《H.I. Southwell’s Dead Tales》


 Chapter One - Coach Stop

    Prologue


    The first shot should have killed me. The second almost did.


    Chapter One


    Coach Stop


    They named Flint after the stone.


    It wasn¡¯t the name his parents had given him; they hadn¡¯t stuck around long enough to teach anyone his real name. Even as a lad, Flint was known for his sharp tongue, hard, greyish features, and habit of sparking a fight. Flint loved to fight and doubly so in his youth. It had been a good thing, too. Fighting earned him the right kind of reputation with what most others would call the wrong kind of people, and in the harsh, dust-ridden wilds, the wrong kind of people were the best kind of people to get in with.


    He was proud of the name that old gang had given him. For years before that, he had been ¡®boy¡¯. That was what the Grounders, Toffs and Landlords used to call him. He hated being called boy. He¡¯d stopped being one when he was eleven, the day he first killed a man for calling him such. They¡¯d have given him the needle if they¡¯d caught him. But they didn¡¯t catch him¡ªnot for that kill or the many others that followed. He was good at killing. Killing had taken an orphan from the backstreets of a dead-end town in the wastes to the luxury of Salt City. A city he was loath to leave.


    Yet the letter had come. The man who had named him Flint was calling him home, and he owed him enough that he had to go.


    ¡°Another glass?¡±  The barkeep tilted a bottle of scotch over Flint¡¯s crystal glass in anticipation of the answer.


    ¡°For the road,¡± Flint groaned, tapping his cred stick on the charge screen. The barkeep poured, and Flint downed the peaty richness with a single swig. His throat burned, and he shook his head, cheeks quivering as he forced the liquid down. He banged the glass on the faux wood counter in farewell and made to leave the Gilded Dune. The bar¡¯s more upmarket clientele sneered as they watched Flint leave. One man in particular, a crooked-nosed Toff with a portly belly and balding head, muttered something in Flint¡¯s direction. If he didn¡¯t have a coach to catch, Flint might have helped rearrange that snout. But he did have a coach to catch, so instead, he pointed at the man, thumb cocked skyward like a gun, and fired imaginary bullets.


    The Toff scoffed, and Flint smiled. The smile became a chuckle, and Flint merrily passed through the saloon doors and onto Salt City¡¯s promenade. Streetlamp halos and the neon glows of advertising signs swam around him, and he rubbed his eyes. He¡¯d drunk more than intended. Taking a deep breath, he steadied himself, double-tapped his breast pocket to check the letter was still there, then waved down a driverless taxi.


    Collapsing into the back seat, he ordered it to take him to the outskirts.


    Hours later, the taxi dropped Flint just beyond the city¡¯s towering twenty-foot-high curtain wall, where the city lights could no longer bother him.


    The drive hadn¡¯t been enjoyable. The car¡¯s gentle rumble, paired with half a day¡¯s drinking, left him teetering between sleep and nausea. He¡¯d had to fight both the entire way. Fortunately, the chill of crisp, sweet night air greeted him, and he filled his lungs three times over until his head started to cool. Feeling better, he took in his surroundings.


    Salt City took its name from the massive underground saltwater reservoir it was built over, the largest known water source on the planet. It was selected hundreds of years ago as the site for the world''s first colony, and off-world freight had fuelled its rise, transforming it into an oasis of civilisation, law, and order. It boasted all the amenities, technology, and luxuries one would expect from a Union World. But Union supply dried up long ago. Not a soul had seen a Union ship since before Flint was born. With the death of supply came the death of terraforming, leaving the world beyond Salt City¡¯s walls much the same as it was before the settlers arrived. Barren.


    Flint peered into the darkness, seeing only shadows and the dusty hardpan that, in daylight, would stretch seemingly forever. A gust of wind blew some of the dust his way, scratching his skin raw. He pulled up his scarf to protect his face. Shaking his head and cursing under his breath, he turned from the wind and searched for the coach stop. There it was, a hundred feet away, the only visible structure beyond the city walls, illuminated by the light of a lone lamp. He made his way toward it.


    The stop was a small rectangular shack. It had three walls and a roof. The two short side walls were concrete, while the third, facing away from the city, was made of thick, resistant glass. The absent wall served as an entrance, granting access to twelve plastic folding seats for waiting passengers. Reaching the shelter, Flint whipped the scarf from his face and ran a hand through his thick, greying curls. They were covered in dust already, as were his clothes and boots. In the city, the walls kept the dust out, but the dust was inevitable everywhere else.


    Some said that the dust owned the world and that one day, it would reclaim the city. Flint thought that the kind of rubbish self-styled Toff philosophers would spout. Even the thought annoyed him, and he spat. He regretted it instantly as gritty particles clung to his tongue and lips, and now the dust was in him. He spluttered further, only worsening the problem, and felt his ire rise.


    ¡°There is a lesson in that, I think.¡±


    Despite the smooth, calm delivery of the stranger, Flint jumped at the words. In his battle with the dust, he hadn¡¯t noticed the shelter¡¯s other occupant. No¡ªnot occupant¡ªoccupants. Five, in fact. Five of the shelter¡¯s plastic seats were occupied. Flint never much cared for the opinions of others, but this surprise had him brushing dust from his coat as he tried to straighten his appearance.


    ¡°A lesson? What sort of the lesson?¡± Flint grunted.


    ¡°Oh, something about not wasting water in the desert, I suppose.¡± The full-bearded Toff turned his back on Flint and returned his attention to the rest of the group. ¡°Or something about manners.¡± The other four chuckled, amused.


    Flint¡¯s cheeks reddened, his nostrils flaring. For a moment, he felt the rage of his youth, the word ¡®boy¡¯ echoing in his mind. He marched toward the group, who sat in two rows facing inwardly to one another, and stood over the Toff. ¡°You insinuating I¡¯m ill-mannered, sir?


    ¡°Not at all.¡± The Toff didn¡¯t even look at him, ¡°Insinuating suggests indirectness or subtility. You¡¯ll find I was stating it outright.¡± There was a further chorus of sniggering, and Flint shot each of the others present a menacing glare.


    Flint pulled down the chair next to the Toff, planted a boot on it, and flipped his coat back to reveal the las-revolver at his hip. Leaning on his knee, Flint brought his face uncomfortably close to the Toff, who still paid him no heed. ¡°Got any clever statements you want me to pass on to the obituarist for ya?¡± That finally got the Toff¡¯s attention, if only barely. Much to Flint¡¯s frustration, the man showed no sign of intimidation. Instead, the Toff shot him a righteous, side-eyed glare, his angular, bearded features locked in a dour expression. There was something familiar in that look, like a memory Flint couldn¡¯t quite place. That irritated him further as he held the Toff¡¯s stare. The man¡¯s arrogance stoked Flint¡¯s fury, and his hand began creeping toward his gun.If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    ¡°Gentlemen, please!¡± One of the others suddenly got to his feet and broke the tension, ¡°This is most improper. There is a lady present. Conduct yourselves accordingly.¡±


    ¡°Oh, don¡¯t stop on my account,¡± the lady chimed in, ¡°this is all rather exciting.¡± The man shot the lady an annoyed look, his bushy moustache twitching in disapproval. The lady offered a coy gesture of apology.


    ¡°It is late,¡± the man added, ¡°and we are all tired. I am sure Mr Revel intended no injury upon our newcomer. Mr Revel, kindly apologise so we can wait for this damnable coach in peace.¡± The remaining occupants murmured their agreement, but neither Flint nor Mr Revel flinched.


    Then, as if overtaken by an entirely different mind, Mr Revel broke into a broad grin, and he turned to the speaker. ¡°Quite right, Mr Boaden. It is late, and I am feeling a little prickly.¡± He turned back to Flint, ¡°Still, that is no excuse. You have my sincerest apologies, good Sir! Please, sit and join us. We are exchanging tales to pass the time. Young Mr Patterson here was in the middle of quite a good one just before you arrived.  I¡¯d very much like to hear how it ends.¡±


    Flint was confused. Usually, when he picked a fight, he got one. The apology¡ªand the Toff¡¯s sudden dismissal¡ªdisarmed him, and he wasn¡¯t sure what to do next. Embarrassed, he glanced aimlessly at the others, and then the lad Mr Revel had called Patterson, the youngest of the group, began talking as if nothing had happened. Bewildered, Flint straightened up and took a seat at the group¡¯s edge, leaning in to listen and examining this unwanted company.


    Three were Toffs. Mr Boaden and the lady that Flint soon concluded was Mrs Boaden were both dressed in white. Mr Boaden wore a loose-fitting suit jacket with matching trousers, a high-collared blue-and-white striped shirt, and a tall, wide-brimmed Tom Mix hat. He also wore fine brown boots that Flint thought might actually be real leather, reinforced with steel heels and caps. Mrs Boaden wore a white dress, tight and short at the bottom with flowing accents at the top, paired with elbow-high gloves and a fashionable headdress resembling a jewel-encrusted net. Neither seemed dressed for travel, and Flint thought they were more suited to a cocktail party.


    The other Toff, the bearded Mr Revel, dressed far more practically. Dust clung to everyone¡ªexcept him. His tight-fitting black three-piece suit was spotless, as though it had been laundered right there in the shelter, untouched by dust. Shimmersilk, Flint concluded¡ªan artificial fabric so smooth that even dust slid off with the slightest encouragement. Expensive. Flint reckoned Mr Revel was worth his weight in creds. He paired the suit with black faux leather boots, steel-capped and heeled, and his trousers had been reinforced to prevent tearing. Mr Revel dressed to impress the denizens of the wastes, not the city elite like the Boadens.


    The others were the boy, Mr Patterson, and an old man who didn¡¯t say much. Both were unmistakably Grounders. Mr Patterson wore patchwork chaps and a ratty grey waistcoat over a faded blue shirt. His long hair flopped forward in a style popular among city youths.  Most notably, he wore no gun at his hip. While Mr Revel and Mr Boaden might conceal weapons beneath their jackets, Patterson was clearly unarmed. The wastes would chew him up and spit him out. Beside the lad stood a stack of lightweight metallic crates, twelve in all, nearly his height. The old man was dressed much like the boy, but Flint¡¯s attention was drawn to the double-barrelled mini grenade launcher resting across his lap more than his clothing. Old timers were always extra cautious.


    Flint listened to the boy¡¯s tale until boredom overtook him. ¡°What¡¯s with the boxes?¡± Flint didn¡¯t care that he was interrupting the boy mid-flow.


    ¡°Umm.¡± The boy looked at the others for guidance, clearly unsettled by the sudden intrusion of the gruff newcomer with the pistol on his hip. Mr Revel nodded, and the boy answered. ¡°I¡¯m a courier; these are my charges.¡±


    Flint raised an eyebrow. ¡®A courier? At your age, without a scrambler?¡¯


    The boy blushed and cast his eyes down before he started muttering. ¡°I¡¯m new. But the company has a deal with the coaches. They let you ride for free if you have cargo. I can save up for a scrambler quick while I use them.¡±


    Flint stared at the boy, who shifted uncomfortably under his gaze. The boy¡¯s discomfort was obvious, and Mr Boaden tutted, shaking his head at Flint. Flint might¡¯ve snapped at the Toff if he wasn¡¯t so focused on the boy. There was something familiar about him, too. There was something in his features, it was like looking at an old photograph of a friend from before you knew them.


    ¡°Excuse me, Sir,¡± Mr Boaden was coming to the boy¡¯s defence. ¡°But Mr Patterson was in the middle of a tale.¡±


    ¡°A tale?¡± Flint mocked. ¡°He¡¯s just a boy. A smooth-faced boy. What tales would a boy know?¡± Do you know who tells the best tales?¡± Flint leant toward the group. ¡°Dead Men. Dead Men tell the best tales.¡± Flint¡¯s threat cut through Mr Boaden¡¯s bravado, silencing him. Flint stared him down, daring a challenge. When it was clear that Mr Boaden didn¡¯t have the balls, Flint turned back to the boy. ¡°Your name¡¯s Patterson, ain¡¯t it?¡±


    The boy looked up at Flint. ¡°Erm, yes.¡±


    ¡°I knew Patterson once.¡±


    ¡°Did you, now?¡± Mr Revel¡¯s dulcet tones drew Flint¡¯s attention, locking him once more in that judgemental gaze. Mr Revel was still. His eyes were unblinking, his every muscle steady. Flint felt his heartbeat quicken. It felt like staring down one of the wastes¡¯ Saberhounds, coiled and ready to strike.  And those eyes¡ªhateful, piercing. Flint was certain he¡¯d seen them before. His hand started to drift toward his weapon again.


    The horn blared, making everyone but Mr Revel flinch. The coach had arrived.  ¡°Ah, at last,¡± Mr Boaden leapt to his feet with great excitement and the tension between Flint and Mr Revel was buried again.


    Had Flint lived in ancient times, he might have compared the squat, eighteen-wheeled, armoured coach to a long-extinct rodent called an armadillo. Mr Flint hadn¡¯t been born in ancient times, however, and to him, this was just what coaches looked like. A man emerged from the front compartment. He was wrapped head to toe in thick, dust-covered linens, except for his eyes, which were covered by an old pair of tech goggles. A rifle was slung over his shoulder. He made his way into the shelter. ¡°Tickets, please.¡± The voice was metallic, betraying the modulator hidden beneath his hood of dirty fabrics. Each member of the group presented their tickets one by one and was directed to the passenger door. The side door opened like a misplaced tongue, revealing a short staircase leading into the raised coach. The Boadens and the old man boarded first, followed by Mr Patterson.


    ¡°You gonna get those?¡± The coachman pointed his rifle at the crates, stopping Mr Patterson halfway up the steps.


    ¡°Don¡¯t you load them?¡± The coachman scoffed and turned away from the boy. Mr Patterson began to climb back down.


    ¡°Get yourself inside, lad,¡± Mr Revel pushed the boy back up the stairs. ¡°Our new friend and I will handle the crates.¡± Grateful, Mr Patterson rushed back into the coach to escape the coarseness of dust-filled air. Flint didn¡¯t like being volunteered, but he wasn¡¯t about to let Mr Revel out of his sight, so he acquiesced.


    Each man grabbed three crates and headed to the back of the coach. There, Mr Revel hit the cargo release button with his elbow, popping open the boot. A few pieces of luggage lay inside, but the boot was mostly empty. Mr Revel set his crates down, and Flint did the same. Then, to Flint¡¯s surprise, Mr Revel pried open one of the crates and began rummaging. Flint sneered, scoffed, and spat. The arrogant Toff turned out to be nothing but a petty thief. Still, there was honour among their kind, and Flint instinctively stood to watch for the coachman or the boy.


    ¡°Do you still have the letter with you, Mr Flint?¡±


    Flint patted his breast pocket, but then his heart seized. ¡°How did you¡ª¡±


    An electronic whirl accompanied a sharp metallic twang. Flint¡¯s side was hot, and his legs went weak. They buckled, and he fell onto his back. Clutching his burning side, he brought his hand before his face¡ªhis fingers slick with blood. He¡¯d been shot. Above him loomed Mr Revel, a high-powered chrome revolver in hand, steam curling from its barrel. Those righteous eyes bored into him again. ¡°You know, Mr Flint,¡± Mr Revel came to kneel beside him. ¡°I have to agree¡ªdead men do tell the best tales. There is one in particular I¡¯m quite fond of. It¡¯s about a town, a chapel, a gang, and a Union ship out on the periphery.¡± He paused for a moment and then asked, ¡°Do you know it, Mr Flint?¡±


    ¡°Who¡­ are you?¡± Pain shot through Flint as he struggled to say the words.


