Michael Bunker

DUNES OVER DANVAR

THE COMPLETE NOVEL

Knot 1: Dunes Over Danvar.

What is a Man Worth?

Chapter One

His daddy always told him that during any kind of rush, the real coin wasn’t in the doing of a thing—at least not for most people—but in providing the supply and support for the doers.

“When a rush comes, only ten percent make any real coin,” his daddy always said. “It’s a loser’s game, boy. Don’t matter what kind of rush it is—gold, oil, salvage from the old times,” he’d say. “People die to pull up ancient panties from a quarter mile down, boy, and only ten percent or less get rich. Forty percent will lose a bunch of coin—or worse. The bottom fifty percent will get their lives took away. That’s in any rush. Any rush at all. Dyin’ ain’t to be taken lightly, boy. Dyin’ for coin is like drownin’ yourself ’cause you’re thirsty.”

The Poet’s daddy was dead now these twenty years, and he himself was pushing on into his sixties. But his daddy’s words always informed him, had always been in his ear, ever since he was a boy learning to tinker and fix dive suits.

“In a rush, the people who survive and thrive are the people sellin’ to the doers. Always. Every time. Doers’ll pay any price in a rush. Don’t you ever forget that, son. They tell you they found gold? You sell ’em shovels. They say they found Danvar? You be the one sellin’ dive gear, fixin’ regulators, makin’ their visors work, haulin’ packs, repairin’ sarfers. That’s where the solid coin is. Dependable. All of time and every grain of this sand bears witness to what I’m sayin’.”

The Poet pressed back in the haul rack, flexing his thighs, and settled himself against his gear bag. His tools pressed into his side, but he was happy to be riding and not sailing. Glad not to be working for free. His sarfing days were over, and that was part of his deal with Bolger. “I don’t sail, I ride,” was what he told the boss. Still, even though he didn’t sail a sarfer, he expected he’d still be the most important man on the team. He had to believe that. Why else would Bolger take a seasoned old vet out on the dunes? Why else did everyone want to hire the Poet?

Then the Poet’s daddy always said, “Make yourself valuable, son. Become necessary—what they used to call ‘mission critical.’ Sand diver’s the most replaceable species of man in all the world of the sand. Sand diver’s just like the sand, in fact. Their comin’ is endless, like the rush, like the sift. You kill ’em all and a thousand-thousand’ll take their places. Every boy who hates the sand wants to be up un’erneath it, lookin’ to get rich so he can buy a way to avoid the sand. Drownin’ ’cause he’s thirsty.”

So the Poet grew up with hard wisdom. And now, in his sixties, he was everyman. He was porter and tinker, supply clerk, mechanic, technician. He was an advisor to the bosses. A black-market wizard he was. A man who found out things that needed to be known, for the right price, and only to the right buyer. He was no spy, though. Spies got themselves killed just like sand divers. The Poet was on this expedition because he’d made himself irreplaceable, just like his daddy had said. Every dive team in all of Low-Pub and all the Thousand Dunes wanted to hire the Poet. Too, all the way up to Springston, they say. Expedition leaders even stopped by when he was already hired, trying to lure him away with coin or women or both. But the Poet could never be hired away once he had a job going. That was nothing but a good way to get dead. His value was increased by his loyalty. And who needed a woman anyway?

The sweat drenched his old body. He wore a dive suit up under his robes. Nobody knew this but him, and if anyone ever found out, it would make him the target of ridicule—a risk worth taking, in his eyes. So he had a full suit on, and a visor in his gear bag, too. You never know when a brigand is going to break every law of the dunes and man and use the sand as a weapon. Everyone knew the axiomatic law of the sand and humanity, but what is law to a brigand? Nothing. So the Poet wore his dive suit, and suffered the heat. No way was he going to lose his fortune because he minded the heat.

They were far up north now. Way up in the wastes. Even Springston was far behind them. This was dying land for divers, and the Poet knew it. Everyone out looking for Danvar, and a diver’s life wasn’t worth scoop out in the wastes. And the divers were everywhere. Sarfer sails in every direction, setting out willy-nilly, divers looking to become gods.

The Poet breathed through his ker and looked around. This team wasn’t any better. There was nothing scientific about the search or the searchers. Like everyone else, when word came that Danvar was found, this crew got plugged together from whoever could do the job. Mix and match. Whoever was around and had a reputation for work. Except the divers. Divers are like the sand, and there’s always plenty of them looking to be the one to find Danvar. To be a god. Everyone on this team was expendable. Except the Poet, he told himself. Bolger was the boss man, and when he had come for the Poet, Bolger had made sure that everyone knew that this man wasn’t expendable. The team needed him if they wanted to survive. He wasn’t like the sand at all. He was like the air between the sand. Precious, and surrounded by expendables.

Expendable and Alone

Chapter Two

Peary’s sarfer was buffeted by the wind and almost toppled over as he crested a dune, but he was able to keep it from tumbling by the intense application of toned muscles, experience, and will. Maybe there was some luck, too. He didn’t know what luck might be made of—what ingredients outside of intelligence and will could ever cause something to happen—but he took whatever he could get.

He brought the craft safely down into a deep trough between the largest dunes in the area and came to a full stop. Lowering the sails, dropping the mast, and tying everything off was just a matter of rote muscle memory. He didn’t have to think. Besides his mind was on the dive.

They say that only a fool dives alone. He’d heard that one all his life, but with the things he’d seen in just the past year Peary was now convinced that the smart divers only went out alone. Fifty miles south he’d seen dozens of sarfer sails scattering to the winds like drone bees looking for a new home, but for the past twenty he’d been all alone in the dunes. Finding the right low spot served a few purposes. It meant he could hide his sarfer and perhaps not attract attention from brigands, scofflaws, or other divers (and many times, all of those terms described the same set of people). Also, finding a hollow like this meant he already had a fifty- to seventy-five-foot lead on his dive. Maybe even a hundred. Of course, finding a low spot to dive didn’t mean there’d be anything down there to find. He wasn’t diving here because he knew he’d find Danvar here. He was diving here because Danvar just as well could be here. Other divers used science, or scraps of old maps, or the stars in their courses, but Peary had tried all of those ways—and he’d paid plenty for the privilege of proving the old adage about a fool and his coin.

Some divers had a knack for salvage, and others just hoped to get lucky. Peary was of the latter sort, and he was wary of the former. There was a fine line between having a knack, and getting noticed. Only a few divers got famous without getting killed soon after, because a rich diver who didn’t retire became a nice target. Some even achieved levels of fame that bordered on legend. But fame wasn’t for Peary. Better to keep your head down and just dive.

He checked his dive suit and extra batteries, and when he saw that they were all fully charged, he unplugged them from the wind generator at the aft end of the sarfer. He grabbed a reinforced plastic gear box from the hauler, disconnected the wind generator, and stowed it in the box.

Time to secure his stuff. He’d brought a supply of parts, some extra air tanks—not just extra for the dive, but extra even over and above what he planned on taking down with him—and two more canteens of water. Those last had cost him time and coin—coin he’d borrowed from Marisa—but you can never be too careful. And there was an extra dive suit and visor, too. All of these he’d bury on the other side of the dune as soon as he was suited up. If someone stole his sarfer, he wanted to have at least an outside chance of living to dive another day. Burying gear nearby wouldn’t thwart an experienced and professional band of brigands, but most dune thieves were opportunists and not professionals.

Peary took a quick sand bath, rubbing the hot silica over his body, drying up some of the sweat, and then he started to suit up. The dive suit was hot and the soft rubber felt like it was burning his skin. This part of diving always made him work faster. It made him long for the cool chill of depth. He shouldered the twin tanks and dragged the two extras behind him, pulled on his visor and did a thorough check, even while his body was crying for the relief of the deep. The two tanks on his back pulled downward—toward Danvar, he hoped.

He’d never even attempted to dive more than two fifty. Never once. Hadn’t even wanted to. Around two hundred meters was always his personal limit. Today, he’d go deeper. He didn’t yet know how much deeper. He needed to pay Marisa back. At least the coin she’d lent him; the rest he could never repay. The love and care she gave him were priceless. How she continued to love him despite his folly, he’d never know. Sweet Marisa. Wearing herself out under a haulpole day after day so that he could dive salvage.

Where does love come from, and who made it? That was a question for rich, retired divers to ponder. It wasn’t for him, wasn’t for now.

Peary would leave spare tanks along the way down. Crutches, the daring divers would say. Training wheels. He wasn’t one of the legends who could go three hundred or more on a single tank and get back, and he wasn’t sure he ever wanted to. This wasn’t about personal feats or challenging himself. He wasn’t looking to have his name on the lips of divers and brigands throughout the Thousand Dunes or in the bars and whorehouses of Low-Pub or Springston. This was about Danvar, and the coin that would go along with it. This was the time when divers would be getting rich. Why couldn’t it be him? He’d rather be lucky than good

He pulled on his fins and fitted the regulator. It was diving time. That moment when all conceivable results were still plausible and, according to some nonsense he’d heard from divers who liked to talk, even existed out there at the same time. Wealth? Maybe. Death? Maybe that. He turned on his homing beacon and set it down, pushing it just under the sand. Time to concentrate.

He heard a dune-hawk overhead and wondered if it was a sign. Maybe. The hum started in his inner man and he started to move the sand. He took his first deep breath of canned life, and then the sand received him.

Ain’t No Coin in Gettin’ There

Chapter Three

Bolger wasn’t a bad man, all told. Bad men kill and steal things of value. That’s how you know they’re bad. Sure, the Poet had seen Bolger kill divers—through intentional neglect, abandonment, or just straightforward murder—but divers were expendable, and the Poet knew that in any corporate concern there would be collateral damage. Acceptable risks. No one cried for lost divers.

Bolger was a good boss because he kept the bottom line in view. He did what had to be done to make sure the crew ended up on the salvage. And by “on the salvage,” he meant literally on top of it. In reach of it. In the case of this expedition, the goal was Danvar, so success was far from automatic. No one had found Danvar yet—not in untold hundreds of years—unless the most recent rumors were to be believed. But there had always been rumors, and always would be. The rumors had sparked this latest rush. Someone said Brock was the man whose team had found Danvar.

Brock. He was the brigand and crew leader who now claimed the northern wastes. They weren’t his, but he liked to say they were. Claiming the wastes was like claiming the stars in the heavens, and you could—if you wanted to fight to hold them. The Poet had worked for the man before. Brock wasn’t to be trusted; not because he wasn’t after the coin and the goods—he lusted after coin as much as the next brigand—but because there was something else going on there. Some story under the surface. Like he was working for the Lords, or the gods from the before, or some powerful man who never showed his face. “Never trust a man with ideas,” the Poet’s daddy used to say.

The Poet watched his man expertly work the sails and draft in behind Bolger’s sarfer. Yep, the Poet thought, Bolger is a good boss. Don’t get his good men killed, which is the least you can ask from a clan leader. Better working for him than Brock. You can trust a man who cares only for coin.

Crew bosses that started speculating, gambling, or getting emotionally involved usually got everyone killed—and not just divers. Brigandage was fine with the Poet, but not stupid brigandage. The sand wasn’t the place for the compassionate kind. If God, or the gods of the before, or the Lords, or whoever made this world, wanted men to love one another, he (or they) wouldn’t have covered it with sand, or even water for that matter. The Poet had heard myths and legends about oceans, but had never met anyone who’d seen one. And if they did exist, they didn’t care a drop about a man’s life any more than the dunes did. That’s what his daddy always said. “Sand and water don’t care, boy.” His daddy would point out at the dunes and then kick some of the drift that might have gathered by his sandal. “If ever there was proof that man don’t matter, it’s right there.”

The convoy was heading north. Farther out into the wastes than they’d been before. Rumor had it that Danvar might be dead north of Springston, and that was a rumor the salvage world was taking as fact right now. But the sarfer surge had been thinning exponentially over the last dozen miles. Before long, Bolger’s team would be alone in the wastes, and the Poet was all right with that.

Sooner we get there, the sooner I earn my coin, he thought. “Ain’t no coin in the gettin’ there,” his daddy used to say.

The wind whipped his thin gray hair, and as the sift bombarded his goggles and his ker, and stung the exposed parts of his face like microscopic bullets, the Poet counted his blessings. Actually, he counted his coin. Same thing. By being smart and focusing on his reputation and his value, time had made him rich. Not that anyone else knew it. He didn’t flaunt his coin. To do so would be stupid and dangerous. He lived like a pauper when he was out in the open and only lived like a king in private. Dead men spend no coin. He’d seen too many divers out flashing their earnings only to disappear into the maw of the dunes within a fortnight. Not smart. Stupid, actually.

The miles shifted fast, and though he had his sand legs—always did—he was ready for camp. Decades ago he would have been longing for a tent and the feel of a woman, but now he just wanted the tent. A woman—even a camp woman—was just a hole into which a foolish man threw coin. Not everyone agreed, obviously, but the wisdom of the Poet didn’t sit right with every man.

Women divers though, that was another thing altogether. There weren’t many, but the ones he’d met were better than any man. Male divers thought with their sex and treated diving like it was a competition. A woman diver did her work, made her coin, and didn’t treat it like a game. She’d live longer than any boy. That’s why the mortality rate was so high among boys who ventured under the dunes. Near on a hundred percent, he figured, if you stretch out the timeline long enough.

* * *

He’d had a woman of his own once. Petra was her name. He’d even called her wife. But that was long ago, back when he was passionate and dumb. Maybe he even loved her. Maybe he still did. Hard to say. Can’t spend love, he always said. He’d take her back if she weren’t long dead from the cough. The sand got her, too, in the end, because she was stupid and refused to wear a ker out in the dunes. Rebellious, she was, and thought she’d live forever. Cough got her just like it did anyone who thought the sand cared enough to spare you. The sand don’t care, not one whit. That was the main thing.

The Poet had seen men die in ways he’d never thought possible back when he was a boy spending his days running errands and polishing his daddy’s sarfer. Back when he was learning the ways of the sand. He released the rope he was holding for a second and knocked the matte from his hair. Some of it fell down into the top of his ker, working its way into the corners of his mouth and beard, but the rest went back home to join the swells of particulate that—as far as he knew—covered the whole earth but for the distant mountaintops out west.

Topping a dune up ahead of him, Bolger shouted, and as the Poet came up behind him he saw him pointing toward a disruption on the horizon. Maybe an oasis, or maybe a copse of treetops jutting up from the sand. Likely to be water either way. His man kept on his draft and the convoy headed for the feature on the horizon. Sun was up full now and hot. Water would be necessary if Bolger planned to push them farther north.

The Depths

Chapter Four

At first only the oranges filled Peary’s visor, but as he stretched and pushed downward he could see the farther-off purples and tinges of blue and aqua. He kicked against what he’d hardened behind himself and felt the looser sand that flowed around his visor and chest give way to his motion. He was dragging the two spare tanks, but going down he didn’t feel them.

The aqua color down there—down at the fringes of his vision, now giving way to darker purple—reminded him of Marisa, and the polished rocks, turquoise and green, she’d bought from a trader once with precious coin. He loved her for that, too, even if he didn’t get it and thought it was wasteful. There was no sorting it. A woman loved what she loved, and who could figure it?

As he descended, the cool came, and he felt it through his suit, and welcomed it. He sipped on his tank and stretched for the deep. He’d forgotten to count, which was more of a habit than a rule, but his visor showed him at fifty meters and he was just starting to feel the press in his chest. Not tight yet, but firm and good. He liked the feel of fifty to a hundred, and maybe another twenty or thirty after that, but then the real pushback came, and he didn’t like that so much.

The air from his tanks was nice and sweet, but he had a tiny stream of gunk making its way into his goggles. Nothing tragic, but not ideal. He concentrated on moving the sand and flowing it smoothly around himself. No blips on his visor yet. He didn’t expect to see the sandscrapers of Danvar yet—those were said to be a mile down, and even if they were half that he wouldn’t see them on this dive—but depth and distance were odd out in the shifting dunes. He’d often found salvage at less than one fifty, and had hit hard ground at less than two hundred before. And this time he was going deeper.

At one hundred and fifty he felt the press and he dropped his first tank. He watched it disappear behind him, glowing bright red in his visor with orange at the edges. With his twin tanks, he was good down past two hundred meters and could still make it back without a spare. If he was careful with his breathing, two fifty was doable. Beyond that and he’d have to rely on the spares—and he’d be well past his deep.

Peary stretched out and tried to slow his breathing even more, felt his muscles strain, and his mind too. He tried to keep himself going straight vertical, and focused on keeping the sand closest to his upper body as loose as possible. The pushback was strong; he could feel the tightness around his neck, and his lungs had to work to push outward with each breath. And to think that people—mere human divers—had gone down half a mile or more? Or so the rumors went.

Then he could see it. Not through his visor, but in his mind’s eye. His own body trapped in the sand. He immediately pushed that thought away, because that was the thought that would kill you. He’d almost coffined like that before, at a much shallower depth. A lapse like that and everything around him would turn hard as stonesand and his next breath would never come. Even with the tank and whatever precious oxygen remained in it, his lungs would never expand again, because the sand would crush in on him and thwart his inhale. So he put his thoughts on Marisa, and he pictured himself telling her he loved her and how much he appreciated her.

Past two hundred meters. The death zone. Hard to tell now because the reading in his visor was starting to fade. Losing all contact with the surface. He stopped and looked around, concentrated on keeping the sand soft around himself. He looked down, and when he calmed himself, he saw the first dot of orange, and then red, and it surprised him. As if this whole dive had been an exercise and he’d never really hoped to find anything. He moved again. The dot grew until he knew he was looking at a something. Angular. Solid and manmade. Straight lines heading down and away from a point that was changing from orange to red and then a deeper red. The lines moving away disappeared into greens and shades of blue.

He pushed down, the sand behind him becoming harder than stone, the pushback growing with each meter. And then the yellow appeared. Two forms, clinging to the red structure with orange where the two colors met. And he knew what they were, the two shapes in yellow.

They were men. Divers just like him.

And they were dead.

