Journeys

Hi all,

This is part of the novel I have been working on with a friend. Said friend does not have a YWS account, but we would like some impartial reviews, as we've only shown it to friends and family thus far, and so I said I would post I here. Some parts are incomplete (chapter 5, for example), but for the most part, it is intact. I have been writing the chapters with Quinn, and my friend has been writing for Morris, although there has been some crossover. Thanks for reading!

 

Turning and turning in the widening gyre

 The falcon cannot hear the falconer;

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,

 The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere

The ceremony of innocence is drowned;

The best lack all conviction, while the worst

Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;

Surely the Second Coming is at hand.

 The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out

 When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi

Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;

A shape with lion body and the head of a man,

 A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,

Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it

Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds. 

The darkness drops again but now I know

That twenty centuries of stony sleep

 Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,

 And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,

 Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born? 

-William Butler Yeats

 

The Fall of Man

 

There was a time when this world had structure, when society had rules, and they were obeyed, because humanity respected itself. But not now. That ended three hundred years ago, in the middle of the twenty-first century. A mere decade before, things had been looking up for the planet, and for society. For the first time in centuries, all war had ceased, and a new source of renewable energy, helium fusion, had been discovered and perfected. Then, the economic recession that had been ongoing for the past thirty years reached its lowest point and society collapsed. The Righteous Chaos began as the peoples of the world rose up against their governments and attempted to take back the power that they perceived had been taken from them and which had destroyed their lives. Rebels gathered in every nation, on every continent. Armies battled mobs, and lost, but not before ravaging the land. War spread across the world, leveling cities and destroying everything in its path. Governments and individuals alike hoarded the precious fusion pods, which had been used to power the world. During these years of all-out war, the last of the Earth's fossil fuel reserves were burnt in astonishing amounts, and the climate changed drastically, also helped along by small-scale nuclear assaults in the East. The population, which had been pushing 9 billion before the Righteous Chaos, was decimated, dropping to below 1 billion. When the fighting stopped, the world was burnt, desolate, and completely terrifying.

 

The majority of the world became wasteland, barren and uninhabited. Out of the ruins, the remnants of humanity gathered around the bones of former power, the cities of the past. Slowly, city-states grew up among the destruction. They based themselves around stashes of hoarded fusion pods, that near-inexhaustible source of energy, and became prosperous, drawing in the remains of the human populations. For a while, it seemed that society was reforming, governments could grow again, and the fighting might end. But the new form of society was brutal, based around those who had energy, and  those people who were not so lucky. To gain access to that precious resource, the majority of the population had to work in servitude of those with power. This division was enforced with brutal efficiency, following an ancient manifesto: those who have wealth and power are destined to rule. Then, the cities began to run out of energy. The fusion pods were burning out, unable to stand up to the over-work that the citizens of the new city-states demanded of them. The materials and knowledge of how to manufacture the pods had been lost during the Righteous Chaos. Knowing that there were more stashes to be had, the cities established areas of frontier in which to “mine” the lost fusion pods.  Frontier towns sprang up in the areas surrounding each city-state, areas of lawlessness rivaling those of any past history. Based in these small municipalities, pod harvesters would set out into the brutal wastelands, now known as the Pierderi, to seek the hidden energy, and fortune. For if one was clever, ruthless, and ambitious, locating a pod stash would be the end of one's troubles forever. 

 

The year is now 290 a.R.C. Of the city-states of Europa, Bragu??e is the most prosperous, located near the border of the Eastern Pierderi. More than twenty frontier towns are under its jurisdiction. In these frontier settlements, there are no classes, and survival is priority. In the city however, the aristocracy rules with an iron fist, rigidly maintaining the difference between rich and poor, nobleman and servant, the Hauteur and the Common. For many, the only hope of finding wealth and security is to venture into the harsh Pierderi and try their luck with pod harvesting. Life in the frontier towns is vicious and brutal. Slavers lurk in the outskirts of the settlements, snatching all those who don't know how to protect themselves. It is not a life for the insecure or naive, but the lure of wealth is overpowering.

 

Welcome to our world.

 

I

Morris

 

My legs feel like lead. I've been walking for days now, my provisions are running low, and I have maybe a day of water left, and virtually no food. A person can go without food for days, but out here in the Pierderi no water means death within a few hours at most. 

 

The sun is high in the sky, maybe four hands from sunset.  I notice I've stopped sweating, so I allow myself a small sip from my canteen, knowing full well I'm not going to make it another day. Still, I trod on.  What did I do to deserve this? I think to myself. Lust holds no grounds for punishment...I stop in my tracks as I see a shadow in the distance. I hit the ground. I know for a fact slavers and god knows what else travel the Pierderi in search of their prey of choice, unsuspecting travelers. I will not be one of them. 

 

I lay prone for a while, the sun beating down upon my back relentlessly, too scared to move, and thinking that whatever I'm hiding from may have already seen me. After about ten minutes I finally muster up the nerve to inch forward, staying low to the ground, too impatient to wait for it to leave. If it is something dangerous, so be it...I would rather die by the hand of a slaver than let this insufferable sun get the better of me. 

As I get closer, the object begins to take shape. It's an overturned wagon.  Thank God, I really doubt I could take a band of slavers on my own… I walk around the wagon, checking for traps or anything hiding inside. I can't see anything so I decide to venture inside. 

 

Underneath the wagon the heat is stifling, but still at least twenty degrees cooler than outside. I decide to rest here for a few hands, as I am almost out of water, and what is a few hours of rest going to hurt? Sitting here in the meager shade provided by the wagon is oddly comfortable. I think of home. Of Braguïe. I begin to realize I am dozing, just as I fall asleep…

 

***

 

“Morris Leroy Ross, you are hereby charged with the crime of Affiliation with one who is under your class, as well as allegedly being intimate with said Affiliate, as deemed by the Council of the City of Braguïe. The Council has found you guilty on both counts and sees fit to punish you for said wrongdoings,” says the Magistrate. 

“You know I hate these formalities, Ross, but it is only proper that I give you the courtesy of ceremony," he says, grimacing at the sheets of parchment spread across his desk, “Well, you have two options at this point, which I would say is quite fortunate, all things considered. You have heard of Jonathan Bertz, I presume?” He says, looking down at me with his squinty piglet eyes. 

 

Of course I've heard of Bertz, you buffoon. Who in the Pierderi hasn't? Bertz is a nearly untouchable “Beacon of Hope” in this dried-up land that we call the Pierderi. Originally a sheriff sent by the Council to bring law to frontier settlements, he is respected by many, and loved by many more, giving him more power than the Council's  reign of terror has ever given them. His principles of equality between all classes, as well as rumors of these frontier towns, where any man can make his fortune, buzz around the city likes flies from a carcass. According to many, Bertz has built his own town, called Aydehn, which he has based around his concepts of equality for all, without classes.