    ¡°I¡¯m the devil that you forgot, Mr Flint.¡±


    Finally, Flint realised where he had seen those eyes before. ¡°You¡¯ll never find him,¡± were Flint¡¯s last words.


    The first shot should have killed Flint. The second most certainly did.

 Chapter Two - A Long Ride

    Chapter Two


    A Long Ride


    Peter Patterson was ecstatic to escape the dust-ridden wind and step into the cosy confines of the coach.


    It was awfully kind of Mr Revel and the newcomer to handle his cargo for him, even if the newcomer was somewhat rough and intimidating. Still, the newcomer was enduring the sharp, biting cut of dust winds in Peter¡¯s stead. So, he resolved to thank the man once aboard.


    The coach''s interior was surprisingly spacious and inviting. There was enough room lengthways for Peter to lie down five times over, and two times widthwise. Nine seating areas, each made up of two double-seat sofas bolted to the floor, lined the sides of the coach. Five sat on the left side, four on the right, divided by the entrance hatchway. Old Man Crouch had claimed a sofa in the far-right corner, his head resting against the wall, eyes closed. Peter suspected he was only pretending to sleep. The Boadens were settling into a nook of their own, and Peter thought to join them. Mr Boaden spotted him, grinned broadly, and seized his hand, shaking him vigorously. ¡°It was good meeting my lad. Have a safe journey now, you hear.¡±


    Peter realised they¡¯d only listened to his stories out of politeness, and his cheeks reddened. ¡°You too,¡± he replied nervously before making his way to the far end of the coach. Beyond his companions, only four others occupied the coach, but Peter, wary of further embarrassment, chose an empty sofa compartment.


    As he was about to sit, he patted his clothes, releasing small clouds of dust that haloed him. ¡°Don¡¯t do that.¡± Peter glanced at the opposite compartment, where another Toff sat¡ªa clean, slick-haired man with indignant features and an open book resting in his lap.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry?¡±


    ¡°Dust is light,¡± the Toff sighed, his tone patronising. ¡°Once it¡¯s in the air, it takes an age to settle. I¡¯d rather not be breathing it in the rest of the journey.¡± Peter¡¯s cheeks turned redder.


    ¡°Apologies¡ªI didn¡¯t know.¡±


    ¡°Evidently.¡± The Toff had already returned to his book. Peter shook his head and tried not to let the man get to him. He took a seat in his compartment and tried to relax.


    Moments later, three loud raps reverberated across the compartment exterior, and Mr Revel entered, shutting the door behind him. ¡°Our new friend not joining us?¡± It appeared that Mr Boaden seemed more than happy to continue conversing with his equal, and Peter struggled to stop that from bothering him.


    ¡°No, he isn¡¯t.¡± Mr Revel¡¯s low voice wasn¡¯t loud but carried easily through the quiet coach. ¡°He was being rude, so I suggested he take the next coach instead.¡±


    ¡°And he was agreeable?¡±


    Mr Revel looked around before deciding to join the Boadens in their compartment. ¡°He turned out to be a rather understanding fellow in the end.¡± Peter wondered if he should feel guilty for how relieved hearing that made him feel, but he was already dealing with a sinking feeling in his stomach that the exclusion was causing him, and he decided not to give it much thought.


    His attention was arrested by the sudden whirring of electrics as the coach began to hum with life. A crackle of static preceded the driver¡¯s welcome, and their journey began. Peter sank into his sofa and got comfortable. Blue symbols illuminated a dashboard beside his sofa, and he realised he could link his wirelesses to the coach¡¯s onboard systems. He connected, inserted his headphones into his ears, and cycled through several audio menus until he found a catalogue of short stories. Peter had never travelled by coach¡ªonly by foot, scrambler, or crawler. He thanked his lucky stars for this bit of luxury and began to think the courier¡¯s life might suit him after all.


    Something threw Peter from the sofa. He hit the floor and scrambled, his heart racing. He feared the coach was under attack. His eyes darted around the dimly lit compartment, looking for signs of alarm.


    A melodious voice filled his world, disorienting him, and Peter couldn¡¯t quite place himself. He realised, with growing embarrassment, that the audio story was still playing in his wirelesses. He tapped his right ear, pausing the narration, and removed his earphones. The compartment was quiet. Only the electronic hum of the engine, the grit of wheels rolling across dust, and the soft snoozing of other passengers could be heard. He leant back and released a sigh of relief.


    ¡°You quite alright, lad?¡± Peter looked up at the speaker. Mr Revel leaned over the back of the next compartment¡¯s sofa, a polite half-smile creasing his features.


    Peter sat bolt upright. ¡°Oh, yes, Mr Revel, Sir, I¡¯m fine. Sorry if I disturbed you.¡±


    ¡°No bother, lad, but best get yourself up off the floor.¡± Mr Revel stepped into Peter¡¯s compartment and offered a hand. Peter took it and got to his feet. ¡°Care for a drink?¡± Peter nodded, both surprised and excited. ¡°Good, there''s a bar at the back¡ªget us both a glass vermouth.¡± Mr Revel handed Peter his cred stick. Hesitant, Peter took it, while Mr Revel settled comfortably on one of the sofas.Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.


    Peter headed slowly to the back of the coach, his eyes glued to the cred stick and his mouth slightly agape. It was platinum. Peter never imagined he¡¯d ever see a platinum cred stick, let alone hold one. He was so focused on it that he nearly walked into the bar.


    Peter shook his head, refocused, and activated the touchscreen bar, scrolling until he found the icon for vermouth. He selected it and was prompted: ¡®Ice¡¯ or ¡®No Ice.¡¯ Peter looked over his shoulder at Mr Revel. His suit was spotless, his hair styled and combed, and his full beard well-oiled. He was refined. A refined man would want ice, Peter assumed. He selected the option, but an error message came up: ¡®Unavailable¡¯. Peter grimaced and reselected, two glasses, no ice. The bar rumbled, glasses clinked, and liquid poured before two glasses of vermouth emerged from the machine''s mouth-like dispenser.


    Peter carried both drinks to Mr Revel, handed one to him and returned the cred stick. ¡°Thank you, lad,¡± Mr Revel raised his glass to Peter. ¡°Cheers.¡±


    ¡°Cheers,¡± Peter raised his glass in response. He sat across from the Toff but refused to get comfortable, peaching stiffly on the edge of his seat. Mr Revel''s eyes lingered on him, and Peter couldn¡¯t help but feel a sensation of being scrutinised. After a moment, Mr Revel smiled, raised his glass, and sipped, releasing a dramatic ¡®ah.¡¯ Peter smiled back but awkwardly attempted to avoid Mr Revel¡¯s gaze. Mr Revel cocked his head coyly and gestured to Peter¡¯s drink, then upward.


    ¡°Oh yes,¡± Peter mumbled, bringing the drink to his lips and taking a large swig. Peter had rarely ever drunk before, and that had always been light beers. Unprepared for the sudden sensations this new beverage brought, he swallowed too quickly, missing the crisp dryness of the drink before struggling to suppress a coughing fit. The citrusy aftertaste that lingered, however, was somewhat pleasant.


    Once his throat was cleared and composure returned, Peter looked meekly to Mr Revel, whose broad, amused smile was made all the warmer by the way it widened his beard. ¡°It uhm¡­ it''s very good.¡±


    ¡°No, it isn¡¯t, but it will do.¡± Mr Revel sipped from his glass as he leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other and draping an arm across the sofa¡¯s spine. "So, Mr Patterson¡ªwhere are we headed?¡±


    There was something about Mr Revel that didn¡¯t sit quite right with Peter. He spoke politely, yet directly, as if he had known you for a lifetime and shared an intimacy immune to things as trivial as offence. He had spoken to everyone that way, except perhaps the now-absent newcomer. Effortlessly at ease with the strangers, he coaxed tale after tale from each of them. Only now, sitting one-on-one with Mr Revel in the proximity of the coach compartment, did Peter realise that the only member of the group who hadn¡¯t shared any tales was Mr Revel himself. In fact, Mr Revel hadn¡¯t shared anything about himself beyond his name. Peter couldn¡¯t help but wonder who the man really was.


    As the thought took shape, he noticed Mr Revel¡¯s expectant gaze and realised he¡¯d been silent too long. ¡°Miracle Springs. Beyond the periphery.¡± Mr Revel didn¡¯t respond, and Peter found a need to fill the silence, adding, ¡°Give or take a few stops.¡±


    ¡°Miracle Springs,¡± Mr Revel echoed, nodding slowly. ¡°Beyond the periphery.¡±


    ¡°Yep,¡± Peter confirmed.


    ¡°But this coach doesn¡¯t go to Mircale Springs, does it?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Peter shook his head. ¡°No coach does, but this one gets the closets. It¡¯s too far out, and there is not enough demand for a route. But someone out there has paid a lot of creds for a delivery¡ªmore creds than I have ever seen, actually. So, I¡¯m headed that way.¡±


    ¡°All the way out beyond the periphery,¡± Mr Revel eyed him coyly, unblinking, and Peter felt once more that he was being appraised. ¡°You must be very brave.¡± Mr Revel smiled faintly. ¡°The wastes are dangerous even within sight of the city walls. Beyond the periphery¡ªanything can happen.¡± Peter felt a mix of feelings. On the one hand, he enjoyed the compliment and imagined himself as some dashing hero braving the unknown. On the other, Peter couldn¡¯t help but feel that Mr Revel had decided Peter wasn¡¯t up to the task. Peter worried the latter was the true.


    ¡°Well,¡± Peter swallowed, the word catching in his throat. ¡°I guess I¡¯ll just have to be careful then, won¡¯t I?¡±


    ¡°Quite right.¡± A sudden pip of energy softened Mr Revel, and he raised his glass to Peter again. ¡°Very careful indeed. You¡¯ll be fine¨C¨Cstrong young lad like you. Surprising, however, that your superiors sent someone so young so far out so early in his career.¡±


    Peter averted his gaze. ¡°Actually, Mr Revel, my superiors didn¡¯t pick me. The customer did.¡±


    ¡°The customer did?¡±


    ¡°Yes. By name.¡±


    ¡°By name,¡± Mr Revel echoed again. ¡°Now that is something.¡±


    Peter didn¡¯t quite know why he felt so uncomfortable admitting this to Mr Revel. Perhaps it was because he felt he hadn¡¯t earned the job. Perhaps it was because the customer''s identity and reason for choosing Peter weren¡¯t known to him. Perhaps it was because he was frightened of having to travel so far from the safety of Salt City. Or maybe it was simply that he didn¡¯t believe that anyone would really pay him that many creds. Whatever it was, it made him uneasy, and telling Mr Revel felt strangely like telling a friend he¡¯d let them down.


    ¡°What¡¯s your first stop, Mr Patterson?¡±


    ¡°Bittercreeks,¡± Peter panicked, suddenly wondering how long he¡¯d been asleep. His eyes darted to the holographic display. He relaxed¡ªnext stop, Dry Gulch, only eighty miles from the city. Reassured, he turned back to Mr Revel. ¡°Half my packages are due there, then two more stops before Saltwater Ridge.¡±


    Mr Revel drained the remains of his glass and rose gracefully to his feet. ¡°Bittercreeks. That¡¯s another three hundred miles. It¡¯ll be daybreak before we get there. Get some sleep, Mr Patterson¡ªI intend the same.¡±


    Peter jumped to his feet to say farewell. ¡°Thank you, Mr Revel¡ªSir¡ªfor the drink and loading the crates for me earlier; I never got the chance to thank you for that.¡±


    ¡°Think nothing of it, lad,¡± Mr Revel turned to take his leave.


    ¡°You never said,¡± Peter interjected before the Toff could escape, ¡°where are you headed¡ªif you don¡¯t mind me asking, Sir.¡±


    For the briefest flicker of a moment, the expression on Mr Revel¡¯s face very much suggested he did mind. That look vanished in the blink of an eye, replaced by a broad smile. ¡°End of the line,¡± Mr Revel answered smoothly. ¡°Give or take a few stops.¡± Mr Revel patted Peter¡¯s arm and left. ¡°Good night, Mr Patterson.¡±


    ¡°Good night, Mr Revel.¡±


    Peter sank back into his seat and sipped his drink more cautiously until it was empty. Then, he lay across his sofa, readying himself for sleep. As he drifted off, he replayed his conversation with Mr Revel in his head. He realised, with some discomfort, that he¡¯d once again been the one to share while Mr Revel stayed an enigma.

 Chapter Three - Three Days Later

    Chapter Three


    Three Days Later


    After three days, two drop-offs, and eighteen hundred miles, the coach¡¯s luxury had worn thin, and Peter Patterson would have done anything to never have to ride one again.


    The journey was pleasant enough, but it was relentless. The coach ploughed on all day and all night, never stopping for more than twenty minutes¡ªjust long enough for Peter to drop off his packages at the express depot and return. He had no time at all to explore or take in the sights of the dusty colony towns. Worse, he¡¯d long since grown bored of audio stories and become restless. He was sick to the back teeth of his confinement.


    On a brighter note, a steady exchange of passengers provided conversation, and Mr Revel continued coaxing story after story out of all. Peter noted that despite Mr Revel¡¯s constant presence, they hadn¡¯t spoken one-on-one since the night they¡¯d boarded, and no other passenger had been any more successful at extracting personal information from the man than he. Still, Mr Revel was polite and generous with drink orders, so Peter figured allowing the man his privacy was only fair.


    A whooshing sound proceeded the metallic clang of an unlocking door at the back of the coach. Old Man Crouch emerged from one of the two closest-like restrooms. He wafted his hand before his face, grunted, and slammed the door closure button. ¡°Best give that one some time.¡± The old man had spotted Peter¡¯s disconcerted gaze. Peter grimaced, and some of the Toffs tutted their disapproval. No matter how luxurious, the coach was still a box full of assholes. Spend long enough in it and that it is all it can be.


    At one point, the coach had carried over twenty passengers, but most had disembarked at earlier stops. Only those who¡¯d boarded with Peter remained, along with two newcomers. They were eighty miles from Sunreach, the penultimate stop. Everyone left was bound for the end of the line¡ªanother four hundred miles.


    Peter sighed, his shoulders sinking as he prepared for another uneventful half-days travel. Then, as if answering his wish for change, something new happened. The coach began to fill with noise¡ªa rumbling metallic rattle. It was as if countless claws scratched every millimetre of the exterior. Peter rose slowly, wide-eyed, scanning the coach, palms starting to sweat. No one else seemed concerned.


    The driver¡¯s voice blurted through the static of the comms system. ¡°No need for concern. We¡¯re just passing through a dust storm. Nothing to worry about.¡± Peter sighed in disappointment and sank back onto his sofa like a sack of stones.


    ¡°Had you a little worked up, didn¡¯t it?¡± Mrs Boaden sniggered from the compartment opposite, seated with her husband.


    ¡°A little, ma¡¯am,¡± Peter replied with a sheepish smile.


    Mrs Boaden chuckled lightly. It wasn¡¯t the type of laughter Peter was used to hearing. He was used to the honest belly-bound chortle of Grounders. A Toff¡¯s laugh always sounded disingenuous, more manufactured than natural. ¡°Well, don¡¯t fret. Dust storms are the norm in the wastes. Sooner or later, we all get caught in one.¡±


    ¡°Quite right, ma¡¯am,¡± Peter said with a smile, which Mrs Boaden returned before returning to the book she was reading. Toffs always read real books¡ªones made of paper and ink, the real thing. Grounders like Peter used audios. He didn¡¯t know why but assumed paper copies gave Toffs a sense of ownership over the tales, even if the words were the same. Peter ought to have let the lady enjoy her story, but it was his first dust storm, and he had questions. ¡°Do you think it will delay us?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, deary?¡± Mrs Boaden glanced up briefly, clearly eager to return to her book.


