The caravan rolled steadily along the dusty path. We'd been on the road for four days already, and had another five to go. Assuming nothing went wrong. I pinched the reins between my knees and stretched both arms over my head. Something always went wrong.
I was the driver of the lead wagon this trip - the most vulnerable position. Sure, it was also the most well-guarded, but that wasn't much of a deterrent to the wild beasties of Caltrox. They had a history of attacking caravans and devouring every living creature. The largest beasts were the most devastating. The wagons and their contents would be found weeks later, strewn across the sands. Survivors were few. We had a better chance against the smaller beasts, so long as they weren't pack hunters. Caravans still suffered losses, but at least a few wagons tended to survive, with enough men and women to continue. With three trips under my belt, I was the most experienced driver in our group. If I could survive a dozen more trips, I might just make it to retirement age.
There was a massive market for trained gruvors - large beasts of burden that stood as tall as a man at the shoulder, had hooves the size of a man's head, shaggy fur, and a short stocky neck with a thick mane. Their faces were square and on the shorter side for something domesticated to carry large packs and pull a wagon. They could easily go three days without food, and nearly a week without water, a rare but useful quirk in their biology.
Our caravan currently employed two dozen of the gigantic beasts. Eight massive covered wagons were pulled along by a pair each, and in between them were ten more, loaded down with heavy sacks and bundles. We needed four of them just to haul the feed for the herd. Each of the pack-bearing gruvors was lead along by a handler and a thick rope. They stood two abreast, with four wagons ahead and four wagons behind.
Everyone in the caravan was wrapped against the weather by their garments. Every bit of skin was covered. The wind could whip up without much warning, peppering us all with stinging sand. The sun was harsh and unforgiving, and a sunburn left untreated could quickly turn fatal. Goggles protected our eyes from both. Beneath our face coverings, most of us wore rebreather masks. They were a mix of plastic and rubber (and some electronic bits that I didn't really understand) which fit over the lower halves of our faces. They filtered the toxins and pollution out of the air and made it easier to breathe. We would be passing through some pretty nasty terrain on our route. The nights were often cold, so we all had extra layers packed away. We didn't travel past sundown, for obvious reasons.
We were escorted along by a ragtag group of mercenaries, spread out among our line. Securing protection was expensive, and only the inexperienced or the desperate tended to sign on. I had four guards to either side of my wagon, on alert for any threats. There was a pair somewhere off in the distance scouting ahead.
Most of them wore metal armor, cobbled together from bits of scrap in varying shapes. A few had finer leather armor that allowed them more movement. Their weapons were just as varied as their personalities. Some carried large spears and polearms, while others carried paired short swords. There was a large man with a battleaxe slung across his back. He'd been assigned to the forward guard on my wagon. Some of our escort carried ranged weapons. Bows and crossbows were most common. Almost a dozen had managed to get their hands on rifles - blocky weapons that used a plasma cartridge to unleash searing projectiles. There was a handful of plasma pistols mixed in with the group too.
Over the course of the day, I'd seen our escort begin to relax. Their eyes scanned the distance less often. Their grips on their weapons loosened. Some carried them in more casual positions; a split second's notice would not be enough to defend against an attack. They talked among themselves and began to joke with one another. When we passed through the few forests along our way, they neglected to peer into the trees for danger. They were getting complacent, and that's when things always went wrong. I remained alert, awaiting the inevitable.
Caltrox hadn't always been such an inhospitable hellhole. There was a time - before my parents had been born - when the planet had been a hustling hub of commerce. It had been the destination for training, research, and all forms of higher education within our solar system. It was settled. Civilized. Vehicles transported people long distances in minutes or hours. Access to electricity, running water, and clean air was all practically free. The weather didn't kill people if they were caught out unprepared. Animal attacks were unheard of, unless deep in one of the nature preserves and alone. Everyone had a decent roof over their heads, not one that could fall at any moment - assuming there was one to begin with. It all sounded like a far off fantasy.