Jonathan Bertz is a damned fool, playing a fool's game. He had a position of power, and instantly made that power forfeit by trying to make everyone “equals,” based on his views. His idea of Integration makes him one of them, a Common. “Yes sir, I have heard of him,” is all I can reply without letting loose some snide remark that is sure to cause me to lose any favor I hold with the Magistrate.

 

“Well, Bertz has been giving the Council problems, and more than just minor trifles. We want him dealt with. Now. But as I said, you have two options. Leave the city and take care of Bertz for the Council. Or be put out of the walls and see how you fare in the Pierderi for the rest of your days.” He pauses for a moment, seemingly thoughtful, “Or we can always execute you, I suppose, if you want to go out with what the few scraps of dignity you have left, after your...lack of self-discipline, shall we say.”

 

“Yes, Magistrate,” I hear myself say, almost not believing the words as they come out. I glance around the courtroom, taking in the ruined grandeur of the architecture. My anxiety sharpens everything to an almost unreal clarity, making me notice all the smaller things in the room; the furrows between the brows of the soldiers standing guard by the door, the shafts of sunlight filtering in through the tiny panes of glass that ring the ceiling, and the inscription above the entrance to the room:

 

Separation creates Equality

27 a.R.C.

 

As I look, I think This may be the last time I ever step foot in this room. The thought sends a cold shiver down my spine. I was once a member of the Council. A junior member, to be sure, but a member, all the same. This thought sets of a mental chain reaction of questions to which I have no answers to, What the hell am I doing? How can I survive outside the city? And what's more, how am I supposed to kill a man?  The questions flow through my mind like water. 

 

Unable to think of anything better to do than stall for time, I ask the Magistrate, “May I have some time to think of my options and what I would like to do, Magistrate?” I hope that in the midst of the night I can think of a solution or compromise to this situation.

 

“No,”says the Magistrate, “You will decide now, or I will decide for you, Ross. Once, you may have commanded respect, but after this, you are no better than a Common in our eyes. I don't care if she meant nothing to you. You are no Common, and you should never lower yourself in the way you did!”

 

I peer around the room, hoping to catch the eye of another, implore them to help me. By the third person I realize it's a futile effort, none of them will help me, of course; they are all cowards and fools and would rather not risk their cushioned lives for my neck, even though I have helped them with their own problems countless times. Cravens, the lot of them…

 

“I have made my choice, sir,” say, finally, “I will travel to Aydehn, take care of  Bertz, and do whatever else the Council needs done there.” I have no other choice. It's kill or be killed at this point, and I know I cannot survive the Pierderi if I am forced out of the gates forever. On top of that, I will not live like a Common for the rest of my days. I would sooner die.

 

“Wise decision,” says the Magistrate, “You will leave at daybreak. We will arrange for supplies and a guide to be sent to your place of residence.” There is a small of bit of shuffling as he and the few Council members that bothered attending make their way out of the chamber. I sit there for a moment in a daze, trying to process all that has happened today. Eventually the Chamber grows cold and I rise to leave.

 

***

 

 As I walk out of the Chamber I hear two of the guards talking. 

“Did he really sleep with a brothel Common?”

“That's what I've heard, but I also heard she wasn't even from a brothel. Word has it that she was a chamber-maid of all things.”

“A whore I could understand, but a maid? That's laughable!”

I feel rage boil within me, hotter than the sun that rules this dead land. I stalk away after a few moments, once I know the guards are gone and head home, at the same time trying to abate my anger.

 

***

 

As I walk through the central district of High-Town, I look about, noticing there are far too many Commons for this area. What is going on? Day of Righteous Chaos isn't for weeks, so why is all of this filth here in High-Town, the center of Hauteur society? They're not even in serving garb! They're all standing around, like they're waiting for something. Just looking at them, with their brow-beaten air and dirty clothing, makes me shudder. They need to learn their place.  As I side-step a man wearing not much more than a few scraps and rags, I shove another out of my way and shout, at no one in particular, “I don't have time for you filthy lay-abouts! Out of my way before I call the Council Guard!” I kick the elderly man, whom I have just shoved to the ground, in the ribs. He groans, and I turn away, ignoring the veiled glares of the Commons all around me. They will do nothing, or they will risk bringing down the wrath of the Council. As I turn the corner, I catch sight of my abode, the sprawling grounds abuzz with life as my servants rush across the yard to do whatever mindless task they have been assigned. Walking faster now, I manage a grim smile, despite what has happened to me today. I will travel across the wastes, dispose of the man who has stirred up such insubordination in the Common populace, and bring back my honor. As I walk toward the gates to head inside, I catch a glimpse of the Common crowd behind me. Some of them are muttering and pointing. Ignoring the sudden insecurity that grips my heart, I open the magnificent front door, and step into my house.

 

II

Quinn

 

I have been walking all day, without rest. The sun beats down, unforgiving and constant. Wearily, I glance down, finding the shallow rut in the dry earth that I'm following, made by a cart pulled by my quarry. A gust of wind blows dust in my face and I cough. Eyes watering, I look up, and a glitter catches my eye: light reflecting off water. I smile. A water-hole. My mind goes to the half-empty water-gourd in my backpack, and I start walking down towards the water, even before I realize that the cart-tracks go the same direction.

 

*****

 

I set down my pack and wipe my gritty hand across my brow, looking at the banks of the small lake. It is clean and is circled by greenery, making it stand out against the dull browns and reds of the surrounding hills of wasteland. I pull out my water-gourd and allow myself a liberal gulp, before filling it again with the clear water of the spring that feeds the lake. As I do this, I glance down at my reflection in the rippling water. A thin face looks back at me, the blue eyes appearing almost black, the short hair plastered to the forehead. I am beautiful, I suppose, not that there are any men around to notice. I don't want anything to do with that kind of thing, anyway. I blow my sweat-soaked hair out of my eyes. During the day, especially now, at the height of summer, the Pierderi is hot. Hellishly so. Normally, I would be holed up in a frontier settlement, or in one of my hideouts, under the hills. But I need some new medical supplies, so I've been tracking a group of nomads for the past week. It was only supposed to take a few days, but they move fast, and even I, who have lived in these wastes for nearly thirteen years, have a hard time catching up with them. I'm close to them now, though. Not even an hour ago, I found the remnants of fire—The ashes were still hot. And I've just found some tracks in the mud around this oasis. No, I'm not far. With any luck, they'll be over the next ridge. Once I find them, I'll try to haggle with them for the med supplies, maybe trade news of nearby slaver activity, although they probably already know anything worth knowing, in regards to that. If they don't want to trade, well, I have my ways. Life's harsh out here, and I'm badly in need of those supplies. 

