Wix watched as the train ran its way up the track and toward the station. It was distant at first, and small looking, like a caterpillar inching its way along a plank of wood. As the minutes passed, it grew in both size and definition, imposing itself on the dry, dusty, arid landscape east of Roldart, and cutting a dark, hard line across the horizon. It passed hills, rows of cacti, and craggy, looming escarpments of red rock.

As if in announcement of the train’s approach, a low, vibratory rumble began to build, shuddering up through the earth and the cobbled walk, causing buildings to tremble slightly and signboards to rattle and shake on their hangers.

Wix stood leaning against a signpost, arms folded, his hat tilted at an odd angle to shield his eyes from the noonday sun. It wasn’t particularly warm out yet, but it was bright. The sky was mostly clear of clouds. The slight chill on the morning breeze penetrated his white cotton shirt and brown linen vest. Perhaps in a few hours that early-morning feeling of chill would actually start to recede, and this might be one of the early spring days that the sun actually got to have its way. Of course, as much as Wix missed the warm days now, he would be longing for a little spring chill as soon as summer was in full swing. He knew that too.

He turned fifteen, today. Not quite a man yet, but still not a boy, either. Something in between.

Behind him, his father Kedrik was still inside the store, haggling for the price of corn seed. Wix suspected that he would be a while.

If Kedrik remembered or had made any special consideration for the fact that it was his son’s birthday, he had yet to show it. Because so far, the day had been much like any other leading up to the planting season. While the trip out to Roldart was novel, and usually only happened once a year, Kedrik had made it clear that they were there for business, and nothing else. Birthday or no, they were to travel into the city, purchase seed for the season, and head directly back.

Or at least, that had been Wix’s interpretation. The birthday part had not been specifically mentioned, but it seemed to go without saying.

Fifteen was how old you needed to be to enlist with the Federation. Wix had already filled out the necessary paperwork and was awaiting his acceptance.

He hadn’t told his father this. And he didn’t intend to. When the time came, he would simply pack his things and leave without a word. To his father, at least.

With each passing year, it became increasingly clear that Kedrik intended for him to eventually take over the farm. Wix had begun working as a farmhand for his father at a young age. Unless something changed, he would be doing the same work, on the same farm, near the same town, for the rest of his life.

Not that he disliked Tantern, particularly. But more and more every year, the town was beginning to feel...small. Constricting.

As Wix watched the train, he found himself imagining that it was heading east rather than west; away from Roldart, and Tantern. And he imagined himself on it. He saw himself sliding open one of the passenger windows--if such a thing was possible--and hanging his head out of it, letting the wind attack his face and hair as he watched the landscape roll by. Turning and looking east, toward lands unknown to himself. Places and moments full of mystery and potential, waiting to be seized.

If this was an adventure tale—of which Wix had read many—this would be the moment the hero is shown yearning for excitement, wishing for a new life. But this wasn’t an adventure tale. No writer was about to whisk Wix away on a dazzingly journey, to some place new. And he was beginning to realize that. He needed to take action. He had to write the story himself.

As it was, the train was almost within the city limits. The rhythmic rumble of the engine had begun to slow. Massive puffs of purplish, crystal-infused smoke trailed out of the top of the caboose. The fumes were partly coal-smoke, accompanied paradoxically by a clean, almost metallic scent that reminded Wix of fresh air after a storm. He knew it from the similar smell that radiated from the crystal processing facility in Tantern. It hung in the air. You could smell it everywhere. Not quite as far out as Kedrik’s farm, but certainly everywhere in town. It was pervasive and omnipresent, and at times, you simply forgot it was there.

In the case of the train, it was accompanied by a sour, burnt sort of smell as well. The smell of crystal afterburn, jutting flames out of the vents on either side of the caboose, propelling the train. Vents that had long since collapsed, reverting to coal power as the train neared its destination.

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Wix was now able to make out some details on the train cars themselves. They didn’t appear to be passenger cars. There were few to no windows. Mostly plain-looking cars with sliding doors. Some kind of cargo train.

The caboose let out a high-pitched whistle. Wix pulled away from the trembling signpost and put his hands over his ears, just as another shriek of the whistle cut the air.

The train was near enough now that he could read the letters on the side of one of the cars, printed large on the sliding door: KAINE MINING CO.