    ¡°The storm¡ªwill it delay us?¡±


    ¡°Not even a little,¡± Mr Boaden interjected, his sudden enthusiasm startling Peter. ¡°These coaches are equipped with nav computers capable of independent geolocation¡ªno need for satellites or even windows. Thanks to precise memory and movement tracking, the coach always knows where it is. From the moment it leaves the depot, the computer records every movement¡ªacceleration, deceleration, every turn¡ªand calculates its location within meters. A blind man could be at the wheel, and thanks to the onboard computer, he¡¯d never stray off course. It¡¯s quite ingenious.¡±


    Peter nodded along as Mr Boaden explained, but then Mrs Boaden cut in. ¡°My husband loves engineering.¡± Her tone was politely apologetic.This novel''s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.


    ¡°Yes, I do,¡± Mr Boaden said, bristling at his wife¡¯s dismissal of his passion. ¡°I love these machines. My wife and I have travelled by coach dozens of times¡ªnever a single delay or incident. Don¡¯t worry, lad. We¡¯ll reach Saltwater Ridge right on schedule, exactly when we are supposed to.¡±


    Peter, along with the other passengers, was thrown from his seat, his face mercifully planting itself on the opposite sofa. Mrs Boaden¡¯s book flew as she collided with her husband. They tumbled to the floor together, rolling over each other. Old Man Crouch smacked himself in the face with his grenade launcher, and even Mr Revel spilt vermouth on his pinstriped jacket, though he somehow kept his balance.  ¡°What in god¡¯s name was that!¡± Mr Boaden barked, scrambling to his feet.


    Seconds later, the passenger compartment door was yanked open. Whipping tendrils of dust assailed the space as a linen-wrapped coachman stepped inside. ¡°Everyone okay?¡±


    ¡°What in the blazes is going on?¡± Mr Boaden squared up to the man, his moustache quivering with fury.


    ¡°We hit a rock, Sir.¡±


    ¡°A rock! A bloody rock. You''re trying to tell me a rock did that!¡±


    ¡°It was a big rock, Sir.¡± Mr Boaden''s face darkened to purple, but the coachman paid him no heed. Satisfied that the passengers were unharmed, he left.


    ¡°Well, I¡¯ll never. Not once has anything like this ever happened before.¡± Despite himself, Peter let out a chuckle, unable to contain it. ¡°What are you laughing at, boy?¡± Mr Boaden snapped; all pretence of politeness gone.


    ¡°First time for everything, I guess,¡± Peter shrugged.


    ¡°Come on, lad¡ªlet¡¯s see if these fellows need assistance.¡± Mr Revel seemed unperturbed by the violent dust gales that whipped past them as he led Peter and Old Man Crouch into the storm. Peter, however, was very much perturbed and pulled his scarf tight to protect his face and shielded his eyes with a hand.


    Twenty minutes had passed, and the coach was still immobile. Mr Revel, it seemed, wasn¡¯t one to sit idly while others handled problems for him, so he¡¯d mustered a posse to tackle the issue.


    The storm was so heavy that it seemed to Peter as if dust had consumed the world. Thick billows of sharp, gritty particles swirled around him like a living devastation¨C¨Cone that was brutal and unforgiving. Yet, as Peter struggled to find his bearings, he couldn¡¯t help but see the storm¡¯s alien beauty. It had currents. High above, channels of billowing dust spiralled, colliding with one another, creating convergences and divergences reminiscent of the pretentious abstract paintings Toffs admired in galleries.


    Peter had heard others speak of this beauty before. Men had explained that the phenomenon was due to the unique structure of the planet¡¯s dust. It was clingy, they said, prone to attraction. The dust stuck together and formed motes that trailed after one another. With varying densities and weights, each mote moved uniquely and independently in the wind. Seeing it in person, however, was something words and stories could never capture, and here and there, Peter thought he could see shadows of being dancing on the waves.


    Marvelling at the storm, Peter nearly forgot its dangers¡ªuntil a sharp granule whipped across an exposed patch of his cheek, cutting him. He hissed in pain, pressing his hand against the shallow gash. Dust cuts were like paper cuts, but worse¡ªthe grit aggravating the wound like salt. Peter clenched his teeth, swallowing a scream.


    Peter followed Mr Revel to the front of the coach. It took several metres before he could see well enough through the dust to spot the three coachmen struggling with the problem. As they drew closer, Peter realised there would be no quick fix. A jagged rock, nearly Peter¡¯s height and much wider, was wedged beneath the front right wheel, jammed between the tyre and axle. It appeared to be an eternal contest of strength and endurance, with the rock trying to pry the wheel from its housing.


    ¡°Gentlemen,¡± Mr Revel wasted no time. ¡°What appears to be the problem, and how can we assist?¡±


    ¡°This is the fucking problem,¡± one of the linin-wrapped men¡¯s robotic bark replied. Then, remembering himself, he added, ¡°Sir.¡±


    There were only three coachmen in the dust, but Peter had learned that the coach was manned by five. They rotated shifts to ensure a driver was always available, so the coach never stopped moving. The other two must still be sleeping¡ªa sign, Peter thought, that the issue wasn¡¯t too serious.


    ¡°Can you fix it?¡± The coachmen paused their work, turning to Mr Revel.


    ¡°We can,¡± one coachman answered, ¡°the only issue is lifting the damned thing. If we can get the chassis high enough off the ground, we can reverse her out. But she¡¯s too heavy for the three of us.¡±


    ¡°Very well, Mr Patterson, Mr Crouch, would you mind assisting these men and I,¡± Mr Revel took position at one corner of the coach, gripping the chassis, ready to lift.


    Peter hadn¡¯t met many Toffs in his life, at least not ones who¡¯d waste time speaking with him. Most of what Peter knew about the upper classes came from what his fellow Grounders used to say. They said Toffs were pampered and lazy folk, never lifting a finger unless they had to. But Mr Revel didn¡¯t seem anything like that to Peter.


    Peter hurried to Mr Revel¡¯s side and gripped the chassis. Old Man Crouch lingered behind; his gaze fixed on the storm. ¡°Mr Crouch, if you wouldn¡¯t mind.¡± Mr Revel maintained his politeness despite a flicker of frustration. Although, he raised an eyebrow when the old man shushed him. ¡°What is it?¡± Mr Revel asked, curiosity overtaking any annoyance.


    ¡°You hear that?¡± Mr Revel straightened, peering into the storm. He exchanged a wide-eyed glance with the old man. ¡°Chitirin.¡±


    ¡°Chitirin?¡± Peter knew what a Chitirin was; he just wanted to confirm he¡¯d heard the old man right.


    ¡°Bugmen,¡± Old Man Crouch stated, and he headed back to the passenger compartment door. Then Peter heard it. Amid the howling wind and scraping dust came the unmistakable drone of a thousand buzzing wings.


    ¡°Hivestorm!¡± Mr Revel¡¯s voice boomed in warning.

 Chapter Four - Hivestorm

    Chapter Four


    Hivestorm


    The wastes of Peter Patterson¡¯s world are fraught with many dangers. Starvation and dehydration are just as likely to kill you as a Saberhound or Dustshark, and the threat of getting lost in a storm or swallowed by a Dustdune was ever-present. Yet, the thing out in that desolate expanse men feared most was the Chitirin.


    Peter had never laid eyes on the insectoid natives of his world before, but he¡¯d grown up on horror stories all about them. They were massive, eight-foot-tall beetle-like creatures that lurked beneath the hardpan wastes. As intelligent and ingenuitous as men but twice as strong and three times as savage, they had hunted humans since the first settlements, dragging captives to their subterranean nests for reasons yet undiscovered. That hadn¡¯t stopped speculation, though, and Peter had heard his share of terrible theories. Some said the Chitirin enslaved humans, others that they ate them or made them fight for sport. The worst story Peter had ever heard theorised about a queen-like bug. It needed warm hosts to lay its eggs, turning captive humans into living incubators. A tormented existence endured until, at last, thousands of crawling larvae burst free and, mercifully, devoured the host.


    Naturally, those horrors were Peter''s first thought when Old Man Crouch declared the ¡®Bugmen¡¯ had come. Peter went cold with terror.


    ¡°Fuck, Fuck, Fuck!¡± The full emotion of the profanity was dulled by the mechanical voice box of the coachmen, but that didn¡¯t make his outburst panic Peter any less. The coachman and his accomplices bolted to the driver compartment, vanishing inside. Moments later, all five coachmen emerged, rifles in hand, stepping into the storm.  ¡°Take up positions,¡± Peter couldn¡¯t tell if it was the same speaker. ¡°We ain¡¯t got long. Dale¡ªsee if any passengers know how to shoot.¡± One coachman rushed to the passenger compartment while the others climbed the coach¡¯s massive, armoured chassis and pointed their weapons into the air, tracking shadows in the dust motes.


    ¡°Mr Patterson, if you¡¯d be so kind, come with me.¡± Mr Revel, calm as ever, strolled leisurely past Peter, who gawked in disbelief. ¡°Unless you¡¯ve somewhere better to be.¡±


    Peter could think of a dozen places he¡¯d rather be but took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves, and followed Mr Revel to the rear of the coach. His eyes darted frantically through the billowing dust. Peter thought he heard bursts of thrumming wings and chitinous caws. Each sound made him flinch.


    Mr Revel opened the luggage compartment and rifled through it. He pulled three boxes from one of Peter¡¯s remaining delivery crates. ¡°What are you doing?¡± Peter¡¯s heart raced before he realised it wasn¡¯t the Miracle Springs package. The Toff ignored Peter. One by one, he opened the boxes, calm and methodical. Each was felt-lined with deep grooves carved to snugly house its contents. The first, the smallest box, had a groove shaped like a pistol, though the weapon was missing. Mr Revel pocketed the remaining shot charges. The next two were larger: one held a chrome rifle, the other a wide-barrelled pump gun, which Mr Revel offered to Peter.


    ¡°You know how to shoot, lad?¡± The Toff¡¯s tone very much indicated that it didn¡¯t matter either way. Peter took the gun. It was heavy, cumbersome, and cold against his skin, which only worsened his trembling.


    ¡°How did you know these would be here?¡±


    Mr Revel shut the boot and headed toward the coachmen¡¯s defensive positions, leaving Peter no choice but to follow. ¡°Guns, ammo, water, medicine¡ªthat¡¯s ninety percent of deliveries in the wastes. Odds were you¡¯d have something useful.¡±


    When they reached the coachmen, all five were crouched on top of the coach, using its armoured shell for cover. Old Man Crouch was the only passenger to join them, his double-barrelled grenade launcher aimed and ready. Mr Revel climbed the side of the transport, turned, and offered Peter a hand. Peter took it.


    ¡°Yes,¡± Peter stated as he and Mr Revel came face to face. Mr Revel¡¯s look was questioning. ¡°I know how to shoot,¡± Peter clarified. Everyone on Peter¡¯s world knew how to shoot. It was part and parcel of growing up.  Whether in the wastes, the streets of Salt City, or a Toff¡¯s mansion, shooting was the only way to guarantee tomorrow. Peter, however, had grown up poor, shooting small-calibre rifles at tin cans in back alleys¡ªnot at giant alien bugs trying to eat you.


    ¡°Good,¡± Mr Revel took position behind a sharp edge of the coach roof and gestured for Peter to take a spot nearby. ¡°You should be fine then.¡± Peter swallowed painfully, his throat dry and tight. Mr Revel made it sound simple, but Peter knew that he had never been in more danger than he was now.


    ¡°Here they come!¡± The coachman¡¯s voice lacked Mr Revel¡¯s composure.


    The attack lasted minutes at most. First, the creatures closed in¡ªa swarm of airborne silhouettes darting around the far side of the thick dust clouds, their shadows making them appear like giants. It was as if the great primordial beasts of old had encircled them, and Peter was frozen in freight.


    The coachman began¡ªthe first shots rang out. Their rifles were the old combustion style Peter recognised¡ªsemi-automatic, firing bursts of solid projectiles that punched channels through the billowing dust. Peter couldn¡¯t tell if they hit anything, but an echoing hiss carried through the storm¡ªPeter feared it sounded an awful lot like a war cry. Then, the bugmen struck.


    They came from above, whipping through the dense dust to snatch at the humans. The coachmen ducked each attack, firing wildly to drive the shadows back. One coachman was lifted into the air, rising several feet per second. ¡°Dale!¡± a metallic voice cried helplessly. The sharp whizz of a shot followed. The creature cried out. Dale fell like a stone onto the coach¡¯s hull, a sickening crunch of bone as he impacted. Peter¡¯s head snapped toward the sound of the shot and saw he Mr Revel, chrome rifle billowing with smoke. The high-powered las rifle was far more effective than the coachmen¡¯s weapons, and Peter realised Mr Revel had claimed the first kill. The Chitirin answered with a chorus of war cries, and their own weapons responded.


    One coachman was struck so hard he was hurled from the coach roof, dead before he hit the ground. A spear almost twice the man¡¯s size pinned him to the world''s surface. An energy blast hit another, and his screams filled the air as flames consumed him. The aliens had been toying with them, but Mr Revel¡¯s kill marked them as a threat¡ªand the bugmen were done playing.


    A thud and tremor announced the arrival of one of the creatures on the far side of the coach roof. Peter finally saw one of the beasts for the first time. It was humanoid¡ªup to a point. It had a head, two arms, and two legs, but the similarities ended there. Huge and lumbering, its wide body was covered in a bright orange, armour-like carapace. Hatred gazed at him through six pupilless black eyes. Peter froze. Unable to act. At the mercy of this thing. Then, the creature exploded. Orange skin and purple ichor shredded and sprayed through the air. ¡°Take that, you ugly bastard¡± Old Man Crouch¡¯s grenade launcher proved even deadlier than Mr Revel¡¯s rifle.


    The old man never fired another shot. Seconds later, several of the creatures lifted him into the air. One gutted him with a circular dagger while the others tore at him with taloned hands. A crimson shower rained over Peter as the old man¡¯s severed arm landed on the coach roof beside him.


    Silent tears streaked down Peter¡¯s face. It wasn¡¯t grief¡ªhe¡¯d barely known Old Man Crouch. It was fear that made Peter cry. His life would end before he even had a chance to make a go of it. He wept for what could have been.


    A pair of alien feet landed beside the severed arm. Peter¡¯s eyes slowly traced upward, meeting the monstrous face. Peter screamed, falling backwards as he pulled the trigger of his pump gun. A massive burst of energy erupted, the force of it wrenching the weapon from his hands. He didn¡¯t know if he hit anything.


    The wind was knocked from his lungs as he hit the hardpan surface with a jarring thud. He couldn¡¯t move. One of the creatures was on him. He didn¡¯t know if it was the same one. It grabbed at his arms, and Peter struggled weakly against its grip. A pair of huge, clattering mandibles framed a hissing, fanged mouth, saliva dripping onto Peter¡¯s face. The beast¡¯s strength overwhelmed him, and Peter felt himself being lifted off the ground again. The bugman¡¯s head burst, and its massive body collapsed on top of Peter, pinning him.


    Peter couldn¡¯t breathe¡ªthe creature¡¯s weight was crushing.A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    The last thing Peter saw was Mr Revel, another of the clawing beasts looming over him. Some invisible force held it back, sandy particles swirling around the talons that strained to reach him. Mr Revel gripped a chrome pistol, smoke curling from its barrel. It was pointing Peter¡¯s way.


