Pilots are the most superstitious creatures in the universe.
   The thought whirled in her mind as she readied herself. Even after all this time the mere thought of climbing into that damn ship made her stomach churn. She splashed cold water onto her face and glared at her trembling reflection, the glass of her bionic left eye glinting dully in the bright light.
   For an instant she felt it all again, the burning agony and a throat raw from screaming as the flames surrounded her…
   She forced the panic down, smoothing her dark hair with shaking hands. The door behind her was open and in the mirror she could see her ship waiting for her, a dark shape crouched against the silver deck. It’d be so easy just to close the door and wait it out, she wouldn’t be the first to take ill suddenly.
   But then he’ll win.
   Her fists clenched as her anger flared at the thought. Damn him; he’d taken everything else of hers but this she would fight for. She turned on her heel and stalked towards the waiting vessel, pulling her helmet over her head as she stiffly entered the cockpit, sliding the glass closed behind her before she had second thoughts.
   With a sigh she leant her head back against the headrest, closed her eyes and counted slowly to ten before buckling up the harness and taking a deep breath.
   “Power up.”
   At the crisp command the engine of the ship whirred into life, the cockpit consoles lighting up smoothly.
   “Power up,” a calm voice confirmed. “Beginning pre-flight checks.” She felt the ship shudder slightly in its moorings. “Checks complete. Faults found, zero. Engine efficiency one hundred-ten percent. Pilot to confirm mooring release.”
   “Confirmed,” she responded, tapping in the release code. “Readying airlock.” She pushed the throttle forward a fraction, just enough to lift the ship clear of the mooring clamps and drift forward into the airlock. As always she took the opportunity to check the control systems, the ship twitching slightly from side to side as the airlock closed behind it.
   “Airlock sealed. Venting atmosphere… Atmosphere venting complete, opening outer doors.”
   All tension vanished from her as the doors slid open to revealing the void of space, the black abyss dusted lightly with a scattering of stars. She opened the throttle again, further this time, switching her comm to the correct channel. At once her ears were filled with customary chatter as ships jostled for position and controllers strived in vain to bring some order to the chaos.
   “Racer number sixty-three, signing on.”
   “Greetings sixty-three. Please proceed to your starting place. That’s fifth, by the way,” the controller added. “So don’t get any ideas.”
   Pilots trying to scoop better starting positions for themselves was common practice, hence the chaos before every race. She’d never seen the point herself. It was too much hassle and rarely worth it, though it did get you noticed more by the crowds. She smiled to herself – fame wasn’t worth it either. Most pilots raced for money and fame, but not her. She raced because it was the only way she could get herself back.
   Ironic really.
   A bitter smile hovered over her scarred face, hidden by her helmet, as she slipped into position and idled back the engines, content to wait the chaos out.


   The wind screamed into the packed room, throwing dust in from the street outside. As the door was closed the newcomer raised a gloved hand in apology to the people crowded there, the numerous curses and threats not seeming to affect them.
   “Hey, stranger!” the barman called. “No dogs!”
   The figure turned to him. In the gloom it was hard to make out any details, save that they were not overly tall, nor heavily built. Every inch of them was covered in an effort to beat the sandstorm outside. A cloth headdress of the type favoured by those who travelled the wastelands between the sparse settlements covered their head, protecting their face and ears from the stinging dust. A heavy overcoat was buttoned up against the cold as much as the sand and the bottom of their cargo pants were tucked into the top of their scuffed boots. Approaching the bar with a grace that shouldn’t have been possible in such gear, the stranger pulled the cloth clear of her face and treated the barman to a chill smile.
   “So you’d have me leave him out in the storm?” she asked, her voice rough from the dust outside.
   The man blinked, but covered his surprise. The stranger wasn’t human. On the hellblown planet known ironically as Eden there were two groups. Most were human, desperate settlers scratching a living from the failing mines, scraping together enough to leave. The others were few and little was known about them. Imaginatively dubbed ‘wanderers’ by the settlers due to their lack of permanent settlements, these humanoids drifted over the barren landscape, the last remnants of an ancient race. No more than two or three were seen at a time, keeping their thoughts hidden behind the pearlescent orbs of their eyes. Female wanderers weren’t unheard of, though they were uncommon.
   “Rules is rules. I’ve a shed out back.”
   “And how much will that cost me?”
   The barman’s eyes flickered over her, gauging how much was safe to charge. “Twenty credits.”
   “Food and water extra, of course?”
   “This isn’t a bloody charity here.”
   The dog, a stocky animal with ragged ears and mottled blue-grey fur, bared his teeth with a low growl at the tone of the barman’s voice. The wanderer rested a hand on his head to calm him and chuckled, but there was no humour in the sound. “I’ll give you ten, you cheating swine. And if you try and overcharge me again you’ll regret it.” She counted ten chips onto the battered surface of the bar with slow deliberation. Her violet eyes, set in a face far too young for the expression on it, gleamed coldly.
   The barman recognised the challenge there and backed down, pocketing the chips. “Just follow the building round to the left, you can’t miss it. There’s a tank of water there too, give your animal a litre, on the house.”
   “Generous,” she murmured, pulling the cloth over her face again. “I hope your drinks are better than your hospitality.”
   “Go to hell.”
   “We’re already there human, or hadn’t you noticed?”
   She didn’t listen for the man’s response, heading back out into the sandstorm with her dog staying close.
   “Come on, Blue,” she raised her voice over the wind. “Let’s find his poxy shed, shall we?”
