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—just 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 closet-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—another 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—a 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—ones 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—will 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—no 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—acceleration, deceleration, every turn—and 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.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

“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—never 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—let’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––one 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—until 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—the 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—a 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.