After tightly stoppering my water-gourd so that it won't drip, I throw my pack back on my shoulders, grunting as it hits a sore spot. Glancing back at the muddy tracks, I determine that the group of nomads probably went around to the other side of the water-hole before heading back out into the Pierderi. I follow their path, circling the lake before ascending the steep hill on the other side. My feet kick up red dust as I trudge upward. In these regions, there is hardly any plant life, just the occasional  thorn bush or tuft of browned grass. As I reach the top, a hot wind blows in my face, mussing the edges of my hair and nearly taking my hat with it. The wind carries the dry scent of the Pierderi, the smell of rocks and dust. And something else, very faint, something not altogether foreign to these wastes, but nonetheless unwelcome. The metallic stench of death. Despite myself, I let out a groan. Here, in the middle of the day, that can mean only one thing. Slavers. I look around, and see a  line of smoke, spiraling up from behind a small hill a several miles to my left.  Just to be sure, I hurry down the other side of the hill, crouching low, just in case they're still there, and have lookouts.  Cautiously, I head towards the source of the smoke. Between the troughs of the hills, there isn't much wind, and I can hear nothing else, either. Sound usually carries well across the Pierderi, so that probably means that the slavers have done their dirty work.

 

It takes me another two hours to reach the smoke, because I'm moving more slowly than I usually do, pausing often, listening for the tell-tale approach of attackers. When I finally reach the hill from behind which the smoke is rising, I gradually work my way up, stopping every few feet and listening. Eventually, I clamber to the summit and look down on a scene of destruction. Several bodies lay scattered around the base of the hill, lying in pools of blood. Most of the nomads' belongings are piled in a burning heap, the source of the smoke. I feel as though hot lead is filling my stomach, and I feel intense anger building inside me, the feeling I always get when I see the work of slavers. They like taking nomads, because, in most settlements, slave-taking is banned, and carries heavy punishment.  But they don't usually kill. If someone resists too much, murder might happen, but that's rare. The goods are more valuable alive. The smell of dried blood is strong, even from up here. Even though these people can't have been dead for more than a few hours, the dry, hot climate has begun its malodorous work. There's another odor too, that of singed hair and meat. Bracing myself, I quickly make my way down to the base of the hill, breathing through my mouth. As I draw nearer, I can hear the buzzing of flies and the crackling of the fire, and tears form in my eyes, not just from the smell. When I reach the bottom, I once again take stock of the horror before me. There are seven bodies, both men and women. The youngest looks to be around seventeen or eighteen, the oldest, somewhere in his seventies. They all have similar wounds, great gaping holes clean through the body, or large gashes across their torsos. I kneel next to one of the women, examining her injuries. There are three, one through her arm, her torso, and her leg. Each wound is almost exactly like the others: round and about the same size as my fist. A ring of burnt flesh encircles each hole. That must be where the singed smell is coming from. Leaning in, holding my shirt up over my face against the foul odor, I look more closely at the injury on the woman's arm. The hole goes all the way through, past skin, muscles, and bone. Whatever did this, it did not tear as a bullet would. It seems to have just obliterated all material in its path. There are no bone shards, or anything else that would indicate what happened. Just a hole in an innocent person's arm.

 

As I'm getting up, I hear a rasping sound coming from my right. My head whips around, searching for the source of the sound. I see nothing except for the dead bodies and the smoking pile of burnt cloth and wood. Then, I see movement out of the corner of my eye. It is the arm of the youngest, moving feebly against the onset of death. I nimbly step over to him, again kneeling beside him. His eyes are half open, but I can tell that he sees me. His hand is weakly clawing at the ground. His injuries are exactly like those of the woman, but he has one on each leg, and another in his shoulder. Tears form in my eyes, but I angrily force them back. The boy opens his mouth, and a gurgling comes out, along with some garbled words.

 

“What?” I ask. My voice is harsh with disuse. I take off my leather jerkin, and, gently, I lift the boy's head, and place the bundle of cloth underneath him. He tries to clear his throat, wheezing painfully. I wince, and smooth back his hair, trying to soothe him. He attempts to speak again, and this time manages to gasp out a sentence.

“Ar-r-re 'ou a-a slaver?” he says. I smile sadly, and shake my head.

 

“No, I'm not. I want to help,” I say quietly, “What happened here?”

His whole body quivers, and I'm afraid that I'm about to lose him, but he speaks again.

“Th-the-ey came ou-ou-out of no-nowhere,” he says, gasping for breath, “Too-ook us b-b-by surprise. Ha-had...gun-ns wi-wi-with en-energy ins-side.”

He has become agitated, scraping at the hard earth with dry, bleeding hands. I grab one, and hold it tight, barely keeping back the sob that is trying to break out of my throat. At the same time, I'm trying to figure out what “guns with energy inside” means.

“I'm going to help you,” I say, tearing a strip of cloth off of my shirt and wrapping it around his shoulder, but even as I do it, I know that it's too late. He's fading fast, and doesn't seem to have heard me.

“Wan-n-na sa-ay go-oo-ood by-ye to Lu-c-cy,” he whispers. I almost break, but I have to keep strong for this poor boy.

“Who's Lucy?” I ask soothingly, wrapping another strip of cloth around his leg, knowing it's useless.

 

“Sh-she's so-o beau-ti-tiful,” he says, and I can barely hear his voice now. The next second, his eyes role back, and his whole body falls limp. And then, the cry that I've been holding back bursts out, and tears stream down my face. I close his eyes, and then I pound at the hard-packed dirt with my fists. This boy was too young to die. I didn't even ask his name, but I know that he loved a girl named Lucy, and that she loved him, and that they could have had a life together. But slavers came instead, taking his life, and now there is nothing, only seven corpses and no justice. Angrily, I wipe the tears from my eyes. When the boy died, I knew that I could not rest until I got to the bottom of this, not until I found the slavers who committed this atrocity, and not until I had made them pay for what they did. And then there are the mysterious “energy guns” that the boy spoke of. If what I have seen today is any evidence, these weapons are far more dangerous than anything I, or anybody else, has ever seen. If something like that becomes mass produced, there will be slaughter like this everywhere, in larger numbers. I can't let that happen.

I get up, dusting off my pants, and pulling my jerkin gently out from under the boy's head. I will make a cairn for the dead, the way all are buried in the Pierderi, and then I will find the nearest settlement and begin tracking down the slavers who killed these people.

 

III

Morris

 

Sunlight streams in the windows, a depressingly cheerful sight for such a grim morning. I throw back the covers of my bed and get to my feet, savoring the cool air of the room that I know will soon be gone. I sit there for a moment, just thinking of nothing important, trying to enjoy the little time I have left here. Who knows when I’ll be able to return home? 

 

As I walk down the grandiose staircase to the ground floor and into the kitchen, I notice how quiet it is downstairs. Too quiet, almost… 

 

I walk a little slower, rounding the corner into the kitchen, noting the obvious lack of servants, the thought a bit disgruntling. The kitchen is empty, there is half-cooked food on the counters. Obviously something happened, but how the hell did I not notice? What's going on?

 

The foyer is empty as well, and my packed bags from the night before are sitting by the door ready to go. I figure there is nothing I can really do, so I walk back to my room to get dressed. 

