Number-Two nodded, eyes wide. “Master, should we tell the Emperor?”

Po winced. The Emperor was not known for his patience. “Perhaps we might wait a little while and see if it hits anything first. With any luck, if it hits anything at all, it might hit the Imperial Palace, saving us the trouble of upsetting His Magnificence.”

He adjusted his telescope, tracking the erratic path of the object. It was falling, yes, but not directly. It seemed to be wibbling about a fairish bit, as if it might be correcting its course.

As though someone was steering it.

Po narrowed his eyes. “Interesting.”

Leonard of Quirm was having so much fun. Many, if not most people would have described plummeting through the sky in a rapidly disintegrating flying machine as a bit of a disaster, but Leonard, who, in fairness, was remarkably bonkers, saw it as a fascinating experiment well up in the ‘fun’ end of the spectrum.

“Well, that could have gone better, I suppose” he muttered as he furiously wrestled the atrociously badly designed controls to the equally imperfect steering fins. Leonard, as often before, had been so absolutely sure that this design would work. This time.

The Luggage, Leonard’s ubiquitous fellow traveller, currently strapped down to a platform on the side of the flying machine as best as one could strap a malevolent, self-propelled travel case, rattled ominously. The Luggage did not enjoy flying. It was even more averse to crashing.

“Now, now, now” Leonard said cheerfully, “there’s really no need to panic.”

The Luggage snapped its lid open and shut in a way that suggested it very much disagreed.

Far below, Leonard could see the continent rushing up to meet him at an alarming speed. ‘Ah,’ he thought, ‘probably about time to deploy the emergency parachutes.

He pulled several levers. And pushed a large black and yellow striped button. He tapped on the glass of a dial.

Nothing happened. Apart from continued, exuberant plummeting. There were certainly no parachutes to be seen.

Leonard frowned. “Hmm.”

The Luggage made a sound like a coffin lid being nailed shut.

“Right,” Leonard said, rummaging for his backup plan. He pulled a lever marked DO NOT PULL.

The wings exploded off in opposite directions.

The descent continued, if anything, slightly faster than before.

Leonard considered his options.

1.	Impact at high speed.

2.	Impact, regardless of speed.

3.	Miracle.

Miracles, traditionally, and in Leonard’s experience, tended towards the unreliable. Impacts were, by and large, much less unreliable. Leonard decided to aim his hurtling craft towards a large body of water. At least it might be a less resilient surface than, say, a temple on a mountain. Or an Imperial Palace.

He adjusted the controls one last time as the surface of the sea rushed up to meet him. The frantic adjustments had no appreciable effect.

In Omnia, Brother Jurel and several of the less prayer-obsessed priests watched the fireball vanish over the horizon. After some small amount of time, when no obvious smiting seemed to have occurred, Jurel coughed and said, “Ah. Just as I suspected, a test of faith. We passed, of course. Well done on the praying malarkey everyone.” The priests, as a single force, shuffled off for a lunch of lentil porridge.

In the Agatean Empire, Doctor Po nodded thoughtfully. “I believe we have just witnessed history.”

His assistant, Quick-Number-Two, said “Should we tell the Emperor?”

“Emperors,” said Doctor Po, smiling benevolently at his assistant, “are seldom concerned by history, no matter how exciting. Emperors are best left to be what they were put here to be. That is the purpose of Concubine-Numbers-One, through Twenty-Seven.

His assistant, Quick-Number-Two, was also uninterested in history, although never admitted as much. Quick-Number-Two felt that he could become interested in concubines, if he were ever given the opportunity.

Whilst out at sea, Leonard of Quirm surfaced, clinging to a piece of wreckage. He beamed, wetly.

“Well, that was an excellent, in fact, first class, test flight!”

The Luggage bobbed next to him, somehow, it managed to shoot him a look of pure, dripping malice. Clearly it was wondering how it ever got mixed up with this Quirmian lunatic.

Leonard patted it affectionately, almost drowning as he let go his piece of wreckage to do so. “Don’t worry Luggage. Better landing next time.”

The Luggage sank beneath the waves with a gurgle that could only be interpreted as ‘Next time??’