No One Really Knows War in the Wastes

Chapter Five

Two of Bolger’s divers were down under the sand. Down there with large jars and water skins, searching for the underground spring or river that once wetted the trees whose tops now served as leaning posts for the rest of the crew. Everyone just waited in the sun and drained their own canteens so that they would be empty and prepared for more. Water was the other truth of the world, water and sand. Only, a man could live without sand.

The Poet licked his lips, even though he knew better. Waste of water, and it made them dry out faster. His daddy used to smack him when he licked his lips out in the dunes under the relentless sun. He would say, “Go on and cut your wrists, boy, it’ll be faster!”

The sand near where the divers had disappeared didn’t stir, and all the men were watching, waiting for one of the divers to break the surface, to hold up those precious containers of liquid life. Someone told an awful joke, and everyone laughed, even the other divers, even though the joke was about how divers dying down there was just something to be expected.

That’s when the first man died. He was in mid-laugh when it happened. He was a diver too, laughing about divers dying, and a spear went through his throat and pinned him to the gnarly gray-black treetop that arrogantly dared poke its way up through the sand.

Then the arrows and spears rained down and one nearly took off the top of the Poet’s head, too. Knocked him right down into the sand, and he saw the blood flow down, mixing with the silica and grit. His own blood, red and thick.

He glanced up and men were falling everywhere, most dead and some wounded, and other men were streaming down the dunes toward them. Brigands. Screaming in the voice of war. At a glance they looked like they could be Brock’s men, but the Poet couldn’t tell with blood running into his eyes. The two divers poked up then, at just the wrong time, and the Poet saw them killed right quick. They always thought they’d die down under the sand, or up on top in a bar somewhere, but they died half in and half out, with sand up to their waists.

Without hesitation, the Poet reached under his robe and activated his suit. He’d learned to dive as a boy, hiding from his father in the box town outside of Low-Pub. And he was good, too—a natural, they said. He never dove deep and he never took salvage, but he could move sand like no one’s business. But that was before his daddy taught him about the fundamental worthlessness of a diver, about how being a diver was like being a dog, only without the intrinsic values of loyalty and obedience that came with the canine species. So the Poet had given up diving, though he kept up his skills by going out a couple of times a year—out into the Thousand Dunes, to make sure he could survive.

Now he took a big gulp of air and made himself sink until the sand swallowed him whole. He struggled with the robe on, but what could he do? He worked his way under the sand and over to his gear bag, and when he knew he was near it he thrust his hand up above the surface and groped around until he felt his hand hit the bag.

Open the bag. Reach in for the visor. Now goggles. Got it.

He dove again, the sand ripping at the gash on his scalp, and when he was ten meters down he stopped and softened up the sand enough that he could pull on his goggles and visor. He went through the process of trying to clear the gunk from around his eyes, but he knew the best he could do was remove enough to allow him to see colors through the visor.

His lungs were straining now, driving him to want to exhale. He hardened the sand by his feet and pushed off toward the north, kicking for all he had. He would need to clear the nearest dune before he could risk surfacing for a split second to grab a breath. He pushed and kicked and he could feel his head growing lighter and the blood pulsing in his temples and neck. Counting down, he supposed, to his death. He wasn’t a young man anymore. He was already operating beyond his abilities, he thought. Yet he kicked and kicked, and when he thought he couldn’t go another stroke, he kicked again.

He guided himself by the colors. When it looked to him like he’d cleared the nearest dune and was on the backside, he pushed again. Angling upward, toward the purple, he moved his body skyward as his every cell screamed for him to exhale and then suck in anything—anything at all. He broke the surface in a burst of energy and rolled onto his back, gasping and straining for air. One second. Two seconds. And then he turned back to his stomach. He forced himself to not just lie there, and when the first dollop of blood hit the sand in front of his face, he sucked in all the air he could and dove again. He calmed himself. This time he moved more slowly, kicking his feet against the sand that he hardened behind himself and pulling himself forward with each stroke. His muscles were screaming, but he put that pain out of his mind. After a one-hundred count, he pushed up toward the purple again, letting only a portion of his face break the surface this time. He sucked in air and grit and dove again.

In this way, he pushed farther north, farther into the wastes.

The Sand Don’t Care

Chapter Six

Peary did a cursory hand search around the bodies. Both dead men were in dive suits, coffined in the sand. He tested the first man’s tank and tried to take a breath through the regulator, but the tank was dry. Both of the bodies clung to some kind of metallic superstructure that came to a point at the top, with long antennae pointing up from there toward the surface. Down a ways he could see where horizontal shafts of steel extended outward from this main tower where he’d found the bodies.

The dead men were only a few feet apart, so whatever had happened, it looked like they had died together. Maybe there was some peace for them in that, but Peary wouldn’t know. He was, as always, alone.

He softened the sand as best as he could, but it was tough going at that depth. He did the calculations in his mind and he realized he didn’t have enough juice to make it back to the top if he tried to drag both divers’ bodies with him, even if he could physically do it, which he doubted. One diver was clutching some kind of case in his hands, and had obviously been trying to get the salvaged materials back up to the surface when something had happened. It was a pretty common story with divers. Coffining happened most often either when a diver panicked, or was trying to move heavy salvage.

Instinctively, Peary reached his hand down the man’s leg to see if the man was carrying a dive knife—something that might have his name on it so that the body could be identified. He couldn’t find the knife, but he did find out what had contributed to the man’s death.

There was a long, steel cable wrapped tightly around the man’s leg. He felt farther down and found the cable’s other end was wound almost in a knot around the heavy metal of the structure. He pulled hard a few times to try to free the diver’s leg, but the man was stuck and there was no extricating him.

Peary took a pull on his own regulator and got that response that told him his own oxygen was running out. Better get moving or there’ll be three dead bodies down here. He was to the bottom of his twin tanks. Obviously, he’d been down here longer than he thought. A lot longer.

Don’t panic. You have a spare, and another waiting at one fifty.

It was time to go. When he felt his tanks were completely empty, he swapped out the twins for his one spare, but he didn’t start breathing from the new tank yet. He needed to ration his air. If for some reason he couldn’t find his stashed tank on the way back up, he would probably die. No two ways about it now. Peary checked the other dead diver and found no dive knife or any other item that might be used to identify him. This man was also clutching a hard-sided case, so Peary freed the two cases from the dead men’s clutches and then took his first long breath from his new tank. He felt his blood respond to the oxygen. Time to head back up.

He oriented himself by following the direction the antennae pointed, red arrows directing him to life, and when he was ready, he pushed toward the surface. His mind had been on the salvage, and now that he was kicking upward he once again realized just how dense the sand was at this depth. Now, instead of sinking down while carrying only spare air tanks, he was struggling against both gravity and the sand pressure while trying to drag two heavy cases up. The effort required was multiplied, and he was using a whole lot more oxygen, working to flow the sand around both himself and the cases he carried with him.

He felt like he was making no progress at all. Meters were counted in what seemed like minutes and not seconds. He almost coffined again when he felt panic begin in his mind and then tremor down his whole body. When that happened, the sand tightened on his throat and chest—and only by stopping and re-focusing his mind was he able to loosen the sand enough to continue his upward journey.

His biggest problem was that he had no idea how deep he was. His visor had yet to pick up the surface, so he had no reading on his depth. He stared upward and couldn’t see even the faintest trace of the blood red indicator that would mean he’d found his spare tank. He struggled, pulling against the sand, and he was forced once more to stop and re-focus his mind. It was harder to push toward the surface dragging the bags. Harder than he’d expected.

The sand don’t care!

He didn’t know why he thought those words at that moment, but he did think them. He’d heard the phrase bandied about by divers who’d been around awhile and were still alive. Those who’d made it through tough scrapes. It was true. The sand didn’t care. But Marisa did, and that made him move.

He kicked again, pushing surface-ward, but on his second kick he felt his tank go dry—and there was still no red object above him on which he could focus his attention. Nothing to give him hope. In the distance, he could barely make out the faint pulse of his beacon on the surface. Too far away to mean anything if he didn’t find the spare tank. He adjusted his regulator and reached back to fiddle with the knob, checking the line too. Nope. Already his mind was screaming and fear was causing him to sweat despite the cold. He knew he could hold his breath for several minutes more, but his body didn’t listen to his mind, and that craving to exhale came upon him like never before. He dropped one of the cases—an offering, or maybe it was just panic—and pushed harder upward. Still no red in sight, and he felt himself growing lightheaded, and all the while the weight and pushback impressed upon him that the sand didn’t care.

Bleeding Red

Chapter Seven

When the Poet figured he’d gone a quarter mile, bobbing to the surface for breaths after every dune, he stopped and waited just under the sand with his body mostly buried and his head in the lee of a rise. He waited for the sun to go down, and for the moonrise over the wastes to light up the silica like little diamonds or stars in the night.

The bleeding from his head hadn’t fully stopped, but he applied pressure with his hand as best as he could. And when that blue-gray glow was sufficient that he knew he could travel safely in the shadows of the dunes, the Poet surfaced and walked back to the site of the battle. Struggling. Step by step. On top of the sand, but still subject to its whims. He had to know if any of the team was spared; and if no one had lived, then he needed to look for gear or weapons. Anything that might give him a chance at survival.

When he reached the site of the battle, he wasn’t really that surprised by what he found. No survivors there, and the bodies he could find had been stripped by the brigands. There were no tools or canteens left behind, or even a spare ker to stanch the blood seeping from his head. Bad luck. He sat down against a dune and cried for a moment, not knowing what he should do.

This was no way to treat a valuable man. His life was worth more than this. If it was Brock and his men, they should have known better. They’d treated him just like a common diver. And although he had trouble grasping it, it was very likely that they’d succeeded in killing him along with the others—it was just taking a little longer for him to die. No way he could walk the dozens of miles back to Springston, and the wastes had a way of making even faint hope disappear with the sift. Dying like a diver, robbed and bleeding out in the wastes. No, this was no way for a valuable man to go out.

He tried to calculate how many days he could go, and how much battery he had left in his suit, but his calculations went awry as his head began to spin and his consciousness drifted in and out like the sift. He brought his hands to his face and saw the blood was still running down past his temple and matting in his beard. He tried to mouth the word “blood,” but he never got it out before he fell unconscious back onto the dune. For its part, the dune received him with apathy. Just another body in the sand.

A Man’s Breath

Chapter Eight

When the Poet regained consciousness, he found himself in the haul rack of a sarfer. The man who was sailing the thing was talking non-stop and was in mid-story and mid-sentence. It looked to be early morning, and from the angle and direction of the first glows of sunrise, he figured they were heading south. He tried to rise and to speak, but couldn’t. He raised his hands to his head, and found that it had been wrapped thickly in a heavy cloth. The fabric of the cloth was so dense and luxurious that it was altogether something he’d never felt before. He’d only seen such things in the black market, coming from salvage found from the old world.

“…so when I found my spare tank, I’d been holding my breath—I don’t know—maybe four minutes or more. I was blacking out when I saw the red of the spare in my visor…”

The young man kept on telling his story, even though the Poet had obviously missed most of it, and didn’t care about the rest.

“…I broke through the surface about a minute after my spare tank ran out, and I thought I was dead. I’d sucked in so much grit I thought I’d never cough it all out…”

The Poet felt up under the head cloth; it seemed that he was no longer bleeding, that the blood had finally clotted up. The diver had put a thinner cloth directly on the wound, and that cloth was stuck in the dried blood. He didn’t want to peel that off because he was afraid the bleeding would start up again. But the heavier material—the luxurious fabric—he unraveled from his head.

The diver looked down at him and saw him working on his head cloth and smiled. “Try not to do anything stupid. Seeing as how you already got yourself near-enough killed once already on this trip.”

The Poet glared at the diver. “I’ll have you know that I am known as the Poet, and I—”

“I don’t care if you’re one of the Lords himself or maybe one of the gods of Danvar!” the diver spat. “They just call me Peary, but surprise, looks like we both bleed the same. And if you start up bleeding again I don’t know if I’ll be able to get it stopped again.”

“Well, I do thank you for saving my life, but—”

The diver stopped him with a raised hand. “I don’t care what else you have to say, but your thank-you is received and appreciated. Now shut up while I finish my story. You see, the two cases I’d found and pulled up were heavy and full…”

The old Poet stared at Peary, not knowing what to think about the young man. The unraveled cloth was now whipping in the wind as the sarfer cut in an angle down from a very high dune and sped toward a long area of flats. The light was enough now that he could see the mountaintops off to the south and west, and he guessed they must be getting close to Springston—or maybe they were already west of it. He held the cloth up so that he could see it in the light. It was some kind of garment, and it was the brightest orange he’d ever seen. It was a color that didn’t happen in nature. Almost electric, like the orange you’d see in a visor. There was an emblem on the front of the garment, and words that he couldn’t yet make out.

“…and the cases were full up with clothes and trinkets. More stuff from the old world than I’d ever seen in one place! Just one of the larger items would probably bring more coin than I could make in a year or more.”

The Poet interrupted. “Are we going to Springston?”

“No.”

“Why not?” the Poet asked.

“Springston’s gone.”

The Poet looked up at the stranger. He stared for a moment before daring to speak. “Springston is… gone?”

“That’s what they say.”

“That’s what who says?”

Peary jerked his head back, as if to say back there.

The Poet tried to straighten himself in the haul rack, but he was hemmed in by some large, hard cases. “Who says Springston is gone?”

“The divers. I found the information in a dozen notes and messages left between the wastes and here. Someone blew up the walls with bombs.”

The Poet raised his hand to his head, pressing on his wound, feeling for the pain. “How long have I been out?”

“Excuse me?” Peary asked. “You have to talk over the wind, old man!”

“How long have I been with you?”

Peary shrugged his shoulders. “I found you the night before last. Took a long time to get the bleeding stopped, especially once I got you hydrated. I had to stop the sarfer every few miles to check your wounds and give you water. I watched over you all last night. I didn’t think you’d make it to sunrise, to be honest. I dripped honey water into your mouth, making you swallow it, on and off until morning.”

The Poet just stared at Peary. For several minutes he just watched as the sailor/diver handled the sarfer like a professional. It seemed to him, for the longest time, that there were no words to say. Perhaps the blood loss…

“Got going early this morning,” Peary said. “Carried you to the sarfer just hoping you weren’t going to die on me.”

“Why did you save my life?” the Poet asked.

Peary stared back at the old man and narrowed his eyes, then looked back at the dunes. “I don’t understand the question.”

“Why did you save my life? You have your treasure. You have riches.” The Poet rubbed the hard cases and then looked back at Peary. “All you needed to do was leave me there to die and head home. Where is home, by the way?”

“Low-Pub.”

“You could have just gone back to Low-Pub and not risked your life and wealth on me.”

Peary just shook his head.

The old Poet pressed him. “Why did you save my life?”

Peary looked at the man again and sighed. “Because it’s a life, man. Besides, you would have done the same for me.”

At that, the Poet felt a chill. It ran right down his spine and made him look away. Now he held up the electric-orange fabric again, looking at the image emblazoned on the bright cloth. It looked to be a horse’s head, with a fiery mane flowing back—as if the horse were running at full gallop. There were words below the horse’s head, and having learned some of the old world words, the Poet recognized the bottom one.

Danvar.

The writing was odd-looking, and the word was spelled with a couple of funny symbols, but it was clearly recognizable as the word Danvar. The poet touched the print with his hand.

D E N V E R

The word below the emblem of the horse and above the word for Danvar… that one the Poet could not decipher. It was in larger symbols that stretched all the way across the cloth. Peary, and then the whole sarfer, leaned into a high dune, and as they climbed it, the Poet’s finger traced the old symbols.

B R O N C O S

The sarfer sped southward, and in the wind, when he paid attention, the Poet could hear his driver still talking.

“…and when we get to Low-Pub, I know someone who’ll move all this for us… Maybe we make two coin for every ten it’s really worth, but even at that we’ll be rich and no one will know we are. I’ll get Marisa… pack up and head west… you can come along if you’d like…”

Knot 2: Salvage.

Relics

Chapter Nine

Circling around from the north took time, but with a priceless case of salvage from Danvar one can never be too careful. Peary brought the sarfer in toward Low-Pub from the Thousand Dunes, instead of from the north, from the direction of what used to be Springston. This was the long way around, but once word got out that there really was salvage hitting the market from Danvar, every single detail would be analyzed. Every action leading up to Danvar relics appearing in Low-Pub or anywhere else would be sifted; connections would be made. Every diver and merchant and pirate would start trying to put the pieces of the puzzle together. The location of Danvar was a riddle that everyone in every hovel and shanty would be working to solve.

Peary was relatively certain Marisa’s uncle Joel had the right connections. He should be able to get the stuff into the black market without dragging Marisa and Peary into it, but that privilege was going to cost plenty, and until the stuff was out of his hands, Peary knew to be on his guard. The life of a diver—or of anyone else, for that matter—meant nothing to those who wanted to capitalize on the greatest discovery ever in all the land of the sand.

Twenty miles out, Peary pulled up in an area where he used to practice diving with Marisa. No sense trying to make it in tonight. Be dark soon. People might notice. They might wonder if he had a reason to press so hard, and when relics from Danvar show up in the black market soon after, maybe someone remembers. Hard to tell what might happen then.

To Peary, fame wasn’t as alluring as it once was. He’d seen dead men gripping riches, but with no life left to spend. What’s fame to those men? Men who had reached for it, who were now forgotten by time and everyone in the land of sand.

As a young diver, regaled with stories of diver-gods who became legends, Peary had been captivated by the possibility of being a great discoverer. Of being the first to find Danvar. Free drinks at every pub, they’d say, just so dreamers can hear stories and losers can breathe the same air as the living gods. But in the last year, Peary had learned differently. A diver newly rich and famous could be safe only if the location of his find instantly became common knowledge. It was that window between nobody knowing and everyone knowing that was the danger. The trap that could kill as surely as coffining in stonesand.

And the word was already out that someone else had found Danvar. Confusion and competing claims didn’t bode well for anyone’s safety. Now there was word that Springston was gone. No one knew what to think of that. The only reason he’d be trusting Joel was because, for all intents and purposes, Joel was family. Blood and water and all that nonsense. Although whoever came up with that blood being thicker than water thing probably wrote it down in something other than blood. No man could be trusted when Danvar was involved, but Joel was the best Peary was going to get.