 

*****

 

After dressing and checking over my bags for the trip I head outside, expecting a luxury cruiser and at least a clean driver. Instead I am met with something much less appealing. A cruiser, hovering barely high enough to clear the scrub-brush of the Pierderi. It looks like it has been rusting around since before the Righteous Chaos (which it probably has, now that I think about it). An overweight Common sitting on it, absent-mindedly scratching the back of his head. Lovely. This must be the Council’s idea of comfort… or their attempt at humor…

Grudgingly, I approach the cruiser and hop in, trying to find some comfort in the  bench seat in the cramped back seat, where, somehow, I am supposed to fit both myself and my bags.

 

“Not bringing your bags eh?” shouts the driver, “not such a bad idea. Hauling that much luggage all the way to Rostyn prolly ain't such a good idea anyways.”

“What are you talking about, you filth? Load my bags, already!” I snap, quickly losing my temper at the man. For some reason, he immediately got under my skin. Even if I’m not one to talk, with my more than abrasive personality, he was still a Common. 

“I’m no slave, sir. Pardon my language, but load your own damn bags!”

I’m so shocked by his frankness and blatant rudeness to someone of a higher social standing that I can’t move for a few seconds. Eventually regaining my senses, I stumble out of the cruiser and load two of my bags myself, still reeling from the way the Common spoke to me.

As I clamber back into the cruiser, I ask the driver, “Do you know what happened to the servants that were here this morning?”

“Not quite sure. All I know is that a bunch of city official-looking guys came in here early this morning and marched ‘em all out, before the sun was even up. I saw ‘em walking down the road on my way here,” he replied, “Looked like they was headed toward the Council holding-chambers or summat like that.”

 “Glad they are finally takin’ something from someone who don’t deserve it,” he mutters, with a hint of smugness in his voice, obviously glad to hear that I had had something taken from me. 

“I see,” I mutter, “Well, let’s get this show on the road, then. It’s a long ride to Rostyn from here.” I know full well I might not even make it that far… This is going to be a long trip, indeed.

 

IV

Quinn

 

Red hills, stretching out into the orange sky. That is all I can see, for miles and miles. Honestly, however, I haven't been noticing. My thoughts have been entirely focused on the dead nomads and what brought about their destruction. Even after living in the Pierderi for all these years, I had never witnessed anything so terrible and the memory of it still makes me shudder. Slavers never kill if they can help it, but, judging by the amount of supplies the nomads had, this group killed about half of them. Seven people dead, just like that. The only conclusion that I can come to is that the nomads either fought back against their attackers, or the attack was designed to kill, for what reason, I have no way of knowing. Either way, the situation is still puzzling. If the nomads tried to fight, and the attackers were indeed slavers, then murder would not have gotten the latter anything. The slavers would have tried to injure, not kill. And if they attacked with the specific purpose of killing—Well, that just makes even less sense. People are violent out here, even in the frontier settlements, but murder is rare. The Pierderi is a savage and dangerous place, and people need to stick together, even if they don't like each other.

 

However, given the nature of the wounds, which look like nothing I have ever seen, an organized assault with murder in mind makes more sense. Whatever made those wounds is new to me, and I've seen almost all the weapons there are to see out here. That almost certainly means that these things are new. And, being new, whoever made them wants to test them.

 

I shake my head. This is all getting very far-fetched. Probably it was just a slaver attack gone terribly wrong. But still, there's a nagging worry in the back of my mind, telling me that I'm missing something.

 

*****

 

As I make it to the crest of a large hill, I look up into the bright, cloudless sky. Judging by the sun, it looks like three or four hours have passed since I left the site of the attack. Shielding my eyes with my hand, I look out across the wastes. The hills are starting to flatten out, turning into a vast salt plain. In the distance, I can see several small trails of smoke. I sigh with relief. It is Rostyn, the settlement that I've been heading towards. It is the largest that I know of, and acts as a sort of port-of-entry to the Pierderi for all those who travel from Braguïe, seeking their fortunes. Fusion-miners. Just thinking about them makes me snort. Many come out here, looking for fusion pod stores, stashes from a past age. Few return to claim the wealth that their discoveries could give them. They are rich Hauteurs from the city-states, and Commons, all of them seeking the precious commodity that powers our world. Well, their world. I'm apart from that, now. Occasionally I'll find some pods, lying about among the hills. I trade them in the settlements, and I can get a lot for even one pod, but other than that, they are useless to me, and always have been. All I need is a pack on my back, enough water to survive, and my blades to ward off slavers and wild dogs alike.

 

Looking out at Rostyn from the top of this hill, I am flooded with memories of years gone by. Of evenings spent discussing heavy topics over even heavier liquor. Of moonlit walks over the dry plain. Of Wallace Teslah. Furiously, I shake my head. That was then, and now...now I have things to do, and I can't let myself be distracted by the delusions of the past. I'd promised myself that I would never think about that time again. It is too painful and completely foolish. I was young and naive, and I know better now.

 

It is growing dark now, and it will take at least another five hours to reach Rostyn, so I decide to camp at the base of this last hill for the night. Traveling among the hills in the dark is one thing, but crossing the plains is dangerous. Wild dogs roam everywhere out there, and there's no shelter for miles, except in the settlements. Here, at least, I have some protection, both from the wind and from prying eyes. Even in this desolation, you never know who, or what, is watching. 

 

I reach the bottom of the ridge, and set my pack down with a groan. There are some boulders strewn around here, and I sit on one, rubbing my aching back. Already, it is getting colder as darkness crawls across the horizon. Shivering, I pull my overcoat out of the pack, along with my box of kindling. I stand up, stretch, put on the coat, and start looking around for something I can use to build a fire. After a few minutes, I find a withered bush that looks half dead. The trunk of the bush is decently-sized, however, and I can use it. I pull out my blade, which is about a foot long, bigger than your average knife, and start hacking at the base of the bush. After a few good chops, it topples, snapping in half with a dry splintering sound. Yes, this will do fine. I pull the felled bush back to my chosen campsite and proceed to cut and snap it into manageable pieces. When I have enough for a mid-sized fire, I pull out some of my kindling, pile on some wood, and light it. The flame takes right away, and I'm grateful. It's really getting cold now.

 

With the fire sending flickering shadows up the slope of the hill, I set about creating a shelter. It's a necessity when you're traveling alone out here. Mostly it consists of shifting boulders into strategic piles so as to conceal my body when I'm sleeping. When this task is done, I pull out my sack of barley, my small tin pot, and my water-gourd. I boil the water and cook the barley, mashing it into a gruel. It's not the most appetizing, but it's full of necessary nutrients, and it's also the only thing I have. I didn't think that I would be out here for as long as I have been when I went after the nomads. I'll need to restock on food when I reach Rostyn tomorrow, along with getting more medical supplies. When I've gotten everything I need, I can focus on figuring out who killed the nomads, and how they did it. If these weapons are as strange and dangerous as they seem to be, and if anyone else has seen them, then it won't be hard to find people talking about them. No, it shouldn't be hard to find people willing to talk, but extracting the truth from the stories that will have undoubtedly sprung up will be something else entirely. That's something I'll have to worry about in the morning, however. Night has completely fallen, and I need to get some rest, so I can be up at first light.