The lessons I'd had as a child laid out how this pinnacle of humanity turned into the wasteland it was today. Egos and refusal to compromise was the gist of it. Everything was progressing fast. New technology was everywhere making day to day life easier. Human rights were more recognized, and more was being done to ensure even the poorest among us had the basic necessities. There was easy access to medicine, paid for by the government as an investment in the wellbeing of their citizens.
A few countries disagreed with the direction things were heading. Their way of life was based more on tradition and honoring those who came before. They said things were moving too fast, and they felt like they had no say in matters. Naturally, the countries and groups leading this renaissance believed it was a positive thing. Inevitable progress. They began to enforce embargos on the areas that refused to comply with the new status quo. Diplomats went back and forth, each arguing their side. The progressive side believed it was their duty to compel all governments on the planet to improve the lives of their citizens in the same way. The other side called it an overreach, and begged to be allowed to simply live their lives as they best saw fit. Just has they had for the last hundred or more years.
Arguments of words eventually turned into storms of bombs and hails of missiles. History isn't clear on who threw the first punch. Marching armies were met walls of tanks, which were countered with batteries of artillery. Artillery had to stay on the move, constantly alert for falling bombs. Fighters zipped back and forth across vast distances, occasionally unleashing their fury on unprotected infantry, stubborn lines of tanks, and well-guarded command posts. Drones were in the air too, locating camouflaged targets and staying abreast of troop movements.
Civilians were acceptable collateral damage for the first strategic strikes. The fastest way to cripple a large city, after all, was to destroy it. Then the warring sides were locked into the vicious, escalating cycle of retaliation and the civilians were forced to bear only loss. More than half of the planet's population was dead or missing within the first three months of the war. Nowhere was safe for anyone. There was only a series of less dangerous options.
This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
When the dust finally settled after a mutual, catastrophic attack, it had been three years. There was barely anything left anywhere on the planet. The shining metropolises lay in ruin. No embassies were left unscathed. The rail systems that connected the mines to the factories, the factories to the cities, the cities to each other, and the cities to the spaceports were all obliterated. All that remained where massive factories once stood were merged masses of melted metal.
The surface of the planet bore no resemblance to the pinnacle of civilization that it once was. There were no embassies to sue for peace. No governments left to guide the unlucky survivors. The few men, women, and children who remained crawled from their deep shelters or isolated camps in the wilderness, reeling with the loss of everything they'd known. Those who emerged grouped together into small bands and tried their best to scrape by. Some were generous and took in anyone they found. Others were heartless, and took whatever they could, by force if necessary, to ensure their own survival.
There was no law and no lawmen to enforce it. There was no widespread communication to call for help. No trade routes. Few medics and even fewer medical supplies. Food was scarce and finding clean water was a roll of the dice. Before long, the beasts who'd survived the war discovered that humans were an easy food source without their speedy vehicles and advanced weaponry. The beasts who survived were the toughest, meanest, and hungriest of them all. Walls went up around some settlements. Others retreated underground to the bunkers they had used to ride out the planet's destruction. Every day was a different fight for their lives. Caltrox was suddenly a frontier planet once again.
Aid ships showed up from time to time - gifts to soothe the guilty consciences of the wealthy upper class who had abandoned the planet at the first whispers of war. Anyone with the means had left when the bombs began to fall. On to safer estates on distant moons. Or the comforts of a luxury space station, far removed from the pain of a civilization destroying itself. The aid ships made them look good to their friends. Charitable. Empathetic. Not the selfish monsters that they were.
At first the aid drops were invaluable. They contained non-perishable food, clean and packaged water, tents designed to weather intense storms and large changes in temperature. Many even had clothes and blankets, boots and much needed tools. There were solar panels every now and then. On occasion, there was communication equipment, allowing those on the ground to finally speak to those in orbit offering help.
Refugee ships landed, offering to transport survivors off planet for a small fee. Some gladly paid it and left. Some had no currency and found other ways to book passage. No one really paid attention to the destinations. Anywhere was better than Caltrox.