And then there was this: in a month, or maybe three months, the goods he’d gotten from Danvar would still be valuable, but a whole lot less so. Right now they were priceless—because they were part of the trail, and as far as he knew, they were likely to be the first to ever hit the market. The information that Peary held in his brain—the precise location of where he found the goods—was information a whole lot of people in the salvage business would kill for. And killing is the easiest transaction in all the land of sand, because not even a grieving momma sifts the dunes looking for a dead diver. The Lords don’t care and neither does the sand.

As Peary tied down the sarfer, the old man in the haul rack groaned but didn’t fully wake. This man who called himself “the Poet” had been in and out of consciousness for the entirety of the last day’s sail. Maybe he was just healing, or maybe an infection had him. Peary felt the man’s forehead and couldn’t discern any fever, but he didn’t look too good, either. He carried the old man from the sarfer and laid him down in the shadow of a dune.

Good thing the wind isn’t blowing. Another night in the dunes was going to be bad enough, but it would be miserable if the sift was up and stinging like needles. Thankfully the evening was still and the temperature was pleasant. And after tomorrow, he’d have enough coin to never again spend another night out in the dunes unless he wanted to.

Maybe he’d even head west with Marisa. Top the mountains and keep on until they hit the sea. That’d be something. If oceans really existed. The old joke was that it was hard to imagine diving in something like water when the most you’d ever seen at one time was in a canteen cap, taken one sip at a time. Enough water to be immersed in it? To dive in it? Unthinkable.

He put up the small tent, and as he built a pyrinte[1] fire his mind rehearsed the things he would tell Marisa, and how together they would approach her uncle in order to get the goods dealt with quickly. When the fire was established, Peary put a small pan of water on to boil, then he crushed two squares of dried goat meat and a dozen dehydrated berries with the heel of his dive knife before scraping them into the water.

The old man stirred, and with some struggle sat up on the sand and glared at the diver who worked over his pot. “Why won’t you let me die?”

Peary didn’t turn around or make an attempt to catch the Poet’s eye. “Why don’t you shut up, old man?”

“I didn’t mean to disturb your meal… I’m sorry.”

Now Peary turned and gave the man an intense look before turning back to his stirring. “This is not my meal, Poet, it’s yours. I’ve had my meal. A hunk of dried fat chewed while we sailed and you slept. We’ll be in Low-Pub tomorrow, and then we’ll have a proper meal with Marisa. You’ll like it, trust me.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” the Poet said.

“You haven’t asked one worth answering again. And it would be ‘again,’ since you asked it when you first gained consciousness and the answer hasn’t changed.”

The Poet dug his heels into the sand and pulled himself forward until he was closer to the small fire, though it provided him with no warmth. “Why keep me with you?” The old man pointed to the wrap around his head. “I can only hurt you. I know where I was when you picked me up; I can describe you, your sarfer. That’s info some folks would like to know. With what I know, people can figure out who are, find you. And hurt you. Or they can just figure out where you must’ve been diving when you pulled up that salvage.” The Poet looked back at the small fire and paused for a moment before continuing. “I know too much. You should have let me die. In fact, you should kill me now.”

Peary stopped stirring the pot and reached into his tool bag. He eyed the old man, who looked on closely as the diver’s hand came back out of the bag. Peary wondered if the old man thought he was going for a dive knife. He pulled out a small spoon, put it into the pot, then walked the three steps over to where the Poet sat and placed the pot in front him. “Eat that, and shut up.”

Adrift

Chapter Ten

The old Poet finished his bowl and lay back against the sand. He didn’t feel well, what with the blow to his head and the resulting crack in his scalp, but he wasn’t as sick as he was showing. He wasn’t sick at all. He was still trying to see all the angles.

Don’t let on and show strangers your strengths or your weaknesses, boy. That’s what his daddy would say. Keep somethin’ extra. Give ’em less or more than what they expect, dependin’ on what you need to say to maximize the situation.

He still didn’t know what to think about this diver. This Peary. This hero. His savior. The surface story didn’t add up. No diver went to such extremes to save a tinker. Especially no diver with a secret the whole world of the sand would kill to know. At first, when he still had the spins and wasn’t all that right in the head, he’d felt something for this diver. What was it? Thankfulness? Maybe. But no man acted in another man’s best interests unless those interests wedded with his own. That’s what the Poet’s daddy used to tell him.

Besides, what did this diver gain from heroics? Had to be something. There was an angle here. He just needed to get his fingernail under the edge somewhere. Something. Pick at it until it all made sense. The Poet just didn’t know what it was yet, what made this diver tick. And who needed that much money? Surely not some low-life sand fish, probably living in a shanty a meter deep in drift and sinking fast. What did this Peary have to spend coin on? Whores and liquor? Had a diver ever spent his salvage coin on anything more than whores and liquor? What a waste.

“We’ll need to push on in the morning, old man,” Peary said.

The Poet didn’t rise. Didn’t lift his head. “I can’t go no more,” he said. “Won’t make the night, for certain. Think I got the sickness in me from the wound. I feel my blood running hot.”

He could hear Peary exhale sharply.

“Your skin’s not even warm,” Peary said. “I’ve checked you every half hour for two days.”

“I’m an old man and I know my ways. I’ve seen the sickness take a man looked full healthy to a diver like you. Back when you were still digging grit out of the ker your momma used for a diaper.”

Peary hit the sand with his open palm. A flash of anger. “You just want to die, and I’m not going to let you.”

There was silence again for the space of a half hour. The Poet had his back turned, but he heard the diver scratch at the sand with his dive knife, and then relieve his bowels.

The diver whistled for a bit, then stopped, and somewhere in the distance the Poet heard a sand-hawk call. If he were in his home, the old man thought, he’d pull out his skrendl[2] and play a tune to the night. But he didn’t have his skrendl, so instead he spoke…

An ancient song of sand and sift,

of rush and spill and grit.

As some exotic land and gift,

’til turned o’er hell and spit.

Dive deep oh friend, and spare

the top of lack; and may fair

winds drive thee

atop the ancients’ lair.

“That’s why they call you the Poet?” Peary asked.

“A long time ago, diver. A long time ago they did. Maybe you just heard my last poem, writ just now in my dyin’ head.”

“Tell me another one over a meal tomorrow in Low-Pub.”

“Just leave me here and move on. Go sell your salvage and take that woman and go to the west. Leave an old man to die.”

“You’re not going to die,” Peary said. “You’re not even sick.”

“I can’t be moved again,” the old Poet said. “I’m already losing feeling in my feet and hands. Sickness has me.”

“Then we’ll go in tonight.”

“I can’t go. I’m finished. Just leave me here,” the Poet said.

“Not gonna happen, Poet.”

“You and your lady gonna die tryin’ to sell Danvar goods in Low-Pub. Can’t you see it?”

Peary cursed, then snatched up the old man again and carried him to the sarfer. He placed him in the craft and piled the haul packs on and around him, then went through the steps of readying the sarfer and raising the sail. After attaching the wind generator and plugging in his suit and visor batteries, he shook the Poet, whose eyes were closed. “I’ll grab the pyrinte ring and the pot, and we’ll be on our way. We’ll be in Low-Pub in an hour and a half, and Marisa will tend to your wound.”

The old man didn’t respond. He looked through Peary, as if his mind was somewhere else. Maybe deeper in the Thousand Dunes, or on some woman he used to call wife.

“You got that, Poet? I’ll be right back.”

No answer, and now the old man’s eyes were closed.

Peary dashed over the dune to grab the ring and the pot, then searched around to make sure he’d left nothing that might be used as a clue, or that could be traced back to him. When he was satisfied that he’d left no trail, he turned to head back to the sarfer. That’s when he heard the telltale ring of the rigging hitting the mast, and a pop as the sail filled, and the crunch of sand. He ran back toward the sarfer, and as he topped the dune he could just see the top of the mast as the sarfer disappeared from view.

Low-Pub

Chapter Eleven

Peary had not seen Marisa since he hit Low-Pub. It was morning now, and the cool gray was starting to give way to the sun and heat. He was too angry to see her, yet. Too embarrassed to tell her he’d lost everything because he’d chosen to help an injured old tinker half-dead. And he’d also have to tell her that the money she’d staked him for the trip was all lost… not to mention his sarfer, his dive suit and visor, and all of his gear. How could she love a man who let a pirate take everything from him? A thieving pirate, old and sick… was the old bastard even sick? Peary kicked at the sand and muttered under his breath. Marisa always told him that his kindness to strangers, more often than not, tended to hurt him. She said she loved him for that, but still she said it.

So he walked the town, from alley to alley, up and down the sandy rows of shops and sheds, looking for the Poet. Hoping to catch a glimpse of the old bastard. Wanting to kill him. His hands shook as he thought of the prospect of taking a man’s life. Then he squeezed his hand into a fist and struck his thigh. I’ll do it, though.

That’s when he saw it. The solitary piece of sand he was searching for in all the dunes of Low-Pub. He saw his sarfer, half hidden behind a shed structure that itself was mostly buried. One that used to be some kind of shop. The roof had collapsed, and someone had already begun to salvage the materials but hadn’t quite finished. The sarfer was tied down, but the haul rack was empty and the gear was gone.

He banged on a door and shouted, and eventually a woman, worn down by sand and life, hobbled to the door and glared out at him without saying a word. He felt his feet sink into the mush, probably wet from the drained wash, or the piss pot being dumped.

“I’m looking for the old man who came in that sarfer.”

“Look at the bar around the corner. Don’t know nothin’ here. Look down at the pub.”

* * *

The pub was thick at that hour with the regular kinds, the sand-stained refuse of life in the dunes. Morning drinkers and souls left over from the night before. A diver here and there, but not many of that kind, since most were up north or west looking for Danvar. The inevitable coin-changers were here though, and the clerks were too, drinking early after a yesterday with little trade. Up on the balcony were whores and their clientele, and here and there a seamstress or sandal hop plied the customers for work. There was a raising of voices, and then a clatter as a man who’d been playing cards was kicked backward and he and his chair toppled and slid across the spill and spit. This was met with laughter, and then the embarrassed man smacked a sandal hop for not moving fast enough to get out of his way, and everything reverted to type: shit flowing downhill.

Peary kept his head down, but his eyes worked the crowd, looking for the telltale sign of the old poet’s bandage. He’d walked the room several times before he realized he was starting to get some notice. A card player looked at him and then snarled. “You gonna walk, drink, or what?”

Peary met the man’s glare. “I’m lookin’ for a man calls himself ‘the Poet.’”

There was some laughter, then most everyone went back to whatever they’d been doing. Drinking. Forgetting. Dying. Sometimes all three. The card player sneered again. “Ain’t nobody wants or needs a poet, friend,” and then he turned back to his game.

Peary went to the bar and ordered a beer. He was thirsty, but he couldn’t afford water, and he knew he’d need to save coin. Even bad water, bean soak, or runoff could be used in the making of beer. Fermentation killed all pathogens. But pure water was precious.

The sandal hop who’d gotten a smack for being too slow pulled up a stool next to Peary and sat down. He was still rubbing his beard, and looked sideways at the diver. “If you’ve got coin and you’re needin’ a poem, then I’m your man.”

Peary took a sip from the flat, sand-temperature beer and then sat the glass down on the bar before looking over at the man. “Haven’t you been smacked enough for one day?”

“Day’s early, diver. Besides, I don’t sleep ’til I’ve been knocked around at least twenty times.”

“You’ll get there,” Peary said with a smirk. “At least you’re off to a good start.”

“I appreciate your confidence.”

“When it comes to motivating a good smack, you’re an inspiration.”

The sandal hop pretended to put his arms out for a hug, “Mum? Is that you?”

Peary sighed and turned to the sandal hop. “I’m not looking for a poem. I’m looking for an old man calls himself the Poet.”

“And again we come to the topic of coin,” the man said with a smile.

Peary rubbed his hand across his dive pocket. “I have coin, and a dive knife. One is for the exact location of the Poet. The other is for any man who even thinks about taking advantage of me.”

“Are you sure you aren’t my mum? You do sound just like her.”

“Do you know where the Poet is or don’t you?” Peary asked.

The sandal hop screwed up his face like he was considering his options. Then he exhaled and slapped the bar. “Okay, I’ve chosen to trust you, diver. Upstairs. Center room. Whore came out immediately so apparently he was only interested in the furnishings. But don’t tell him of our arrangement. Tinkers smack harder than coin-changers.”

* * *

“You had to know I’d find you.”

Peary took a threatening step into the room and closed the door behind him. He slowly drew his dive knife and held it up for the Poet to see.

The old man slid off the other side of the bed, stood, and then held his hands up before him, clasped in a sort of prayer. “I guess I misjudged your sentimentality, diver.”

“I’m going to take this knife, and I’m going to use it to carve the information I need from your soul. Then I’m going to cut you up and carry you out of here in the sheets and bury you in the dunes,” Peary said.

“I told you to kill me back when you were cooking my supper last night. It would have saved us all of this unpleasantness.”

“I’ll atone for my mistake right now, Poet. Where are my packs? Where’s the salvage from… the place?”

The Poet didn’t speak immediately, and when he didn’t, Peary stepped up onto the bed—which nearly caved under his weight—and put the knife to the old man’s throat. He held the blade firmly against the man’s carotid artery as he stepped back down on the far side of the bed.

“I was trying to save your lives—yours and your lady’s too,” the Poet said. He was sweating now, but his eyes didn’t flash with fear or indignation. They showed only resignation and defeat. As if whatever happened was only to be expected.

Peary lowered the knife and gave the Poet a stare through narrowed eyes. Then he head-butted the old man across the bridge of the nose. The Poet dropped like sand-cake from a slammed window, and crumpling to the ground, he began to laugh. Peary, enraged, kicked the old man in the ribs, which only elicited more laughs, interspersed with heavy, pain-drenched sighs.

“Where are the packs with the salvage, Poet?”

The poet pulled his arm up to support his bruised rips, then flipped over onto his back. He stared up at Peary and his old rheumy eyes were blurry from the crack across the nose. He blinked them to try to clear his vision. “I buried them in the sand so you wouldn’t be tempted to commit suicide by trying to sell them.”

Peary held the knife up again and turned it in his hands, anticipating its use. “And I suppose I’m supposed to believe that you stole my sarfer and my salvage, left me in the dunes to walk home, and were hiding out here in a whore’s workroom all for my sake. To save my life?”

“And your lady’s,” the Poet said.

“And my lady’s.”

The Poet nodded. “That’s correct.”

The two men stared at one another before the Poet continued. “Hard time for me to choose to be heroic. Damn hard. And now you broke my nose for it.”

“Okay,” Peary said. “Enough chit-chat. It’s time for answers.” He pulled the old man up by his hair until he was standing, then pushed him against the far wall. He held the knife with one hand and with the other he began to untie his ker. “I’m going to use this to muzzle you so you don’t scream like a wounded dog when I start to cut parts off of you.”

The Poet held his hands up, meekly imploring, but he didn’t struggle or fight. “I’m telling you the truth,” he said. “I buried the stuff in the sand fifty meters down. Just out in the dunes. I could take you to it, but I won’t. If I wanted to steal from you I’d have already sold the sarfer, and I’d have sold the information I know, too. I’d be rich and gone already. I was hoping to hide out until you gave up looking for me.”

Peary worked at the knot in the ker, but remained silent.

“I’m telling the truth,” the Poet said.

Peary finished untying the ker and stepped closer to the old man.

“I’m not lying. I just needed time to figure out what to do. I would have gotten the sarfer back to you, I swear. I wasn’t going to sell it, or it would be gone already, scrapped for parts in some dive shop. You know it, too.”

Peary grabbed the old man’s face and held the knife up to his throat. “Where are the packs, old man?”

“I won’t take you to them, because if I do you’ll try to sell that stuff, and your life won’t be worth the coin you spent to buy the beer on your breath.”

Peary heard the door open behind him, and when he turned, he saw Marisa standing there. She had a worried look on her face, and when she saw him holding a knife on an old man, her alarm multiplied.

“Marisa!” Peary said. “What—?”

“I… I… a friend saw you come in here. A coin-changer my father used to use. He—he sent word to me. I’ve been worried sick.”

Transactions

Chapter Twelve

Between his own story and corroboration from the old Poet, Peary was able to fill Marisa in on what had happened during his absence. She eyed the old man nervously, even as she tried to convince Peary to abandon his efforts to make the man talk.

“Let’s just go, Peary. We can start again. You have the sarfer. If this old man won’t at least tell you where to get your dive gear, we can scrape enough coin to buy more. You know where Danvar is, and he says he hasn’t told anyone.”

Peary laughed. “This old man is nothing but a liar and a thief. He’d sell us out in a heartbeat, and I’d never surface from another dive to Danvar. Every pirate and brigand for a thousand miles would descend on that place.”

Marisa pulled at Peary’s arm, trying to turn him from his intentions. “Then let’s just forget it all. We still have our lives. Let’s just go.”

Peary pulled his arm free from Marisa’s grasp. “I’m not letting anything go. This old man is going to tell me where he buried my salvage, or I’m going to bury him. That’s the only way the story about Danvar stays secret long enough for us to cash out. That’s the only way I can pay you back the money you loaned me.”

“I don’t care about that. I don’t want the money back. I just want us to get out of here without you doing something stupid… or wrong.”

Peary turned to Marisa. “I hear you. Really I do. I’m doing the best I can.” He turned his attention back to the Poet and held the knife back up to the old man’s throat. “If there was any other way to make this come out right, I’d do it.”

An explosion shook the room, and Marisa ducked down as gunfire echoed in the distance. “What—?”

Peary lowered the knife. Unconsciously he lowered his head until he was nearly in a crouch. He glanced at the Poet. “What was that?”

“I don’t know,” the old man said. “Rebels, maybe?”

After a few moments of eerie silence, there was a knock at the door, and the sandal hop from downstairs poked his head in. He wasn’t smiling or clowning around now. “You should probably either accelerate or terminate your transaction,” he said. “Something’s going on out there. People hearing explosions around town. Rumor is that whatever happened to Springston is about to happen here. Panic coming, by the looks of things.”