 

Having finished my barley gruel, I quickly wash the pot and spoon with a little water and stow them in my pack again. I pull out my bedroll and unroll it. Lying in the center of it is a small bag. This pouch contains the only fusion pod that I possess. It powers my Remote Action Translator, or RAT for short. Since I travel alone, but I need to sleep, as well, I can't stay up on watch when I rest for the night. The RAT does it for me. It is a small metal box with a set of earbuds and a jack that can take power directly from a fusion pod. It uses short-range sensors to detect large incoming objects, anything from people to wild dogs to dust storms. If anything comes within a hundred feet of where I am, the RAT “translates” this information into beeping, which I then hear through the earbuds.

I plug the RAT in, and insert an earbud into my ear. The RAT chirps to indicate that it's on, then becomes silent, a small green light flashing in the left-hand corner. I settle down in the small ring of boulders that I've made, curling up on my bedroll. I leave my blades on the ground next to me, along with my ancient firelock. That will be of little use, but I'm good with the blades. Not that I'm expecting an attack tonight. It's possible that wild dogs might catch my scent, but the fire is still burning faintly, and that will ward them off for a while, hopefully. Barely has the thought crossed my mind, when I hear a baleful howl, far in the distance. I hardly hear it, as my eyes droop lower and lower. Today has been exhausting, and I need my strength for tomorrow. The howling continues, getting further away, as I drift off into a dreamless sleep.

 

*****

 

Beep

Beep

Beep beep

Beep beep beep

Beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep

 

I start awake, stifling a cry, the RAT still whining in my ear. That sound could mean only one thing. Something is coming, and it's very close already. I breathe in and out slowly, calming my racing heart. I turn off the RAT, and listen intently. Weak, grayish light is filtering in above the boulders, so it's dawn. What or who the hell is wandering around the plains at this hour? Then, I hear the unmistakable sounds of dry, hard-packed earth under boots, along with low voices. It sounds like two men. They're almost on top of me. I reach out and grab my blades, one in each hand. My boulder is only three feet at its highest, so all it will take is one look into the pile for them to find me. I tried to hide the drag-marks I made moving the boulders last night, but I didn't do a very good job. I hold my breath, waiting. The footsteps stop, probably only about five feet from where I lie. One of the men speaks, and I can hear every word clearly.

 

“Someone was here,” the man says, roughly, “This fire's only been out for a few hours.”

“Yeah,” the other says in a higher, nasally voice, “So why didn't we see 'em in the first place last night?”

I narrow my eyes. Why are these two monitoring travelers going through here?

“Well,” the man with the lower voice clears his throat uncomfortably, “I didn' tell ya, Hald, but I may have kind of...nodded off a while on watch last night.”

The other man, Hald, lets out a hiss of annoyance, “Were you at the grog again, Jaff? Because if you were--,”

“No! No, it wasn't nuthin' like that, Hald. I just was tired, is all.”

“And why was that, you great lump?” Hald snaps. Jaff clears his throat guiltily.

“I was readin' again, ya know, practicin' me letters, an' all. I didn' get no rest, I guess,” he says. Hald snorts derisively.

“Oh, you were reading, were you? And why would you need to be able to do that? If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times, Jaff: We're here to find people and tell Ghasting who's comin' in to town. Not to read, understand?”

 

I breathe in sharply. Ghasting. I only know one person who has that name, and I've been trying to stay away from his grasp ever since I was a teenager. Leon Ghasting, the most feared Worklord in the Pierderi. Luckily, the two don't hear me. They're still talking.

 

“I knows that, Hald, but I just get so bored when I'm not watchin,” Jaff says, pleadingly.

“That’s when yer supposed to be sleeping, you dolt! Let's just hope that Ghasting doesn't find out about this!”

“He won't, Hald, ye'll see!” Jaff says, the relief evident in his voice.

“Yeah, he'd better not,” Hald mutters.

 

The two begin walking away, back the way they came, still arguing in lower voices. When they've gotten far enough away, I let out a sigh of relief and poke my head up from behind my boulder-pile. I look around and locate the pair of men, who are halfway up the hill, heading for an outcropping which must be their lookout post. If they're working for Ghasting they must be slavers, or as good as, which also explains why they're watching this pass. Ghasting must be in or near Rostyn, and he wants to know if there are any easy pickings coming in.

 

Quietly, I roll up my bedroll and stuff it back in my pack, along with the fusion pod and RAT, and my cooking pot. I slide my blades back into their sheaths and the firelock into my belt. I've barely taken a step when I hear a shot ring out. Instantly, I drop to the ground behind the boulders. The bullet strikes one of them, sending sharp pieces of rock flying everywhere. I pull out my firelock, and look back over the boulders. Hald and Jaff are running back down the hill. They must have seen me before they disappeared into their little lookout hole.. I curse myself for being so stupid and not waiting until they were out of sight. Both have their own firelocks out, and are pointing them at where I lay. I quickly load my own weapon as they get closer and closer, yelling at me to come out with my hands up. I smile grimly. Not likely. They are only about thirty feet away when I jump out, aiming my firelock as I do so. The two look surprised, and I take advantage of this, turning my aim to the bigger of the two and firing. He flinches, but the bullet, just as I meant it to, hits his firelock, It splinters and flies from his hand. The two stop short, staring warily at me. The smaller one, who I assume is Hald, still has a loaded firelock, and he gestures at me to drop mine. I roll me eyes, and move like I'm about to toss it on the ground, but instead, I throw it at him. It hits him square on the nose with a satisfying thunk. He reels backwards and drops his weapon. Quick as a flash, I pull out my blades and leap at them. I hold one knife to each of their throats. The bigger one, Jaff, whimpers. Hald glares at me, but I see the fear in his eyes. One young woman taking on two fully grown men and winning without even touching them. Embarrassing, to say the least. I've seen this reaction many times. I grin.

 

Hald is shorter than me, and has dusty brown hair, and impressive side-whiskers. Jaff is tall and broad, built like a boulder. His cheeks are stubbly, but his eyes are wide and have an innocent quality.

 

“So, what are you two fine gents doing out here, attacking helpless passers-by?” I ask, nonchalantly.

Hald spits on my boots, “That's none of your concern.”

“Oh, but I think it is!” I say, smiling and pressing the knife a little harder into his Adam's apple, “Seeing as you just attempted to attack me.”

Hald hisses, but doesn't say anything. Jaff, on the other hand, glancing fearfully at the blade at his throat, speaks up.

“We're up here to tell Worklord Ghasting who's comin' into town,” he mutters, “So he can see if he can make a profit.”

I snort, and Hald shoots a withering look at Jaff.

“I'd figured as much out for myself, thanks,” I say, calmly, “But I want to know why Ghasting is here. Shouldn't he be out in the Outer Settlements? Easier to make people disappear out there, I would think.”

Hald grunts, and I'm surprised to see an half-smile appear on his whiskered face, “We've moved on to bigger and better things,” he whispers harshly, leering up at me. I stare down at him, impassive, then look over at Jaff. 