    The world swam before Peter¡¯s eyes, and then everything went dark.


    ¡°My feet hurt.¡± The speaker had been complaining for hours, and Peter had every inclination to tell them to shut up. Then, as his senses returned, Peter realised he had been the complainer, and his feet did hurt.


    He was tugged forward by a course sharpness around his wrists. His hands were bound, and someone was pulling him with a rope. The storm was gone, leaving a calm day. Peter was being led across the open hardpan, with nothing in sight as far as the eye could see.


    ¡°Where are we?¡±


    ¡°Ah,¡± Mr Revel exclaimed, his image sharpening in Peter¡¯s vision. ¡°It appears Mr Patterson has rejoined the living.¡±


    ¡°Where are we?¡± Peter¡¯s head throbbed, and speaking pained his raw throat. As his bearings returned, he realised the rope binding his hands also tethered Mr Revel and several others.


    ¡°If I were a betting man, and I am, I¡¯d wager just a bit north of the middle of nowhere,¡± Mr Revel smiled over his shoulder, glancing back as the rope tugged him forward. The group marched in a line, led by one of the massive Chitirin at the front¡ªtheir captor. Several more of the creatures formed a loose perimeter around the group. Some carried spears and daggers, while others carried white plastic funnel-like weapons¡ªPeter presumed these were the energy blasters he had seen used in the attack. From time to time, one of the creatures¡¯ wings would buzz sharply, propelling it rapidly across the surface and kicking up dust in its wake. It made the beasts appear erratic and all the more threatening because of it.


    They¡¯d lost. Peter realised they were about to disappear, just like so many victims of the bugmen before them. ¡°What do they want with us?¡± Peter didn¡¯t really want to know.


    ¡°Better not ask,¡± Mr Revel seemed unreasonably chipper as if such peril was routine for him. ¡°They have been in a bit surly mood, these tour guides of ours. I¡¯m not sure they are the type to take questions.¡±


    ¡°What?¡± It was the only thing Peter could think to say. Then, the stories from his youth came rushing back. ¡°I hope they just eat us.¡± Mr Revel chuckled merrily.


    ¡°Quite a character, that one.¡± Peter didn¡¯t recognise this new voice. Looking over his shoulder, he saw one of the coachmen, now without his facemask or voice modulator. The young man, just a few years older than Peter, was sweating profusely as he struggled to support another¡ªa second coachman with a broken leg, bone jutting gruesomely from the skin. The sight of the wound brought back the sickening crunch of Dale hitting the coach roof, and Peter shivered. Dale seemed barely conscious, his head lolling as the young coachman carried him. ¡°He almost seems like he¡¯s enjoying all this.¡±


    Peter turned his gaze back to Mr Revel, who was calmly focused on the path ahead. While everyone else was covered in dust, blood, and wounds, Mr Revel seemed hardly fazed. His suit was still remarkably clean, the dust just rolling off it, and Peter saw no injury upon the man. Mr Revel¡¯s good fortune vexed Peter, and for a fleeting moment, he wondered if the man was in cahoots with the aliens. But then Peter remembered the battle¡ªhow Mr Revel had saved him¡ªand dismissed the absurd thought.


    ¡°Thank you.¡± Mr Revel glanced over his shoulder, his expression questioning. ¡°For saving me.¡±


    ¡°Think nothing of it, lad.¡±


    Peter smiled briefly, though it faded quickly. Then he looked out over the vast nothingness that surrounded him. He thought of the package now abandoned in the boot of the coach miles behind. His chance at a better life¡ªsnatched away by the wastes. Peter sighed.


    ¡°What happened to my husband?¡±


    Mrs Boaden had been silent for hours, the trauma of the attack weighing on her more visibly than anyone else. Her dress was torn where the bugmen had wrestled her into submission. Her make-up was smeared, streaked by tears and frantic rubbing. She hobbled as she walked, her movements burdened by painful blisters. Mr Boaden was nowhere to be seen.


    ¡°What happened to my husband?¡± Her voice grew louder as her pace quickened, and she marched toward the bugman holding the slaver¡¯s rope. ¡°What happened to my husband,¡± she shouted, reaching out with her bound hands toward the creature. The bugman turned on her with a deafening roar, and Mrs Boaden stumbled backwards, startled. The bugman dismissed her, turned away and continued his journey, tugging the rope more harshly now.


    ¡°I¡¯m afraid your husband is dead ma¡¯am,¡± Mr Revel walked levelly beside the woman. ¡°You, however, are not. Best not to do anything to change that.¡±


    Peter¡¯s heart ached as he watched the dawning horror on Mrs Boaden¡¯s face. She asked no more questions.


    The young coachman collapsed to his knees, the weight of the unconscious Dale too much to carry. The Chitirin screeched in protest, kicking at him viciously. The coachman shouted back in defiance. In response, one of the Chitirin lashed out, its claws slicing two deep gashes across his cheek.


    One of the Chitirin, whom Peter assumed to be their leader¡ªits face painted white with ash¡ªstepped forward to examine Dale. It chirped and chittered at the others before snatching Dale from the young coachman and dragging him away. The aliens allowed the humans to sit and rest while they began to feast on the corpse. Peter couldn¡¯t watch.


    ¡°Where are they taking us?¡± They had walked through an endless day and night, and now the grey haze of the morning sun was beginning to rise. He was bored. He was tired. He was hungry, and so thirsty his throat felt like leather, his lips like cracked rocks. But most of all, his feet hurt. He just wanted to know how much longer he¡¯d have to endure it.


    No one answered. ¡°Where are you taking us?¡± If none of the humans knew, he figured he might as well ask the bugs. There was no response. He repeated the question, louder this time. Still, the silence stretched on.


    ¡°Don¡¯t.¡± The young coachman was sullen. Watching a friend be eaten was hard on the man, and Peter couldn¡¯t help but pity him.


    ¡°Why not? They''re going to eat us anyway.¡± Peter muttered to himself more than anyone else. Then, a thought struck him. ¡°If we got free, could you find your way back to the coach?¡± The coachman¡¯s eyes widened, and for a moment, Peter thought his question had startled him. Then he realised the man wasn¡¯t looking at him¡ªhe was staring over his shoulder. Peter spun, but before he could react, Mr Revel tackled him, and they hit the ground hard.


    The first shot killed a Chitirin, and so did the second. The third, unfortunately, struck Mrs Boaden.


    She looked so still. That was what perplexed Peter the most. Peter had seen dead bodies before¡ªit was part and parcel of growing up poor on his world.


    In the streets and back alleys of Salt City, he¡¯d seen the victims of gangs and other ne¡¯er-do-wells left to rot. He¡¯d seen the homeless and desperate fade away, unnoticed as the city¡¯s indifference rolled on. Their bloated, stinking forms ignored as much in death as they had been in life. But this was the first time he¡¯d watched someone he knew¡ªsomeone he¡¯d spoken to¡ªdie before his eyes. It felt different¡ªless real, somehow. It was as if the body lying before him and the woman he¡¯d spoken with on the coach were two entirely different beings. It didn¡¯t look like her. The body was too still, the skin too taut, pale, and thin. Her eyes, they didn¡¯t belong to her. He closed them gently, unable to bear their sight any longer.


    She¡¯d been shot in the chest¡ªa high-powered las round searing through flesh and bone, boiling her blood and fluids within. She¡¯d died instantly, a small mercy Peter clung to amid the horror. Peter looked up from her body to the rangers¡ªhis saviours and her murderers. They ignored her corpse entirely. Perhaps they couldn¡¯t face what they¡¯d done, Peter thought. Or perhaps they didn¡¯t care.


    A squadron of twenty rangers on patrol had spotted the Chitirin and ambushed them. The battle was over in less than a minute. High-powered las shots streaked across the wastes. When the bugmen took to the skies, several rangers followed on back-mounted jet packs. The bugs were large and fast, but they were outnumbered and outmanoeuvred. Even so, they managed to bring down two rangers before the fight was over.


    They looked not unlike the coachmen, with their thick linen wraps to guard against the dust, but their flak-armoured suits set them apart. Their grey-brown flak suits blended with the dust, and high-tech face masks replaced the simpler goggles worn by the coachmen.


    Mr Revel and the surviving coachman were speaking with a ranger¡ªlikely the commanding officer¡ªwhile the rest retrieved their vehicles: two crawlers and a dozen scramblers. The rangers placed their fallen comrades in the boot of a crawler. No one came for Mrs Boaden. Peter¡¯s jaw wound tightly, and he bit back his anger.


    ¡°What happens now,¡± Peter had made his way to join Mr Revel and the others, interrupting them. Mr Revel and the coachmen looked to the ranger.


    ¡°We¡¯re operating out of Sunreach ,¡± The ranger¡¯s voice was made even colder and more cybernetic than the coachmen by his mask. ¡°We¡¯re going to take you back there. You¡¯ll be safe.¡±


    ¡°No.¡±  Mr Revel raised an eyebrow at Peter. ¡°I need to get back to the coach¡ªthen to Saltwater Ridge.¡± The young coachman¡¯s mouth fell slightly open, while the ranger¡¯s frustration was unmistakable. ¡°I have packages to deliver,¡± Peter explained firmly.


    ¡°¡®Well, good luck with that. We¡¯re going to Sunreach.¡± Peter¡¯s fists clenched at his sides as a flash of anger surged through him.


    ¡°No, the lad is right. We need to return to the coach.¡± The ranger¡¯s cockiness faded as Mr Revel spoke in Peter¡¯s support. ¡°There could be survivors,¡± Mr Revel added, his tone measured. ¡°And we¡¯d like to retrieve our belongings, if we can.¡±


    The eyeless lenses of the ranger leader burrowed into Mr Revel. Peter wondered what was going through his head. Out here in the wastes, with no witnesses but his own men, he could do as he pleased. Yet the man before him had endured a storm, a Chitirin ambush, and abduction, and not a speck of dust marred his jacket. Peter knew as little about Mr Revel as the ranger did, but both knew money and power when they saw it.


    ¡°Fine,¡± The ranger¡¯s tone was curt as he motioned to a group of subordinates. ¡°These men will take you in a crawler¡ªto the coach only. Saltwater Ridge is over four hundred miles away, and I need my men back in Sunreach. You leave in five. You going with them?¡± The young coachman shook his head in response. ¡°Smart boy, come with me.¡±  The ranger led the only surviving coachman away.


    Peter let out a sigh of relief. Maybe the packages in the coach¡¯s boot were still intact. Maybe there was still a chance to complete his deliveries. He still had a shot at changing his life¡ªand it was all thanks to Mr Revel, who had already saved him twice. As they stood alone, Peter glanced at Mr Revel, who was quietly studying a letter he¡¯d pulled from his breast pocket.


    ¡°What¡¯s your story Mr?¡± Peter asked. The Toff glanced up, offering a faint smile, but said nothing.

 Chapter Five - Deacon John

    Chapter Five


    Deacon John


    Pastor Maynor¡¯s mouth moved, but John heard nothing, the words lost to the cacophonous shrill of the copter¡¯s rotary blades. ¡°What?¡± John¡¯s voice fared no better. The man opposite tapped his helmet, and John remembered muting his own while he slept. With a sharp click and blurt static, he switched them on.


    Pastor Maynor leaned closer, repeating, ¡®You nervous?¡¯


    What a stupid question, John thought. Of course, he was nervous. He¡¯d waited for this moment, dreamed of it his entire life. Growing up in the convent, John had known little of the outside world. He was only permitted to venture out onto the streets of Salt City when he¡¯d become an acolyte and only in the company of the priests as they tended to the needy. Those that they tended to weren¡¯t really the needy but rather those citizens wealthy enough to afford private guidance in their own homes, and such activity hardly afforded him any real freedom.


    All his life, John had longed for a posting beyond the convent, beyond Salt City¡¯s towering wall, to a place where he could do real good¡ªout in the real world, where things actually mattered. Now, at long last, his prayers were being answered. He was going out beyond the periphery to administer to those who needed it most, the brave men and women of the frontier who still battled to bring God''s glory to the wastes of this world.


    What kind of prideful fool wouldn¡¯t be nervous?


    ¡°Yeah, I¡¯m nervous,¡± He almost laughed as he said it.


    ¡°Don¡¯t be! You¡¯ll be fine. We just coming up on her now,¡± The pastor leaned forward, peering through the small glass window on the copter¡¯s side. Trembling with excitement, the pastor slid open the copter¡¯s side door, gesturing for John to look. ¡°You don¡¯t want to miss this.¡± John obliged.


    Wind and dust rushed him, but it was worth it. As far as the eye could see was a vast, providential emptiness. Hardpan dust covered the surface of their world, expanding onward, featurelessly, for thousands of miles. In most places, it was flat, but the ever-shifting roll of dust dunes crept across the cragged ground like mountains on the march. The grey sun beamed through a cloudless sky, its light catching the ever-present particulates of dust, cloaking the world in a shimmering haze. It was a nothingness, yet within John saw the potential of an eveyrthingness¡ªa testament to God¡¯s infinite capacity for creation.


    Then he saw it, and it was beautiful. It stood alone, climbing upwards towards the sky, its limbs barren and pale, but there, reaching outward, spidering with branches, swaying gently in the wind.


    ¡°Is that¡­. a tree?¡± John marvelled, barely able to contain the wonder in his voice. John had seen trees before, naturally. There were plenty in the city parks, in the convent¡¯s gardens and agri-compounds, but the idea of one growing naturally, unaided by a team of scientists, chemical treatment baths and a plethora of technologies, was near unimaginable. Yet, here one was, standing tall and resilient in the middle of the waste.


    ¡°Just wait,¡± Pastor Maynor¡¯s voice was almost giddy. ¡°If that impresses you, you won¡¯t believe what comes next.¡±


    The Pastor did not disappoint. Soon, the copter flew over another tree, this one taller, its trunk thicker, and its bark¡¯s colour denser and more vibrant. Then came a third and a fourth, and more still, these specked with green, small spatterings of leaves sprouting across them. Then came the first one in full bloom and more after it, and then an emerald meadow, and then the source of all this life, the crystal blue water of a stream, rushing through an otherwise dusty valley, life creeping from its banks. ¡°Miracle Springs indeed.¡± John looked to the pastor, and the two shared a joyful laugh.


    As they flew over the miracle garden busting into life, John realised that God had already planted the first seeds that would turn his world into a paradise.


    ¡°Let¡¯s go over this one last time.¡± The copter had touched down, and Pastor Maynor led John down a tongue-like disembarkment ramp. John trailed behind, pulling an auto-trolley loaded with luggage. Its electric whirr grew louder as the copter¡¯s duel rotors fell silent.


    ¡°Miracle Springs is essential to the church¡¯s future on the planet. The scientists and bureaucrats have a stranglehold on the city, and the people don¡¯t have much appetite for good old-fashioned worship. Miracle Springs will change all that¡ªthe planet¡¯s first natural source of fresh water, the purest of testaments to God¡¯s glory in nature,¡± The pastor spread his arms wide as if to embrace the verdant vista. ¡°God''s greatest gift.¡± Taking in the majesty of the place, seeing life blooming from barren soil, John couldn¡¯t help but agree. This place was a gift. ¡°If we can nurture this place and help it flourish, the possibilities are endless. This is the church¡¯s future on this world¡ªa living symbol that faith is the true path to paradise.¡±


    ¡°If everything goes as planned, one day, the clergy will move our operation from the city to here, and this will become the home of both faith and prosperity.¡± John tried to imagine it¡ªa city of the faithful, living pure lives in sync with nature and God. It was a worthy goal, and he beamed internally as it occurred to him that he might be the one to bring those plans to fruition.


