The Weight of Dust

The dust never really settles here on Aethel. It’s a constant presence, a fine red powder that coats everything, gets in your throat, and grinds in the gears of your life until it all just stops working. I was sitting at a corner table in the Last Drop Saloon, the only half-decent watering hole in Rust Creek, trying to make a glass of cheap synth-ale last. The ale tasted like rust and regret, which felt fitting. Outside, the twin suns of this forsaken planet were starting their slow descent, painting the sky in shades of orange and bruised purple. It was a beautiful sight, if you could forget for a moment that you were on a rock at the edge of a meaningless war.
My life had become a series of these quiet, empty moments. I’d come to Rust Creek six months ago, looking for a place where the Federation and the Dominion were just names whispered on the wind. A place where no one knew the name Jax, or the callsign ‘Reaper.’ Here, I was just another drifter, a man with a powerful but silent mech—my Sand-Viper—hidden away in a rented hangar, its joints slowly seizing up from disuse. The Sand-Viper was a custom job, a relic from my old life. Fast, agile, and deadly. Now, it was just a very expensive, very large paperweight. A monument to a past I was trying to drink away, one glass at a time.
The saloon door creaked open, letting in a swirl of red dust and a sliver of the dying light. I didn’t look up. Strangers were common, but trouble was even more so. I preferred to keep my head down. But then a voice cut through the low murmur of the room, a voice that was clear and steady, without the usual grit of desperation you heard in these parts. “I’m looking for a pilot. A good one.” I still didn’t look up, but I felt a shift in the room. A few of the other patrons, scavengers and low-life mercs, straightened up a little. A good pilot meant a good payday, and good paydays were rare.
“What kind of job?” a gruff voice asked from the bar. It was a man named Silas, a heavy-set freighter pilot who mostly hauled scrap.
“An escort mission,” the clear voice replied. “A convoy of medical supplies to the outer settlements. It’s a charity run.” The room went quiet again. Charity. That word was like a curse in Rust Creek. It meant high risk and no reward. The interest in the room evaporated as quickly as it had appeared. I heard the scrape of a chair as Silas turned back to his drink. I finally risked a glance.
She was standing in the middle of the room, her silhouette framed by the doorway. She was tall, with practical clothes stained with grease and dust, and her dark hair was tied back in a messy ponytail. But it was her eyes that held me. They were a startling, clear blue, and they were scanning the room with an intelligence and a hope that had no business being in a place like this. She looked out of place, like a desert flower blooming on a battlefield. Her gaze passed over me, dismissed me as just another piece of worn-out furniture, and then swept the room again, a flicker of disappointment crossing her face.
I should have let her walk out. I should have ordered another ale and sunk back into my comfortable misery. That was the smart play. The safe play. But then I thought about the outer settlements, about the families clinging to life out there with nothing. I thought about the word ‘charity,’ and how long it had been since I’d done something that wasn’t for myself. And then I thought about the ghosts. The faces of my old squad, the ones I’d left behind on Tartarus V. Their accusing eyes were always there, in the quiet moments. Maybe, just maybe, doing something good could make them fade, even for a little while.
Before I could talk myself out of it, I pushed my chair back. The sound was loud in the suddenly silent saloon. Her blue eyes snapped to me. I stood up, feeling the ache in my bones that had become a permanent part of me. “What’s the route?” I asked, my voice hoarse from disuse. “And what’s the opposition look like?” She looked at me, really looked at me this time. A spark of something—surprise, maybe even hope—lit up her features. “The route goes through the Serpent’s Pass,” she said. “As for opposition… we’re hoping for none. But we’re preparing for raiders. Or worse.”
Serpent’s Pass. A notorious chokepoint, a favorite ambush spot for every cutthroat and scavenger crew in the sector. It was a suicide run. And she was planning on doing it with medical supplies, a high-value, low-defense target. It was insane. It was stupid. It was exactly the kind of thing that got people killed. “You’re crazy,” I said, the words coming out before I could stop them.
A small, tired smile touched her lips. “My name is Elara,” she said, ignoring my comment. “And I’m a mechanic. I keep things running. I’m hoping you can do the same for this convoy.” She held out a hand, calloused and stained with oil. It was a worker’s hand. An honest hand. I looked at it for a long moment, the war between my past and some forgotten piece of my soul raging inside me. The ghosts were screaming. Do it, they seemed to say. Do something that matters. With a sigh that felt like it came from the deepest part of me, I reached out and shook her hand. Her grip was firm. “The name’s Jax,” I said. “And my rates are high.”
“We can’t pay much,” she admitted, her gaze unwavering. “But we can offer you a share of what we have. Food, water, and a clean conscience.” A clean conscience. I almost laughed. I hadn’t had one of those in a decade. But looking into her eyes, for the first time in a long time, I felt a flicker of a desire to have one again. “Fine,” I said, letting go of her hand. “Show me the plan. And the convoy. I need to see what I’m working with.”
As I followed her out of the saloon and into the twilight, I felt a familiar dread mix with something new, something I couldn’t name. It felt a little like hope, and that scared me more than any battle I’d ever fought. The dust swirled around our feet, a constant reminder of where we were. A world of endings. And I had just agreed to be part of a new beginning. I had a bad feeling it would end the same way everything else did on Aethel: buried under the weight of the dust.