“What all did you hear?” Peary said.

The man shook his head. “Me? I don’t hear things. Deaf when it comes to other men’s business.”

The Poet pushed Peary out of the way and headed for the door, and for some reason—perhaps a combination of confusion and a reflexive reaction to the Poet’s immediate projection of authority and single-mindedness—Peary didn’t try to stop him. “Follow me,” the Poet said. “We’ll finish this other business once we’ve gotten someplace safe.”

There were more sharp cracks of gunfire and shouting coming from the pub and out in the streets. Peary, Marisa, and the sandal hop all looked at one another for a few beats before the hop broke the silence with a smile. “I don’t know about you two, but I’m following the old man. He seems to know what he’s doing.”

* * *

Outside the pub, bodies lay here and there, their faces splattered with gore and surprise. Everywhere blood soaked into the sand, sanctifying it. The market area had almost magically been cleared of living men and women, and looking over his shoulder, Peary noticed that some sort of confrontation was happening in the market center. The smell of burning flesh filled the air—meat from the stalls whose grills were now unmanned, or perhaps it was the stench of bodies charred by explosions. A group of divers and brigands were in the market center, and in their midst, a column of sand held aloft a shiny sphere. Some kind of religious ceremony? Or perhaps rebels had taken the town. His thoughts raced as he recalled all the messages and whispers about Springston.

Peary saw a pistol lying near one of the bodies. A young coin-changer had been shot in the gut. Apparently he’d dragged himself several meters before he finally bled out. Peary picked up the weapon and checked it; it was loaded and ready to fire. He knew little about guns, but he was certain he knew enough to shoot it if he needed to. He hoped that just having it would be enough for most of the things he might need it for. He tugged at Marisa to get her attention. “We need to get out of here, Mar. Something’s happening.” She probably didn’t know about Springston, and he didn’t want to scare her.

Marisa looked at the gun and then back up to Peary. She nodded her head.

The Poet was waiting for them near the dilapidated stall where he’d failed in his attempt to hide Peary’s sarfer. He was tying a ker he’d snagged from a drying line around the wound on his head when the others ran up to him. He grabbed a couple more kers from the line and stuffed them into his tunic. “Can you get your hands on a second sarfer?” he asked Peary. “With four of us it’ll go faster and better if we have two.”

Peary shook his head. “No.” He wrapped his own ker around his face and tied it in the back. Then he pointed at the sandal hop. “And why are we taking him with us?”

The Poet glared at Peary. “Because he’s a man, diver. Have you forgotten all of a sudden?” He waved out at the town with his hand. “Looks like everyone out there could be dying.”

“I can get another sarfer,” Marisa said. “My family has one we almost never use at the Sand-Hawk Marina. My uncle pays good coin to keep it there and ready.”

The Poet pointed at Peary. “You run with her and get the other sarfer. Me and—” He pointed at the sandal hop and snapped his fingers. None of them knew the man’s name.

“Reginald,” the scruffy man said. He shrugged and rubbed his hands together. “Reggie… for my new friends.”

The Poet clapped Reggie on the back. “Reggie and I will push this sarfer back out of town. We’ll get it rigged up and meet you just southwest of the marina.”

“None of that is going to happen,” Peary said, “because I’m not letting you out of my sight.” He nodded at the Poet, emphasizing his steadfast intention to get his property back. “We stay together.”

The Poet grimaced, clenching his teeth. “It’ll be faster the other way.”

“We stay together.”

“Well, we’ll need to stop by a place I know and get food and water.” The old man sighed and shrugged his shoulders. “It would be much faster if we could just meet you—”

“We stay together, Poet.”

Poetry

Chapter Thirteen

It took the rest of the morning to retrieve and load the sarfers, and Peary spent every minute of it pressing the Poet to lead them to where he’d buried the salvage from Danvar. So much so that Peary was shocked when the old man finally caved. But with Springston gone, and Low-Pub maybe falling too, the Poet recognized that the ground had shifted, and an old man should take allies, however tenuous and temporary, where he could find them.

Now Peary sailed the first craft with the Poet riding in the haul rack. On the second sarfer, Marisa drove with Reggie napping in the stretched net of the rack. The two craft cruised to the spot, gliding in from the northeast, and when they were down between the dunes they lowered the masts and began tying down the sarfers.

The sun was high as they pulled on ropes and Reggie drove dragnels[3] into the dune face. The Poet covered the sun with his hand, then measured finger lengths with his other hand until the bottom of his fist was on a line where an imaginary horizon would be if they were in flat land. “One on the clock,” he said. “I put the cases fifty meters down, but you can’t miss ’em.”

Before leaving Low-Pub, they’d grabbed extra air tanks and another dive suit and visor from the old man’s house. Together they now had enough gear for them all to dive if they needed to. Once Reggie finished tying down the sarfers, he began pulling some of the gear off of Marisa’s sarfer, intending to put on a dive suit. But Peary stopped him with a wave of the hand. The diver made it clear he was going down alone, and Reggie didn’t argue. The old man just watched and didn’t react. For now, he was an observer.

Ain’t nothin’ but folly this way. That’s what his old daddy would have told him, the Poet thought. Nothin’ but folly and death. Ain’t no coin in sentimentality, boy. He pushed the thoughts out of his mind. Too late now. He’d already thrown in his lot with this crew. He’d probably doomed himself when he’d tried to save their pitiable lives, but now he was in it. If Low-Pub went the way of Springston, there’d be greater safety in numbers anyway. Maybe they’d come up on an independent diver camp or a trading shanty town. He’d beg out then, if that time came, and let these three go their way. For now, though, he was stuck.

Peary handed the gun to Marisa, then began to prepare himself for the dive. “Can you work that?” he asked.

By way of reply, Marisa deftly ejected the ammunition cartridge, then cleared the weapon with trained proficiency. When she was done, she popped the cartridge back in and chambered a round. “Yep,” she said. “My father taught us all how to shoot.”

Peary smiled. “So I guess the next question is, ‘would you shoot these two if you had to?’”

Marisa nodded. “The world’s gone sand-side up. I suppose we have to do what we have to do.”

“Good,” Peary said. “If they act up, punch their tickets and we’ll bury ’em when I get back up.”

“Ain’t gonna be no problems from Reggie!” Reggie said, raising his hands in mock surrender.

The old man looked on as Peary pulled on his goggles and visor and checked the air in his tanks. He admired the young man, even if he didn’t understand him. Maybe things’ll be better this way, he thought. The other way—me on my own—maybe I don’t make it. Maybe I’d’ve been killed in the streets in Low-Pub, or left there to get vaporized if the brigands blow the town. Or speared on pikes of sand in the town center. This old world is changing. That’s what his daddy would be telling him. Danvar found. Springston gone. Low-Pub maybe blown into sand too. His daddy would say, better to find a new way to get by, boy. Things are going to change.

His hand unconsciously rubbed the wound on his head through the ker. It seemed like the injury was beginning to heal. He still felt no heat or signs of infection. The crack across his nose was more of a discomfort than a worry. He’d had his nose broken before. Didn’t care, so long as he could breathe.

Peary set his beacon, smacked the button on his chest, and disappeared into the sand. The Poet looked at Marisa and she calmly steadied the weapon in his direction. No trust there. He couldn’t blame her. Trust was something he’d earned from thieves, divers, brigands, and men running crews, not from regular folk. She was wary. He was everything she’d been taught her whole life to distrust. And from the looks of her, she knew how to handle the pistol, too. Finger off the trigger, resting alongside, pointed at him with an unspoken accusation. Not that he’d try anything. He was old and tired, but not dumb.

Marisa was a pretty girl, beautiful really, and smart. Could handle herself right well, the Poet saw. The sandal hop Reggie was a different matter altogether. Not much to read there. Clever. An opportunist with a quick wit and a searching eye. Stayed alive fixing sandals and running errands. Traded in secrets or anything else that would bring coin without peril. Didn’t usually deal in dangerous things, and probably was just glad to have a few sponsors with coin to make sure he had something to eat.

“What’s your name again, boy?” the Poet asked. “I’m old and I get forgetful.”

The sandal hop smiled. “You could call me Springston, since that name is no longer in use. Or is it too soon?”

The Poet shrugged. “What does your mother call you?”

“Bastard, mostly,” the man replied, “back when she was alive. Before the sift filled her lungs and took her.”

“Sorry to hear that,” the Poet said. “That’s the way my wife went. Now give me a name to call you, or I’ll give you a smack and leave it at that.”

The sandal hop winked at the Poet. “A Poet’s smack now. Angry fact for sandy friends. Trading force for tact.”

The Poet rubbed his wound through the ker. “Haiku. And a poor one.”

“Everyone’s a critic in the dunes,” the sandal hop said, laughing.

The Poet produced a dive knife and pointed it at the sandal hop, then grinned.

“Reginald,” the hop said. “As I said before.” He thrust his hands up into the air and smiled innocently. “You can call me Reggie.”

The Poet returned the dive knife to its sheath. “Good to know. Now we can be friends.” He turned to look at Marisa as he snapped the cover on the sheath. Stoic was the right word for her. She’d not so much as flinched when his knife came out. Still the pistol was pointed at his heart. Earnestly.

Diving for Treasure

Chapter Fourteen

Down below, Peary was moving toward the salvage cases. Almost from the surface he could see them. Not quite, but almost. At first they were just a shimmer of opacity in a sea of orange, but when the deeper colors appeared, the deep blues and greens, the cases took form by relief, red in his visor amid the darker colors in the distance. He moved slowly, enjoying the cool of the sand after the heat up on top, and felt his tensions ease after the pressures and fears brought on by the loss of his salvage. He was in no hurry.

Escaping Low-Pub and the death and carnage taking place there had powerfully focused his thoughts. Like the sand, his days were numbered. Everyone’s were. And as with the sand, he couldn’t know what that number was. This was a tenuous life for certain, and every moment of it needed to be valued. The salvage from Danvar was now more than a ticket to riches or fame. It was a new life somewhere with Marisa. Maybe they’d find a village somewhere in the Dunes. Maybe he’d hire workers with haul-poles and dig a well, and sell water to the natives. Some kind of change was in the offing, he knew that. Maybe out west, over the mountains and toward the sea.

Peary had no idea what had led to the demise of Springston and the events in Low-Pub, but he knew that things were changing. This was one of those moments in life when the old order was being overthrown and something new was coming to be. Like the first time diving, when he’d first moved the sand. That moment of revelation. He remembered now how that had felt. How his whole world had shifted, and how he’d known immediately that from then on his existence would be different.

Like the first time he’d kissed Marisa. Changed.

The sand flowed cleanly by his mask and visor, and he concentrated on the flow, sipping sparingly from his oxygen as he glided downward.

Now his consciousness moved to his hands, and he formed the sand around and under them into grips, like handholds in stone. This was the kind of practice a good diver did in the shallows to improve skills and master the sand. He’d heard talk of a woman who could dive down eight hundred meters—half a mile. Even the thought of it unnerved him. But she hadn’t learned to do that while down deep. No amateur made that kind of dive. She’d learned her skills in the shallows. Mastering the sand. Working on techniques, and breathing, and the little tricks that only the best could perfect. Step by step she’d learned the workings of the sand at each strata, until the silica operated as a part of her—an extension of her consciousness. This is how she’d become the best, working down the column so that at each depth she knew exactly how the sand would react to her thoughts, and how to keep breathing. That was the hardest part. How to mitigate panic. How to avoid coffining, which was the biggest threat at those depths.

Peary formed little shelves above his feet and pushed off of them. He moved the sand around his chest. Slowed his breathing. Felt the life moving through the apparatus. Studied the deep red of the cases in his visor, and concentrated to make the sand loosen around them.

Then, without thinking too long about it, he moved them.

He formed the sand up under the cases into a platform, stabilizing the chaotic with his thoughts. He lifted them a meter, but then could go no more. His thoughts stumbled. The sand didn’t care. It had to be moved, because it had no life of its own. Every grain had to work in unison with the others, but if you thought of the sand as grains you’d lose everything. The body is made of cells, but you can’t think of it that way or it loses all meaning. Life works when you think in wholes and not only in parts. The body was held together by something that managed and directed the space between the cells. And that something—whether it was incorporeal, or fluid, or some other unknown force like electricity that no man in the sand age had ever seen—forced the cells to work in unison.

He closed his eyes and focused again, and once more the cases began to move upward. He’d never even tried this before, moving salvage with the sand. By doing so he was playing with fire. This was the kind of power that could be used to kill others. Using the sand as a weapon was the unforgivable sin in the land of the dunes. So using the sand like this was an action that was at once both thrilling and perilous. However innocent, it was still the possible prelude to the inconceivable. Some divers could do it well, and they were feared for it.

It was one thing to soften the sand under a playmate and then trap them by the ankles in the stonesand as a joke. It was frowned upon—technically it was criminal, actually—but every diver had done it at least once. It was quite another to form the sand and use it against another human. Like the person who had speared the brigands back in Low-Pub had done. That kind of power was frightening to behold. Even for good divers. Even when used against criminals and murderers. It was for this reason that using the sand in that way was the ultimate crime, punishable by immediate death—at the hands of any diver anywhere.

Peary opened his eyes again and saw that the cases were still floating upward. He tweaked the rise with his mind, slowing it, then speeding it up again. Watching with amazement as the sand below the cases responded to his thoughts.

When the cases broke the surface, he realized that he’d not been breathing, and he took a deep tug on his tank before flipping up his visor and pulling the mouthpiece out. He was still half-submerged, but he stopped and wiped his teeth with his tongue and spat out the sand that was lodged there. Then he moved the sand again and was soon seated on top of it, watching as the sandal hop and the old man moved together to drag the cases over to the sarfers.

Peary sat back and watched as the Poet helped load the cases. The old man was moving well for someone who’d been feigning sickness nigh on to death not too many hours ago. The old man walked back to where Peary was resting in the sand. He tied on a second ker and then pointed at the sand.

“How was it in the under?” the Poet asked.

“Nice.”

“Well, you aren’t done. I have two more cases down there. Down at one fifty.” The Poet’s hand came up and he pressed the ker tighter against his face. As if he were trying to block his voice from being overheard by the sandal hop, or by the dune hawks, or anyone other than Peary. “Valuables. Coin. Riches. If we’re going to try to move your salvage, we might as well get it all, because we’re going to be on the run awhile.”

Peary looked into the old man’s eyes, studying him. “Okay. But if I’m going back down there then you’re going with me.”

“But—”

“We have extra tanks,” Peary said.

The old man’s hand moved up to where his wound was, but then it faltered. As if he realized his protestations would not be heard. “All right. We’ll go together then.”

The Old Man and the Sea of Sand

Chapter Fifteen

The two men passed fifty and pushed on deeper. The Poet rarely dove deep, and never with another diver. He looked back and saw Peary, an orange-ish form against the backdrop of purple and magenta. He could see the white flash of the beacon on the surface, and looking at the indicator on his visor he watched the meters tick by.

He slowed for a moment to watch Peary move the sand and he was awed. He’d had no idea the young man was so good. As for himself, he struggled—at least in comparison. Diving… that he’d done plenty of, but never any real salvage work, and almost never going this deep. He’d dropped his riches down here in the first place, but going down with packs was an entirely different prospect than going up with them. A part of him had even believed that he’d probably die topside without ever having the opportunity to retrieve his hidden wealth. One fifty would definitely be a limit for him. He had no desire to go deeper.

He thought about diving out in the sand with the woman who’d been his wife. How she’d stay up top, breathing in the sift without a ker, and she’d always quiz him when he returned about how deep he’d gone. He’d lie and tell her some number sure to elicit a proud response, but going deep had never been his thing. Let the divers go deep, boy, his daddy would say. They got nothing up top to live for.

Quit daydreaming, old man. He heard the voice almost in the back of his throat, the vibrations moving up from his jawline and entering his brain—without, it seemed, passing through his ears. It was Peary, speaking to him through his communicator. We’re not down here sightseeing. Save the oxygen, Poet. Let’s get down and back up, okay?

The Poet nodded his head, then realized that Peary probably couldn’t make out such a tiny motion. Got it, he said and pushed deeper. The sand didn’t move so easily for him, and he felt awkward as he kicked, the aged muscles never quite responding as he’d hoped; and if the body struggled, then the sand was always worse.

One hundred meters.

He thought of a thousand poems he’d written in his mind, and that helped him move with a little more fluidity. In the distance he could see the red glow of his cases in his visor and he forced his mind to concentrate on them. He reached for them with gloved hands, and that was when he felt something on his ankle. He looked back and saw Peary, who had grabbed him and was now slowing to a stop. The ghostly figure of the young diver, orange with greens shimmering on the edges, pointed with his hand, and the Poet heard the man speak.

There.

He looked in the direction Peary had pointed—mostly up and a little to the south—and he could see two forms moving through the sand. Humans. Divers. The Poet’s heart jumped, and immediately he could feel the chill of the sand and the pressure of depth, things he’d just begun to tune out. The attackers picked up speed, and the Poet’s own hand, almost disembodied but still under his control, reached for his dive knife.

* * *

Up top, Reggie saw them first. The tips of sarfer masts and sails moving toward them through the dunes. He shouted at Marisa, who—though she became alert and looked in the direction he pointed—kept the gun trained on the sandal hop.

“Trouble,” Reggie said.

“Stay calm,” Marisa replied. “Maybe they’re going on by. Maybe they won’t see us.”

“I need a gun.”

“Stay calm, Reggie.” Marisa turned in a full three-sixty to see if there were sarfers coming from any other direction. She didn’t see any, but it was hard to tell. “Probably just heading north to look for Danvar. Besides, we’re too close to Low-Pub for pirate work. There’s nothing out here to steal.”

“There’re always things to steal,” Reggie said, “even if it’s just sarfers or lives.”

“Shut up for a minute,” Marisa said. Her thumb flipped up the safety, just in case.

The sarfer sails grew larger, and one of the sand ships crested a dune and headed straight for them. There were three men on the craft, eyes covered with dark goggles, kers tied fast around their faces. Their kers and their red sails marked them as part of the Low-Pub Legion, but Marisa couldn’t imagine what they’d be doing this far south when everyone was out looking for Danvar.