    ¡°God be good.¡± The importance of it all suddenly began to weigh on John. He had everything he¡¯d ever wanted¡ªfreedom from the convent and a chance to make a real difference. Yet, Pastor Maynor¡¯s briefing was doing little to calm his nerves. Doubts nagged at the back of his mind, like whispers from the devil. What if he wasn¡¯t ready? What if the people didn¡¯t take to him? What if he couldn¡¯t resist his mortal urges without the watchful presence of the clergy? He shook his head and tried to focus on his excitement instead.


    He was glad, at least, to finally stretch his legs. After days of flight strapped into the copter¡¯s seat, his body felt stiff and heavy. As John took his first steps onto this unlikely oasis, he was struck by the unexpected softness of the ground. It sank a little as if struggling under his weight. To John, the ground had always been a hard, unyielding, solid thing¡ªwhether the convent''s stone foundations or the wastes'' unrelenting hardpan. He stared, mesmerised, as the dirt shifted underfoot, a grin spreading across his face as he shook his head in disbelief.Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    ¡°Keep up, John.¡± Pastor Maynor¡¯s tone was brisk¡ªclearly, he had visited before, and the town¡¯s more mundane wonders had long since dulled for him. ¡°Now, the people here are already godly folk, but it will be your job to ensure they stay that way. You¡¯ll be working under the local Reverend and...¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s he like?¡± John interrupted. ¡°No one would tell me back at the convent.¡± It was more than that. John¡¯s posting had been a last-minute assignment, with only two days to prepare. Despite the rush, he had tried to learn about the man he¡¯d be apprenticing under. Yet, most either knew nothing of him or shook their heads, unwilling to speak of the Reverend.


    John had wondered about that. The clergy were notorious gossips, and their silence left him uneasy. He¡¯d heard of those who had fallen out of favour with the church¡¯s inner circles, exiled to distant, far-off missions. John assumed that must have been the fate of the Reverend of Miracle Springs. Yet even in those cases, the clergy were quick to share every fault of the exiled, spinning their failures into cautionary tales for the novices. John couldn¡¯t imagine how out of favour a man had to be that the old robes wouldn¡¯t even utter his name.


    ¡°He¡¯s¡­.¡± The pastor paused, hands on his hips, searching for the right words. ¡°He¡¯s eccentric. That¡¯s the best way to put it. A bit of a pariah.¡± John suspected that was an understatement. ¡°But he¡¯s a local¡ªtrained in the city, yes, but born here in Miracle Springs. He knows these people better than anyone.¡± Maynor eyed John, his tongue pressing against his cheek. John could almost see the man wrestling with an unspoken thought and wondered what it might be. ¡°He can be a tad bit unorthodox, and the clergy isn¡¯t a fan of that. They would appreciate it if you would bring a little more tradition to the town. Understood?¡±


    ¡°Understood.¡±


    ¡°Good,¡± Pastor Maynor led the way up from the landing site. They stopped at the edge of the town. ¡°Now, don¡¯t take anything I say the wrong way. The Reverend knows these people well¡ªhe¡¯s experienced and wise. He¡¯s been the Reverend here for a decade. You should do your best to ingratiate yourself with him and his congregation.¡±


    ¡°Any tips?¡±


    ¡°For the people? None. Folk out in the wastes are hardy and live by their own rules. Look to Reverend to help you with them. As for the Reverend himself?¡± Maynor paused, considering. ¡°Tell him you like his book.¡± The man shrugged. ¡°He¡¯s fond of people who read his book.¡±


    ¡°His book?¡±


    ¡°Emancipation from the Tyranny of the Self,¡± the pastor recited the title with satirical grandeur. ¡°You heard of it?¡± John shook his head. He liked to read, but most of the literature in the convent library was theological. ¡°Shame, it''s becoming quite popular in the capital¡ªa self-help book, of sorts. Not my cup of tea, but some people swear by it.¡± That was strange, John thought. Why would a priest write a self-help book? Surely, if the Reverend thought someone needed guidance, he should direct them to the bible¡ªall the help a person required could be found right there. As the thought occurred to him, John instinctively patted his breast pocket, where his pocket bible resided. ¡°Anyway, here we are,¡± the pastor said, turning to John and patting him on the shoulders. ¡°Good luck, Deacon John. I¡¯m sure you¡¯ll do us proud.¡± Maynor smiled warmly and extended John a hand.


    John clasped the pastor¡¯s hand firmly, shook it, and nodded his thanks. As the pastor strode back toward the sleek twin-rotored copter waiting on the dust-blown ground, John turned to take in his new home for the first time. Despite the churn of nerves in his stomach, his face creased with a broad smile. He had waited for this moment his entire life¡ªhis own parish, his own flock. At last, he was ready to begin the Lord¡¯s work.


    Some said all waste towns looked the same, and to a degree, they weren¡¯t wrong.


    Built from prefabricated metallic units, they were designed for quick installation and minimal maintenance. They were dull in colour and uniform in design. They looked purposeful. Each was ringed by towering moisture vaporators, plastic structures that used refrigerated cooling to extract what little water there was in the air. They always had a saloon, a courier depot, a transmitter station, a workshop, greenhouses for growing food and, in larger towns, agri-barns for housing livestock. It would look not unlike the grimy industrial complexes of humanity¡¯s past.


    Miracle Springs, however, looked nothing like any other town in the wastes. Originally constructed with the same prefabrication units, the people of Miracle Springs had transformed theirs. Wood beams and planks accented the buildings, giving each home a distinct, rustic charm. Many boasted porches and fine glass windows, while the remaining metallic surfaces were painted in soft whites or creams. Further, plants were ever-present¡ªpotted and arranged in windows or growing untamed in lush gardens.


    At one end of town stood the largest tree of all, planted in the heart of a little circular meadow, enclosed by a white picket fence with a wooden bench resting beside it. John marvelled at the towering tree as he passed, the gentle whir of his auto-trolley trailing behind him. A road ran up a gradual incline stretching from the little pasture and through the centre of town, all the primary buildings lining its path. At the far end, standing prominently and proudly with its soaring bell tower, was the town¡¯s chapel¡ªpainted white and crafted entirely from wood. John eagerly made his way toward it.


    As John ascended the road, the silence was deafening. By the halfway point, it was unbearable. John stopped, scanning the sides of buildings and peering into every window. The town was breathtakingly beautiful¡ªand eerily empty. Where was everyone? Where was his congregation?"


    ¡°Hello!¡± His voice echoed back to him¡ªthe only response.


    Sweat slicked John¡¯s palms, and his heart began to race. Had something befallen the townsfolk? Had raiders struck before his arrival? Had the Chitirin, the evil bugmen that plagued the wastes, abducted his would-be flock? He had heard grim tales of such terrible attacks. In the desolate wastes, where communication was scarce, isolated towns often became easy prey for alien hunting parties. Entire towns had vanished overnight. Though rangers fought valiantly to keep the primitive creatures at bay, their numbers were too few, and they couldn¡¯t be everywhere at once. He shivered as a chilling through gripped him¡ªwhat if he was walking straight into one of the creatures¡¯ latest traps? As if sealing his fate, the dragonfly-like copter rose over the treetops and roofs, climbing into the sky, abandoning him.


    John swallowed hard, his throat dry as he watched it disappear. Then, he jumped, the harsh sound of cocking startling him. ¡°Who are you?¡± a gruff, no-nonsense voice demanded. John put his hands high, his fingers trembling. He turned slowly, spotting an old man standing on the porch of a nearby house, a rusted pump gun cradled casually in one hand. He wasn¡¯t pointing it at John, but it rested ready in the man¡¯s grip, and John had no doubt he could use it with deadly precision.


    ¡°I¡¯m¡­I¡¯m John,¡± He realised that meant nothing to the man. ¡°Deacon John,¡± he clarified quickly. ¡°I¡¯ve been sent to assist the Reverend?¡±


    ¡°Uh-huh.¡± The old man limped forward a few steps, favouring his right leg.


    ¡°The church has sent me; They... they should have told you I was coming.¡±


    The old man spat a glob of murky fluid, flecks of it clinging to the tangled ropes of his white beard. ¡°Nope.¡±


    ¡°Oh,¡± John shrugged awkwardly. ¡°My apologies.¡±


    ¡°Uh-huh.¡±


    They stood in silence for several tense seconds, and John felt his fear begin to fade. ¡°Can I put my hands down?¡±


    ¡°If¡¯uns you like.¡±


    ¡°Thank you,¡± John mumbled, lowering his hands to his side. ¡°Not quite the first impression I¡¯d hoped for.¡± The old man didn¡¯t share John¡¯s amusement. ¡°Can I ask your name, Sir?¡±


    ¡°Stanley,¡± John didn¡¯t know if that was his first or last name, but he figured there was little reason to pry. John glanced around, hoping someone more loquacious might appear, but the town remained as empty as he¡¯d found it, the old man seemingly its only inhabitant.


    ¡°Say, Stanley, where is everyone?¡± John asked, trying to shake the nerves from his tone.


    ¡°The funeral,¡± Stanley said flatly as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.


    ¡°The funeral?¡±

 Chapter Six - Grief and Greetings

    Chapter Six


    Grief and Greetings


    From what John could tell, nearly every resident of Miracle Springs¡ªfour hundred people or more¡ªhad gathered for the funeral. The townsfolk had journeyed a short way down the valley to a grass-covered funeral mound marked by simple wooden crosses and tombstones. Nearly a hundred plastic chairs, all occupied, were surrounded by a semi-circle of standing mourners, all dressed modestly in dark colours. Every gaze was fixed inwardly, looking to a fresh grave.


    John couldn¡¯t see past the throng to discern who was being laid to rest, but the size of the crowd hinted at a person of rare importance or likeability¡ªor perhaps the town was simply that close-knit. If the latter were true, it occurred to John that he would have a hard time breaking down walls to find his place among them. Not wanting to intrude on the precious, sombre moment, John lingered at the back, just out of sight. At least he was dressed appropriately, in black, he thought, though days of travel had left him scruffy and dishevelled. He stood with hands clasped before his waist, watching and waiting in polite silence.


    John had arrived late in the ceremony, and a quartet of musicians played a hauntingly layered piece as the coffin was carried to its final rest. A fiddler led the quartet, drawing out a mournful melody of long, plaintive notes. A slightly out-of-tune piano laid a foundation of soft, sustained chords, while two harmonicas joined¡ªone adding breathy drones, the other weaving a countermelody that harmonised with the fiddle. The tune invited introspection, and John suspected it roused bittersweet memories of the departed among the mourners. John hadn¡¯t known the departed, but the music still brought back his own memories.


    He recalled times of confinement and isolation in the convent¡¯s mediative chambers, punishment for undesirable behaviour. As a man, John could confidently say that he took his vows and duties seriously, but the same couldn¡¯t be said of his youth. He had rebelled, often, earning him the ire of the prior and abbess. As a child, his mischief included skipping prayers, sneaking into forbidden areas, and earned punishments like extra chores, fasting, and public confessions. As a teenager, however, he¡¯d pushed the boundaries further, questioning authority, fighting the other novices and, on occasion, sneaking out into the city. His behaviour had been corrected, however, when his keepers learnt that John hated nothing more than being denied his autonomy. Isolation and confinement followed frequently, until John became a model acolyte.


    As the attendees swayed, a gap in the crowd gave John a glimpse of those seated in the most prominent positions¡ªthe departed¡¯s closest kin. Two women occupied the seats of honour, both veiled in mourning garbs. One was elderly, her trembling hands clutching her lap as tears coursed down her lined face, her body wracked with sobs. The other was a younger woman whose evident beauty was apparent even from a distance. Her face was a mask of stone, and her tears fell in silence. The swaying crowd shifted again, and the women disappeared behind the mass of bodies.


    The question of the departed¡¯s identity gnawed at John, and a thought struck him¡ªperhaps the cruel whims of irony had played their hand, and the one being buried was the Reverend himself. Someone at the head of the ceremony offered a final prayer, however, and John dismissed the idea.


    The two women were ushered forward, each taking a turn to drop a single spade of dirt into the grave. One by one, the mourners followed suit, each casting their own spadeful of earth into the grave before the two women led the procession back toward the town.


    The townsfolk passed John slowly, most noticing him for the first time. ¡°Afternoon. Sorry for your loss. Afternoon. My condolences. Afternoon.¡± He tried to give each a polite smile, nod, or other courtesy. In return, he received disconcerted glares, hushed mutters, or outright avoidance. John cocked his head in confusion at first. He expected a greater degree of curiosity. When the two women and the first of the townsfolk passed, he¡¯d dismissed their apathy as the occupation of grief, but the more people walked by him, the more his cheeks burned, his presence suddenly feeling like an intrusion. This was, he realised, a terrible introduction. The awkwardness dragged on for what felt like hours but was, in reality, minutes.


    At last, the procession ended. A few stragglers lingered to collect chairs and carry the piano, and finally, someone acknowledged John. A tall, slender man of athletic build, with lean, clean-shaven features and meticulously kept wavy grey hair, stood twenty paces from John, his pale blue eyes examining him. John felt like livestock at market, being appraised for his worth.


    ¡°Reverend?¡± John wasn¡¯t sure. The man wore no clerical collar, and his attire was uncomfortably informal. He wore plain dark trousers with a matching high-collared shirt, the top button undone, covered by a grey wool jacket with a dogtooth pattern and tan elbow patches, worn loosely. Most striking was the pistol holstered at his hip, hanging casually but unmistakably.


    ¡°Dan will do fine.¡± The man¡¯s still predatory expression barely altered as he spoke, his words soft, practical and deliberate. His tall, stiff stature, paired with his unusual attire, conjured the image of a warrior poet in John¡¯s mind.


    ¡°Dan¡­¡±


    ¡°Reverend Dan,¡± The speed with which the Reverend corrected John took him off guard, leaving him momentarily dumbstruck. ¡°And you would be?¡±


    ¡°John,¡± John explained, finding his voice, ¡°The church sent me. Deacon John¡­¡±


    ¡°John will do.¡± Reverend Dan¡¯s posture eased, and John exhaled as the man¡¯s scrutinising gaze finally shifted away. He felt like he had been weighed, summed up and found none threatening. The Reverend took in the alien countryside for a moment before returning his attention to John. ¡°You''re late.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry?¡±


    ¡°We have no use for apologies in these parts, Deacon John.¡± John found the words cutting. He had no idea what the Reverend was talking about. He¡¯d been rushed to Miracle Springs as if his assignment were the church¡¯s most pressing concern. Yet the man who was supposed to be his mentor had, in seconds, made it clear that John didn¡¯t measure up and was anything but wanted. Something churned in the bottom of John¡¯s stomach, and he decided that was simply unacceptable.


    ¡°I wasn¡¯t apologising.¡± John raised his voice firmly and lifted his chin in defiance. ¡°I was asking for clarity. I was assigned to the posting mere days ago and got here in good time.¡±


    ¡°Days ago?¡± The man echoed.


    ¡°Days ago,¡± John repeated.


    ¡°I submitted my request for further support in Miracle Spring over six months ago.¡± There was a mix of accusation and amusement in the Reverend¡¯s tone.


    ¡°I¡¯m afraid I know nothing about that.¡± John felt no need to expand.


    ¡°I see.¡± Reverend Dan ran his tongue against his cheek in contemplation. Then, seemingly deciding whatever issue had occupied him, he began walking toward John. ¡°Well, John, you have chosen the most inopportune moment to turn up, but I¡¯ve a wake to host, and I don¡¯t turn away willing hands.¡± The Reverend strode past without breaking pace, forcing John to sidestep to avoid being bowled over. ¡°Follow me.¡±


    John watched the Reverend stalk away, his back rigid with purpose. This was not the welcome he¡¯d been expecting.