 

“I'm sorry,” I say, simply, and then hit both of them with the butts of my blades. They crumple at my feet. I can't have them alerting Ghasting of my presence, but I don't want to kill them. Well, I'd be okay with getting rid of Hald; he's nasty and obviously abusive. But Jaff, he has some dignity and innocence left in him, and doesn't deserve to die. They'll be out for a while, and will give me enough time to get into Rostyn surreptitiously. Quickly, I pick up my pack from where I dropped it and hurry away, in the direction of Rostyn. This whole thing is getting more and more sinister. Why is Ghasting in Rostyn? Moreover, why are the people allowing him to be there? Rostyn is the biggest settlement in the Pierderi, and slavers aren't usually allowed in. What's changed since I was last there? I shiver and hurry onwards, into the rising dawn, towards a town that might hold more than its fair share of danger.

 

V

Morris

 

The rough purr of the cruiser motor has become a dull throb in the back of my head. We left Braguïe nearly two days ago, and the landscape has slowly changed from dry, rolling prairie to dead, red hills of rock. My Common driver, his name is Grenshaw Tepek, has kept up an unending litany of chatter and old plains songs, even when we stop for the night. I have long since tuned this out, but I am still disgusted that I have to share food a Common. I suppose the Council believes that my crime indicated that I enjoy being around Commons. As if. The sooner I reach Rostyn and find out where Bertz is hiding out, the better. I haven't actually thought about what I will do once I find the man, but I'm sure that whatever must be done, will be done, when it comes down to it.

 

       The sun has almost set, turning the already rufescent landscape a rich shade of crimson. On either side of the cruiser, steep walls of rock rise into the sky. The canyon is about fifty feet wide, and is littered with rusting machines, some of which have been here since b.R.C. times, according to Grenshaw. We've seen such relics all along the way from Braguïe: old cruisers, carts, and even some b.R.C. flying machines. Anything of value has long since been taken from the old, rusting carapaces, so all that remains is the odd jutting metal beam or creaking door, overgrown by prickly thorn bushes. 

 

       I wipe sweat from my brow and look over at my aged driver. Grenshaw is whistling tunelessly, eyes intently watching the space in front of the cruiser. I wrinkle my nose and shudder when I catch a wiff of the smell coming off of him, that of sweat and grime. Much as I don't care to admit, however, I am beginning to smell the same. When I tried to wash myself with some water from my drinking skin on the first night of our journey, Grenshaw snatched it from my hand, quickly stoppering it and declaring that water was only for drinking. I wouldn't expect a Common to understand basic hygiene, but for him to impose his backwards ways on me is insufferable. I haven't spoken a word to him since. Now, however, he clears his throat.

 

"You know, we're not that different, you and I, Ross," he says gruffly, scratching at his side whiskers. I look up sharply.

"We are as different as it is possible to be," I snap, "To start with, I have a sense of hygiene." I bring my hand back to hit the man for being so insolent. Grenshaw grabs my hand as I bring it down, deflecting it so that I smash my hand into the side of the cruiser. I stifle a shout of pain.

"None of that, now," he says, snorting, "I don't mean in that way, anyhow. I was once sent out looking for something, too. Years ago, just as you are now. Only difference is, I found what I was looking for."

"What rubbish is this?" I mutter, looking at Grenshaw askance, "You were sent out by the Council to kill someone?"

The man laughs, "You're thinking the wrong way, boy. I was never sent to kill. I was sent to find my purpose, my destiny. And you have been sent for that very thing as well, though that may not be what it seems to you, or to those who sent you, for that matter." 

I realize that my mouth is slightly open, and close it quickly, shaking my head angrily. Bloody senile old man. 

Grenshaw laughs again, "You'll see, Ross. You're not out here to kill someone, no more than I'm out here to pick flowers."  

(Incomplete)

 

VI

Quinn

 

I cough, pulling my scarf higher over my mouth and nose. The wind has picked up in the past thirty minutes, and is stirring up the dusty plains. Grit and dirt fly at me, stinging the exposed portions of my face. I've put on goggles and have made a make-shift breathing mask out my scarf, but if this dust storm gets much worse, I'm going to have to find some shelter, something that is almost nonexistent out here. I've been walking for nearly six hours, keeping my pace brisk. I need to get into Rostyn before those thugs, Hald and Jaff, wake up and alert Ghasting. I'm also circling around the town so that I'll come in from the direction of Braguïe. Hopefully, this will throw the slavers off the scent. Usually, they don't take notice of single travelers; there's no profit in capturing only one person.

Nonetheless, I did take out two armed men with only a firelock and some blades. Even out here, that will attract attention, which is the very last thing that I need. Still, taking the long way around is using valuable time, and this dust storm is not helping. Already, the visibility is so bad, I can only see about five feet ahead of me. I'm going to get lost if I keep on stumbling around for much longer.

 

Panic is not a feeling that I'm familiar with, and in all my long years of living out here, despite all that I've been through, I've never seen a dust storm like this before. Typically, they last about ten minutes, at most, but this one has already been blowing for at least forty minutes. I'm lost, and, for the first time in a very long while, I'm scared. In dangerous situations, like when I took on Hald and Jaff, I always just feel a clean, cold sense of logic and control. I can refine every movement, every action, and get myself out alive. But here, surrounded by flying particles of dust, I can do nothing. Over the course of my life, I've learned that I'm the only one who can keep me safe, and now I can't. I'm helpless, and it's terrifying.

 

I stumble forward, coughing uncontrollably now, unable to tell where I'm going. Pushed from both sides by the howling, dust-laden wind, I could be going in circles. Then, quite suddenly, I run into something solid, causing a grunt of pain to escape from behind my scarf. It seems to be about waist-height, and, from what I can feel, it is made of metal and wood. Carefully, I work my way around it, letting my hand brush the top. Half-way along the side, my arm bumps into what is unmistakably a wheel. So, a cart of some sort, which probably means that I can take cover under it and wait the rest of this storm out. Either that, or keep on going, and get even more lost. An easy decision to make, but one made available only by the presence of this overturned cart. I crouch by the wheel, feeling my way around the edge that is embedded in the gritty earth. At the corner, the cart is slightly elevated, and there's a small space between the ground and the metal rim. Good thing that I'm thin. I quickly shrug off my pack, push it through the space, and then squeeze myself in after it.

 

It is dark underneath the cart, and the wind whistles through the hole, but it's better than being out in the open, completely exposed. I leave the scarf pulled up over my mouth and nose, as the air is still gritty from the storm raging beyond the wood and metal walls. I can't see anything, but I think that I'm alone under here, and safe, for the moment. I'm exhausted from battling against the storm, and I need rest if I'm to reach Rostyn. I pull my pack over and open it, fumbling around for the RAT and the fusion pod that runs it. I put the earbuds in, and before my head has even settled on the worn fabric of the pack, I am asleep.

