The air, a metallic cocktail of iron, coal dust, and hissing steam, hung thick over Kylia's industrial district. Today, however, the usual clang and grind was seasoned with anxious shouts and a sprinkling of cheers. All eyes were fixed on a ramshackle contraption precariously perched on the edge of a ridge that overlooked the area.
It was a German Lilienthal glider design, lovingly but clumsily constructed from salvaged sheet metal, bolted together with hardened steel scavenged from a defunct ore refinery. The wings, stretched taut with canvas manufactured by a Kylian textile mill, shimmered slightly in the weak sunlight that managed to penetrate the smog.
Kylia, ever at the forefront of Kylian innovation, watched from a safe distance atop the ridge. Her face, usually a mask of regal composure, was etched with a mixture of excitement and apprehension. The Kingdoms manufacturing technology would soon be mature enough for oil powered mechanization, which would further replace human labor with machines, increasing production. This includes tractors, cars, trucks and planes.
The chosen pilot, Kylia's dear friend Stalevi, adjusted his goggles with a nervous grin. He took a deep breath, gripped the flimsy-looking control bar, and with a final push from a few eager volunteers, the glider lurched forward, teetering on the edge before finally launching into the smoke-filled sky.
For a moment, there was stunned silence. Then, a collective gasp.
The glider, instead of gracefully soaring, plummeted. Not uncontrollably, but with a startlingly steep glide angle. Stalevi fought to keep it level, his muscles straining as he wrestled with the crude controls. He managed to steer away from the stone refinery stacks and the steam engine works, but it was clear he was losing altitude rapidly.
Kylia's brow furrowed. She hadn't expected that. She'd poured over Lilienthal's diagrams and adjusted for the local wind conditions. But something was fundamentally off.
Stalevi made a surprisingly smooth landing in a relatively clear patch of slag, kicking up a cloud of dust. He emerged unscathed, if a little shaken, and the cheers erupted again, laced with relief this time.
But Kylia wasn't cheering. She was already pacing, her mind racing. She needed data. She needed to understand why their meticulously crafted glider had performed so… poorly.
"Get me a stone," she barked, her voice cutting through the celebratory din. A confused worker quickly obliged, handing her a fist-sized chunk of rock.
"Meter stick!" she yelled next, holding out her hands. Another worker, this one understanding her urgency, sprinted back to the workshop and returned with a battered meter stick.
Kylia moved back to the edge of the ridge. She held the rock aloft, then released it, simultaneously clicking a stopwatch she kept pinned to her blue coat. Her gaze was laser-focused, tracking the stone's descent.
Using a series of quick calculations scribbled in the dirt with a lump of coal, she compared the time it took the rock to fall a meter on Hylia with her memories of what that time should be on Earth.
Kylia's eyes widened, the grime of the industrial district momentarily forgotten. The numbers swam before her, coalescing into a shocking, undeniable truth. Hylia's gravity… It was drastically different.
"The rock landed in 0.185 seconds, or about 5.405 meters per second at 1-meter, which means..." She muttered, scribbling furiously. "The acceleration due to gravity here... is 28.68 meters per second squared! Earth is only 9.8! Hylia's gravity is… 2.87 times stronger!"
A hush fell over the remaining onlookers. They didn't understand the complex calculations, but they recognized the dramatic shift in Kylia's demeanor. The apprehension had been replaced by a white-hot intensity, a scientist on the verge of a paradigm shift.
Another thought struck her, sharp and immediate. "The glider… it should have fallen like a stone! Why didn't it?"
She flew towards the recovered glider, already running her hands along the canvas wings, inspecting the riveted seams, searching for a clue, an anomaly. Then, in the almost imperceptible breeze that barely stirred the smog, she noticed how the canvas seemed to fill out, to fight the pull of gravity.
"I'm using Earth-based models," she thought, the realization hitting her like a physical blow. "I assumed Earth-normal conditions. But…"
Kylia's fingers traced the canvas, feeling the subtle tautness, the almost imperceptible pressure against her palm. It wasn't just the gravity; there was something else, something pushing back against the pull. She glanced up at the hazy sky, the thick smog hanging heavy in the air.