    ¡°My people don¡¯t take kindly to newcomers on the best of days, and today is far from the best of days,¡± the Reverend told John as they approached a large manor on the town¡¯s outskirts. The manor belonged to the Reverend. Its grandeur and luxury left John momentarily speechless. Like the chapel, it was built entirely of wood but was ostensibly larger, boasting many floors, a wide-open porch and several balconies. ¡°We will save introductions for another day. For now, if you would kindly stick to serving,¡± the Reverend instructed. ¡°There¡¯s a buffet in the ballroom, more food in the kitchen, and wine in the racks at the back¡ªonly serve what¡¯s in those racks. Restock as needed, and don¡¯t bother anyone.¡±


    ¡°Who died?¡± The look the Reverend gave him told John that that was a faux pas. The fury in the man¡¯s eyes made John¡¯s shift to the handle of the man¡¯s holstered pistol. Whether the Reverend had noticed, John wasn¡¯t sure. If he had, he¡¯d paid no attention to it and instead looked away, his expression heavy with contemplation. ¡°A young man,¡± he answered, his voice softer. His eyes glistened, and John could see the depth of sorrow the Reverend felt for the departed¡¯s loss. ¡°Deputy Gregory. Took his own life.¡±


    ¡°A¡­ suicide?¡± Suicide was once considered a mortal sin by the church. Although that assertion had long since been recounted, it was still taboo. John began to understand the surly attitude of the townsfolk.


    ¡°Yes.¡± Reverend Dan replied curtly. Having no appetite for further questions, the Reverend left John to tend to the back of the house while he greeted guests.


    Less than half an hour later, the funeral attendees filled the many receiving rooms and atria of Reverend Dan¡¯s grand home.  Though the Reverend had prepared a generous spread, each household contributed dishes to the feast. The townsfolk arrived with offerings in tin trays and plastic containers, which John diligently transferred onto the silver platters, trays, and salvers the Reverend insisted they be presented on. A twenty-foot table draped in a pristine white cloth dominated one side of the ballroom. John arranged the food until the table overflowed, storing the excess in the kitchen.Stolen story; please report.


    Beyond refilling platters and pouring wine, John had almost no interaction with the townsfolk. He tried to greet everyone as they came to the buffet. Most ignored him entirely, taking what he offered without so much as a ¡®please¡¯ or ¡®thank you. One older woman even discarded the food he¡¯d served her into a plant pot in the corner of the room, and John couldn¡¯t help but feel it was purely because it had come from his hands. John had heard that folk in the wastes were tough to win over, but no one had warned him about their outright pig-headed rudeness. As the night wore on, his initial disbelief gave way to growing apathy, and eventually, he stopped trying to engage with the people altogether.


    The Reverend, however, had no such difficulty. Though John caught little of what the Reverend said, he watched him glide effortlessly from guest to guest, recalling personal details, evoking laughter, and spreading warmth wherever he went. At times, groups clustered around him as he pontificated on one subject or the other with infectious enthusiasm, his features lit by an easy charisma. John felt very much like the outsider, peering through frosted windows at a warm Christmas dinner, yearning to be part of it.


    John wondered if this charismatic version of the Reverend would extend such warmth to him in the days ahead. Regarding first impressions, Reverend Dan had left much to be desired. John was young, inexperienced, and a stranger in an alien land, yet Reverend Dan had made no effort to ease his transition. This was the man who would be his mentor and guide for what might be many years to come. John had hoped for more.


    Other than the Reverend, the guests also sought out the two women from the funeral, whom John learned were Deputy Gregory¡¯s mother and widow. Gregory¡¯s mother was visited mainly by the older women, while the town¡¯s men vied for the widow¡¯s attention, though she politely dismissed each as quickly as she could. There was something perverse about how the men hovered around the widow, even at her husband¡¯s wake, and John¡¯s ire grew as he watched each make a spectacle of themselves. Men should have more shame, he thought, and from the outskirts of the affair, he judged all silently with tuts and a shaking head.


    The widow was among the first to leave, the mother not long after. Others made their way home only when the food and wine ran low. The stragglers needed the Reverend¡¯s gentle urging to depart. At last, when the house was empty, the Reverend joined John in the kitchen, where John had begun the monumental task that was the affair¡¯s dishes. ¡°Jonny Boy, thank you for your assistance today, but I can see to the rest of this.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s John.¡± John almost choked on the words as if saying them were some great offence, ¡°and I¡¯m happy to help¡ªthere¡¯s still plenty to clean.¡±


    ¡°Nothing I can¡¯t handle, lad.¡± The Reverend was already at the sink, sorting leftovers into disposable and repurposeable piles. ¡°I¡¯m afraid the town¡¯s full¡ªno vacant lodging. If we¡¯d had word of your coming, we¡¯d have arranged a prefab or built a house, but that is not the situation we find ourselves in. You can stay here, in one of my guest rooms, or at the saloon¡ªyour choice.¡±


    ¡°Well¡­ I wouldn¡¯t want to impose.¡±


    ¡°The saloon it is then.¡± The Reverend¡¯s quick reply left John feeling foolish for his politeness, a faint sting of rejection accompanying. From the moment he¡¯d arrived in the town, it seemed every act committed by its inhabitants had been engineered to drive him away. ¡°I¡¯ll see you in the morning. In the chapel. At sunrise. Don¡¯t be late.¡±


    ¡°Right,¡± John said dumbly. It had happened so fast that John didn¡¯t know what to do with himself. ¡°Goodnight, Reverend.¡±


    ¡°Goodnight, Jonny Boy.¡±


    John showed himself out. As he stepped into the night, he couldn¡¯t help but feel a fool.


    ¡°What d¡¯ya want?¡± The plump, crotchety old barwoman barked.


    John had spent his entire life dreaming of the day he¡¯d meet his own congregation, one out in the real world where things actually mattered. Now he had it, and he couldn¡¯t stand any of them. Be careful what you wish for, he thought bitterly.


    ¡°Apologies, ma¡¯am. I was told you might have rooms available.¡±


    ¡°Uh-huh.¡± The woman was chewing something and didn¡¯t allow speaking to interrupt that.


    ¡°May I rent one?¡±


    ¡°How long ya gonna be needing it?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure. Indefinitely, perhaps.¡±


    ¡°Indefinitely,¡± the woman parroted, dragging out the syllables, her pronunciation off. John forced a smile. He was growing tired, and the niceties were becoming overbearing.


    ¡°Yes. Indefinitely.¡±


    ¡°Twenty creds a night.¡± John took a deep breath. Charging a clergyman for board¡ªwhat was wrong with these people?


    ¡°Very well,¡± he said, biting his tongue, his toes curling in his boots. He knelt, pulling an emergency cred stick from his sock. He presented it to the woman, watching her for a hint of approval ¡°I can pay for three nights now. I¡¯ll cover the rest once I withdraw more from the exchange.¡±


    ¡°Exchange won¡¯t be up till Tuesday.¡± It was Thursday.


    John gritted his teeth and forced another tight-lipped smile. ¡°How about taking the first three days as a deposit? I¡¯ll settle the rest on Tuesday.¡± The woman didn¡¯t react. ¡°I¡¯m good for it,¡± John insisted, tapping the clerical collar around his neck. The woman thought for a moment, then lifted her charging wand from beneath the bar she¡¯d been resting on, a touch screen device supported by a handle, and extended it to John. A charge of sixty creds was demarcated on it. John tapped it. ¡°Thank you,¡± he said.


    He looked at the woman expectantly. She didn¡¯t move. ¡°I¡¯ll find my own way, shall I?¡± He did.


    The next morning, as the grey sun rose over the horizon, its rays catching the dust and making it twinkle, John nervously made his way to the chapel to meet Reverend Dan. The large double doors were unlocked. He pushed them open and called, ¡®Reverend?¡¯ but no one answered. It seemed he¡¯d arrived first, and he exhaled in quiet relief. He¡¯d gotten little sleep the night before and was dreading the day ahead, and any delay to it, for which he was innocent, was a godsend.


    The chapel was large, much larger than John had expected to find outside the city. It wasn¡¯t big enough for all of the town¡¯s residents, but half could sit comfortably on the pews.


    John marvelled at its simplicity: white, unadorned walls, matching white pews, dark wooden floors, and a plain altar draped with a simple cloth beside a pulpit with a short spiral staircase. Most windows were glassless, sealed by wooden shutters. The only exception was the fore window¡ªa stained-glass depiction of the Virgin Mary, her serene face bathed in soft, coloured light. John walked down the central aisle, pausing halfway to admire the modesty.


    He glanced at the pulpit, picturing himself ministering from it, and the thought brought an unexpected smile to his face. Introductions hadn¡¯t gone how he hoped, that was true, but he was still here, out in the real world, with real people to shepherd. He was letting nerves and doubts get the better of him. This was what he¡¯d always wanted. He could win these people over. He knew it.


    He jumped, the sudden sound of someone clearing their throat startling him. He realised the chapel wasn¡¯t as empty as he¡¯d thought.


    A woman sat alone on one pew. She was strikingly beautiful, with soft but lean features, golden hair, skin like a doll, and subtle, inviting lips. It took a moment, but John recognised her as the widow from the day before¡ªDeputy Gregory¡¯s wife. Her eyes were puffy, though dry. She had been crying, but her limit for tears had been reached some time ago.


    Her presence unsettled John; her beauty was distracting, and the weight of his duty to guide her through such sorrow pressed heavily on him. It was a priest''s job to help their congregation with such burdens, but that was still new to him, and this was quite the burden. He suddenly wished the Reverend were here after all.


    He cleared his throat. ¡°Morning, miss, and my apologies¡ªI did not mean to intrude.¡±


    ¡°You didn¡¯t.¡± Her voice was as soft as her appearance, and John felt a pang of sorrow that someone so young and gentle should endure such tragedy. John offered her a polite smile, rocking nervously on his heels, unsure of what to say next.


    ¡°You have my condolences for your loss.¡± he said. He knew the words were insufficient, but they were more an attempt to fill the silence than they were one to comfort.


    ¡°Thank you.¡±


    ¡°Is there anything I can do?¡±


    The woman looked at him, her expression perplexed. ¡®Like what?¡¯ she asked. He didn¡¯t have an answer.


    ¡°Would you like to talk, perhaps?¡± He offered, feeling increasingly out of his depth.


    ¡®No,¡¯ she answered. Her voice was the kindest John had heard since arriving in Miracle Springs, though she was still one of them and spoke with the same succinctness as the rest of the townsfolk. John nodded, smiled awkwardly and looked away from the woman, pretending to admire the chapel¡¯s architecture. ¡°What¡¯s your name Mr?¡± she asked, catching him by surprise.


    ¡°J¡­John.¡± He answered.


    She offered a faint smile and nodded. ¡®I¡¯m Mary.¡¯ He nodded back. ¡°Would you sit with me, John?¡±  Her question caught him by surprise.


    ¡°Sit with you?¡± John could think of no reason why a woman would ever ask him to sit with them.


    ¡°Yes, sit with me while I pray?¡± John chuckled to himself and felt stupid. She was not asking him to sit with her. She was asking God.


    ¡°Certainly.¡± He shuffled down the pew, leaving a respectful gap between them, and waited as she bowed her head. As Mary whispered her secret words to God, John sat awkwardly, shifting uncomfortably as the stillness pressed on him. He¡¯d never felt more uncomfortable. He tried to swallow, but it caught a little in his throat, and he stifled his choking. He shifted, fidgeting, unsure what to do, waiting for something else to happen. When Mary finally sat up, he smiled hesitantly, and she returned it briefly. ¡°I¡¯m sure he¡¯s listening,¡± he said, pointing upward. The moment the words left his mouth, he regretted them, especially when her expression shifted to a mix of amusement and bewilderment. He cleared his throat, his cheeks burning as he averted his gaze, wishing the ground would swallow him whole.


    ¡°Thank you,¡± she said politely, rising to leave. John stood as well, offering a quiet farewell.


    ¡°If you ever need anything else, just let me know,¡± he said, more to fill the silence than out of confidence. ¡°It¡¯s hard to make sense of... suicide. If there¡¯s any way I can help, I¡¯d like to.¡±


    ¡°Excuse me?¡± The kindness in her voice was gone, replaced by a sharp and accusing tone. It was John¡¯s turn to be bewildered. He didn¡¯t know what he¡¯d done to offend.


    ¡°Hmm?¡± It was the only sound he could make.


    ¡°You said suicide.¡±


    ¡°Yes.¡± He confirmed nervously.


    ¡°My husband did not kill himself.¡± The woman declared. ¡°He was murdered¡­¡± John was speechless. He had no idea what to say. Thoughts raced through his head with such speed he struggled to grasp any of them. Mostly, he wondered why the Reverend had lied to him.


    ¡°Deacon John.¡± The Reverend''s voice reverberated, making both John and Mary jump. Neither had noticed him enter the chapel, his presence as sudden as his voice. John scrambled out of the pew and into the aisle, feeling much like he had as a boy when caught sneaking back over the convent walls.


    ¡°Reverend Dan,¡± he greeted the man with a bow of the head, ¡°I was just introducing myself to Miss¡­.¡±


    ¡°Davenport.¡± Mary finished for him. ¡°And I was just leaving.¡± She left in a hurry, fury having replaced the sadness in her features. Reverend Dan watched her leave, then turned a wide-eyed gaze on John.


    ¡°Well, Jonny Boy,¡± he said, a twinge of amusement in his voice, ¡°it seems you have a knack for making first impressions.¡±

 Chapter Seven - Dust on the Wind

    Chapter Seven


    Dust on the Wind


    Do mountains ever tire of standing still?


    On Peter Patterson¡¯s world, they did¡ªand often, choosing to wander. There one day, gone the next. The dust was light¡ªcarried on the gentlest breeze, drifting high in the sky for years without ever coming down. The dust was light, but it was also clingy. Wherever one speck lingered, others followed; as they gathered, they grew too heavy for the wind to bear. Where the earth welcomed the dust, it built, mounting into great dunes that blanketed the surface. The dust was clingy, but still, it was light. Lighter than a whisper. Wherever the dust gathered, it would roll¡ªcarried onward by the wind, grain by grain¡ªeach particle tugging its companions, eager to dance in the skies once more. Through this unending cycle, the landscape of Peter¡¯s world remained ever-changing. The Rolling Dunes, The Waving Wastes, The Wandering Hills¡ªThe Never-Ever World Beyond the Walls.


    It was through that same process that the coach that had carried Peter from Salt City¡¯s walls and into the periphery was buried. More than two days had passed since the attack, and the giant metallic slug was now half submerged in dust, piled like a cliff face on one side, overhanging and perilously close to collapse. Of the coach¡¯s four compartments, only the boot had been entirely engulfed by the drifting world. The rest peeked out, looking like the slivers of metal in a vein of ore.


    Peering down from atop a virgin dune, Peter¡¯s heart sank. The dull sheen of the iron worm was dwarfed by the rolling mountain consuming it several dozen feet below. Beneath those tons of dust lay his one chance at a better life.


    Peter thought of his fellow street dwellers back in Salt City¡ªof how many of them thought they had come as close to salvation as he, only to have it snatched away. He thought of the bloating, stinking bodies in the alleys and of the Toffs who passed by, never bothering to acknowledge the tragedy¡¯s existence. He imagined his own corpse abandoned there one day. His flesh turned slick, his meat stinking, his stomach distended, the slow rot of his form ignored by millions¡ªtale¡¯s end for every street-born Grounder.