 

*****

 

A bright, sunny day, hot and without wind. The main thoroughfare of Rostyn is deserted, even though it is market day. The residents of the town know that the still, burning air foretells of a storm to come, which will stir up the dusts and make the air nigh-unbreathable. More likely than not, this will be followed by a brief but intense rain squall, which will wash the streets clean and bring a short period of greenness to the town. The only movement comes from a small group of children, maybe seven or eight of them, chasing each other in one of those simplistic and incomprehensible games that children are wont to play. They have escaped the watchful eyes of their parents, who are busy preparing for the coming storm. Once their disappearance is discovered, an uproar will be raised and they will be hustled inside, to safety. For now, though, the scene is one of relative calm, albeit filled with the delighted shrieks and giggles of the romping children. Their bare feet kick up the dust as they chase the other in between narrow wooden houses and abandoned market stalls. Their ages range from seven to ten, but it's impossible to tell one from the other. Even gender is barely distinguishable: each has shaggy hair, covered in dust, framing thin faces. Their clothes are ragged and hang loosely about their thin bodies like old burlap sacks.

They have neared the outskirts of town, where the wind is beginning to pick up, ruffling their hair and blowing sand in their eyes. Not to be deterred by this, however, the children continue their game, running around and keeping just out of reach of one of their number, a girl of about eight years of age. She is fast, and lunges out at her companions, attempting to touch one of them, to transfer the unwanted job to them, for it is far more fun to be chased than to be the pursuer. She calls out in frustration, but her friends just laugh and keep running. With a sudden burst of energy, the girl jumps forward, grabbing one of the others by the shoulder.

 

“Ha!” she calls above the rising wind, “Come and get me!”

“I won't,” the boy scoffs, “Shoulders don't count so you're still It.”

“Am not,” the girl cries, glaring at the boy, “You're a liar, Horace Benz!”

So saying, she takes off, out of the town proper, stepping into the treacherous Pierderi. The other children stop running and look uncertainly after her, their frivolity forgotten. They are adventurous, but their parents have always warned them against venturing into the wastes. There are wild dogs, slavers, and monsters, just waiting to grab them.

“Quinn, we're not supposed to go out there,” the boy, Horace Benz, says slowly. Quinn sticks her tongue out at him.

“Scared, Horace? Well I'm not. And I'm not a liar either!” She turns her back to the group, and surveys the flat dustplain the stretches out towards the red hills. And then she stops, her heart freezing over. There, not fifty feet away, is a dog. Not a pack, just one. The other children have seen it too, and cries of fright come from behind her. All camaraderie forgotten, they scramble to run back to their houses, away from the thin monster that, so like its relative in the story, surveys the girl with too-large eyes. Quinn just stares at the creature, ignoring the panic of her companions. It is thin, and mangy, its fur falling out in places. Its mouth is full of yellow teeth, and drool dribbles off of the lolling tongue. Slowly, it begins to pace towards her, a low, menacing growl building in the back of its throat. Quinn backs away slowly, until she is pressed up against the last building at the edge of town, the pod trader's. Rocks and discarded bits of lumber lay scattered over the ground around the base of the building, and her foot nudges up against a thick plank of wood, studded with rusting nails. She glances down at it, quickly, and then back at the dog. She is cornered now, and she knows it. If she should try to run, the dog will be on her in an instant. As it is, that's going to happen soon, anyway. Ever so slowly, Quinn bends her knees, crouching down and reaching for the plank. The dog is only twenty feet away now, and she can see that its body is trembling, ready for the kill. With the utmost care, she stands again, her make-shift weapon in hand.

 

Only ten feet away, the dog stops and then springs forward, a bark rising from its throat. Quinn just stands there, watching the beast come closer, closer. She clutches the plank of wood, her only hope, in sweat-slickened hands. She is strong, exceptionally so for her age, but she's never tested that strength in a situation such as this. The dog is nearly upon her. It opens its mouth wide, and Quinn closes her eyes and swings with all her might...

 

A little later, having been told of the dog by the parents of Horace Benz, Quinn's mother and father are frantically calling for their young daughter. The storm is almost here, and the vicious winds tear the distressed parents' cries away. After nearly thirty minutes of searching, they give up in despair, and walk to the edge of town. They stand by the pod trader's, looking out into the Pierderi, where, undoubtedly, Quinn's body has been dragged by the starving beast. Just as they are turning to leave, trying to hold back the tears, they hear a soft sigh. They turn to see their daughter, unharmed, but with   bloody hands, crouching over the body of the dog. Its neck is broken and there are long gashes on its flank. She looks up at them, and a single tear rolls from her eye down to her mouth.

“He was only hungry,” she says sadly, “I just didn't want to die yet.”

 

*****

 

Thirteen-year-old Quinn Varnix sits on the edge of the cart cruiser, swinging her legs. Her old leather boots are unlaced, and the bits of string that she uses as laces drag across the ground. She stares glumly at her hands, which are clenched in her lap, then glances up at the red hills that pass by on either side of her. Her mother, Jinelle Varnix sits behind her, taking stock of their supplies. It's been a week since they left Rostyn, and they're already low on water. They still have quite a bit of dried beef and hardtack left, but if they are to reach the next fusion-mining outpost without running out of supplies, they will have to move fast. Her father is at the controls of the cruiser, trying to keep the ancient machine from drifting off-course. Obadiah Varnix is a big man, but the cruiser is a challenge, even for him. They had bought it with the last of their money, just barely paying off the pod-trader with their only full fusion pod. The machine was old, not b.R.C., but definitely old. It is rusty and creaks at every gust of wind, threatening to fall apart right there, in the middle of the Pierderi.

 

It is the end of summer, and while the days are still unbearably hot, the nights are beginning to chill. It is not a good time to travel, as it is the height of windstorm season, but the situation in Rostyn has been worsening by the day. Many hopeful Commons and Hauteurs have been settling there, competing for space and for areas to mine, both pods and metals. There have also been rumors that the Council in Braguïe has set a reward for anyone who can inform them of the location of some sort of scientific facility, of R.C. origin, said to be hidden in the gorge-land between Rostyn and Braguïe. Whatever the case, the sudden rise in immigrants has made life dangerous for the family. Fights break out daily in the streets, and the growing population will certainly attract the attention of slavers. When Quinn heard talk of a new settlement, past the hills, where slavery is banned and there is energy and prosperity for all, it was decided that a cross-country trek was worth a safe home. The settlement, according to rumor, is called Aydehn, and was founded by a rebellious Braguïe frontier sheriff, Jonathan Bertz.

 

Quinn coughs and rubs her temples with the heels of her hands. She has a pounding headache and hasn't drunk anything all day. She pulls her legs back into the back of the cruiser and turns to her mother.

“Please, Mami, can I just have a sip from the canteen?” She asks in a voice harsh from thirst and hunger. Her mother looks up at her, taking in her thin face, the cheeks smudged with grime, the hair coarsely cut. She sighs and shakes her head.

 

“Not yet, Quinn, love,” she says, “We have to make it last. We can all get a drink when the sun sets.”