"The air…" she breathed, her mind racing. The glider hadn't plummeted because something was keeping it afloat, fighting against the crushing gravity. Something other than just normal aerodynamic lift.
She remembered the engineering textbooks she had devoured, the equations she had wrestled with, the principles she had so confidently applied. All predicated on the assumption of Earth-normal conditions.
"Get me a barometer!" she commanded, her voice tight with revelation. "And a thermometer!"
The same worker who had retrieved the meter stick, his face now etched with bewildered anticipation, darted off again. He returned moments later, his hands trembling as he presented the instruments to Kylia.
She quickly calibrated the barometer, compensating for the elevation and the known inaccuracies of the instrument. The reading sent a jolt through her. Her breath caught in her throat.
"2.87 bar," she whispered, the numbers echoing in her mind. "The atmospheric pressure… it's 2.87 times higher than Earth's!"
It all clicked into place. The denser atmosphere, pushing against the wings with almost three times the force of Earth's air, had compensated for the increased gravity. It was a delicate, almost miraculous balance, one that had allowed Stalevi's flight, however short and unsteady, to even occur.
In order for Kylian planes to properly fly, they would need 2.87 times more thrust than on earth. The power-to-weight ratio of a piston engine is not sufficient to overcome the increased drag and weight in a double gravity environment. Kylian would need to research jet engines for flight, however the Kingdom manufacturing capability is not yet at that level.
A wave of dizziness washed over her. 620 million lives, 620 million lifetimes of knowledge, experience, and innovation, all housed within her soul, and she had nearly missed something so fundamental. She had been so focused on replicating Earth technology that she had failed to account for the unique conditions of the Planet Hylia.
Kylia swayed, catching herself on the glider's canvas wing. The implications of her discovery cascaded over her, each realization a fresh wave threatening to overwhelm her. She had been so close, so narrowly missed a catastrophic oversight.
She inferred this is the reason why the Rito and Drakons can use updrafts, or air currents, to take flight, using their wings to glide even though their wings are a bit small compared to earth's airplane wings. The Rito, with their avian physiology, and the Drakons, with their dragon-like traits, had evolved over millennia to exploit the unique conditions of Hylia. Their smaller wing surface was compensated for by the denser atmosphere and the powerful updrafts it created. Their bodies were perfectly adapted to Hylia's heavier gravity and thicker air.
"It's why the Rito can soar on seemingly insignificant wings," she murmured, her voice barely audible. "It's why the Drakons can ride the thermals with such grace. The updrafts... they're amplified by the pressure."
"And because of higher gravity..." she breathed, realization dawning. "The native species... they must be stronger than anything on Earth."
Her mind raced, a whirlwind of scientific understanding and cultural observation. "The Gerudos, the Zora, the Gorons... their physical prowess isn't just a matter of training or genetics. It's a necessity! Their bodies are forged by this world, strengthened by its gravity."
A sudden image flashed in her mind – Link, the legendary hero from Earth's Breath of the Wild video game, deflecting a Lynel's savage attack with a shield. A Lynel, a creature of immense power and ferocity, capable of tearing through wood and stone on another planet. Yet, Link, while possibly strengthened by the goddess, could easily parry its blows with a flick of a wrist.
While this insight was indeed useful, the problem of flight still remained: how to get up there. Planes, powered by internal combustion engines and reliant on Earth-based aerodynamic principles, were still years away. The internal combustion engines would need to be far more powerful compared to what they are on earth in order to fly reliably.
But more powerful piston engines are heavier, weighing the aircraft down, requiring more thrust. The thrust to weight ratio of a piston engine is too small for flight on Planet Hylia, only a jet engine has enough thrust to weight ratio to sustain proper flight. But Kylia's industrial capabilities weren't even remotely close to the technological expertise required to manufacture the tools to make those engines.
"Airships," she murmured, the word almost tasting of soot and ozone. "Airships are possible."
On Earth, airships were relics of a bygone era, replaced by planes, hampered by the scarcity and expense of helium and the dangerous flammability of hydrogen. Here on Hylia, without planes, airships would become the primary means of air transport. The denser atmosphere meant that the lift generated by a given volume of gas would be significantly greater to counteract the greater gravity. The same principles of Archimedes still applied, generating a carrying capacity similar to earth's.
traversing the vast Kingdom of Kylia wouldn't be a grueling, years-long odyssey undertaken by caravans battling treacherous terrain and hostile creatures. It would be a matter of weeks, perhaps even days, aloft in the sky, soaring over the mountain ranges and across the sweeping plains.
