Smoke and Sand: Part 4

No strange visitors, no unfamiliar ships. That was the story, at the last three Medusan settlements. As the transport races over the sand, Sergeant Kai tells herself that the tiny shimmering shape ahead will prove different.

The Phalanx squad steps from the ramp onto the sand, encased in layers of flexible armor patterned with blocks of olive and tan and umber. With their helmets on, every inch of skin is hidden from the biting sand. But inside, the suits are hot and stifling.

Around the square gray structures ahead are gleaming solar farms, long trenches of glittering water, and rows of bright green crops lashing in the howling wind.

The desert-dwellers emerge armed with blasters, but relax when they recognize Phalanx armor. The Medusans are swathed from head to toe in loose and light fabric that writhes and snaps. Tubes run from packs on their backs, snaking up their sleeves to carry cooling liquid. Behind them, a forest of gleaming panels drink in the abundant sun.

They need to get close to be heard through their helmets, over the rushing air. “We’re searching for a fugitive.” Kai gets straight to business, her raised voice cutting through the gale. “Male. Average height. Dark brown hair, burns to one shoulder. Flying a Breacher class Starfighter. May be accompanied by a woman with short red hair, similar height. His name is Eidan Herrick, hers is Vera Piedrabuena. Seen anyone like that?”

The nearest Medusan, blaster still cradled in his hands, regards the soldiers from behind a dark visor. Airborn sand swirls around him. “Could be, one of them. A man in rags passed through last night. Dark hair, like you said. Didn’t see any sign of burns — but one arm was cybernetic.”

At that, someone nudges Kai’s elbow — Chanda is a murky, indistinct shape amid the billowing sand, as she draws her sergeant aside. “Near the start of the Rush, we treated some Fire Dancer prisoners.” The medic’s voice crackles through their helmet comms. “It wasn’t long before we stopped. But we noticed a recurring injury. When they sustained burns, from blaster-fire or their own flames, they wouldn’t treat or bind them. They exalted in the pain, and kept on exalting — even once the wounds were infected and they were delirious with fever.”

“Could explain a lot,” Kai murmurs.

“Who knows how many Fire Dancers were burning up from inside by the end, driven mad by their own immune responses? It took drastic amputations, to save the ones who were saveable — and they cursed us for performing this blasphemy on them.” The medic shrugs her shoulders. “Maybe this Eidan’s burns went bad — and he turned blasphemer.”

The sergeant nods slowly. “Our files say he was a fanatic … but how many fanatics aren’t hypocrites, deep down?” The cause is just an excuse. They’ll kill for whatever ideal suits them.

“Fire Dancers’ ethos consists of ‘burning things makes me feel good.’” Isaac rests his rifle on his shoulder. “They attract simple minds, and simple minds have short attention spans. Are there even any true believers left, a year later?”

The pilot saunters across to the desert-dwellers, to ask them a question. He accepts a bright green stick of processed duneleek, puts his back to the wind as he opens his helmet an inch to feed it into his mouth.

Kai raises her voice, addresses the Medusans. “The traveler — where did he go?”

“He was looking for the site of a battle. A Ranger and Fire Dancer clash, near the start of the Rush. Deeper into the Wastes.” The desert-dweller points to the east with his blaster. “These days, that whole area’s becoming Junker territory.” In his voice is a hint of reproach.

“If we see any,” says Milo.

“We’ll show them that this is still Phalanx territory,” finishes Matthus.

The civilian’s tone is unimpressed as he replies, “Right. When it suits you it is. I’ve told you all I know.”

The wind shifts, and Isaac’s coughing and spluttering comes ringing through the comms, as his mouthful of duneleek is mixed with a mouthful of sand. He bends double, trying to scrape his helmet clean with gloved fingers, before snapping his visor shut. Milo sweeps the horizon with his rifle, ever-watchful, as Matthus walks across to slap a meaty hand helpfully on the pilot’s heaving back.

“Medic on standby,” Chanda murmurs, looking down at Isaac, bemused.

Kai ignores the commotion, and the unimpressed looks of the Medusans. Her mind is deeper in the Wastes. “Anything else to add?” Kai asks the crowd — nothing more is volunteered. With a nod of thanks, she begins back to the transport, sand rasping off her helmet.

But a woman raises her voice. “What did he do? The fugitive. Must be a dangerous sort to bring you down off your moons.”

Kai stops to tell her, “He’s a Fire Dancer.”

Murmurs run through the Medusans. After a pause, the most talkative of the desert-dwellers speaks again. “There’s something else … He was muttering to himself. It was the same word, over and over.”

The sergeant peers at her own distorted shape in his dark, reflective visor. “What was it?”

“Failure, failure, failure,” chant the flames, crackling and hissing in Eidan’s ears.

The Fire Dancer lies flat in the warm sand, squirming himself lower and lower, trying to avoid the sharp movements that would betray him. His damned metal limb shines like a beacon in the sun. Figures are moving across the far ridge, red with rust, bristling with weapons — Junkers, coming closer.

Eidan scoops handfuls of sand over himself, heedless of how it spills in through the holes of his jacket and grinds between the joints of his cybernetic arm. He worms himself deeper and deeper, eyes and mouth clamped tightly shut — but somehow the coarse grains are still crunching between his teeth, stinging his eyes.

The only sound in his ears is the minute shifting of sand. The only sight is darkness, void of light and life and fire. He can feel densely packed soil pressing tight from all around him. Hidden, he thinks. With luck, the wind will smooth over his tracks. His lungs burn, a thankless false heat. His limbs ache, but he cannot shift. A torturous itch is creeping over every inch of his flesh, but he cannot scratch it. And worst of all, left with nothing but thoughts, they are beginning to race away from him, like sandroaches streaming from their nest.

Sand darkness blasphemer failurefailurefailure vultures Junkers hunters blood tear pain thump thump thumpthump —

What is that? What is that sound? That pulse? It comes from above, a series of crunching impacts — he can feel them running through the sand. Footsteps. They grow louder and louder, nearer and nearer, until Eidan can feel the sand compacting, pressing down on him, and the sounds seem to be coming from within his skull.

The Junkers are directly above him. He hears muted voices.

His hands, submerged in sand, are almost close enough to touch each other. He inches them, slowly and painfully, closer and closer, until he can clasp fingers of flesh within blasphemous fingers of metal.

“Please,” he prays to his gods. “Save me.”

Then light and sound are flooding in, and rough hands are grabbing Eidan, tearing him from the dune.