_*]:min-w-0 !gap-3.5" style="border:0px solid">Morning in New Albion arrived with factory whistles and the distant gonging of the Grand Clock Tower. Mia woke early, the mysterious journal entry still on her mind: "The Imperial Academy of Advanced Sciences holds the key."

  Sunlight filtered through the industrial haze outside her window as she dressed in Calliope's practical attire—a high-colred blouse, fitted vest with numerous pockets, and a divided skirt that allowed freedom of movement. Practical yet stylish, with the requisite brass goggles hanging around her neck.

  Over breakfast, she casually broached the subject. "Father, what do you know about the Imperial Academy of Advanced Sciences?"

  Barnabas nearly choked on his tea. "Why in the Emperor's name are you asking about that pce?"

  "Just curious. They've been making remarkable advances in automation. I was thinking their research might help with our pressure regution issues."

  Her father studied her with narrowed eyes. "The Academy is no pce for independent mechanics, Calliope. Their innovations may be impressive, but they come at a cost. They answer only to the Emperor, and their work primarily serves the military." He sighed, setting down his cup. "Though I can't deny they attract the most brilliant minds in the Empire."

  "Have you ever been inside?"

  "Once, years ago. Your mother and I were invited to present our hydraulic stabilizer design." His expression darkened. "They took our work and offered us pittance. When we refused, they bcklisted us from government contracts."

  This expined Calliope's memories of financial struggles despite her father's exceptional talent.

  "Is there any way to visit? Just to observe their methods?"

  Barnabas frowned. "They host a public exhibition once a month to dispy their 'contributions to Imperial glory.' Next one's tomorrow, actually." He eyed her suspiciously. "This sudden interest wouldn't have anything to do with that recruitment drive, would it? Because if you're thinking of applying—"

  "Nothing like that," Mia assured him. "I just want to see what they're working on."

  Before he could probe further, the shop bell rang. Business had begun for the day.

  The morning passed in a flurry of repairs and customer interactions. Mia found herself enjoying the precise work, her hands confident with tools as she repced gears and adjusted mechanisms. Calliope's technical knowledge felt like her own now, integrated seamlessly into her consciousness.

  During a lull, she studied a map of New Albion pinned to the workshop wall. The Imperial Academy occupied a massive domed complex in the High Crown district, the most elevated and exclusive part of the city. For someone from Copperton to visit would require crossing multiple social boundaries—no small feat in this stratified society.

  A messenger arrived at midday, delivering an ornate envelope sealed with purple wax. Barnabas opened it with clear apprehension, then let out a low whistle.

  "It's from Lord Pembrooke," he expined, showing her the letter. "He's commissioning us to repair his family's automaton butler before their annual ga." He grinned. "This could put us back on the map, Calliope! Proper aristocracy taking notice of Winters' Mechanical Solutions!"

  Mia scanned the letter, noting the address: Pembrooke Manor, located just blocks from the Academy. "When is the ga?"

  "Week after next." Barnabas scratched his beard. "But if we're to have any hope of figuring out what's wrong with their automaton, we need to see it immediately."

  "I could go," Mia offered quickly. "You've got Mr. Hargrove's pressure valves to finish by tomorrow."

  Her father hesitated, then nodded. "Take the good tools and dress properly. And remember, they'll expect deference—doesn't matter how clever you are."

  An hour ter, Mia boarded one of the vertical steam trams that connected the city's levels. As the carriage ascended, she watched New Albion transform from the industrial grime of lower districts to the manicured elegance of High Crown.

  The air itself seemed different here—cleaner, lightly scented with mechanical air purifiers. Streets were wider, buildings more ornate, and mechanical servants accompanied wealthy citizens. Even the steam carriages were more refined, with polished brass and elegant detailing.

  Pembrooke Manor stood on a tree-lined avenue, its fa?ade an impressive combination of cssical architecture and modern engineering. Automated fountains sent water dancing in complex patterns, and mechanical birds chirped from perfectly trimmed hedges.

  Mia was shown in by a human butler who regarded her with barely concealed disdain, directed through servants' corridors to avoid contaminating the main rooms with her lower-css presence. In a back chamber, she found the malfunctioning automaton butler—an expensive, humanoid machine currently frozen in a half-bow.

  She worked methodically, identifying a series of issues in its central processing unit. As her tools maniputed the delicate components, she explored Calliope's memories of simir repairs. The work was intricate but satisfying.

  "You're quite skilled," observed a cultured voice from the doorway.

  Mia looked up to find a tall, distinguished man watching her. His dark hair was streaked with silver at the temples, and he wore an impeccably tailored suit with the subtle insignia of the Imperial Academy on his pel.

  "Professor Nathaniel Holloway," he introduced himself. "I happened to be calling on Lord Pembrooke when the butler mentioned a young mechanic was working wonders with Reginald." He nodded toward the automaton.

  "Calliope Winters, sir," she replied, rising to curtsy as protocol demanded. "Just addressing a simple calibration issue."

  "Simple?" His eyebrow arched. "That's a Thornton Mark IV neural network. Most Academy graduates couldn't diagnose it so quickly."

  Mia ducked her head modestly, though her mind raced. This was an opportunity. "My father taught me well."

  "Winters... Barnabas Winters' daughter?" Recognition flickered in his eyes. "Your parents designed the hydraulic stabilization system that revolutionized airship navigation."

  "My father will be pleased you remembered."

  Holloway circled the automaton, examining her work. "This level of talent shouldn't be wasted in a Copperton repair shop." He extracted a card from his pocket. "The Academy is always looking for exceptional minds. Tomorrow's exhibition includes an invitation-only presentation for potential recruits. You should attend."

  Mia took the card, her hands steady despite her racing heart. "Thank you, Professor. That's most generous."

  "Not generosity, Ms. Winters. Self-interest. The Empire needs innovation to stay ahead of Prussovia." He gnced at his pocket watch. "I've another appointment, but bring that card tomorrow at two o'clock. Tell the guards Professor Holloway invited you personally."

  After he departed, Mia finished the repairs in a daze. The invitation was exactly what she needed—access to the Academy without arousing suspicion. But why had it come so easily? In her experience, nothing valuable ever came without a price.

  On her return journey, she studied Professor Holloway's card. Embossed in silver against bck cardstock was the Academy's symbol: a gear containing a human eye. Below it, handwritten in elegant script: "The future belongs to those who create it."

  Back at the workshop, she recounted the encounter to her father, whose initial excitement about the Pembrooke commission quickly soured when she mentioned Holloway.

  "The Holloway Targeting System," he muttered. "His inventions have killed thousands in the colonial wars. Brilliant man, but no conscience."

  "He invited me to the recruitment presentation at tomorrow's exhibition," Mia said.

  Barnabas smmed his tools down. "Absolutely not! The Academy strips away everything—your independence, your moral compass, eventually your name. You'd become just another cog in the Imperial machine."

  "I'm not pnning to join," she assured him. "But attending the exhibition would give us insight into their test technologies. Knowledge we could use to improve our own designs."

  His resistance continued through dinner, but Mia's gentle persistence eventually wore him down. "Fine," he conceded. "But promise me you'll just observe. No signing anything, no agreeing to further meetings."

  "I promise," she said, the weight of her true mission heavy in her heart.

  Late that night, Mia returned to the mysterious journal. Flipping through its pages, she searched for more hidden messages. Near the beginning, she found a sketch of the Academy's domed structure with a subtle annotation in that same familiar handwriting: "Third floor, eastern wing. The Tempus Project."

  Tomorrow, she would enter the Academy—not just as an observer, but as a seeker. Somewhere in that imposing building might be the soul she had crossed worlds to find.