The sands. Hands of a child. Loathsome. Dunes. Sand swallowed feet with each step. Legs pulled up. Sand bunched between toes. Pulling inward. Gritty whispers. A grave. A platform; where was it? Where was it!? Sand won. Sand swallowed. The platform firm. Breaths could be taken. Sturdy steps offered freedom. Freedom accepted.
There was a man crowned with luscious white hair in the center. The platform groaned loudly under bare feet. Would it collapse, again? There were two steps. A hundred steps to reach steps to reach the top. The platform rested on the sand. There were no steps. A gray-haired man turned to him. The young man with dark hair and stubble on his chin turned to him. There was only one man on the platform.
“Forehead thinking?” the black-haired man asked. “Deferred immediate obedience? Where is the re-realization?”
“What are you saying!!” Fade screamed with a childishly high-pitched voice.
Fade took careful aim at the man with the revolver. The back end clicked. The bullet fired. The man standing in the center of the platform slumped over and fell off the edge. Sand sacrifice. Static. Then the clapping started. Lots of clapping. Hands to his ears. Gun to his head. End this! Stains. End this!
The man’s white hair bounced in the easy desert wind. At the center of the platform. Forehead. Dripping blood.
He smiled; his voice laced with static. “chhhhshhhh deny chhhhshhhh you are, chhhshhhh a murderer. And you’re chhhshhhh short. Shorty.”
-----
Fade awoke in his dingy office, covered with sweat. He dried his face with a towel as he checked the hanger. The creaking shed door banged against the gristly cinder-block wall. Fade meandered out; his flannel shirt hung outside dust caked jeans.
Methuselah seeds clung over the hems. A yellowed undershirt stuck outside the flannel; it was wrinkled at the bottom and half tucked in. His hair was glossy black fire with brown speckled seeds through it. Dark purple bowls hung under his eyes. When he breathed, clouds of vapor flew into the hanger. Saliva stuck in his mouth like a decaying slime mold.
The pale blue sun of late morning glowered through round skylights. There was a moody, concentrated heat in its beams, at least while they were focused through the skylight.
Bert positioned an adjustable wrench over the top nut of an auxiliary fuel hose; it loosened mechanically once everything was hooked up and properly supported. The thick rubber hose fell back to the ladder, then Bert threaded the hex nuts onto the fasteners of the attachment ring for safe keeping. The ship’s fuel injection hatch shut automatically.
Compressed hydrogen hissed as the lock sealed. Bert labored to fold the fuel injection hose into an aluminum compartment, further staining his mechanic’s suit. Layers of fusion fluid, hydraulic liquid, oil, and grease smeared his clothes. A thick smudge rested above his hairy eyebrows; a dash of grease stuck to some stubble under his chin.
Bert had muscular arms even though his waist was a bit pudgy. Tiny brown eyes darted in their sockets as if constantly suspecting an attack. His rough, splintery hands were covered in thin scars; his fingers had the texture of gritty sand paper. Once he finished folding the hose, he stuck a saliva-stained cigarette back in his mouth and leaned against the storage box to check his phone. By Hakkut time, it was the twentieth minute of the tenth hour.
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“What did I tell ya bout fallin’ asleep at your desk,” Bert yelled. “This happens every time. Ya never listen. Hey, we havta get goin’ soon enough. I’m done with maintenance, waitin’ on your sorry ass now.”
Fade closed the door and leaned against it, allowing the rust to stain his shirt. He put his fingers at the base of his forehead, holding them for a second before going through his hair and vigorously scratching his scalp. The seeds in his hair were minor irritants.
“Nother Hangover,” Bert mocked as he jumped atop the hose compartment; he sat down and puffed at the remains of a cigarette which dangled lazily from the side of his mouth, “Don’t tell me; ya had more than one beer. Better shower it off.”
The bathroom was a small cubicle next to Fade’s desk; only an old blue curtain kept it separate from the rest of the shed. It had a stand-up shower, a ceramic toilet and a ten-gallon hot water tank cramped together.
A storage tank underneath the hanger served as its water source, since most of rural Hakkut lacked the benefit of the sewer system. The shower drained into a slimy uncovered hole that led to a septic waste water marsh that was usually frozen over. It wasn’t economical to recycle water that could be melted at a cheaper rate.
Dirt caked the plastic floor; shampoo bottles lined the side pockets; soap existed in a grimy hole. A wash rag hung over the shower head; a folded towel sat on the toilet tank. Fade threw his clothes outside before entering the shower. Steam poured from the room. He hurried his scrubbing and shampooing as the water quickly became unmercifully cold.
He dressed in flight clothing; a light blue shirt, a cap, and khaki pants. Four meteor pins on the right side of his cap designated his position as a captain of the Independent Battle Corps.
The emblem of the battle corps was two crisscrossing ion cannons embroidered into the center of his cap and on the right pocket of his shirt. He combed his hair back quickly before placing the cap; chunks of wild black hair pushed themselves from underneath its lining.
His red leather boots automatically adjusted to his feet before snapping shut. Then he brushed and vacuumed the seeds from his thick red trench coat and turned out the pockets before putting it on over his uniform. Finally, he tightened the adjustable leather holster for his eleven-millimeter revolver.
Fade noticed the swelling in his hands had gone down overnight. When he checked the mirror, he found that the tip of his nose was dark and peeling. He put some regenerative lotion on it; immediately the soreness abated as the damaged tissue shrunk.
Since there was no time for coffee, Bert had left a caffeine chewable on the dresser along with a little water; Fade plopped it in his mouth. The moment he reappeared from the shed, Horace’s screen snaked out, a simple green line vibrated as it spoke.
“We must launch for the Hacetion sector by one and a half hours after planetary noon, or we risk not being able to link with the main Imperial Fleet in time. This is imperative, I must advise haste,” said Horace.
“I’m almost ready. Security report for last night?” Fade asked casually. Horace remained silent, his snake-like body withdrawing back into the ship. Fade wondered if his systems were fried somewhere.
Bert slept on the gritty hose crib while resting the back of his head on a faded red tool box. Fade shook his head at the main staircase into the Imminent Destruction. The blue sun, which dominated the sky lights, glinted off the wide silvery steps. He dug the metal frame out of his coat pocket, took a peek and smiled.
The rumble of an engine from outside grew louder. The noise wasn’t typical of hover vehicles, nor was anyone supposed to arrive with them. They hadn’t been notified they were assigned personnel to transport. Fade ran to the door propped closed by the cinderblock. He called to Bert, telling him to wake up and look sharp. Fade took cover behind a crate, pulling his revolver out and aiming towards the door.
A shoulder-fired missile launcher from behind the hose crib pressed Bert's shoulder as he aimed it with a grim smile; overkill or not, he never thought he’d get a chance to use such a toy.
Neither man dared blink as the door was pushed open with more of a struggle than they expected.
They waited.