After the refugee exodos, the contents of the drops shifted. New items became used and abused items, poorly patched and only just holding together. Food became the cast off surplus that nobody in the civilized world wanted to consume. Much of it spoiled on the journey from the various corners of the solar system to Caltrox. People far removed from the war-scarred planet stopped caring so much about those stuck and struggling. Life moved on for everyone else.
Then, in one final offense to the abandoned population, Caltrox became a dumping ground for all the system's junk. Crashed ships were towed to orbit and dropped through the atmosphere. Broken or obsolete technology was dumped into piles of rubbish by transport ships. Anything from around the system that couldn't be incinerated or repurposed locally was transported here and discarded wherever was most convenient. After all, who was going to stop them? It wasn't like there were any governments or armies left anyway.
That's about the time the guilds moved in. Some had good intentions. Most didn't. They took over everything they could. Life became a little more stable as the guilds reliably imported the needed resources from elsewhere in the system. There were weapons to better defend person and property against raiders and beasts. Stable, albeit archaic, transports and radio equipment allowed trade and commerce to begin again. Safe food and water was available so long as you could afford it.
This wasn't charity. The guilds offered protection and resources, but they required something in exchange. Credits were obviously their first choice. Good, old fashioned money made the world go 'round. If you didn't have credits, then you had to trade something that the guild could profit on. What they would accept was different from guild to guild.
The Harvesters were easy. They needed mostly laborers for their farms and mines, guards for their transports, and mechanics for their equipment. They were trying to get farms and ranches up and running locally, to avoid hefty shipping costs from elsewhere in the system. The two explorers guilds wanted eager, unattached young people and anyone able to build from nothing. Caltrox was ripe with those who knew no luxuries. Mercenary guilds, of course, wanted fighters. All the better if you had a strategic mind. If you had specialized skills or the potential for greatness, the guilds would grant membership and all the associated privileges. It was hard work, but compared to a life in the wilderness on Caltrox, it was a dream.
The guilds provided for any basic needs of those under their protection, members or not. The non-members were known as the Dedicated of whichever guild they served. Those most likely to be Dedicated were the laborers and their families - those who did the menial tasks. Without them, the guilds would be crippled. The Dedicated were protected by the name of the guild for as long as they wished, but could only claim such protection from one guild. Nearly everyone on Caltrox became dedicated to one guild or another, usually whichever claimed dominion over their settlement. Some chose the guild which most closely mirrored their profession or beliefs. Others would sign on with the first guild that came along and offered to get them off world.
I'd never had such an opportunity. I came from one of the forest settlements. No one ventured there unless they specifically needed to. We were able to fashion enough from the resources around us to get by. Anything we didn't have, we'd trade for in one of the (reasonably) nearby towns. Fresh meat from hunting was our main trade product, but we also tanned the beast hides. Many of their innate qualities made them resistant to the ranges of weather we had. That made them valuable. We traded in both freshly tanned hides and items made from the tanned hides - mostly clothing, armor, and tents.
I'd left home when I turned twenty, hoping to find work somewhere else. The first major city I'd stumbled into hadn't had a spaceport. Instead, I'd gotten scooped up by an independent trader, Marsuul. He had a few drivers he needed to replace, and I'd been one of the few who hadn't begun shaking in terror at the sight of the caravan's gruvor. It helped that I was no novice at trading. Plus, he'd promised, his route took him past a couple of spaceports. I could earn my travel and a few credits for my trouble. I was free to leave the caravan whenever I'd like if I thought the city held something more for me.
After receiving my first deposit of credits, I'd decided to stay on. The pay was just as good, if not better, than anything I could earn doing unskilled labor off world. I also couldn't complain about the free meals or that I didn't need a permanent place to stay. I was now three circuits later, several hundred thousand credits richer, and burdened with an unhealthy amount of anxiety every time we approached a place where we'd been attacked before. We would come upon the Threshing Pass before the day's end. Ideally, we would camp for the night a few miles away and then make the crossing in the morning.
That would be the safe thing to do. Deep in my gut, I knew Marsuul would not be taking the safer path. He would be pushing us through the pass before nightfall.