The creature moved slowly through scrawny bushes and straggly trees. Sunlight glistened on its dark brown scales, like ripples on the surface of a lake—though there was no water here as far as the eye could see.

Its claws sunk into the cracked earth as it swayed its tail in the cool wind. Another step and it stopped, looming above its prey, salivating as it opened its jaw.

The man—who had appeared to be sleeping on his stomach—suddenly spun around, phaser in hand, and pulled the trigger. The shot went right through the creature’s neck, tearing a hole as big as a fist.

With a deafening roar, the monster stumbled back as two more shots hit it in the head and the leg. It shuddered and wailed and slumped to the ground, dead.

The man stood and dusted himself—there was a lot of dust here. It seeped into every fold and opening of his clothes. He could never completely rid himself of it. At times, he thought it would drive him mad. How could a place have so much sand and dirt and wind?

And how could it be so cold when the sun was up and shone so brightly? He’d been here for years, but still he did not understand. The natives had told him there was hot air above, but too high to feel it—which did him little good.

He pulled his jacket tighter, then leaned to grab his bag and tossed it over his shoulder. If he hurried, he could reach Lentza’eh in an hour. And then, with a bit of luck, he could finally get off this god-forsaken planet.

Despite the harsh conditions, he had to admit the view was stunning. The lands were yellow, orange, and red. The mountains, in the distance, had a purplish tint, in stark contrast to the clear blue sky above.

Still, this was no place to live. He was shocked anyone did. Yet another thing he did not understand.

With a sigh, he started toward the north.

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Although it was cold, the air was dry—very dry. It was dangerous. Without heat, you would not feel thirst; but if you didn’t drink, your throat would parch and your skin would crack. So he often pulled his flask out, though he was careful to never swallow more than a sip at a time—just enough to keep him going. Water was too scarce in these desolate lands.

When he finally sighted the distant outline of Lentza’eh, he breathed a sigh of relief.

He rummaged through his pockets until he found it. The writing was faded under a thick layer of dust. He blew it off and squinted.

Grant passage to the bearer of this voucher.

At the top, it bore the logo of the Braxian Authority—the sole surviving government entity on this world. Though considering the sorry state of society here, he wondered how powerful it truly was.

Fearing the wind would blow it out of his hand, he quickly stuffed the ticket back into his pocket.

This was his way out.

Whether the B.A. held real power or not was a moot point. There was only one ship on all of Braxia still capable of launching into space, and it belonged to the pseudo-government.

Obtaining the ticket had been surprisingly easy. No one here cared about leaving this dreaded place, much less communicating with other worlds. The natives had had no contact with the Imperium in decades, and they liked it that way. So what use was a ship to them?

All they had asked in exchange was for him to provide the location of his secret stash of water. Since he was leaving anyway, he had been happy to oblige.

The cities of Braxia were mostly in ruins, and Lentza’eh was no exception. People only bothered to rebuild the parts where they lived. There were not many such parts, for few had survived the wars that had ravaged the planet.

The man made his way through deserted streets covered by sun-baked roofs, until he reached the address he had been given.

He had not expected a warehouse. But then, he hadn’t expected much at all. A spaceport would not have made more sense. Why would they maintain such a place for just one lone ship that no one even used anyway?

He knocked on the large door and waited.

After a couple of minutes, it slid open, and a shriveled old man stared at him from within.

“Yes? Yes? What is it, then?” he croaked.

Once again, the man pulled out his ticket and waved it under the other’s nose.

The old man snatched it and squinted at it for a moment. He grunted.

“Was about time we got rid of that damn thing.” He looked up. “Alright. I’ll just need your name for our records.”

As he spoke, he stepped aside to let the visitor in.

The man pulled down his hood as he walked into the warehouse.

“Corenth,” he said softly. “My name is Peter Corenth.”