MYLO
The rig loomsover the black sand of Bethells Beach, where hills crumble into the ocean, emerald forest giving way to coppery red. The warm afternoon sun hangs a golden haze over everything, lending the lapping waves an otherworldly hush.
That endless azure flickers behind my eyes as ghostly heat slides along my skin.
I chalk it up to a trick of the light.
The rig itself is built around a crane. Bundles of wires carry electricity and signals up the boom, which has been fitted with a massive hydraulic robotic arm. The fuselage of a futuristic plane hangs from the end, woven with tracks to support the camera through its one impossible shot.
Christine, Andy, and I stand at the base of the crane, watching as the fuselage sweeps through programmed movements. It looks like it’s really flying, albeit in slow motion: it twists, rocks, and banks through the air, cutting an arc outover the water before circling over the forest. Orange flags mark the clearing where the airbag will be set up for my fall.
One of the riggers, a middle-aged local who’s on-loan from a special effects studio nearby, walks us through.
“It’s all driven by computer. We’ve done a lot of pre-vis with the camera angles to find where we can cheat it to make it seem like it’s moving faster than it is. It’ll follow the exact same path each time, which means when we do our low run today, it’ll be the exact same as our high run tomorrow.”
As he talks, my eyes follow the crane’s braces, which extend out onto the sand. No wonder the shooting window is tight; the tides will totally change the sand density, and they’re probably adjusting and recalibrating the rig every morning. A giant crane isn’t exactly something you want to leave propped up next to the ocean for too long, even if the producers were willing to pay the permits for longer, which I’m sure they aren’t.
“That’s one hell of a thrill ride,” Christine chimes.
We’re all out of wardrobe and in casual clothes, and she shows off the muscles of her arms and legs—and her cold tolerance—in a matching tank-top and running shorts from a luxury athleisure brand. I don’t know how she expects us to think she’s down-to-earth when her outfit probably cost as much as my car. It’s a stark contrast to my faded sweatshirt and basketball shorts, which sport a few holes and singe marks from previous stunt practice.
Thanks to my chat with Haley, I’m newly committed to not letting her get to me. Yeah, she’s always spouting bravado—probably what she does when she’s nervous. It’s not my problem either way. I’m just here to do my job and hopefully enjoy myself. On the coolest goddamn rig I’ve ever seen.
My better mood is probably mostly enabled by the genuine sea breeze, which absorbs and scatters her scent.
It should do the same to mine, but I still take a few puffs from my vape to be safe.
“We can still adjust the camera tracking?” Andy asks.
“Yeah, all good. Pauli here’s a whiz.” He gestures at the technician in the cab of the crane, supervising all the computer outputs. “Any changes you need today, we can square up tonight. Tweaks tomorrow will be harder though, so try to get it close, eh?”
Andy rubs his chin in thought, then looks to me and Christine. “Ready to get in there?”
Pauli hits a button on the crane, and the space-plane fuselage lowers toward us.
“Can we see the camera track on the low run?” I ask. “I’m thinking working to the camera might actually make this easier, versus the other way around. Melinoë’s more mobile anyway, so if I just give Christine enough to react to… I should be able to keep both of us in frame.”
Andy nods. “Let’s run it through once or twice. I’ll see how it’s looking for the camera. Should be a good starting point.”
When the fuselage comes to a stop in front of us, I vault through the open doorway to check it out. It’s a cockpit and a small cargo area, something like an oversized helicopter. The instrument panels are utterly convincing, with digital readouts and indicator lights flashing alongside hundreds of switches and buttons. Cargo netting lines the walls, and bundles of futuristic-looking cables help hide the track for the camera.
The track is essentially a rigid pipe, and it sweeps out of the door and onto the outside of the fuselage to get a view of the wings.
The rig is nice and stable underfoot, meaning I can safely throw my weight around without jostling the camera. Whether Christine can is yet to be seen, but the fuselage will be a bit tight for her to maneuver in, anyway.
The lead rigger pops his head in. “How’s it lookin’?”
“Sick as hell, man. Or, uh… sweet as, cuz?”
The rigger laughs and slaps the floor of the fuselage. “Good as gold, mate. Wanna see ‘er in action?”
“Absolutely.”
I hop back out, and Pauli steers it around to where it’ll start.
I can better appreciate the precise angles now that it’s closer. It even shudders periodically to simulate turbulence. The camera slides around it in a fluid motion, spinning on its track to capture a variety of angles as it glides in and out of the plane. My mind runs through options, already mapping out the potential fight. I’m sure Andy’s doing the same.
As the fuselage reaches the end of its path and swings around to reset, I bite my thumb as I think. “It’s really just the first transition out onto the wing that I’m struggling with. Getting tossed out makes sense, but I just need something to hang onto until the fuselage levels out again…”