“Uh-oh,” she heard Reggie say, and then she felt a sharp crack across her wrist and she almost dropped the gun. She turned just as Reggie swung at her with all of his might. She ducked—just barely—and the blow glanced off the top of her head. She pulled her gun hand free and brought the weapon up as the sandal hop pounced on her. She squeezed and felt the pistol kick just as Reggie landed on top of her with all of his weight and crushed her into the sand.

* * *

The two attacking divers reached Peary at about the same time. One grabbed at his regulator, yanking out his mouthpiece, as the other stabbed at him with a dive knife. The sand whipped around, confused by commands and pressures from competing sources. Peary felt a sharp pain in the upper part of his left shoulder, and instinctively he kicked backward to put some sand between himself and his attackers. Then everything seemed to slow down, as if his life had been switched into slow motion by some unseen hand working up top in the dunes, or perhaps way up in the heavens.

The two orange figures, outlined in green and shimmering from the sand moving around them, jumped toward him again, but just as they did so they were struck from behind by another figure. From Peary’s point of view, the three orange shapes grappled in a confused blend of colors and shapes, and it took him a moment to realize that the old man had attacked the invaders from the rear. In that moment one of the strangers kicked at the Poet, and then used the sand to push him deeper. And then Peary saw something that chilled his blood like nothing he’d ever witnessed. He saw a cube of sand harden and then glow the brightest of yellows, the unmistakable sign of stonesand trapping the Old Poet as if he’d been frozen in a block of ice.

Without any conscious application of his will, Peary seized the moment—that slowed-down, crawling window of time—and let his outrage flow out from him like a windstorm whipping the sand into tiny knives out in the Thousand Dunes. He thrust his fists forward, focusing his wrath in an explosive outpouring toward every wrong and every crime he’d ever heard of or witnessed in his life. The environment obeyed him, and a razor-thin shelf of sand sliced outward from his hands, splitting the ocean of silica like a knife through hardened fat. He watched as the shelf cut through the two brigands without slowing in the slightest, and he could see the orange and then green show through in the place where the two men had been sawn in twain by his rage.

He didn’t pause to gape at what he’d done. He flowed the sand around himself and reached out toward the glowing yellow cube that encased the old Poet. When he reached the impossible block of yellow, his hands struck the stonesand as if punching rock. Solid, impermeable rock. A tomb that had no intention of releasing its hold on the Poet. A glowing grave that, like the whole world of the sand, didn’t care.

Knot 3: Sand Hawk.

Relics

Chapter Sixteen

This is what it feels like to die in the sand, he thought. Like a distant star blinking out to nothing while everyone sleeps so no one notices. Or like a lonely old lizard who never fell prey to a bigger predator but grew old and one day fell asleep and just got covered by the drift, so the surviving didn’t end up meaning much anyway.

The Poet was dying, buried beneath uncountable grains of crystalline nothingness, exiled from the breathing world of the up top. The world of the living. Dying like the lowest species of man—a diver—something he’d never thought would happen to him.

“Only fools and the low kinds end their lives down deep, son,” his daddy would say. “Not even the God of the before cares who dies under the sand.”

Strangely enough, despite his predicament, the Poet’s thoughts were now crystal clear. Maybe clearer than they’d been in a very long time. He could almost make them out—as if they were soldiers in a line, or cards laid out on a table. He picked up a single thought and examined it.

Move and breathe. That was a thought.

The Poet willed himself to move. But a will alone is impotent without ability. This thought he saw clearly too. A will is nothing without freedom and the power to do. He was being squeezed by the sand with such force that he couldn’t even draw a breath from his tank. He focused his mind, tried to loosen the hardpack around his chest—but the stonesand had him and there was no moving it.

That was that.

This is the problem with most of the religious folk.

That was another thought tumbling around in his mind. Those who worshipped the gods of the world of sand; those who prayed to the old gods who walked the earth from the time of Danvar and built towers to the sky; even those few who still worshipped the One True. Always telling people to believe in this or believe in that, as if man has the power to believe in whatever he likes. Believe in unicorns if you don’t, or don’t believe in ’em if you do. Just try that. Just choose to believe something. You can’t. Unless you lie to yourself. Tell a blind man to just will to see, and let me know how far that gets you.

He heard a moan escape his body, a primal craving for air made audible in his ears or in his mind—he couldn’t tell which. And another thought: he imagined that primal breath from long ago, that first breath, when he’d wiggled free of the womb—and his father, or maybe some whore (who knows who it was?) cleared his mouth and nose, and by instinct or by a smack he’d sucked in air for the first time. He didn’t remember that, but he knew it must have happened—and now he could see it like he was there watching it. But then his mind cleared again and what he was seeing wasn’t his own birth. It was something else.

He could see the orange form of another diver, shimmering through the yellows of the stonesand, and the diver was beating against the Poet’s silica prison with his hands, but the walls didn’t move. The old man’s brain screamed for oxygen, but even that screaming began to fade as the seconds ticked by like hours—like in a timeglass he’d seen once in Springston back when his daddy had gone up to talk coin with the people who decided things one way or another.

The orange form pushed away from the stonesand and floated in the middle distance, staring at him, and then he heard a voice in his head. It was Peary, he was sure of it, and the vibrations that made up the voice trembled into his ear in a mixture of anger and fear.

“I won’t let you die!”

The Poet wanted to answer. Sincerely wanted to tell Peary to save himself and to get to the surface, but he couldn’t even manage to move his jaw. The only thing that escaped him was a ghostly moan that carried no force. Another embryonic yelp. A barely audible wince, it was, and more impotent than his will to move anything.

“I don’t know if this will work, Poet,” Peary said, “and if it doesn’t, I might just kill you doing it.”

Better off quick-dead, the Poet thought, than slow-dead. He wanted to close his eyes, but he couldn’t, because he knew that what he was seeing now would likely be the last image to ever process in his mind. He nodded his head. Not that his head moved, because it didn’t. But he hoped that his acquiescence to his fate might be transmitted some other way. Then he saw the impotence of his will again, and wanted to entertain that thought further, but the notion faded into grays and disappeared into smoke.

“Hold tight, old man,” Peary said.

I don’t have any other choice, do I? the Poet thought.

The orange figure moved slightly. “Not like you have any other choice.”

Then the old man saw Peary move. Mostly with his hands thrusting forward like he was shoving a wagon or a sarfer down a dune. That motion was followed by a split-second of nothing, and then there was an impact, like a bomb going off nearby, and the sand gave way and—like the womb had done so long ago—it lost its hold. The Poet was shoved backward and his consciousness struggled to hold on, but it gave way too, and there was only blackness and no pain—like sleep, but deeper, and dreamless.

* * *

When he opened his eyes again, it seemed like hours—or maybe days—had passed, but immediately he realized that the truth was even stranger. He was lying on the sand, and he looked over and saw that Peary was talking with Marisa in the shallow valley between the dunes. The young diver was comforting his woman, and took the pistol from her hand and rubbed her back to calm her as she sobbed. With the thumb of his free hand, he flicked the safety on the gun to make sure it didn’t accidentally fire. The Poet saw that the sandal hop named Reggie was lying prone on top of the sand, and there were other men there too, obviously dead, obviously pirates, trapped in stonesand with only their heads sticking up above the surface. Necks broken. Life gone out of their eyes. Temporary monuments to lives lived in violence.

Reggie groaned and rolled over onto his side, and when Peary heard the sound of the sandal hop moving, he walked over to him and pointed the pistol at the moaning man’s head. His finger tightened on the trigger and his thumb released the safety.

“No!” Marisa shouted, climbing to her feet. “Don’t do it, Peary!”

The Poet watched the drama unfold, trying to piece together from the evidence what had happened after the wall of sand knocked him unconscious. Peary had saved his life. Again. Not much to think or say about that. It was the way the boy lived, and Peary was a young man who didn’t think of himself first in every situation. The old man still couldn’t put a finger on the why of what made the diver tick. Self-sacrifice was as foreign to the Poet as an ocean of water, or the tears of the gods falling from the sky. The old man knew only that for the first time in a very long time, he was really glad to be alive. All of these things made his own ways harder to figure. Like his life was a sand globe, shaken hard and slammed down, with particles of stories and lies floating in the viscous liquid, obscuring some seminal truth he was meant to understand.

“He tried to kill you,” Peary shouted at Marisa. He pushed the pistol firmly against Reggie’s head, and the sandal hop grimaced, unable to determine if he should speak on his own behalf or not.

“He hit me and knocked me to the ground,” Marisa said. “That much is true. But I think he was trying to save me.”

Peary turned to Marisa and threw his free hand into the air, as if to clear awy some imaginary smoke. “Save you? By knocking you down and trying to take away your gun?”

“She’s right,” Reggie said through a wince. “The lady is right. Although I can see where it looks bad from your point of view.”

“Shut up!” Peary snarled.

“Trigger discipline, sir,” Reggie sputtered. “If you haven’t made up your mind, don’t let your finger make it for you.”

“Shut up, I said!” Peary shouted. “I’ll deal with you in a minute, but shut up or I’ll shoot you right now just to be safe.”

“Right!” Reggie said. He waved his hands in surrender. “Don’t need to be shot again, I tell you.”

“Shut up!” Peary snapped.

“Shutting up now,” Reggie said.

The Poet rolled to his side, pushed himself against the sand until he was seated. “What’s all this about?” he said, just loud enough to be heard. The air was sweet to his lungs, but it was playing hard to get, and the strain made him weak all over.

“Sit there and recover, old man,” Peary said. “We’re just getting some things sorted.”

The Poet smiled. Maybe it was the first time he’d ever smiled. He couldn’t recall. He wasn’t a man given to levity. “From where I sit, it looks like the sandal hop saved her, Peary.”

Peary glared at him and then pointed. “I don’t need to hear from you, Poet. You were out cold, and would be dead and coffined if I hadn’t pulled you up.”

“…And thanks for that,” the Poet said. “But that is immaterial, really. I am here now. I have a brain that still mostly works, and I can see, too. I’m not blind yet, you know? I can see what happened here, and it looks like maybe the rascal saved Marisa from those pirates.”

The Poet could see that Peary strained against the revelation. The diver’s finger was still tight against the trigger, and the Poet could see that pulling that trigger would release something in Peary. Whether that something was good or bad, the Poet didn’t know, but it seemed like Peary needed to take his frustrations out on someone. He’d just killed a handful of men, and here he was almost anxious to kill another. Peary’s finger loosened, but only a bit. “Just be quiet, please, and let us figure this out,” Peary said.

The old man pushed himself up until he was standing. The gear weighed heavy on him, so he released the tank from his back and lowered it to the sand. He’d forgotten he was wearing it. “Diver… think about it. If he was working with these men, he’d have just let them kill her. No need to risk himself.”

“She had a gun,” Peary said. He waved the gun in the air as if he were emphasizing the obvious.

“And for that—if they’d seen it—they would have killed her first,” the Poet said. “Take it from me. I’ve run with pirates.” The Poet crouched down again, resting on his heels. “They are not the kind of people that will let a woman with a gun slow them down.”

Peary didn’t move. It was obvious to the Poet that the younger man was considering what he’d been told.

“Work it out, diver,” the Poet said. “Looks to me like he did the same kind of thing I tried to do when I stole your sarfer and your salvage. Tried to keep someone from making a mistake that would cost them their life.”

Peary didn’t blink. His finger was still on the trigger. Not exactly tensed, but still ready. He was unconvinced.

The Poet continued. “Put yourself in his place, Peary. If you’re him, and you’re with them, why do anything at all? You wouldn’t. You’d wait until they killed her—which they would have done right quickly—and after they did, you’d claim your reward, whatever that would have been. Hard to know something like that.” The Poet picked up a handful of sand and let it slide out of his hand, like water pouring from a canteen. “Instead, he’s shot and she’s alive. Just work through it, diver—like maybe it’s your job to think things out. Can you come up with any other scenario that ends up with her alive? You don’t have time to save me down deep and then get up top to save her if she’s waving a gun around when they show up.”

Peary took his finger off the trigger and moved his head until he was looking at Reggie face to face.

“Looks to me like he saved her,” the Poet went on, “and just as I have you to thank for my life, you have Reggie to thank for hers.”

Peary lowered the weapon, took his finger off the trigger, and stared down at Reggie.

“Glad you thought it out,” the Poet said. The old man stood and walked over to where Reggie lay on the ground, wounded. He waved a hand at the sandal hop—a wave of derision, as if to say this man isn’t bright enough to be dangerous. The Poet knelt down until he was able to look Reggie in the eye. “He’s a low-life sandal hop, living on the fringes of life. Getting by on scraps and playing all sides against the middle. Why risk his miserable life for strangers?” The Poet stood again. “He wouldn’t.” Even as he said it, the Poet had to wonder if maybe he wasn’t talking more about himself than about Reggie. Hard to know a thing like that, too.

Reggie pressed the palm of his hand against the wound in his side, winced again, and looked over at the old man. “Thanks for that, by the way,” he said. “Glad to know I’ve made such an impression.”

“Shut up!” Peary and the Poet shouted in unison.

“Shutting up,” Reggie said.

Marisa moved to check Reggie’s wound, and Peary let her.

The diver’s thumb once again found the safety and re-engaged it. He waved the gun at Reggie. “Get him patched and ready, and we’ll load up and get out of here before someone starts looking for these pirates.”

Marisa looked up and smiled. “So you’re convinced?”

“Not convinced of anything, yet,” Peary said. “But if he saved your life, I’ll be thankful later. For now, we need to move.”

Trade Town

Chapter Seventeen

Peary directed the work as the mess was cleaned up and the sarfers reloaded. He kept the pistol at the ready, just in case the old man had been wrong about Reggie. “Use the visor and your suit to unbury the pirates and take them down deeper,” Peary said to the Poet. “Just sink ’em down. Can’t leave a trace here in case we ever need to come back and get your treasure.”

“Come back?” the Poet said. “We’re leaving it here?”

Peary nodded. “We can’t get it now, and we don’t need it.” He pointed the pistol at the sand, indicating the down deep. “The salvage from Danvar—along with information about its location—is going to make us all richer than we’ve ever imagined.”

The Poet cut his eyes from the sand up to Peary. “You obviously don’t know my imagination, diver.”

“Don’t care,” Peary said. “It’ll be here if we need it, but I don’t think we will. Let’s sell what we have to Marisa’s uncle and just head west. We’ll have enough coin to take care of us for the rest of our lives.”

“That’s if her uncle—or his men… or some other brigands… or pretty much anyone else in this world of sand—doesn’t kill us first.”

Peary laughed. “You’re already dead, Poet. Dead and coffined down there in the deep. Every minute up here is just bonus for you.”

“Here’s to old men and bonus minutes,” the old man said as he activated his suit and began to loosen the sand around one of the dead pirates. “I suppose you have a point,” he added, before biting down on his mouthpiece and pushing the dead man down. Both poet and pirate disappeared, and Peary walked over to where Marisa was finishing up her work on Reggie’s wound.

“He gonna make it?” he asked.

Reggie looked up and smiled, “Oh, I’m right as rain, diver. Nothing but a scratch, really.”

“Shut up, sandal man,” Peary said. “I was talking to the lady.”

“Will there ever be a time, no matter whose life I save, that someone won’t be telling me to shut up?” Reggie asked.

“Shut up!” Marisa and Peary said in unison.

“Gotcha,” Reggie said and rolled his eyes.

Marisa pulled down the man’s shirt and then rubbed her hands with sand. “He should be fine if infection doesn’t set in. Enough other things out here to kill a man. The infection—if he gets it—might kill him last.”

“We go to your uncle’s place and do the deal,” Peary said. He looked off into the middle distance, trying to calculate unknowns that were piling up like the sand. “Can you get us there from here?”

Marisa nodded. “Three days south. No problem.”

Peary looked at her and smiled. “I’m so glad you’re alive, Marisa.”

“Thank him,” she said, pointing at Reggie, who smiled and bounced his eyebrows for effect.

Peary narrowed his eyes. “Not yet. We’ll see about him.” Then he walked over to where the Poet had resurfaced.

“A rousing show of support,” Reggie said, with a laugh.

“Shut up, Reggie,” Marisa said.

* * *

“You sail the pirate sarfer off to the east,” Peary said to the Poet. “At least a couple of miles. I’ll follow you and pick you up, and then we’ll come back and do it again with the second sarfer.”

“You do everything the long slow way, diver,” the Poet said. “We have four people who can sail—at least enough to get us a few miles. We could drop the Legion sarfers and head straight south from there.”

“The sandal hop isn’t strong enough to sail, which means I’d have to leave him here unwatched, which isn’t going to happen. So Marisa has to stay here too and keep an eye on him.”

The Poet shook his head. “Your way will take hours.”

“You’re right, it will,” Peary answered. “But not long after that, we’ll be rich.”

“Have you thought about what’ll happen if someone sees us in a Legion sarfer?” the Poet asked. He jerked his head at the red sails: the signs of the Low-Pub Legion.

“Listen, Poet,” Peary said, “That’s a problem in either case if we’re seen, but we can leave the sarfers here for all I care. But if we do, you can surely kiss your riches goodbye. Someone will dive here just to find out what happened.”

The Poet shrugged. “It looks like I’m destined to lose my life savings.” He held up a closed fist. “Over three hundred coin.”

Peary sighed deeply and tried his best to understand things from the Poet’s point of view.

“I realize it will take a monumental amount of faith and trust for you to believe I’m going to cut you in on the coin from the Danvar salvage,” Peary said. “But you can trust me. If I didn’t want you around, I could have left you in that sand box.”

The Poet nodded, and Peary continued.

“But if you can do it, if you can trust me, you’ll soon realize that what you have down there, however much it is, is only a drop in the bucket. We don’t need it.”

“A bird in the hand,” the Poet said. “All these nonsense sayings we have. I don’t even know where we get them.”

Peary shrugged. “From the before, most likely. From the time of the old world, when Danvar was a populous city-state, gods walked the earth, and water fell from the sky.”

The old man looked at Peary and narrowed his eyes. Now who’s being poetic? “We leave the Legion sarfers, then,” the Poet said. “Be easier and faster that way.”

