Page 3 of Across the Crimson Sands

It was all I had time to grab. It had to be enough. Even dying in the desert was better than living one more day with him.

I slipped on my sandals, took a deep breath, and punched in the ship’s security code.

194035. The date of that damn battle that he bragged about, over and over.

And Krelaxians think humans are morons.

“Security protocol disengaged,” the robot said sweetly.

I set it to re-engage in thirty seconds. It was all I needed. Anything longer than five minutes, and the system would alert the account holder directly.

I slipped out onto the sands, seeing nothing for miles all around me. But I knew the sun set in the north, and the military barracks were in the south. So towards the lingering sun I trekked, ready to take on anything standing between me and freedom.

After two or so hours, I found the remains of someone else who was claimed by the sands so long ago. I gratefully took their jacket, pants, and boots. I layered my thin shift over the pants, pulled the jacket over my shoulders. And though they barely fit me, it was good enough to get me through the coming cold desert night.

My feet ached, limbs shook, and my head spun with anxiety. I could hear the calls of the nocturnal beasts emerging from their caves in the distance. My throat was parched, but I didn’t dare drink my limited water too quickly.

Every instinct in my body begged me to turn around and go back to the safety of the ship. The guaranteed food, water, and shelter.

But I would never go back into his chains.

Never.

ROKAN

Ibuckled my worn leather belt with a satisfying click and shrugged on my jacket, the familiar weight settling on my shoulders. Just then, my communicator chirped to life, its screen illuminating the dim room.

Job for you.

A wave of relief washed over me. It had been too long since my last assignment, and the inactivity was making me restless. Sure, bounty hunting paid well, but it was the thrill of the chase that truly drew me in. Staring at the same four walls day after day made my very bones ache with a desperate need for action.

The warehouse that concealed our base wasn’t far – we all lived clustered around Davor’s command center. Maybe it was a lingering need for the camaraderie we’d shared during the war, or perhaps just practicality. Whatever the reason, we stuck together like burrs on a jacket.

I strode into the bunker, immediately noticing Arkon’s presence. My eyebrow quirked upward; team assignments had become a rarity lately. But I wouldn’t mind it. Arkon was good to have at your side in a fight.

“Arkon was just leaving,” Davor explained, his gruff voice filling the space as he pressed a data chip into the giant’s palm.

Most people would scoff at the idea of hunting as respectable work, but their opinions meant nothing to me. For a Vinduthi on Caroma, especially under Krelaxian rule, honest jobs were as scarce as water in the Crimson Sands. We’d carved our niche and dominated it. Still, not every gig was a sure thing.

Yeah, we could’ve split, left this fucking world. Plenty of our brothers did after the last battle. But Davor, our unit’s leader, he’d dug in his heels here.

He had his reasons, and hell... none of us had much cause to try our luck in the wider galaxy. No place was gonna roll out the welcome mat. Might as well dance with the devil we knew.

“Good luck to you with yours.” Arkon gave my shoulder a hearty pat as he shuffled past me and out the door.

“Rokan!” Davor boomed, arms spread wide in greeting. “It’s been a while.”

I crossed my arms, leaning against the doorframe. “Been a while since you had work for me.”

Davor waved me closer, flipping through a weathered book filled with handwritten notes. The old man’s preference for paper over datapads had always struck me as odd, but I supposed old habits die hard. Plus, it’s a lot easier to burn incriminating paper evidence than to completely wipe a datapad.

“Well,” he drawled, “if you pull this one off, you might not need to work again for quite some time.”

I couldn’t quite suppress the wicked grin that tugged at my lips. “Alright, I’ll bite. What’s the job, and why me?”

“The job is property acquisition,” Davor replied, his eyes scanning a page he’d torn from the book. “And I’m sending you because you’re my best tracker.”

In a swift motion, I snatched the paper from his grasp, ignoring his irritated grunt. My eyes darted across the page, taking in the details.

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