   Sheltering the animal as best she could she found the ramshackle structure without difficulty, swiftly deciding that shed was too generous a description for it. At least he was right about the water, she thought as she poured exactly a litre of the precious liquid into a shallow bowl. As Blue drank she gently rubbed the sand out of his coat where she could, humming under her breath. Her sharp ears picked up the sound of the approaching men and, not pausing in her movements, shifted her weight slightly, making her weapon easier to draw.
   “Wanderer,” the lead man called. “You ain’t welcome here.”
   She sighed. All these places were the same. “I can’t move on until the storm passes,” she pointed out as they moved out of the wind and into the shed, blocking the only exit. “Trust me, once it’s gone so am I.”
   “I don’t like your attitude, wanderer.”
   “I don’t care much for yours either,” she replied, slowly rising to her feet. “But I’m prepared to let it pass.”
   “Too soft for a fight, eh?”
   Her inhuman eyes burned. Like all her race they lacked pupils, a fact that made most of the human settlers very uncomfortable. “Spend a lifetime outside of your shacks and you’ll still have no right to call me soft, human. Now get out of here before you get hurt.”
   With a vile curse he reached for his gun, only to find her knife at his throat. Where she’d been standing an instant earlier was empty – now she was directly behind him.
   “Get out,” she repeated darkly in his ear before twisting him round and pushing him into his friends. They couldn’t leave quickly enough.
   Blue looked questioningly up at his mistress, his tail thumping on the dirt floor.
   “Stay put,” she told him in her own sibilant language. “I’ll be back later.”

   The bar hadn’t changed since she’d left. She wrinkled her nose at the reek that hung in the air, stale sweat and beer being the most obvious. Reminded why she normally avoided these places she ordered a glass of water from the bar and sat in a corner, swirling a small amount of the liquid around her mouth before swallowing. Not having a mouth full of sand and grit was a welcome change.
   “-pilots are lined up awaiting the sign to start the 33rd race of the season-”
   She closed her eyes as the words suddenly blasted through the room. Most of the other patrons gathered around the flickered screen that had just shuddered into life on the far wall, their voices rising as odds were given and bets taken.
   “-exciting race this year as the rankings are so close. Keep an eye on the newcomer, number sixty-three. She’s managed fifth position this time round, and that’s with the control problems that plagued her throughout qualifying. Now her ship’s back up to scratch expect to see more of her signature fearless flying-”
   The wanderer glanced at the picture on the screen of the unassuming black vessel, her lips moving as she deciphered the characters on the side.
   “Nemo,” she murmured, a small frown creasing her face. “Where have I heard that before?”
   “ ‘“I believe it means ‘no one’,” a familiar voice explained as a grizzled character slipped into the seat opposite her. “Latin, I think. Or Greek, I can’t remember”
   The wanderer chuckled. “It’s been too long, Darius.”
   “Too true, too true,” the old man agreed. “How have you been, old friend?”
   She shrugged. “The same. You?”
   He smiled. “Always the same, eh?”
   “Of course,” she ended the line of conversation, as always, with a smile. “You wanted to see me?”
   “Yes indeed. I am sorry to have called you to this…” he sniffed. “Establishment, but I have an offer for you and won’t take no for an answer.”
   “Go on.”
   “How’d you like to go up there?”
   She looked at his digit then let her gaze drift upward. “The roof?” she teased.
   “Please, Sariel, this is serious. I mean space! Off world, whatever you want to call it.”
   “Why?”
   “Why? Why not? You’ve said it yourself, this place is hell. Don’t you want to see other places?”
   “This place is hell, but it’s mine. I can’t abandon it, Darius.”
   “You’ll be back – I mean you won’t have to stay if you don’t want to.” His face had fallen. “I’m disappointed; I thought you’d like to see an ocean…”
   Her eyes brightened. “An ocean?” There were none left on her sandblasted planet.
   Darius shifted in his seat, enjoying her undivided attention. “You remember I sent a message to the curator of the museum on Sengis Prime about the work I’ve been doing on the ruins of your ancient cities?”
   “Yes, you must have gotten through about fifty drafts.”
   “Don’t mock me Sariel, or you won’t be coming.”
   “Going where?”
   “Sengis Prime, of course! Specifically Starspire, a major city on the northern continent.” Darius grinned. “The curator is sending a ship! It’ll be at my warehouse within the week, but I’d like some company… and as Starspire is on the coast I naturally thought…” he left it hanging.
With an effort Sariel controlled herself, sipping at her water to hide her excitement. “How long?”
   “A month or two. You can stay longer if you like – this planet’s too harsh for me, I might not be coming back, see.”
   “Sounds like you could pick worse places,” the wanderer replied, her feelings suddenly mixed. She was fond of the historian – she’d known him for about forty years. She’d miss him. For she knew something he didn’t, something that meant that even two months might be too long away.
   “Within a week, you say? Give me three days,” she continued when he nodded. “I need to tie up my own business before I leave – I may not be able too, I’m quite busy lately. But the fact that you asked means a great deal. Thank you, Darius.”
   Darius smiled ruefully and leaned back in his chair as his companion politely closed the door on that conversation. “I should have known better than to expect an answer now,” he admitted. His gaze wandered to the thin bundle leaning against her chair. “Don’t tell me you’re still carrying that rifle about?”
   “It was a gift,” she replied, gratefully moving on to a familiar subject. “Why should I not?”
   The two of them bickered and chatted as only old friends can, while the race on the screen continued unheeded.