“Yep,” Peary said.

“There’s another problem buried down there, diver.”

“What’s that?”

“Men have been killed by sand used as a weapon,” the Poet said. “Leaving the sarfers here is a sign. It’s plain what happened once you look at it, and using the sand for that kind of thing is a killing offense.”

“I’ve seen men die in all sorts of ways,” Peary said, “just in the last few days.” He looked off to the west, toward the mountaintops in the distance. “Something tells me the rules have changed, old man. Be a lot of dyin’ before this all gets sifted.”

* * *

Six days later, the four of them looked down from a high dune onto the trader village, a mobile tent town that had sprung up like a sand fern from the depths. It had taken twice as long as Marisa had thought it would to find her uncle’s trading camp out here, south and west of Low-Pub. Hauling a wounded man really did slow things down.

Peary noticed that there were fewer sarfers flowing in and out than there ought to be—most of the divers and salvage teams must still be out and on the hunt for Danvar, he guessed. Still, commerce continued, and here and there sarfers and smaller sand-skidders moved through the valley or were staked out with ties while the owners visited the coin-changers, the merchants, the pub tent, or the camp whores.

Peary liked the feel of Marisa’s hand in his, even through his sailing gloves, and he wanted more than anything else in the world for the two of them to be free of this world of sand. Perhaps out there—out west—they’d find a place where they could live without the constant danger and darkness that pervaded their lives. Like the sand fern, they just wanted to poke their heads up somewhere—someplace where poverty and oppression weren’t in the very air they had to breathe. Maybe there really are oceans out there, he thought, or wide-open spaces where the sand hasn’t covered everything like a blanket. Maybe there’s a heaven.

He looked down at the sand and kicked it with his boot. Only a devil would tell me that this is all there is.

“I’m a little sore,” Peary heard Reggie say.

“You’ve been shot,” said the Poet. “That doesn’t just go away after a handful of days. I was wounded in the head only a little more than a week ago, and you don’t hear me whimpering. Do you have a fever?”

“It’s hard to say,” Reggie said. “Does a fever include hunger for roasted lizard and the desire for enormous quantities of beer?”

The Poet waved a hand at the sandal hop. “You’re doing fine. Shut up.”

Reggie gave the Poet a dismissive look. “When I’m rich, no lizard for you, old man.”

Peary pointed down at the camp. “Marisa and I will go in to see her uncle with the Danvar goods.” He lowered his hand and then stretched his back and neck, trying to relieve the stress. “Hopefully we won’t attract much attention. We’ll make a good deal, get paid, and then meet you all back up here as soon as we’re able.”

“What about the beer and the lizard?” Reggie asked.

“We’ll pick you up some meds and bandages, and some caravan staples for the trip,” Peary said without looking at the wounded man.

“Caravan staples?”

“Jerky, cured fat. Berries. Some protein crumbles for a soup.”

“Damn,” Reggie said. “Being rich sucks.”

The old man put up his hand to speak, and Peary looked over at him and nodded. “What say you, Poet?”

“I think you should leave the salvage here. Make your deal, and when you’ve agreed with Marisa’s uncle, come get the cases.”

Peary glared at the old man. “So you can steal them again?”

“I think I’ve earned your trust by now, diver.”

“Your standard for earning trust is too low.”

The old man looked at Peary and blinked his eyes slowly. “Then you do whatever you think you need to do. I’m just saying that there are brigands down there, too. That kind of wealth would be tempting for any man to steal.”

“We can trust my uncle,” Marisa said.

“I don’t doubt that,” the Poet answered, even though he did. “But there are men who work for him, and other pirates and scofflaws who dig into every tent like sand fleas. Ears opened. Waiting to hear news of Danvar.”

Peary exhaled deeply. “We’ll work it out, Poet. Your concern is noted.”

“Don’t get killed, is all I say,” the Poet said.

Peary nodded. He was weary of the constant warnings. “That’s definitely a priority.”

* * *

Marisa and Peary approached her uncle’s tent, trying to act like regular traders coming to buy goods or sell salvage. Just outside the door, a man reclined on a makeshift chair, spinning a dive knife in one hand. He didn’t move as Peary and Marisa approached, but he looked at them through narrowed eyes—an implied threat—and spun the knife again.

“What’s your business, divers?” the man said in a low, threatening rattle when the two had gotten close enough to hear him. The spinning knife dropped perfectly into the man’s hand, speaking its own language of blade and blood.

“Our business is none of yours,” Peary said.

When the man moved to stand, Peary met him halfway and got directly in his face. “This is family business,” Peary said coolly, “not for the ears of two-coin haulers or hired hands, got it?” He looked the man in the eyes, seemingly unaffected by the fact that the man was holding a dive knife.

The man halted for a moment, halfway between standing and sitting, but met Peary’s stare. When he finally stood, he looked over at Marisa. “I recognize you,” he said. “You’re Joel’s niece, right?”

Marisa smiled. “I am. We’re just returning some gear he lent us, and letting him know we also borrowed his sarfer from the Sand-Hawk Marina.” She shrugged. “We’re out looking for Danvar, like everyone else.”

The guard looked back at Peary and smiled. “All right, then. Tell Joel I went to get a beer.” He put the knife back in its sheath and fastened the snap. “Wouldn’t want to overhear family business, right?”

“Right,” Peary said.

Just then, the tent flap opened and a man beckoned for them to enter. Marisa smiled at the man, and Peary realized that this was her uncle. Nodding a greeting to the man she and Peary walked into the cool and shade of the trader’s business.

“Threatening my helper?” Joel said to Peary.

Peary shrugged. “You’ll want to keep what we have to tell you just between us, I think.” He held up the cases and watched as Joel’s eyes focused on them.

“All right, then,” Joel said. “No more words unless they’re needed, and then only whispers.”

Peary walked over to a counter and placed the cases on it. He popped open the latches and stood back as Joel opened the cases and examined the contents. The trader’s eyes widened, then darted from the goods in the cases to Marisa and Peary and back again. He reached under the counter and pulled up a bag full of coin. He dropped the bag on the counter to emphasize its heft—maybe a thousand coin—and then opened it for Peary to see the contents.

Peary shook his head, his eyes drooping lazily. No.

Joel smiled, then dumped the two cases of salvage into an empty box and began to fill both cases with coin. Almost four times as much coin as he’d offered in the bag. When he was done and both cases were completely full, he looked at Peary and opened his hands as if to say, “That’s all I have.”

Peary leaned forward and whispered. “Twice that and you get the location.”

Joel leaned forward now, too. He didn’t say anything at first, but after a moment of looking at the salvaged goods from Danvar, he whispered back. “You can’t carry that much. And I’ll need a map.”

Peary nodded.

“A very specific map,” Joel added.

Peary nodded again, still whispering. “We’ll pull up in two sarfers. One of them used to be yours, but now it’s mine. We’ll load up and be gone.”

Joel scowled, but there was a smile on his face. “My sarfer, too?”

Peary smiled back and whispered, “It’ll be a really specific map.”

North, and then West

Chapter Eighteen

As Peary, Marisa, and the old man loaded the two sarfers, Joel’s hired man reappeared, hanging around like a shadow near the tents, watching the others work. Peary gave him a “mind your own business” stare—a wordless threat—but otherwise went about securing the gear and readying for the trip. Only Reggie wasn’t busy: he remained strapped into the carry rack on Peary’s sarfer, except when the Poet helped him to relieve himself in the toilet tent.

Once the sarfers were loaded, Peary gave Marisa some coin from his dive pocket and asked her to go to a supply trader to get food and several skins of water for the journey. While she was gone, he made a show of cleaning his gun as Joel’s man watched and smiled.

“You have a wounded man there, diver,” the man said when the silence became heavy enough that everyone could feel it solid and weighty on their backs. “Been wounded a while, too. I’d say a week at least.”

Peary glared at the man.

“If the man was wounded a week ago, and you were up near Low-Pub… you’d have taken him there and left him.”

“I can see why Joel hired you,” Peary replied sarcastically. “Quite observant… really.”

“Oh, I see all sorts of things,” the man said. “But most of ’em I keep to myself.”

Peary glared at the man again. “What’s your name, brigand, or should I just make one up that fits you?”

The man smiled and spun the knife in his hand. “Most of ’em call me Cord, but I don’t much care what I’m called. Maybe what you come up with will be better.”

“Well, Cord, I suppose if you stay out of the wrong people’s business, then it won’t much matter to me what you’re called either.”

“Your injured man could get treatment over at the pub tent,” Cord said, pointing over his shoulder with the knife. He then began cleaning his fingernails with the tip of the blade. “Strange you wouldn’t try to get him some help if all you’re doing is a little thing like looking for Danvar. I mean… not in Low-Pub and not here, neither.”

“Looking for Danvar isn’t a little thing, but it’s all we’re doing,” Peary said. “Most of the world is out searching for salvage from the lost city right now, so we don’t have time to sit around here waiting for a gear hauler to heal.” He motioned to Reggie with the pistol. “Marisa can handle what he’s got, so don’t you worry your ugly little head about it.”

“You show up this far south this late, with a wounded man? Strange is all I’m sayin’. Some people say Danvar has already been found,” Cord said. His eyes darted up to meet Peary’s.

“Is that what they say?” Peary asked. “Well, whoever found it—if it’s been found—is probably living the high life by now. Probably over in Low-Pub buying drinks for low-lifes like you. Maybe you should go check it out?”

There was a burdensome silence for a while, and then the Poet started up with some lines of poetry that just made Cord laugh. At the end of one sonnet, a sand hawk screeched and landed on Joel’s tent, then took off again to the north on some errand or another.

“Even the sand hawk is heading north looking for Danvar,” Cord said. “Which way are you people heading?”

“Sand hawk can’t be wrong,” Peary said. “Danvar must be up that way somewhere. I reckon we’re all going north.”

“Most of the big Legions headed that way a week ago, diver,” Cord said. “Most of them.”

Peary nodded. “I’m sure we’ll find a place to dive somewhere. We’re late, but Danvar was a big city, and it’s a big world out there north of the Thousand Dunes. You should try it sometime, instead of skulking around a tent city like a stray dog looking for a scrap.”

“You hear about Springston?” Cord asked, ignoring the insult. He still had a menacing smile on his face, so his attempts at small talk only continued to rub Peary the wrong way.

“We’ve heard rumors,” Peary said. “Don’t know anything that you don’t know. But I’m done with the small talk. Why don’t you go find somewhere else to hover before you stretch my patience too thin?”

“Me?” Cord shrugged. “I’m just passing the time.”

Peary thumbed off the safety again and brought the pistol to rest on his thigh. “Find somewhere else to pass it, Cord. I’ve been polite, but I’m done with that now.”

Cord grinned, put the knife into its sheath, and snapped it closed. “We’ll see, diver. We’ll see.” He slowly walked away toward the pub tent, but looked over his shoulder one more time and laughed.

* * *

They headed north out of the Thousand Dunes, stopping every few hours to check Reggie’s wound. At each stop, Marisa would take the time to look at the Poet’s head too, but that injury seemed to be on its way to healing up just fine. As she worked, Peary would pass around some dried fat that he cut into chunks with his dive knife, or a hunk of jerky and a handful of berries, and they’d each take a long drink from the canteens. The water was rank and smelled faintly of rotted wood, but they knew it had been boiled, so it should be safe enough. On the fifth day northward, Marisa asked Peary when they were going to turn west.

“We’ll keep up through the northward swells until we find a good path westward,” Peary said. “That’ll make our trail look right in case anyone is following us.”

“They’re following us,” the Poet said. “Sure enough they are.”

After so many days on the sand, they were getting used to the Poet’s dark comments. Marisa swallowed some berries and caught the Poet’s eyes. “You’re a pessimist.”

“I’m a realist. Been on this sand long enough to know what’s what, too.”

Peary didn’t speak, but he walked back up the southern dune and looked out as far as he could, something he’d done at every stop over the past few days. He didn’t make out any sails moving their way, but that didn’t mean they weren’t out there. Walking back down the dune, he indicated with his hand that they needed to load up. “We need to keep moving,” he said. “Maybe the Poet is right. Maybe he’s wrong. But sitting in one place too long isn’t a great idea.”

“When do we split the loot?” Reggie said with a laugh.

“We’ll wait to see if you live, sandal hop,” Peary said. Marisa had told him that Reggie’s temperature had started to climb over the last few days, and she was worried that infection might be setting in. “Splitting it now would be like dumping it in the sand. You have nowhere and no way to go, so we’re stuck with you.”

“Yeah, but if we split it now, I can die rich.”

“Or I can leave you here and you can die sand-poor.”

“That’s the thanks I get for saving your lady?” Reggie was still laughing. His voice was weak, but he was always in good spirits.

Against his will, Peary was beginning to like Reggie. In a way the sandal hop was like a benevolent version of Cord, just passing the time. Reggie seemed to Peary to be mostly harmless. Still hard to tell, but mostly.

“I thanked you already when I didn’t shoot you before,” Peary said.

“If not dying is the same as being rich, then I’ve been rich all my life,” Reggie said in a mock-serious tone.

“We’re moving now,” Peary said. “Do you want to stay here or go on with us?”

“What? Stay? And let you all split the coin? Nah. I’ll go with.” He looked at each of them in turn. “You three are the only family I have.”

Peary looked at Marisa and nodded at Reggie. “How’s he doing?”

“Still too early to tell,” Marisa said. “I’m not happy that he seems to be running a fever. But if he can beat the infection, he’ll do all right.”

“You know,” Peary said with a slight grin, “by saving his life, you’ve cut our wealth down substantially.” He meant it as a joke, but Marisa didn’t seem to be in the mood for jests.

“He saved my life,” she said. “And I’ve never cared about the money. I care about you.”

* * *

Another three hours northward and the first graying hints of darkness were starting to touch the eastern horizon. Around them, the dunes began to be mottled with lengthening shadows streaked by bands of fading light. They’d passed by two fairly large tent towns on their route northward, and in both they’d stopped to take on water and ask around about Danvar. The latter was in order to assuage any suspicion from the migrant tent folk. Peary knew that if his group came across as just another band of Danvar searchers, they’d fit right in and not attract too much attention.

All anyone in the trading towns wanted to talk about was Springston though, and no one had any new information about Danvar—although it was very unlikely that anyone who knew something about the search for the lost city would reveal anything of substance about it. Still, from the people’s demeanor, Peary got the impression that no one knew anything at all. After refilling their canteens and loading up their water skins, they’d pressed on northward, trying their best to look like sad latecomers to the frenzied search for buried riches.

Peary raised his hand as they pulled up near a sandcross—the natural intersection of valleys between swells of dunes. The conflicting winds here had made a clean route through the highest dunes to the west.

“Here’s where we turn left,” Peary said. This valley is our pathway toward the mountains… and whatever lies beyond them.”

As Marisa put together a light meal, cooking it in a pyrinte ring to keep the smoke to a minimum. Peary hiked back to the south to spy out any tails they might have picked up.

Peary was still a young man, full of life and vigor, but the stress and pressure of the last few weeks had taken a toll on him. Climbing up the huge dune to the south of the sandcross was a chore after a long day of sailing. He struggled against the shifting footing as he climbed the dune, pushing with his hands against his knees with every step, feeling the sand give way under his boots as he strained upward. Unsteady earth, he thought, unfit for any foundation at all.

Maybe it was the weariness of a life lived in the endless wastes, or maybe it was the hope that in a few days—or maybe a week at most—they’d break free from the gravitational pull of the dunes and reach the foothills of the mountains to the west. Altogether, he’d had enough of this old life, and if there was a way to just blink and carry himself and Marisa to a newer and better world, he’d do it. He’d do it and never look back.

The dune got particularly steep near the crest, and he had to lean forward and steady himself with his hands. The sand fought his desire to gain purchase. His fingers dug into the grit, pulling against this land that gave way with every grasp. Like life itself, the world was a wisp that was never solid enough to hold tightly.

He rested for a moment, realizing he needed to make a dash for the top. Sometimes forward momentum was all a man had to push himself that last dozen meters. He took a deep breath, lowered himself, and lurched forward and upward, pushing hard against the sand despite its insistence on fading away beneath his feet. When he had a meter left to go, he dove forward and crawled the last bit.

Winded, he rolled over on his back and looked up into the darkening blue of the evening sky, sucking air through his ker like he’d just surfaced from a dive. Again, he saw a sand hawk circling lazily overhead. He had to turn on his side to watch the bird float down and alight on the very tip of his sarfer’s mast.

When he’d caught his breath, Peary rolled over onto his chest and pushed himself to his feet. He stood tall and stretched himself, still weak from the climb.

And that’s when he saw them. They were in the far distance, almost over the horizon, but he saw them: just the tips of sails moving northward through the valley. Dozens of them, it seemed, racing one another through the wastes. Miles away still, but closing quickly, sheets billowed out against a rear-wind, some of them red, but not all.

The realization of what he was seeing flowed over Peary like the sand. A mixed salvage crew. Some from the Low-Pub Legion, others from another crew, or maybe they were freelance pirates, chasing riches and heading his way.

“Cord,” he said under his breath. “And Joel, too.” No crew would be this far west and south looking for Danvar right now. No. These were brigands, outlaws, looking for Peary, his coin, and probably a guide to take them to Danvar.

So much for blood being thicker than water.

The Chase

Chapter Nineteen

Breaking west at the sandcross had been the only option available to them, but the Poet knew that the move wouldn’t fool an experienced pirate. Normally, Peary would have had them make camp at the sandcross for the night, but the diver had thought it best that they try to get a few more hours’ distance between themselves and the pirates who followed them. Not that that’ll do much but delay the inevitable, the old man thought. Maybe they’ll catch us tomorrow, or maybe it’ll be a few days from now, but they will catch us.

“Maybe they’re not even chasing us,” Marisa had said.

“You don’t know the sand,” the Poet had replied. It was all he had to say.

Once the darkness was so complete that they could continue no farther, Peary had finally given the word for them to stop. They tied off the sarfers and prepared a small camp.