    He refused that fate. It would never come to pass. He wouldn¡¯t let it. He¡¯d have better, or he¡¯d die trying. Peter sprinted down the dune¡¯s face toward the sinking coach.


    ¡°Get back here, boy!¡± The lead ranger unleashed his metallic bark, though giving chase was clearly not part of his repertoire. ¡°That dune is sinking. Kid¡¯s gonna drown if you don¡¯t go after him.¡±


    ¡°Well, we can¡¯t have that now, can we?¡± Mr Revel made his way to the rear of the crawler¡ªthe armoured six-seater buggy that had brought him and Peter back to the coach. He popped open the crawler¡¯s boot and retrieved two shovels. ¡°I take it you fellows won¡¯t be going after my acquaintance?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t think we will.¡± Though his face was covered, the ranger¡¯s annoyance at escort duty was clear.


    ¡°Very good then.¡± If Mr Revel was irritated, he did not show it. The ranger leaned against the buggy¡¯s side, watching Mr Revel follow leisurely in Peter¡¯s footsteps.


    There was just so much of it. It was endless¡ªrelentless. No matter how much dust Peter clawed away, more always flooded in to replace it, and when he dragged that back too, still more followed. ¡°Come on,¡± he muttered under his panting breath as he dug toward the coach.


    So enraptured by his task, Peter failed to notice Mr Revel¡¯s approach and jumped when two shovels clattered beside him. ¡°These will probably help,¡± Mr Revel¡¯s tone was as chipper as ever. It seemed to Peter that nothing ever bothered the man. Peter muttered his thanks, took one of the spades, and began digging in earnest.


    Mr Revel was right; it did help. Soon, Peter was making a real dent in the side of the dune.


    At first, Mr Revel helped Peter dig but soon changed his mind and simply watched the boy work. Peter considered challenging the man¡¯s idleness but held his tongue. He was a Toff, after all¡ªand Toffs never lift a finger when someone else can do it for them. As Peter¡¯s hole grew deeper, and he sank lower into it, Mr Revel nodded in approval. ¡°You know, you might be the most dedicated delivery boy I¡¯ve ever met.¡±


    Peter¡¯s unwavering pace was indeed impressive¡ªat least from the outside looking in. Peter himself would have given anything to stop. The rough metal of the shovel was coarse against his hands, and he could feel his calloused skin hardening further. Since the attack, he¡¯d had only a few swigs of water, donated from one of the ranger¡¯s canteens, and hadn¡¯t eaten in even longer. His body was dry and hot and running on empty. He ached¡ªhis shoulders and arms especially¡ªand on more than one occasion, his muscles burned so fiercely he feared he couldn¡¯t lift another shovelful. But he did, time and again. He had no choice. His future lay buried beneath this dust. If he didn¡¯t reach the coach¡¯s boot¡ªand the Miracle Springs package within¡ªhe might as well lie down and wait for the dust to consume him, just like it was doing to the coach.This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    ¡°I¡¯m not a delivery boy,¡± the words were spoken on exhales and inhales. Peter had precious little air to spare for Mr Revel. ¡°I¡¯m a courier.¡±


    ¡°And what¡¯s the difference?¡± Mr Revel crossed his arms over his spade¡¯s handle and leaned forward over Peter¡¯s dust hole, genuine interest upon his features.


    Peter stopped, giving his body a much-needed break as he considered Mr Revel¡¯s question. ¡°Simple,¡± he answered. ¡°One works only within Salt City¡¯s walls; the other braves the wastes.¡± Mr Revel nodded theatrically as he mulled the answer, swaying side to side as though he needed his entire body to decide if he agreed.


    ¡°Okay,¡± Mr Revel replied. ¡°But if I may say so, Pete, my boy, you don¡¯t strike me as someone who¡¯s done much braving of the wastes.¡±


    Apparently, Peter¡¯s expression was more insulted than he intended¡ªlikely the result of fatigue. ¡°Now, now,¡± Mr Revel added, holding up a hand. ¡°Don¡¯t get me wrong; I mean no offence by that. But I already know you don¡¯t have a scrambler of your own¡ªthat¡¯s why you travelled by coach¡ªand you travelled unarmed, and you¡¯re trying to dig up a dust dune¡ªwhich, I¡¯ve got to tell you, is not the safest thing a man can do.¡±


    Peter looked back at the hole, nearly as tall as he was now. A thought occurred to him, spurred by Mr Revel¡¯s musings. ¡°I don¡¯t need to dig up the dune,¡± he said. ¡°I just need to reach the boot release.¡± With that plan of action in mind, Peter began shovelling again, this time with renewed vigour.


    ¡°Well, don¡¯t do that,¡± Mr Revel chuckled, ¡°shift that much dust at once, and the dune might¡­¡±


    ¡°Got it!¡± Oblivious to Mr Revel¡¯s warning, Peter struck the boot release, and the compartment popped open. Dust shifted and flowed like furious rapids, seizing both men and dragging them under. The dust was sinking, drowning Mr Revel and Peter.


    Peter was rushed into the coach¡¯s boot compartment, Mr Revel and a ton of dust quickly following behind.


    He was flipped about and tossed around, unable to tell which way was up. His breath was stolen from him, forcing him to gasp for what little air remained inside the boot. He was pushed past the packages he¡¯d laboured so hard to reach and deeper into the compartment until, finally, he was pressed against the back wall. Mr Revel was forced in beside him.


    ¡°Mr Rev¡­¡± Shouting was pointless. Within seconds, the limited space of the boot was flooded, and Peter was forced to seal his mouth tight lest he drown in dust. Then, he had to close his eyes and was trapped in a dark world. The weight pinned him so firmly that he couldn¡¯t even struggle in the blackness.


    Waves of dust clung to him in their billions, holding him down, burying him alive.


    Had he not been so entirely restrained, Peter might have laughed at the thought that occurred to him in his final moments. He¡¯d always figured that if death found him, he¡¯d go out like anyone else¡ªon his knees praying for just a little longer, or fighting in a blaze of glory, confident his heroics would never be forgotten. These had been a child¡¯s thoughts¡ªthe fantasies of a young, immature kid who¡¯d stalked Salt City¡¯s seedier districts. The man who was trying to escape the life of his childhood, however, was silent in his final moments. He didn¡¯t pray or fight; there was no point. You can¡¯t fight the dust, and there is no God of the Wastes. One single thought passed through his mind, and it made him laugh. I wish I¡¯d drunk more.


    Peter had never liked drinking.


    It wasn¡¯t that he disliked the taste, or that he¡¯d suffered a particularly bad hangover one time; it was that he¡¯d grown up around men who were simply just that¡ªdrinkers. He¡¯d watch them hurry purposelessly to taverns at first light, sit alone nursing drink after drink from sunrise to sunset, then stumble into the street in search of a corner to piss and sleep in.


    Those men¡ªthey¡¯d been the most terrifying to him. The street thugs, chem pushers, and corrupt enforcers were all dangerous, and he¡¯d be wary whenever he encountered any of them. But those lonely men in the bars, the ones who had nothing more to live for than cheap ale? They were what kept him up at night. The fear that one day, that would be him.


    Peter had never liked drinking, but he suddenly wished he¡¯d drunk more.


    There almost hadn¡¯t been a second on board the coach when Mr Revel hadn¡¯t had a glass of vermouth in hand¡ªas if the glass was part of his outfit. It had made the man appear suave, and Peter felt the presence of the drink helped others excuse the probing way he asked questions, extracting tale after tale while sharing none of his own. It had made Mr Revel charming, and Peter wished he¡¯d been more charming in his life.


    Mr Revel, the man who even the dust wouldn¡¯t touch, was buried somewhere beyond the obliqueness that separated them, and that was Peter¡¯s fault. Was that to be his final feeling¡ªguilt for having unintentionally led the Toff to his doom? It was bad enough that he¡¯d yet to have the chance to truly live his own life; why did he have to die with the weight of ending a man who seemingly lived every day to the fullest? Was that really fair to put on him? Mr Revel hadn¡¯t needed to follow Peter. Peter didn¡¯t need to be responsible for the man¡¯s fate.


    Peter wished he could apologise to Mr Revel. The man had saved him twice, and all Peter had done in return was get him killed. Peter suddenly realised that he liked Mr Revel. He didn¡¯t really know why; he just found the man a comforting presence, like having an older brother around, equal parts wanted and unwanted.


    Peter started to choke.


    The last of the air in his lungs was spent. He heard his heart struggling, its thudding beat becoming all there was in the darkness. Thump by thump, it started to weaken, the drumming falling silent.


    His last thought was whether his body¡ªtrapped inside the coach¡¯s boot¡ªwould become part of the dust. Would the mountainous dune above him claim him as its own? Would he wander the surface of the world in the aeons to come? Was he to be part of his world¡¯s endless, shifting cycle?


    Something gripped him, and he was pulled forward, dust flowing around him, draining away. Peter breathed. Then came the light¡ªstrong and bright¡ªstabbing into his eyes.

 Chapter Eight - The Wastes

    Chapter Eight


    The Wastes


    Peter spluttered, trying to spit the bitter dust from his mouth. It was clingy and dry, scratching at his tongue as it refused to be dislodged. It was in his eyes¡ªgritty, making it almost impossible to open them. He understood now that it wasn¡¯t light that stabbed at him as he was pulled from the coach¡¯s boot; it was the rolling dust, digging its way deeper through his eyelids toward the blue pools beneath. He rubbed at them but only managed to grind more of the particulate into his sockets. He cried out in helpless agony.


    ¡°Hold still,¡± barked a metallic voice as something gripped and steadied him. Peter flinched as coldness struck his face, washing over it. Relieved, he realised it was water¡ªone of the rangers emptying their canteen over him. He wiped away the water, working it into his eyes until they were almost clear of debris so he could open them again. ¡°There you go,¡± muttered the ranger as Peter¡¯s vision focused, and the man came into view. He handed Peter his canteen, and Peter drained the little that remained, washing his mouth out. He was grateful, but the precious little that was left was hardly enough to banish the chemical taste of the dust from his tongue, and the ranger snatched the empty can back; his generosity exceeded.


    Mr Revel was also free. He paced back and forth a few paces away, hands on his hips, his wet face a mask of fury.


    Peter¡¯s shoulders sank at the sight of the Toff¡¯s expression. He¡¯d nearly gotten the man killed. It is a poor way to repay the kindness of saving his life twice. Naturally, that must have irritated Mr Revel; Peter had just begun to realise he liked the man, and now, seconds after that revelation, he feared the man would probably hate him. At the very least, he¡¯d think Peter a fool. ¡°Sorry, Mr Revel,¡± Peter said softly, his voice heavy with guilt.


    Mr Revel halted and turned his ire toward Peter. Then the anger faded, and he smiled. ¡°Whatever for, my lad?¡±


    ¡°I almost got you killed.¡±  Mr Revel chuckled.


    ¡°My boy, are you the man who covered this world in dust?¡± Peter shook his head as Mr Revel began to approach. ¡°Did you attack the coach and kidnap us?¡± Peter shook his head again, and Mr Revel stood beside him. ¡°Did you build that dust dune?¡± Peter shook his head once more. ¡°Pete, my boy,¡± Mr Revel continued, ¡°someone out here is trying to kill me. I know that much, but it isn¡¯t you.¡± He patted Peter on the shoulder before going to speak with the ranger leader.


    Peter was too relieved at the revelation to give much thought to the words Mr Revel had said, but later, he would return to them. ¡°Someone out here is trying to kill me.¡± It would echo in Peter¡¯s mind.


    The rangers had saved them. Peter¡¯s digging had shifted enough dust to expose part of the coach¡¯s rear, and seeing the two men in danger, they sprang into action. The heavily armoured crawler was raced down the dune, and a winch pulled the coach¡¯s boot compartment from its burial.


    Given their earlier indifference, Peter was surprised the rangers had bothered. Then, Peter remembered: they hadn¡¯t done it to save him¡ªthey¡¯d done it to save Mr Revel, the Toff. They hoped that saving one of the rich would yield a reward. Peter watched as each ranger took a turn checking on Mr Revel, who shook their hands and thanked them personally. None came to check on him. Mr Revel was worth saving. Peter wasn¡¯t.


    ¡°Got everything?¡± Mr Revel eyed Peter¡¯s collection curiously. He¡¯d gathered everything he could from the coach¡¯s boot¡ªhis packages, carry bag, bits of luggage formally belonging to the passengers and coachmen, and an emergency kit.


    ¡°Yeah, it''s all still here. Well, minus the weapons you took¡ªnothing we can do about that now. I assume one of these is yours?¡± Peter gestured to the luggage.


    Mr Revel raised a quizzical eyebrow, then looked over the luggage. ¡°I travel light.¡± Mr Revel refused the bags and headed off to inspect the wreckage of the coach. Scorch marks marred its sides, and the coarse dust had stained the metal, peeling back the silver paint to reveal dull iron beneath. The rangers were likewise examining it. ¡°Any chance you can get her running?¡±


    A ranger shook his head. ¡°No chance ¨C the batteries are fucked.¡± The ranger pointed to the compartment connecting the passenger and boot sections. The Bugmen had set that section on fire, igniting the lithium within and burning it out entirely. Coaches travel thousands of miles without stopping and require massive batteries for a round trip; with those burned out, the remains were little more than a giant weight, waiting to be buried.


    Mr Revel frowned. ¡°Well, gentlemen, it appears my companion and I are in need of another ride.¡± He smiled politely at the men. If the gesture was returned, it remained hidden behind their masks.


    ¡°We can get you back to Sunreach,¡± said the lead ranger, starting for the crawler with his men following suit.


    ¡°I¡¯m afraid that won¡¯t do. My companion is due in Saltwater Ridge, and so am I.¡± Mr Revel¡¯s demeanour became more authoritative¡ªhis shoulders arching back, his head held high, his expression predatory. The rangers seemed to notice, shifting nervously. ¡°I have business there.¡±


    ¡°We can¡¯t do that,¡± stated the lead ranger.


    ¡°Can¡¯t, or won¡¯t?¡± The Toff squared up to the man. Mr Revel, who had seemed unimposing moments before, suddenly appeared broad and intimidating; his wide, muscular frame made the ranger look small.


    ¡°Can¡¯t, sir,¡± the ranger pointed to the crawler. ¡°The crawler has maybe two hundred miles left in it, at best. We can get to Sunreach, but Saltwater is four hundred miles away. Best we can do is take you back with us¡ªanother coach will be by in a month, maybe six weeks.¡± Mr Revel didn¡¯t back down, his eyes righteous, burrowing into the ranger. The ranger glanced at his companions and then at the Toff. ¡°Sorry, sir, but there¡¯s nothing more we can do.¡± Mr Revel let the tension linger, and Peter feared he¡¯d strike the man.


    Peter didn¡¯t think Mr Revel a violent man. He was perfectly gentlemanly¡ªif a little intrusive. He was well-spoken and well-mannered, and Peter couldn¡¯t recall a time when the man had raised his voice since they¡¯d met. He remained calm and optimistic even when at the mercy of the bugmen. He was a gentleman through and through.


    That didn¡¯t mean Peter thought him harmless, far from it. Peter had seen Mr Revel kill at least two bugmen without hesitation and remain focused enough during the attacks to save Peter¡¯s life. Peter knew Mr Revel was capable of violence; he just didn¡¯t think him a violent man. The way the Toff squared up to the ranger seemed uncomfortably uncharacteristic, and Peter wondered if their near-death experience had riled Mr Revel more than he was willing to let on.


