You hear it before you see it: a hum so deep it moves the water.
It had been the hottest September anyone remembered, and then it rained, once, and the flats filled. By evening the dust came off the hills and turned everything orange: the sky, the water, the air in your mouth. The lifter hung above the flood, as wide as a town and as still as a ceiling. Its rim glowed amber. You couldn't see the far side.
I was the relief pilot, which meant I slept aboard while the crew went into Wendover. My bunk was the lit window near the edge. Before turning in, I waded out beneath it, ankle-deep, just to stand there. The water was warm. The underside of the craft hung over me like weather.
Up in the cabin, the heat of the day let go slowly. The hull ticked as it cooled. Dust hissed softly against the glass. The engines held the whole thing in the air with one long, even note that never rose and never fell.
I fell asleep with my hand on the wall, feeling it hum. When I woke, the dust was gone, we were still floating, and the mirror was blue.
— the relief pilot, September 2082