Wix grimaced at the sight of the logo, and felt an unpleasant tang in his mouth. He leaned forward and spat just past the sidewalk, onto the street.

A passersby with clean, neat clothes, a tall hat, and a black walking cane stopped to stare at him. Wix returned the stare, leaning back against the the signpost with folded arms. After a few seconds, the man with the tall hat only shook his head and moved on. Wix spat again once the man’s back was to him, and returned his gaze to the train.

The rhythm of the train had reduced to a slow, lethargic chug, sliding with a sort of friction-less ease as it began to enter the station. The brakes shrieked. Wix once again covered his ears, but kept watching as the train slowed further and further, and finally came to a stop.

Uniformed men began to exit two of the cars. Not Federation uniforms, but ones that signified them as working for the the Kaine family. There were at least a dozen of them, and they were all armed. Some carried rifles, but there wasn’t a one that didn’t have a revolver holstered at their side. Wix could see them between the flaps of their dusters as they walked, making their way over to the car that had printed on it, KAINE MINING CO.

One of them grabbed the sliding door latch and began to pull. Somehow, even before even an inch of the interior had been visible, Wix knew. He watched as the door slid the rest of the way open, and the unformed man stepped back and out of the way.

Bodies were sprawled on the floor of the train car. Bodies that began to move as the Kaine workers started to yell, instructing them to get to their feet.

Long lengths of metal chain dragged and scraped on the floor of the car as the occupants began to get up onto their knees. They were manacled at the wrists and ankles. The manacles were connected to long lengths of chain that tied the slaves together in groups, a dozen at a time.

Slaves. Because that was what they were, wasn’t it? Some people in Tantern, near the town’s mining operation, referred to them as ‘workers’, or ‘prisoners from the war’. Or ‘the Darovenians’. But it all amounted to the same thing. And Wix didn’t like to shy away from it.

They had dark dark hair. Pale, almost sickly looking skin, with a slight tinge of blue. Eyes tended to be in the range of bright blue or purple in color, with irises so bright and distinct they sometimes appeared to be glowing.

The uniformed Kaine workers began to pull back more of the sliding doors. Chained Darovenians walked out of the train cars in rows of two. They were instructed to stop while they were still on the platform, just next to the train. Meanwhile, one of the Kaine men began to inspect them. He walked down the line, looked at each of the slaves, and referred to a notepad he had in his hand.

Some of the Darovenians made eye contact with the man as he walked past, standing straight with defiant looks in their eyes. Others adopted slumped, tired postures. Some peered off to the side and past the platform, examining the landscape of the city with some interest.

One of them, a girl that couldn’t have been much older that Wix himself, was looking right at him. Or so it seemed to him.

She had turned her whole body to face him. Her hair fell in tangled, matted locks, draped against her cheeks, neck, and the edge of her shoulders. She wore a set of ragged, ill-fitting overalls. Various areas were patched or ripped. Frayed and torn threads sprouted from the fabric like bunchgrass. Her eyes were a dark and intense blue; stark against the backdrop of her black hair, the muted colors of her uniform, and rusted train car behind her.

She was still looking at Wix, and had been for the last half-minute or so.

Wix returned the look, somewhat fascinated, and fought a sudden urge to wave. After all, nothing connected he and her, except perhaps that they were the same age. They were of different races and backgrounds. And from what Wix had heard of the Darovenians, markedly different beliefs. Surely there could not be all that much in common between them.

Something about seeing her, a person his age, imprisoned forever, put things in perspective for Wix. He did sometimes feel as if he was an indentured servant to his father. But in the end, he was free to leave any time he choose, as long as he was willing to accept the risks of fending for himself. This girl didn’t have that luxury. She likely never would. Whatever her life might have been like before, it would never be the same again.

She was still looking at him. Even more surprising, she lifted up one of her hands and gave a little wave. It was almost a shy gesture, but there was something audacious about it as well. This, along with a look on her face that seemed like recognition, made Wix feel like perhaps they’d seen each other before. This, despite the fact that he didn’t recognize her himself. He’d never traveled farther than Roldart, and had never spoken with a Darovenian in his life.

And yet.

Just when he lifted one of his folded arms to wave, the door behind him creaked open and slammed shut. And Wix forced himself not to flinch or move away as his father stepped onto the walk.