The implications were staggering. For the military, the benefits were immeasurable. Equipping the Blue Army with a fleet of airships would grant them unparalleled mobility. They could reinforce distant outposts, respond to border skirmishes, and project power across the entire Hylian continent in a fraction of the time. Gone would be the agonizing delays, the supply lines stretched thin and vulnerable.
Even beyond military applications, the potential was breathtaking. The scattered cities of Kylia, often isolated and disconnected, could be temporarily bridged by airship routes. Airships could become the vital link, holding the kingdom together while proper ground infrastructure was painstakingly constructed, year by slow year.
Kylia turned her attention towards Stalevi, wiping some of the grime from the glider's wooden frame. "A bit… steeper than anticipated, wouldn't you say?"
Stalevi chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. "Steeper? Your Majesty, that thing was trying to burrow into the earth! I thought I was going to end up teething on gravel." He gestured to the glider. "This… this is a proof of concept at best. A very, very aggressive concept."
Later, after the crowd had dispersed and the wreckage of her first – and decidedly unsuccessful – foray into flight engineering had been hauled away, Kylia found Stalevi scrubbing grease from his hands in a washhouse. He looked wearier than she expected.
"You have a knack for understatement, Stalevi," she said, stepping into the dim, echoing space.
He looked up, startled, then bowed his head. "Your Majesty. I apologize if my earlier... levity offended you."
"Offended? No. Intrigued, perhaps. You managed to land that thing in one piece, which speaks to a certain skill with machinery. And a certain amount of bravery."
Stalevi dried his hands on a rough towel. "Necessity is the mother of invention, Your Majesty. Or in this case, the mother of desperate improvisation."
Kylia walked over to the wash basin and peered intently into his eyes. "And what if I told you I wasn't ready to give up on the sky just yet?"
Stalevi raised an eyebrow. "Another glider, Your Majesty? I would advise against it. Perhaps focusing on perfecting the steam engine further would be a more prudent allocation of resources."
"No," Kylia said, her voice low and firm. "Not just a glider. I have... other ideas."
She drew a diagram from her coat pocket, carefully unfolding it on a nearby table. It showed a vessel unlike anything Stalevi had ever seen. A vast, cigar-shaped hull, suspended beneath a massive, billowing fabric envelope. On either side, intricate wings rotated by complex clockwork mechanisms.
Stalevi's breath caught in his throat. He ran a calloused finger over the sketch. "What... what is this?"
"An airship," Kylia said, her eyes gleaming with a visionary fire. "A vessel capable of sustained flight, independent of the wind. A machine to traverse the skies and connect our scattered settlements as never before."
Stalevi stared at her, then back at the drawing. His mind, typically focused on practicalities like ore extraction and efficiency ratios, struggled to grasp the sheer audacity of the concept. "An airship? No one has ever..."
"Exactly," Kylia interrupted. "No one has ever thought of it. But I have. And I believe you and your team, Stalevi, are the only ones capable of bringing this vision to life."
He looked at the detailed drawings, the meticulous calculations scribbled on the margins. He saw more than just a fanciful sketch. He saw a challenge, an opportunity to push the boundaries of engineering beyond anything he had ever imagined. He thought of the young engineers toiling in his workshops, hungry for innovation, stifled by the monotony of routine.
"Your Majesty," he said slowly, his voice laced with a newfound respect. "This is... ambitious. Extravagantly so. But if such a thing were possible... it would change everything."
Kylia smiled, a genuine, hopeful smile that lit up her face. "Then let us make it possible, Stalevi. Let us show them what we can achieve. Let us build the first airship the world has ever known."
Stalevi met her gaze, his own eyes now reflecting a similar spark of excitement. The failure of the glider suddenly felt insignificant. This was something far grander, far more revolutionary.
"Very well, Your Majesty," he said, extending his hand. "We accept the challenge."
"Now let's build an airship!"