They slept for only four or five hours before Peary had them up and loading the sarfers again. Surely he knew that the pirates were gaining ground, and would continue to. But perhaps he was foolish enough, or wishful enough, to maintain that stubborn mirage of human hope: perhaps he thought that they might still be able to get away.

The Poet was under no such illusion.

* * *

Two more days heading due west, but their progress was slowing. The mountains to the west kept growing larger, but the sand, like the ubiquity of despair and hopelessness in the world, never did give way.

“How much longer until we clear the sand?” Marisa asked as they loaded up the sarfers yet again. This was the fifteenth day, give or take, since they’d first fled from Low-Pub. She’d never been gone from home anywhere near this long, and she wasn’t sure she could stand another day out on the sand.

“I don’t know,” Peary said. “Hard to say. Hopefully it won’t be much longer.”

The Poet knew that if the pirates didn’t catch them today, this would probably be their last night before the brigands overtook them. But he didn’t say so. He knew Peary knew, but there was no need to frighten Marisa or make things worse for Reggie.

The sandal hop was sick, no doubt. Mortally ill, probably. Sicker every day. He wasn’t responding to any of the meds Marisa had bought in the trader village, and the scarcity of water and moisture-rich foods wasn’t helping the man’s fight.

Their stops became more frequent, and however close the mountains looked, they never seemed to get any closer at all. It was like the sand haulers, an infinite number of them, just kept depositing endless dunes in front of them, and the mountains were never quite close enough to touch.

When they finally did stop for the night, the inevitable—the unspoken—hung in the air like sift.

“No fire tonight,” Peary had said as they prepared camp.

The Poet noted that there were moans at this proclamation, even one from himself, but what could they do? The wind was blowing from the west, which meant that even a pyrinte fire, which gave off no light (nor sufficient heat, the Poet thought), could still be detected from the scent alone. It would be a long, tough night without a fire. Reggie was getting worse, and over the last few nights the temperatures had dropped down into the chilly range. Cold. Not unmanageable, but not comfortable either.

Marisa had done whatever she could to make Reggie more comfortable in the haul rack of the sarfer, which was parked in the lee of a dune and out of the breeze, and joined Peary and the Poet a good distance away. The three of them spoke together in hushed tones.

“Can we outrun them?” Marisa asked. She’d asked before, and she knew the answer, but she asked again anyway.

“No,” the Poet said. Peary just shook his head, agreeing.

Marisa didn’t fully understand. “Why are they so much faster than us?”

The Poet smiled. She’d not spent much time on the sand before these past few weeks, and he knew that the ways of the sand people were strange to someone who’d spent most of her life in the towns. “We’re loaded down with gear weight and coin,” he said. “Add to that the fact that we have two people per sarfer. Of the four of us, only Peary does this for a living.” The Poet shrugged. “We’re just slow.”

Peary agreed. “And I’m not very fast at the best of times. I never have been. These people who are chasing us have lighter craft—some of their gear is being carried by tri-hulls and skidders, who usually trail the frontrunners by a few days. They can travel twice as far in a day as just about anyone else.”

“So they’ll catch us,” Marisa said. “Then what?”

There was silence for a half minute and then the Poet spoke up. “If all they wanted was the coin in our bags, I don’t think they’d bother.”

“Are you saying they don’t want to steal the coin from us?” Marisa asked.

The Poet shook his head. “No, I’m not saying that. The amount of coin Peary managed to wrangle out of Joel is significant, and any pirate worth his salt would kill for it. I’m just saying that the coin isn’t all they want.”

“What else could they be after?” she asked.

“They’ll take the coin,” Peary said, “and then they’ll want someone—either me or the old man—to take them to Danvar.”

“But they have the map!”

“Maybe they do, but the map means nothing if they don’t trust it!” the Poet said, a little too loudly. “As far as they know, it could have been faked. It could be wrong. In fact, we should have been suspicious when Joel gave you double the coin just for the map. He was just biding time until he and his man could get a crew up to go after you.”

“I can’t believe my uncle would do this,” Marisa said.

The Poet laughed mockingly. “Any man would do this.”

“That’s not true,” Peary said. “You didn’t do it when you had the chance. You didn’t run straight to the money-changers or to the Legion heads and tell them about Danvar. You didn’t sell off the salvage or my gear.”

“A momentary lapse in judgment,” the old man said, closing his eyes.

Marisa waved her hand and then stood up. She was frustrated, and it was obvious that she didn’t want to listen to the Poet and Peary bickering. “So what?” she said. “They’re going to kidnap us and force us to take them to Danvar? So they’re going to take our coin? Is that it? So we let them! Give them all of it! I don’t care about any of it. They can have it. We’ll take them to Danvar. We’ll give them all of our coin. If that’s all they want, then we’ll live and head west without any of the stupid riches!”

The Poet shook his head. “No, Marisa, that is not all. These people are not going to take what they want and then let us walk away.”

“What else, then?”

“They’ll kill us all,” the Poet said.

The old man didn’t notice until Reggie was standing amongst them that the sick sandal hop had climbed out of the sarfer and limped to where they were talking.

“There’s another way,” Reggie said. His breathing was labored and the short walk had taken a toll on his strength.

“Another way to do what?” Peary asked. “Why are you here? You should be resting where we left you.”

Reggie tried to lower himself to the ground to sit, but the strain was too much, and he ended up flopping on the sand and rolling over onto his side. After a few moments’ rest, he pushed himself into a seated position and took some deep breaths.

“Another way that maybe you two can escape,” he said, nodding at Peary and Marisa.

“Wait a minute,” the Poet said. “What are you talking about?”

Reggie closed his eyes and spoke only with much effort. “I’m dying. We all know it.” He opened his eyes and looked at the old man. “I’m dying and you’re old.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” the old man said.

“We all know that the only thing slowing us down is that we have two too many people on these sarfers, and too much weight. So I say that you and I,” he said, pointing at the Poet, “stay behind.”

“Stay behind?”

“We’ll take our coin and stay behind. That’ll lighten the load and give Peary and Marisa the best shot at getting away.”

“No,” Peary and Marisa said in unison.

“Hear me out,” Reggie said. His voice grew stronger. Not from any improvement in his health, but from the strength of his desire to do the right thing before it was too late. “We can bury our coin. That way if either of us lives, we can come back and get it. After we take the crew to Danvar.” He pointed his finger at the old man. “You know where to find it, and maybe they’ll accept that. Maybe they won’t keep chasing Peary and Marisa.”

“No,” Peary said. He was shaking his head and pounding the sand with his fist. “No way will I let you do this.”

“I’m not going to do it anyway,” the old man said, “so it is a moot point. If we both don’t do it, then the plan will fail.”

“Don’t be so selfish,” Reggie said.

“Easy for you to say, sandal hop,” the Poet said. “You’re going to die either way. But I’m not dying!”

“Maybe they let you go,” Reggie said. “Maybe they see you as just an old man who can’t hurt them, so they let you go after you take them to Danvar.”

The Poet shook his head. “That’ll never happen and you know it.” He looked up at Peary. “And I’ll never, ever, take those people to Danvar.”

Reggie looked at the Poet, imploring him. “It’s the right thing to do.”

“Don’t look at him,” Peary said. His anger was boiling over and his voice trembled as he spoke. “We’re not leaving anyone behind, do you hear me?”

“It’ll work,” Reggie said quietly. The strain turned out to be too much for him, and he closed his eyes and lay back on the sand. Peary and the old man carried him back to the sarfer and placed him back on the netting in the haul rack. They covered him to keep him warm, then the old man pushed Peary back toward Marisa. “I’ll take care of him,” the Poet said. “You go comfort your lady.”

Peary walked back to where Marisa was now standing and put his arms around her. She shivered a little, more from the situation than the chill, but he held her closer just the same.

“We can’t let them do this,” she said to Peary.

Peary nodded. “We won’t.”

* * *

Reggie was dead by morning. Peary had known the sandal hop was going to die, but he’d figured the man had a few days of excruciating pain and discomfort to suffer before he’d finally enter the grace of death. None of them, it seemed, had anticipated the reality of having to unstrap the sandal hop from the sarfer and decide what to do with his body.

The valleys were still in shadow, but the pink-orange rays of morning were visible up on the very tops of the dunes, and the cool night was already giving way to the warmth of the day. In the distance, out to the west, the mountaintops beckoned like sirens sent to torture the souls of men, and up above—high up above—a sand hawk circled, his shriek echoing through the morning air.

“Let’s just bury him deep,” the Poet said. “That’s probably what he would have wanted anyway.”

Peary looked down at Reggie’s body and didn’t look up. His words came out in a whisper, but the other two could hear. “You don’t have any idea what he would have wanted. None of us do.”

“We could load up and be gone in minutes,” the Poet said. “With the lighter weight, maybe one of us could actually get away.”

“And I suppose that ‘one of us’ would be you, Poet?”

The Poet looked down and shrugged, “No… I… I wasn’t…”

There was a long period of silence, then Marisa spoke.

“Something tells me these last few days together might have been some of the best times of his life,” she said.

Again, for a moment, there were no words. A bitter silence permeated the air, only to be broken once again by the screech of the sand hawk.

“So what do we do now?” Marisa asked.

“I don’t know,” Peary said.

The old Poet looked out and pointed to the west. “We can still run. Maybe something happens. Maybe they miss the turn, or lose a sarfer. Maybe they don’t catch us.”

Peary glanced at the Poet, then his eyes scanned over until he was looking at Marisa. “Yes, we’ll run. We’ll load everything onto my sarfer and I’ll carry the old man.” He took Marisa’s hand in his own. “You go first. Get out of here now. Just as soon as we’ve unloaded all the weight from your sarfer. We’ll be right behind you, Marisa, but don’t stop for anything. Ride on ’til you outrace the sand itself.”

“No,” Marisa said coldly.

“Marisa!”

“No.” She looked up at him and shrugged. “I won’t do it.”

The silence fell again like a curtain, moments passing like the drift. Until, without words, the Poet stood and began suiting up. When he was ready, he pushed Reggie’s body down deep into the sand and disappeared entirely with the sandal hop. Peary didn’t know how deep the old man took Reggie, because the Poet was down awhile, but when the old man surfaced again he pulled himself onto the sand and sat with his arms hugging his knees. There were tears in his eyes and a deep sadness on his face. Deeper than usual.

“So it’s suicide, then?” the Poet asked. “Or if not suicide per se, then a suicidal plan to outwit them and escape, which amounts to the same thing."

Neither Peary nor Marisa answered him. The eyes of all three met and darted back and forth for a moment.

“Well, if it’s to be suicide, then I say we make a plan,” the Poet said.

* * *

“They’ll set up camp as soon as they’ve caught up with us,” the Poet said. “I’ve been in enough pirate camps to know how they’ll orient the tents.”

“How does that help us?” Marisa asked.

Peary pointed down into the very bottom of the valley. “We can bury some dive gear. Not deep. Just deep enough so that we can find it in the dark and dig it out with our hands.”

“I know where they’ll put their command center,” the Poet added, pointing. “The bosses will be using that tent after dark, but it also becomes a gathering place—like a party center at night. There’ll be a supply tent, right over there, with boxes of ammunition and explosives, tools, food supplies.”

“I thought you said their supplies were way behind them… being brought up by tri-hulls?” Marisa asked.

“Could be,” the Poet said. “But the stuff will be here soon enough one way or another. And they’ll want to rest after chasing us for so long, so they’ll camp here a few days at least. Could be two. Probably three.”

Marisa nodded. “So we get a bomb and blow them all up?”

The Poet nodded. “They’ll keep us alive, since they don’t yet know who knows what about the location of Danvar. They’ll threaten us of course, but they won’t kill anyone until they know everything they need to know about the location of the lost city.”

“They’ll torture us and probably rape Marisa,” Peary said. He didn’t look at her when he said it, but he could feel her eyes on him anyway. “And I’m not going to let that happen.”

The Poet nodded. “They will, but not at first. They’ll threaten, but they’ll play nice for a day or two. First and foremost, they want the information, and they won’t put that objective at risk. But their patience will not last forever. I’ve been in these camps before. I know how they think.”

“Why would they wait at all?” Peary asked. “Why not just torture us as soon as they can?”

The Poet smiled gently. “Because information gathered by consent, even if it is through passive coercion, barter, or some other method is generally more accurate and trustworthy than information gained strictly by torture. People being tortured will say anything to make it stop.”

“Right then,” Peary said. “We should know when the critical time has arrived, and we’ll just have to hope they save the worst of it for the morning so we can move on them at night.”

The Poet nodded.

Peary inhaled deeply and then exhaled. “So during the night—the night before we think things are going to go bad—sometime after the supplies have arrived, we get to the dive suits, and dive. We come up inside the supply tent. We find or fashion a bomb, and then we walk into the command tent and make our demands.”

“Agreed,” the Poet said. “So… what demands will we make? Let’s make them good!” He smiled, but it seemed the others were not in a joking mood.

“I don’t understand,” Marisa said. “If we can get out and get our dive suits, why don’t we just escape?”

“Because we’d be right back where we are now,” Peary said. “They’ll just catch us again.”

“But if we can get bombs, we can blow up their sarfers so they can’t follow us,” she said.

“We’d never get all of them,” the old man said. “No way. And whoever we left alive would catch us again and things would be worse for us.”

“So we’re all going to just blow ourselves up?”

“If we have to. But it doesn’t have to be all of us, Marisa,” Peary said. “You can go now.”

“I won’t.”

“What if I promised to take them to Danvar?” Peary said. “And try to escape along the way to get back to you?”

Marisa smirked. “You just said yourself that wouldn’t work.”

The Poet interrupted the conversation. “We’ll demand to be released, and we’ll take the bomb with us. We’ll tell them if they follow us and get too close, we’ll blow them—and ourselves—to pieces.”

The three plotters stared at one another, eyes darting back and forth. One way or another, the tension of the journey was soon to be relieved.

“All right then,” the Poet said finally. “It seems we have a plan.”

“Yep,” Peary said. “If we can’t have the spoils of Danvar—we, who earned them righteously—then we’ll at least make sure these pirates never touch them.”

Cornered

Chapter Twenty

The three friends were seated at the base of the dunes on the edge of the valley, the bags of coin at their feet, when the pirates arrived. Cord was at the head of the brigands and seemed to be in charge, and when he saw Peary and the bags of coin he just smiled.

“Appreciate you watching our coin for us, diver,” Cord said with a grin. “Where’s your wounded friend?”

“Died a few days ago,” Peary answered.

“Too bad,” Cord said. “Really surprised to catch you three together. We expected the old man might have sacrificed himself so you and the missus could gain speed.” He nodded at the Poet. “Guess he didn’t have it in him.”

“You’d have caught them and killed them anyway,” the Poet said flatly.

Cord nodded. “We can’t all be heroic, old man, and, well… you’re right about that.”

“Just take the coin and go!” Peary shouted. Anger flushed his cheeks as his eyes darted across the faces of the pirates. He noted the sly grins his words put on their faces. The old man was right. They had no intention of ever letting their captives go.

“Oh yes,” Cord said, and then lied, “we’ll be letting you go. But there are things we need to talk about first. Business. Give us a few days, will you? Then we’ll let you go.”

The period at the end of his sentence was emphasized by the cry of the sand hawk in the distance.

* * *

The captives were kept in a low tent with no carpet or tarp for a floor. The screened windows had their flaps tied up to let the breeze through. Sand flies buzzed here and there, never quite giving up or going away.

Every few hours one of the three would be retrieved by a pirate and taken to the leader’s tent to be questioned. For the most part, at least in the beginning, the interrogations were carried out without violence. Threats… plenty of those. But no violence.

Each of the captives stuck to their story.

Yes, the map that Peary had given to Joel accurately showed the location of the part of Danvar that the divers had discovered. No, they didn’t think anyone else had yet located the find. Yes, they were certain they hadn’t told anyone else. No, they were not interested in guiding the pirates to the treasure.

After the first long night, Peary was sure that the torture—and worse—would begin soon enough. Maybe tomorrow, he thought. Maybe tomorrow they stop beating around the bush and start beating the captives.

According to the Poet, the brigands would plan on resting for two or three full days, so if they were planning on getting answers from their captives, the brutality had to begin soon.

But the pirates weren’t in a hurry. On the second day, the tri-hulls and sand-skidders arrived with supplies, which were unloaded and deposited into the supply tent. Around noon, the questioning proceeded as before, though the threats became more specific, and both Peary and the old man were slapped a few times when their answers didn’t satisfy Cord’s curiosity.

When Marisa was returned to the tent after her interrogation, Peary noted the red splotch on her left cheek, and her downcast eyes told him that things had gotten much more serious this time. When she saw him looking, she smiled and shrugged, as if to say it wasn’t that bad. That smile made him feel better, and the rage that was boiling up in him abated just a bit. But not completely. Just enough to keep him from doing anything stupid.

As the blue-gray and then black shadow of night fell on the end of the second day, the three friends knew it was time to activate their plan. They wouldn’t make it through another day of interrogation, especially if the pirates planned on heading north the next day.

Something has to give, Peary thought. So tonight has to be the night.

A look from the Poet told him that he was right.

* * *

The place where they’d buried the dive suits was partially under their tent. The Poet had been dead accurate in his estimation of how the brigands would arrange their camp.

Peary and the Poet suited up in silence as Marisa watched. The party in the command tent had sputtered out, and the camp was now mostly quiet, save for the occasional stirring of men going out to piss on a dune, or the grunt of a drunk being shoved aside to make room for someone to lie down.

The plan was to make their way under the sand to the supply tent, where they’d try to steal some explosives and make a bomb big enough to kill everyone in the camp. Their own selves included, if that became necessary. That was the plan. Get away, or die trying.

The Poet activated his suit first, and without a wink or a nod he disappeared beneath the sand. Peary looked at Marisa and smiled, and when she returned his smile, he slapped the button on his chest and started to move the sand. Before he could dive down though, Marisa moved stealthily to his side and embraced him. He squeezed her in reply and then gently pushed her away. The sand softened beneath him, and he nodded at her as he sank down. Their hands remained touching until Peary was completely immersed beneath the sand.