    Then Mr Revel¡¯s expression broke; his posture softened as he clasped the ranger by the shoulders and straightened his uniform. ¡°Very well, my good man, there is nothing you can do. I understand.¡± Mr Revel spun on his heels to face Peter. ¡°Looks like we¡¯ll have to go it on foot the rest of the way, my lad.¡± Mr Revel spun back to the rangers, who were startled and muttering to one another. ¡°You¡¯re dismissed, gents. Safe journeys back to Sunreach now, you hear?¡±


    Sullen that their chance of reward was now slipping away, the four rangers gathered to argue among themselves. For a moment, Peter feared the rangers might turn to robbery now that legitimate profit was off the table. Whatever they discussed, however, ultimately ended with them heading back to their crawler and driving away.


    Peter wondered if going with the rangers wouldn¡¯t have been the better idea. After all, four hundred miles was a long way to travel on foot¡ªeven without his packages to carry¡ªand the danger of the wastes was beginning to dawn on him. Yet a six-week delay in delivering the packages would result in heavy deductions from his delivery fee, making the whole journey pointless. In the end, Peter was glad that Mr Revel had sent them away¡ªand even happier that the man was sticking around to guide him.


    ¡°Come on, Pete, my boy. Best see if we can find anything useful before we head off.¡± Mr Revel headed to the passenger compartment door, which hung open on its hinges, and stepped inside.


    ¡°It¡¯s Peter,¡± Peter mumbled as he followed.


    Although now coated in dust, the stylish interior of the luxury coach remained undiminished. It seemed as if its every accent had been meticulously selected to present a picture-perfect image of class and exclusivity. It was an exquisite interior, one that few travellers could afford to enjoy. Yet, that didn¡¯t stop Mr Revel from taking a crowbar and hammer to the walls, peeling back the faux wooden panels to reveal the coach¡¯s ugly metallic innards.


    ¡°Help me with this one, lad.¡± Mr Revel forcibly pulled one large panel from the wall of the bar. Peter rushed to the man¡¯s side, added his strength to the effort, and together yanked the panel free of its casing, nuts and bolts springing loose as it came.


    Inside the now exposed wall were the inner workings of the bar, mainly a series of large liquid containers connected by various pipes and tubes. Mr Revel patted the largest of the tubs, a sloshing sound joining with the reverberating boom of the plastic drum. ¡°See that? That right there is three hundred and thirty-six gallons of cool, clear, filtered H?O.¡± Mr Revel smiled broadly at Peter. ¡°That¡¯s our lifeline.¡±


    ¡°Come on, give me a hand,¡± Mr Revel started busying himself, pulling smaller containers of liquid that fed alcohol to the bar.


    Peter recalled Mr Revel¡¯s generosity during the coach ride. He had covered the bill for almost every drink that had come out of the machine for days, often encouraging others to partake with great insistence. It had been part of his charm¡ªhe was giving. So, watching him pilfer the contents of the coach seemed oddly unlike Mr Revel, yet he did it with such ease. Peter decided that it was simply a case of ¡°needs must.¡± He knew Mr Revel was a man of means¡ªclear from his attire. He imagined that Mr Revel would take steps to ensure that The Mickelson & Mickelson coach company was compensated for its losses. He pictured a young accountant in some office receiving a letter of apology, a full accounting of the liberated possessions, and a banknote signed ¡°Revel.¡± The idea made Peter laugh.This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.


    Mr Revel pulled another much smaller container from the bar''s insides¡ªone containing ale¡ªand emptied it onto the coach floor. Then, with his container vacant, he refiled it from the water tank. ¡°You empty, I¡¯ll fill.¡±


    Peter did as he was told, pulling another container filled with a strong-smelling clear liquid and emptying its contents. When Mr Revel was ready, Peter swapped his empty can for one filled with water. This process repeated several times until, as Peter pulled a half-full container from the bar, Mr Revel spun on him and, with lightning speed, snapped Peter¡¯s arm in a vice-like grip. Peter couldn¡¯t even struggle against the hold, his arm suspended as if in time. His heart began to race, and he couldn¡¯t breathe¡ªthe sudden fright had stolen his lungs. Mr Revel slowly turned his wide, wild eyes to Peter and then to the can. Peter wondered what he had done that was so wrong that the man was so changed.


    ¡°Not that one, Pete, my boy, not that one.¡± Carefully, with gentle softness, Mr Revel took the can from Peter and placed it on the ground. ¡°We don¡¯t waste vermouth.¡± Mr Revel let go of Peter and turned back to his business as if nothing had happened. Peter chuckled nervously as he, too, returned to his task. The man likes his drink, Peter concluded.


    ¡°Now, what are you doing down there, my dear?¡± Peter thought Mr Revel was speaking to the dust, but then he saw it. Breaching the surface of the gathering particulate was a glimmer of chrome.


    ¡°What is it?¡± Mr Revel didn¡¯t answer Peter. Instead, he leant down, picked up the chrome revolver, and shook the dust clear of it. ¡°Oh good,¡± Peter exclaimed when he realised what the Toff had found. ¡°I¡¯ll get the box.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t bother,¡± Mr Revel said, his expression somewhat credulous. Peter shot a quizzical look back. ¡°It¡¯s already been removed. One way or another, you¡¯re getting deducted for that package¡ªnothing you can do about it now. It¡¯s better we keep this for ourselves to protect us from the wastes. Why don¡¯t you see if you can find any other guns now that the dust has shifted?¡±


    Peter thought it was a good idea; a few moments later, he found one of the fallen coachmen¡¯s rifles and, beside it, a weapon with a long white plastic barrel, sun-bleached and stained by years of dust exposure. ¡°Don¡¯t touch that.¡± Mr Revel¡¯s warning came sharp and immediate, and Peter pulled back his hand with fright.


    ¡°Why not?¡± Peter wondered what Mr Revel had seen. Perhaps a trap left by the Bugmen?


    ¡°They are DNA-coded.¡± Mr Revel walked to stand beside Peter, staring down at the faded white of the plastic weapon. He seemed lost in thought, and Mr Revel didn¡¯t speak again for what felt like a long time. ¡°If you touch that, it will not detect you as its user, and it will self-destruct.¡± Mr Revel grabbed Peter¡¯s arm and pulled it up to his face. ¡°And it will take your hand with it as it does.¡±


    Peter snatched back his hand. ¡°I didn¡¯t know they even knew how to make them. Guns, I mean. I¡¯d heard rumours, of course, but I thought they were just that¡ªrumours. I thought the Chitirin just had spears and knives.¡±


    ¡°You weren¡¯t wrong,¡± Mr Revel said, his eyes drifting back to the barrel. He spoke absently, his mind somewhere else. ¡°The Chitirin didn¡¯t make these guns. We did. That¡¯s a Union rifle¡ªmilitary-grade, one of the most advanced on the planet.¡±


    Peter couldn¡¯t imagine how a Bugman had come into possession of a Union military rifle, but he knew it wasn¡¯t good that they had.


    Hours later, the two men had gathered two weeks'' worth of water and food from the bar. Using scraps of faux wood, metal, rope from the emergency kit, and sacks made from the cushion covers of the coach¡¯s seats, they jury-rigged a sledge to carry the goods. Each tightly tied a rope around their waists, allowing them to drag the sledge behind them as they walked.


    After his first day on the trail, walking monotonous step after monotonous step, Peter finally began to understand what the dusters meant when they said, ¡°The dust was dry.¡± It was a kind of mantra, repeated like some great wisdom by those who came to the city bars to wet their whistles and return to civilisation for as long as it would tolerate them. He¡¯d taken it literally¡ªbelieving that the dust was indeed dry¡ªbut now he understood it was more than that. The dust was dry. It was the driest thing that there ever was. It was the very definition of dry. You didn¡¯t understand what dry was until you spent a few days out in the wastes, beyond civilisation.


    Those unfamiliar with the wastes mistakenly believed that the heat would kill them if they ever found themselves trapped in its endless expanse. That was not the case, for the wastes were not particularly warm¡ªquite the opposite, in fact. Those who had first settled the world had described it as being stuck in an endless, unchanging spring. The dust was cool¡ªnot cold by any means¡ªbut one would want to dress warmly.


    No, it wasn¡¯t the heat that killed you out in the dust; it was simply the dryness. The waste was rocky hardpan or dust dunes¡ªseemingly nothing else in between. Nothing grew in the waste. There was no weather, barely any wind, and not a cloud in the sky to block the endless haze of the grey sun. Beyond the city''s walls and town boundaries, the dust was lifeless, barren, and oh-so dry.


    You felt it in your body: the skin would crack and peel, the lips would shrivel, and the tongue would desecrate. You craved water out in the wastes¡ªa trick of the mind, as if the sight of the place made your body presume dehydration. Yet, you had to be careful, for water was limited. Satiate that craving, and you might doom yourself. There were no oases in the wastes; the water you took with you was all there was to find until you reached some semblance of civilisation again. It wouldn¡¯t even matter if you did find water, as not a single drop of fresh water naturally occurred on the planet. Without desalination, the little water that could be found on the planet would only worsen the thirst. The heat didn¡¯t kill¡ªit was the dryness that did.


    His legs hurt, calves throbbing with each step, his heels stinging with blisters, and his back ached¡ªoverstrained from the effort of pulling the supply sledge. His head was pounding, each beat in rhythm with his heart, the boom of it cascading from one side of his skull to the other. His vision swam, and he was constantly assaulted by fits of coughing as his lungs laboured to expel the dust he was breathing in. But most of all, he was dry. His mouth, his tongue, his lips, his lungs, his skin, his eyes¡ªeverything was so damn dry. Even his mind had become dry. No thought came beyond the pain in his body and the emptiness of his surroundings.


    When Mr Revel finally announced it was time to find a place to camp for the night, Peter couldn¡¯t have been more relieved. They found a small group of jutting rocks to protect them from the dust-ridden wind and took shelter. They prepared a meal using food salvaged from the coach, cooking it on the electric pilot heaters from the emergency kit. Then they drank water sparingly, Mr Revel mixing in the occasional sip of vermouth, and they prepared the two sleeping bags they¡¯d recovered from the salvaged luggage.


    As night crawled in, the temperature dropped.


    It wasn¡¯t so cold that one would fear for one¡¯s life, but it was cold enough that Peter was glad Mr Revel had insisted on adding the heat lamp they¡¯d found in the driver''s compartment to their baggage. Wrapped inside the sleeping bag, his head resting on the lightly cushioned pillow, Peter quickly found sleep.


    When Peter opened his eyes again, it was still dark. Mr Revel was not yet in his sleeping bag. He sat with his arms resting on his knees, perched upward like a carrion bird¡ªhis thoughtful demeanour made menacing by the low light of the heat lamp, reminiscent of a madman seen only in the last flickers of a campfire. The sight startled Peter, but Mr Revel didn¡¯t notice him. He had business in Saltwater¡ªhe¡¯d told the rangers, and Peter had heard him. Peter wondered what business this strange man had at the end of the coach line. Who was Mr Revel, really?


    ¡°What are you doing out here, Mr?¡±


    Mr Revel didn¡¯t react. His body remained still, his eyes fixed on the lamp, as if he hadn¡¯t noticed Peter, yet he answered nonetheless. ¡°I¡¯m looking for someone.¡±


    ¡°Who?¡±


    ¡°A man.¡±


    ¡°What man?¡±


    Mr Revel¡¯s gaze drifted slowly toward Peter; his eyes turned to flames by the reflection of the heat lamp¡¯s light.


    ¡°The man who made me who I am.¡±


    Peter didn¡¯t know what that meant, but he figured he wasn¡¯t going to get anything more from the Toff, so he decided to go back to sleep, although he slept less soundly now.


    ¡°So, what¡¯s so important about this package?¡± Mr Revel¡¯s question came out of nowhere. They¡¯d barely talked during their journey. The relentless stubbornness of their unchanging environment had killed their imaginations and left neither with much desire for conversation. After six days of walking in near silence, Mr Revel¡¯s sudden question was startling.


    ¡°I dunno,¡± was all Peter could think to say, the words painful to utter.


    ¡°Then why the determination if you don¡¯t even know what it is?¡±


    ¡°What it is doesn¡¯t matter.¡± Peter had to stop and take a deep breath between sentences¡ªthe weight of dragging the supply sledge made conversation challenging. ¡°It¡¯s what they¡¯re paying.¡±


    ¡°Must be a tidy sum for you to go through all this.¡± Mr Revel sounded doubtful.


    ¡°Twenty-five thousand.¡± Peter hadn¡¯t yet said it out loud. Now that he had, he could scarcely believe it, and from Mr Revel¡¯s expression, he didn¡¯t either. ¡°I know. Sounds crazy. And maybe it ain¡¯t much to you. But that¡¯s more creds than I¡¯m due to make in a decade.¡±


    ¡°It is not a sum I¡¯d turn my nose up at,¡± Mr Revel nodded thoughtfully. ¡°But I¡¯m not sure it¡¯s worth dying over.¡± Peter scoffed.


    That''s the typical attitude of a Toff right there. Mr Revel would have grown up in a warm, dust-free apartment in the sky towers with parents who said things like ¡°Money isn¡¯t everything¡± and ¡°It can¡¯t buy you happiness.¡± You know who thinks money doesn¡¯t matter? People who have it. When you have none, money is all that matters. Money is shelter. Money is food. Money is water, status, and protection; money is what makes one street boy more desirable than the next. When you have no money, money is life, and its absence is death.


    Money fucking matters.


    Twenty-five thousand credits was hardly generational wealth, but it was more than most had. With that kind of money, Peter could buy his own pod in the Stacks and still have enough left over to cover him for a year¡ªtwo hundred and fifty square feet all to himself, his own washroom and toilet. He¡¯d never not shared a bedroom. He was happy to risk his life for the chance at a better one. And here was the Toff, telling him it wasn¡¯t worth it.


    How fucking dare he.


    ¡°What do you know, huh?¡± Peter spat the words out with more venom than intended.


    ¡°Excuse me?¡± The patronising shift in Mr Revel¡¯s tone irked Peter beyond measure.


    Suddenly, Mr Revel seemed more superior than he ever had before, more like the other Toffs who passed Peter and his kind on the street every day, never once noticing the plight of those beneath them. For a moment, Peter saw in Mr Revel twenty-one years¡¯ worth of apathetic faces, and he raged against them.


    Peter pulled the rope from around his waist and threw it to the ground, freeing himself from the sledge, but not his frustrations. ¡°I said, what do you know? You and your fancy dustless suit and platinum cred stick. What do you know about what¡¯s worth dying over? When have you ever had to worry about dying? You ever gone a day¡ªeven one day¡ªwithout a meal? You ever drunk sewer water because you couldn¡¯t afford any better? You ever wondered if the four other men sharing your bunk for the night were going to kill you¡ªor worse? Honestly, what do you know?¡±


    ¡°Peter, stop.¡±


    ¡°No, I won¡¯t stop.¡± Peter stomped his foot and began pacing, unleashing his rant with growing moral superiority. ¡°People like you need to hear this. I don¡¯t care if it offends your delicate sensibilities. You rich folk ignore what¡¯s happening to those around you every day. You have all the power to help, but you choose not to. Someone has to tell you how it is now and then. And you shouldn¡¯t be telling me anything. You don¡¯t know anything. You don¡¯t know what it¡¯s like growing up in the streets. You don¡¯t know what my life is, so don¡¯t you tell me what I should and shouldn¡¯t risk my life over.¡±


    ¡°I might not know much about the streets,¡± Mr Revel said, shaking his head, ¡°but I know better than to walk up to a Dustshark when I see one.¡±


    ¡°What?¡±


    Something gripped Peter¡¯s leg¡ªsomething strong.