Quinn cannot even manage to feel disappointed and she slumps against the high side of the cruiser. Jinelle smiles sadly at her and pats her leg before turning back to her food-rationing.

 

They sit in silence for hours it seems, although none of them look at the sun to check the passage of time. The cruiser moves fast and blows dust and sand into all of their eyes until they put on their storm-goggles. Everyone in the Pierderi has a pair of these and they are a particular necessity of travel in the wastes. Eventually, the sun begins to set, turning the sky a deep red that clashes with the rusty hills they are traveling through. When it gets truly dark, they will stop for a meal, and then Obadiah and Jinelle will switch places, so that no time is lost in moving towards their destination and they both get sufficient rest. Once, Quinn offered to take the controls, but her parents just laughed and told her that that would come, in time. She isn't exactly sure what this means, but is irritated that they don't trust her, all the same.

 

Just as the suns dips below the hills, casting the family into shadow, Quinn sees a small rock fall half way up the hill to her left. She stairs at it intently, but does not see what caused it. She turns back to staring at her hands, examining the small scars left from countless hours spent playing with jagged rocks and splintered wood. Slowly, her head begins to nod and her eyelids droop, her breathing becoming more even. Before she falls into peaceful oblivion, however, a sudden thunk jolts her into awareness. She opens her eyes and scrambles around to see where the noise came from. Jinelle is looking over the side of the cruiser in incomprehension. Embedded in the brittle metal is a crossbow bolt attached to a length of stout rope, which leads back into the shadow the hill. Glancing back to see the cause of the commotion, Obadiah sees the bolt. He locks eyes with his wife and they both understand in one terrible instant.

 

“OUT!” roars Quinn's father, releasing the controls and jumping into the back of the cruiser with his wife and daughter. Jinelle grabs the food bag and Obadiah takes a pack of supplies and grabs Quinn around the waist. As the rope pulls taut, the three jump off, painfully rolling on the hard-packed earth. The cruiser, freed of the weight of its three passengers and their luggage, leaps forward and crashes into the stony wall of the hill. It dies with a blue-tinged explosion of fire and twisted metal. Quinn, Jinelle, and Obadiah raise their hands over their heads to protect themselves from the raining shrapnel. When they look up, smoke is everywhere and darkness has fully fallen. Small fires litter the ground, incinerating the Varnix's abandoned supplies and the tufts of grass that populate the rocky soil. There are shouts in the smoky air, uncouth yelling filled with obscenities. Coughing, the family stands. Obadiah grabs Jinelle and Quinn.

 

“Run,” he gasps, “Just run. As fast as you can.”

But it is too late for running. In the short amount of time between the explosion and now, a group of seven people has surrounded them, firelocks and blades out. It is impossible to make out their features, but there is much jeering and laughter.

 

“Well, well, well,” a sneering voice says, “Not a bad catch, eh, crew?”

The group contracts around the family, and, by the light of a small patch of burning grass, they can see their captors. The man who spoke is thin and tall, with a small pince-nez upon his nose, which looks ridiculously out of place. There are three men and three women, all in ragged clothing and heavily armed. Slavers. The thin man steps forward, and begins to circle the three, ignoring Obadiah's glare.

“No, not bad at all,” the man muses, carefully scrutinizing each one of them, “All strong and fit, and not too bad-looking, either.” This last earns a raucous laugh.

“We'll be able to get a fairly good price for 'em, surely,” one of the men says, leering.

The tall man steps towards Jinelle, but is stopped by Obadiah's outstretched arm.

“Don't come another step closer,” Obadiah growls. The man smiles and then, with a strength that doesn't seem possible, savagely punches him in the jaw. Obadiah collapses to the dusty ground, blood dripping from behind his fingers as he holds his cheek. Quinn kneels next to him, and tries to staunch the bleeding. The man laughs and the kneels next to the two of them.

 

“You don't tell me what to do,” he hisses, “You know why? Because you are now my property, and I don't take kindly when my property gets out of hand.”

He stands up abruptly, and grabs Quinn by the arm, yanking her to her feet, “Bring the other two,” he snaps at the others, and they comply.

“Do you know who I am, little girl?” the man asks, dragging Quinn along. In response, she spits on his hand. He slaps her, “I am Worklord Leon Ghasting,” he says, ignoring her cry of protest, “And I now dictate your future.”

The group now approaches a large cruiser, big enough to carry fifteen people, by the looks of it. The Varnix family is tied up, backs to each other, and canvas bags are roughly pulled over their heads. Before the cruiser begins to move, Ghasting leans close to Quinn's ear and whispers, “Your life means nothing, nothing but the amount of work someone else can get out of it.”

 

*****

 

She walks along the dusty, crowded street, storm goggles and scarf covering her face. She has not seen this place for almost ten years, since she and her parents left on that ill-fated voyage. It has changed from her memories, is now twice as large as it once was. Rostyn. It has become the harbor of entry to the Pierderi and all of those bound for other settlements or fusion prospecting pass through it to restock supplies and barter for gear.

Quinn stops at a stall selling breathing apparatus for dust storms and starts examining one of the breathing masks. It is made of leather and brass, complete with filter and built-in goggles. She considers her dirty scarf and is about to start bartering for the apparatus when a man steps up to the stall beside her.

 

“I wouldn’t interest myself in that, if I were you,” the man says, gesturing towards the mask, “It’s broken.”

The stall vendor throws the man a dirty look. Quinn, however, turns to look at the man.

“How so?” she asks, pulling the scarf down from her mouth. The man takes the mask from her and points at the seam between the filter and the rest of the apparatus.

“This will fall off as soon as you walk into a minor windstorm,” he says dryly, tossing the mask back on the table. Quinn looks again and sees that this is true. The man is already walking away, hands in the pockets of his longcoat, but Quinn catches up to him.

 

“Why did you bother pointing that out to me?” She asks, “If I was stupid enough to try buying that thing, why didn’t you let me?”

The man stops and turns to her, “Because I couldn’t let a pretty young lass such as yourself get scammed,” he says dryly. She lifts her eyebrows. He smiles sardonically, and gestures back at the stall vendor, “No, I just happen to have bought faulty merchandise from that man before, and was merely divulging my knowledge to you in the hopes of causing him grief.”

He starts walking again, and Quinn follows, unsure as to why, but knowing that their conversation isn’t over yet. They reach a shadowy alley between two wooden buildings, which creak and groan in the ever-present wind.

“Who are you?” Quinn asks abruptly, not looking at him.

“I am a scientist, a doctor,” he says, simply, “And you? Not often does one find a person so young and so hardened by the Pierderi.”

“I’m an ex-slave,” Quinn says, a bit harshly.

“Do you have a name, Miss Ex-slave?” he asks, smiling his sarcastic smile.

“Do you, Doctor?” she asks, bitingly, turning to him. 

Over time, the two will grow closer than either had ever intended. As the days, weeks, and months go by, she will learn his name, and he, hers. Quinn and Teslah. They become inseparable and one cannot find one without the other. 

 

But life moves on.