* * *

The cool pressed in on him, and Peary felt the momentary lie of freedom beckoning him from down deep. Granular hope—untrue, but sweet for a moment in his thoughts. He only sank a few meters before he hardened the sand near his feet and pushed off in the direction of the supply tent.

They’d measured the distance as closely as they could, and he ticked off the meters in his mind as he kicked forward through the sand. He was glad they’d brought excess dive gear. The pirates had never suspected that their captives might have prepared the camp location for an escape attempt.

When he’d gone the requisite distance, Peary turned upward a little and looked through his visor at the colors up above him. The purple showed that there were no people up top, save for one wavering orange figure with dashes of yellow. That would be the Poet. There were also some dark splotches where boxes and cases of supplies must be stowed. All was as it should be.

Peary ascended slowly, breaking the surface just enough to look around. In the darkness, he could see almost nothing, so he freed his hand and raised his visor. Off to his left, he could make out the Poet seated cross-legged on the sand, waiting.

“Let’s get this done,” the old man whispered. Both men removed their headgear and Peary raised himself until he was fully above the sand.

“I’ve already found what we need,” the Poet said. “It’s here, in this box.”

Peary followed the old man’s finger to a box with strange markings on the side. “What is it?”

“Bombs. Very big bombs. Bigger than what we’ll need, but they’ll work.”

“Wow.”

“There are four of them in one box,” the Poet said.

“Do you know how to work them?” Peary asked.

“I do.”

The old man reached into the crate and pulled out a large rectangular case. Attached to the top of the case was a smaller box that had a timer and several switches. Wires from the smaller control module disappeared into the larger case.

“These are for blowing through rock. They’ll make a mess of everyone in this camp if we set one off.”

“So what do we do now?” Peary asked.

“Grab that crate and follow me,” the Poet said. “We’re going to wake up our captors and let them know that if they don’t let us go, they’re never going to see Danvar.”

* * *

Cord, his hired brigands, and the Legionnaires who’d joined the posse weren’t all sleeping. At least, some of them weren’t. They weren’t partying either. The bulk of them were in that middle state: the quiet overtaking them like a damp blanket, the booze dulling them enough that sleep was imminent, but not yet arrived.

When the Poet pushed through the flap and into the command tent, he had to shove his way through the bodies lying here and there near the tent entrance, but before long, eyes caught his and heads were turned, and a slow murmur began to make its way through the structure.

Peary and Marisa followed close behind the Poet, each holding tightly to the cloak of the one in front of them. There were lanterns still burning, and the three of them stepped carefully to the center of the command tent, where a half-dozen folding chairs had been placed upon an area rug in a loose circle. Cord, their nemesis and the suspected leader of the outfit, was seated in one of the chairs, his eyes half-closed and his head lolling to one side in near sleep.

The Poet approached a different chair, then kicked the man who lounged in it such that he slid off and landed on the ground. The Poet sat down heavily in the vacated seat and let out a whistle that sounded almost like the screech of a sand hawk. The piercing sound quickly brought the men in the tent to some form of attention.

Cord was slow in realizing what was going on, but at last he jumped a little and then went for the knife in his scabbard.

He froze when the Poet reacted by lifting up the bomb he held in his arms and placing his thumb against the detonation switch.

The rest of the crew—at least, those who were still sober enough to realize what was happening—now moved, slowly at first, but then almost in unison. Weapons were drawn, and the men formed a wall of thick, rank bodies in order to keep anyone from escaping the tent.

“Those bombs aren’t armed,” Cord said. He said it, but it was evident in his eyes that he didn’t believe it.

“Yes they are, Cord,” Peary said. The Poet kept his thumb on the button, but didn’t speak. He only smiled. Peary walked into the center of the ring of chairs and looked into Cord’s eyes. “Our old poet friend here armed them. And he knows what he’s doing. He’s been on a lot of these expeditions—haven’t you, Poet?”

The Poet nodded.

“Sure he has,” Peary continued. “And he knows how to arm explosives like these, don’t you think, Cord?”

There was silence for a half minute, then Cord nodded.

Peary reached over and unsnapped the sheath that held Cord’s knife, withdrawing the weapon with a smooth motion.

“You can borrow it,” Cord said, “but don’t start thinking that your little plan here has worked. As if we’re just going to let you walk on out of here.”

“That’s exactly what you’re going to do,” Peary said. “We’re leaving the gold, and the maps, and we’re heading west. Over the mountains. And you aren’t going to follow us or we’ll blow you all to hell.”

“That’s not the way this is going to happen,” Cord said. A smile just barely began to touch his lips. He was now past his initial shock, and his mind was starting to function.

“Oh really?” Peary said.

“Really.”

“And how is it going to happen?”

The old man interrupted. “Well, let me tell you —”

“Shut up, old man,” Peary snapped. “I’m talking to Cord.”

“Listen, Peary,” the old Poet snapped back. “It’s high time you listened instead of acting like you have all the answers all the time. Here’s how things work in the real world. Cord here will let us go, sure enough, and we’ll pack up the sarfers and get gone. And then he and his crew will follow behind, close enough to keep tabs on us, but not close enough to get blown up. Then he’ll send one of his hirelings in a fast skidder to harass us. Maybe we’ll throw a bomb at him. If we’re going fast enough so that it doesn’t kill us, at worst it’ll kill the brigand in the skidder.”

“Exactly,” Peary said.

“And then Cord will send another one,” the Poet said, “and then another one. He’ll keep sending them to their deaths until we run out of bombs.”

Marisa sucked air into her lungs and shook her head. “Why would they do that, though? Why would they die for him?”

The Poet looked around the room at Cord’s men, taking a moment to stare each man in the eye. “Because every salvage expedition is the same. They all know that if they don’t do what he says, he’ll kill them anyway. They know that. And then, when he gets back to wherever it is he recruited them from, he’ll kill their families. It’s the way of the pirate.”

There was silence for a few moments, and then Cord slowly stood to his feet. The Poet kept his thumb on the trigger of the bomb and stepped closer to Cord, who raised his hands to show he wasn’t going to try anything stupid.

“The old man is right,” Cord said. “That’s exactly what we’ll do. So you see, you can’t get away.”

Peary turned to the Poet, and his voice shook with anger. “What the hell, Poet? This was the plan! And you tell me now that the plan won’t work?”

“The plan was never going to work,” the Poet replied. “And it never was the real plan anyway. I only told you that to get you to go along.”

“What the—?” Peary sputtered with frustration.

“What is the real plan, old man?” Cord asked. “Because I know you have one.”

The Real Plan

Chapter Twenty-One

“Glad you asked,” the Poet said. He leaned toward Peary with an apologetic look on his face. “You’ll have to forgive me, son. I couldn’t let you get yourselves killed doing something stupid. You’ve tried so hard to die over these past few weeks since I met you, but something—or someone—keeps having to step in and help you.”

“Get on with it,” Cord said. Even from a position of weakness, the brigand showed no humility. It wasn’t in his nature.

The Poet ignored Cord and spoke directly to his friends. “Peary, you and Marisa are getting out of here. Right now. Head west until you’re in those mountains yonder and far from here. You’ll find a place, you will. A beautiful place to survive and settle down. Maybe you’ll have a family.”

“How quaint,” Cord spat.

“That’s not going to happen,” Peary said. “Because we’re not leaving. What about you? What would happen to you?”

“It’s not so dramatic as you think, friend. I’m no hero. Never have been. I’ll just keep these fine gentlemen busy for a few days. We’ll laugh and sing and drink and maybe I’ll teach them some poems. And then… well, then, when I know you and Marisa are safely away, I’ll take them down south, peaceful like. Show them the big dive. I’ll show them where we were when we found the Danvar salvage.”

No one spoke for some time. The men surrounding them, as if with one mind, appeared to decide that the threat was over, and most of them lowered their weapons. At last, Cord spoke.

“That’s it then,” Cord said. “I agree to your terms, Poet. So long as you can take me to Danvar and I keep the gold, these two can go.”

“I can take you straight to Danvar,” the Poet said, “and I will.”

“This wasn’t the plan,” Marisa said. She was crying and wiping tears from her cheeks.

“It’s the new plan.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Peary said.

The old Poet smiled. “Yes. Yes, I do.”

“Then get going,” Cord said to Peary. “Get on out of here, you two. I don’t want any bombs going off on accident.”

“Not yet,” the Poet said. “I’m not letting them leave until everyone is here. Every single one of your people, Cord.” He nodded at the pirate and emphasized his point by looking down at his own thumb on the button.

“Everyone is here, old man.”

“Not everyone,” the Poet said. “I’ve counted, and all of your subordinates are here. But there’s one more. Another fellow who doesn’t work for you. I saw him in the distance when you first arrived. He’s stayed in his tent, too cowardly and ashamed to make himself known.”

Cord looked around and then sighed. A smug smirk tightened his lips.

“In fact,” the Poet said, “I think that man is the real boss of this outfit, not you. Why, now that I think of it, you’re just a hireling too, just like all of these other folk.”

Cord looked up and stared at the Poet for a moment, rage now blazing in his eyes. It was obvious to everyone in the tent that he wanted to lash out, to smack down this old man who sneered at him and laughed with his eyes. But he didn’t lash out. He was too afraid of dying. It’s an age-old affliction in cowards. So instead, he turned to one of the brigands and nodded his head, and the man pushed his way out of the tent.

“Good,” the Poet said, “now we’re getting somewhere.” He turned to Peary. “Young man, will you do me the service of scouring the rest of the camp. It won’t take long. Just make sure every breathing soul is in this tent. I don’t want anyone following you and Marisa when you leave.”

Peary didn’t move. He looked deeply into the old man’s eyes; what he saw there steadied him. The old man had changed. Something was in those eyes now that hadn’t been there when Peary had first met him. Purpose? Happiness?

Peace. Maybe that was it.

* * *

The brigand returned to the tent a few minutes later with another man following behind. When the pirate had cleared out of the way and returned to his spot along the tent wall, Marisa could at last see the face of the new visitor: her uncle Joel. Joel, the real leader of this band of pirates. She glared at him and didn’t look away. She didn’t speak because she didn’t have to, and she noticed that her uncle could not meet her stare.

“I take it that you’ve been briefed on the agreement, Uncle?” the Poet said.

Joel took his time looking up, still studiously avoiding Marisa’s glare. He looked over at the Poet and nodded. “Yes.”

“Anything you want to say to your blood kin?”

Joel shook his head. “No.”

Peary returned at that moment and made his way back into the center of the circle. “That’s it,” he said. “There’s no one else out there.”

The Poet smiled. “Are you sure? No one wandered out for a pee or blacked out from too much beer on the back side of a dune?”

“I searched. There was no one else.”

“All right,” the Poet said, nodding. “You two get going. I’ll take these men to Danvar.”

“Are you sure?” Peary asked.

“Yeah,” the Poet said. “I’ve even made up a poem to teach them along the way. It’s about how Danvar is a place far below the sand, in the depths of the earth, where men go to atone for their sins.”

“That’s nonsense,” Peary said.

“Yeah, it probably is. Now get on with you both. Get out.”

“But—”

The Poet sighed deeply. “No words.”

Marisa stepped toward him, as if to hug the old man, but he stepped backward and held up the bomb.

“No words, young lady. Just go.”

Peary’s eyes met the Poet’s again for a brief moment, but this time the old man looked down, and the young diver could see a tear going down a weatherworn cheek. He reached down and took Marisa’s hand, and led her out of the tent.

Peary and Marisa were too far gone to hear him, but the old Poet spoke as the tent flap swung shut behind them. He spoke to them both, but his words disappeared unheard into the night.

“Don’t die in the sand, friends. Just don’t die in the sand.”

* * *

The moon was full, and high enough now that Peary could pilot the sarfer through the dunes without much trouble. The valley headed straight west, and just as the fires of the pirate camp disappeared behind him and Marisa, a wonderful breeze filled their sail and pushed them even faster.

“How far will we go tonight?” Marisa shouted over the sound of the speeding sarfer.

“We’re going to need to stop in a few minutes and tie down those provisions I grabbed from the other sarfer,” Peary said. “I didn’t want to take the time to stow them properly while those men were watching us.”

“Will he really take them to Danvar?”

Peary shook his head. “I don’t know if he can. I don’t even know if he knows where Danvar is.”

Silence again, and the two lovers could hear the sound of the sand passing underneath. The moon cast a blue hue on the sarfer and the sand.

“Why did he do this?” Marisa asked when the silence became deafening.

Peary looked over at her as his gloved hands deftly controlled the lines. “I can’t say for positive, but I saw something in his eyes. Maybe. I don’t know. I can’t say for sure, but I think I saw the reason.”

“What did you see, Peary? What was the reason?”

“Restitution,” Peary said. “It was as if he was telling me he’d finally become a man, after all these years.”

“That’s what you saw?”

“Yeah.”

“Men are strange.”

* * *

Ten minutes later, Peary brought the sarfer to a halt near a strange outcropping of stone that jutted up from the sand.

“This is interesting,” Peary said. “The sand must not be very deep here. I don’t know when’s the last time I saw something like this. Maybe when I was a boy. Or maybe only in a diver dream.”

Peary staked down the sarfer while Marisa rearranged the provisions and water skins so they could be tied down properly. Keeping the supplies from shifting around becomes a difficult proposition when a sarfer bounces and jumps over the low dunes.

They were just finishing their tasks when the sound of a distant explosion rolled through the blue-black night and caused them to turn back to the east, the direction from which they’d come. The sound had been slow in traveling, and when they turned, the towering fireball in the far distance had already reached an immense height against the black sky. Dark smoke blotted out the stars, giving the fireball a surreal cast.

Marisa gasped and her hand came up to her mouth.

“I’ll be…” Peary sputtered.

“He…” Marisa said.

“I should have known,” Peary replied. “I should have known.”

“He waited until we were far enough away,” she said.

“He took ’em to Danvar,” Peary said.

* * *

The next morning, Peary and Marisa set off to the west again, but managed only a couple of hours before they found themselves unable to proceed any further with the sarfer. Unthinkably, the sarfer had run aground on a sloping, unending patch of solid rock and soil, and here and there boulders as big as a tent jutted up around them. It seemed that the sand—that immutable, ubiquitous truth that had ruled their whole lives—was now behind them.

The sun was barely beginning to show itself, just a glint of pink to the east, and the air was heavy, like a wet blanket or a towel soaked in warm water. As Peary gazed back the way they came, the pink glow began to disappear, and a roiling, black-blue sky occluded most of the light of dawn.

“Something’s happening,” Marisa said. “What is it?”

“Something… I don’t know.” He sniffed the air, unable to identify the damp humidity saturating it. “Something new.”

He darted over to the sarfer and began jamming provisions into backpacks for them to carry.

“We’ll have to each haul a water skin,” Peary told her as he tossed her one of the packs. She caught it smoothly and swung it onto her back.

“Whatever it is, it’s coming closer,” Marisa said, looking back toward the east. The air was becoming even heavier on their skin.

An updraft of cool, wet air, cooler than most mornings, pushed over them then, and the wind stirred up dust, and other biological material that Peary and Marisa knew nothing of, into the air.

“I’m scared,” Marisa said.

“Don’t be,” Peary said. “We’ve made it this far.”

“I know.”

“We’ve cleared the sand.”

“I know.”

“Then don’t be afraid.”

“How do I do that?” she asked.

“The Poet said that the worst thing in the world would be to die in the sand.”

He had to raise his voice for that last statement, because the thundering wind and approaching strangeness pushed over them like a primitive force, driving them to look for shelter.

Securing their packs in place, Marisa and Peary quickly left the sarfer behind and continued west on foot. The firm, unyielding soil felt foreign to their sand-accustomed legs. They moved at a hurried pace, although it was clear that they couldn’t outrun whatever phenomenon was headed their way.

Marisa felt it first, and when she did she stopped—she had to look down at the bare skin of her arms.

Peary felt it then, too. Water, in tiny droplets, whipped by the wind.

“There must be ground water near here,” Peary shouted as he reached back to take Marisa’s hand. He pulled her forward, and the wind and moisture doubled with each step.

“No,” Marisa shouted back. “It’s coming…”

“What?” Peary shouted, looking back at her.

“It’s coming from the sky!”

At that moment, the sky above them opened up, and water fell like peace and grace and mercy altogether, falling from on high, drenching them entire like a poem. A sand hawk screeched, and they could hear it above the wind, but they could not see where he came from or whither he went.

The two dropped to their knees as one, clasping hands, looking at one another, tears forming in their eyes. And the water from heaven joined with their tears, and soaked deeply into the hungry earth.

The End

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Other Books by Michael Bunker

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Legendarium (with Kevin G. Summers) (A Bombo Dawson Adventure)

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Synchronic: 13 Tales of Time Travel

Copyright

© Copyright 2014 by Michael Bunker

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Notes

1

A small fire built into the sand by the use of a deep metal ring, usually carried in the packs of dune travelers. It is arranged so that the smoke is diffused and the fire doesn’t draw attention by creating excessive light or smoke.

2

A handmade stringed instrument, usually made from hardened wood or stiffened skins and strung with woven human hair or catgut.

3

Sand stays. Used to tie down sarfers while in the dunes.

Content

Michael Bunker
DUNES OVER DANVAR
THE COMPLETE NOVEL

Knot 1: Dunes Over Danvar.

What is a Man Worth? Chapter One

Expendable and Alone Chapter Two

Ain’t No Coin in Gettin’ There Chapter Three

The Depths Chapter Four

No One Really Knows War in the Wastes Chapter Five

The Sand Don’t Care Chapter Six

Bleeding Red Chapter Seven

A Man’s Breath Chapter Eight

Knot 2: Salvage.

Relics Chapter Nine

Adrift Chapter Ten

Low-Pub Chapter Eleven

Transactions Chapter Twelve

Poetry Chapter Thirteen

Diving for Treasure Chapter Fourteen

The Old Man and the Sea of Sand Chapter Fifteen

Knot 3: Sand Hawk.

Relics Chapter Sixteen

Trade Town Chapter Seventeen

North, and then West Chapter Eighteen

The Chase Chapter Nineteen

Cornered Chapter Twenty

The Real Plan Chapter Twenty-One

Stay on the Inside

Other Books by Michael Bunker

Copyright

Notes