They saw it at the edge of dawn, a single point of artificial light in the grey expanse. For eight hours they had moved through a world of dust and silence, a landscape of forgotten physics where the bones of dead cities clawed at a sky veiled in permanent fallout. Rhys walked like a broken machine, his cybernetic leg compensating for the failing flesh of his other side, the pain in his ribs a low, grinding hum. Nysa moved beside him, a wraith in the twilight, her endurance a thing of spirit rather than muscle. The light was their goal, a rumor of sanctuary given to them by a dead man.
As they drew closer, the light resolved into the shape of a derelict ore hauler, a metal beast of the old world, half-buried in the dust but alive with a purpose it was never designed for. A low thrum of a generator vibrated through the soles of their boots. Then came another sound, a clean, rhythmic noise that cut through the moan of the wind. A steady, insistent Geiger click. It was not the panicked chatter of a contaminated zone, but the calm, measured beat of a perimeter guard, a system reporting that the world outside was poison, and the world inside was not.
The main cargo hatch hissed open before they reached it, spilling a rectangle of warm, yellow light onto the grey ground. A man stood silhouetted in the doorway, tall and gaunt, his form made spare by a life of scarcity. Thinning, greasy hair was slicked back from a high forehead, and the light glinted off the thick, smudged lenses of his spectacles. His eyes, magnified and distorted, took them in with a single, sweeping glance: the tattered grey of Rhys’s Compact utility jumpsuit, the colourless robes of Nysa’s Chorus faith, the shared exhaustion that was a currency in the Wastes. He said nothing, merely stepping back to grant them entry.
The air inside was a shock. It smelled of ozone, hot metal, and the sharp tang of lubricant, a dense, industrial scent that spoke of function and repair. It was the smell of a world that still worked. Tools Rhys hadn’t seen since his academy days hung in perfect, ordered rows on the walls, their steel dark and cared for. A large, dented cistern, its surface beaded with condensation, hummed quietly in one corner, a promise of clean water. In another, a battered comms terminal flickered with streams of silent, green data. This was Ben Carter’s workshop. It was not a home. It was a functioning system carved from the guts of a dead one.
— On the stool, — Ben Carter said, his voice the dry rasp of rust on steel. He gestured with a wrench toward a metal seat in the center of the floor.
Rhys obeyed, the simple act of sitting sending a fresh wave of fire through his side. Nysa remained standing near the hatch, her arms crossed, a silent observer watching a new variable enter the equation. Ben knelt, and with a small, sharp blade, cut away the blood-stiffened fabric of Rhys’s jumpsuit. Nysa’s makeshift bandage, a strip torn from her own robe, was soaked through, a dark stain against the grey. Ben peeled it away with an impersonal touch.
— Shrapnel from your own cockpit, — he diagnosed, his eyes tracing the edges of the wound. It was not a question. — The machine turns on the operator. A classic design flaw.
He moved to a metal cabinet and returned with a tray of instruments. They were old, solid, their weight and purpose undeniable. He worked with a detached efficiency, cleaning the gash with a clear, stinging antiseptic. Rhys flinched, his knuckles white where he gripped the edge of the stool. He focused on the steady click of the workshop’s external Geiger counter, letting the rhythm anchor him.
— Where? — Ben asked, his hands moving with the sureness of a man who had dismantled and reassembled a thousand broken things.
— Slaughter Ravine, — Rhys grunted through clenched teeth.
— Ordnance type?
— Compact artillery. Warden-class targets.
Ben paused, a pair of forceps hovering over the wound. He looked up, his magnified eyes meeting Rhys’s. — And the Chorus?
— Elites, — Rhys said, the word tasting like ash. — They purged their own.
Ben Carter nodded slowly, a grim understanding dawning on his face. He had heard the first part of the story on the open comms, the sermon of a system devouring its own. Now he had the second. He went back to his work, his movements just as precise, but with a new weight behind them. He applied a shimmering, quick-seal gel that hissed as it met Rhys’s skin, then began to close the wound with a series of deft, clean sutures.
— A joint operation, — Ben murmured, more to himself than to them. — Coordinated fratricide. Someone wanted a piece of ground scrubbed clean of witnesses. Something valuable must have been in play.
He finished the last stitch and applied a sterile dressing. The pain in Rhys’s side receded, contained, the sharp edges blunted by the mechanic’s work. His stamina, which had been hovering near zero, felt a flicker of return. He was still a broken component, but he was no longer leaking power.
Ben stood, wiped his hands on a stained rag, and moved to a small heating element where a blackened pot sat. He poured a dark, steaming liquid into three chipped ceramic mugs. The bitter, clean smell of real coffee filled the air. He handed one to Rhys, then one to Nysa. She took it, her expression wary.
— You’re liabilities, — Ben said, taking a sip from his own mug. The liquid was black and harsh. — Loose ends. Both your factions will be hunting you with extreme prejudice. Not to bring you in. To erase the data.
He walked over to Rhys and held out a hand. — Your wrist-comm.
Rhys hesitated. The comm was his last link to the world he knew, even a broken one. He unstrapped it and handed it over. Ben took the shattered device to his workbench, a scarred expanse of steel littered with wires and diagnostic tools.
— This is a leash, — Ben explained, picking up a delicate driver. — It broadcasts a sub-signal even when it’s powered down. A heartbeat. Standard Compact tech. They’re listening for it right now.
With practiced movements, he opened the casing. Nysa moved closer, watching his hands. She saw not the brute force of a scavenger, but the intricate dance of a surgeon. He was a man of Matter, yet he worked with a grace she had not thought possible. He desoldered a single chip, replacing it with a component he took from a dusty tray, his movements a flurry of quiet competence.
— I’m slaving your transponder to a ghost network, — he said, not looking up from his work. — A web of repeating, anonymous signals the Tinker’s Guild uses. Your signal will be one of a thousand echoes. Untraceable.
He sealed the casing and handed the comm back to Rhys. It looked the same. Broken. But Rhys knew its core function had been altered, its loyalty rewritten. The Geiger function, which had been silent since the chapel, now emitted a single, clean click. A stable pulse.
— Now, — Ben said, turning from the bench to face them fully. — The price.
The air grew still. The hum of the water cistern seemed louder.
— Nothing’s free in the Wastes. You know that. I’ve mended your flesh and blinded your hunters. That incurs a debt.
He opened a small, heavy wooden box on his workbench. Inside, nestled on a bed of faded velvet, were dozens of small, intricately machined gears, each one a unique and complex piece of craftsmanship. They were made from a strange, rust-proof alloy that seemed to drink the light. He picked one up and held it out to Rhys.
— You take this, you owe a debt, — Ben stated, his voice flat and absolute. The choice was laid before them. To accept his help was to accept this obligation. Rhys looked at Nysa. Her face was a mask, but her eyes were fixed on the gear in Ben’s hand. She gave a single, almost imperceptible nod. They needed this. They needed him. The price was their future autonomy, a promise to answer a call that could come at any time, for any reason. Rhys reached out and took the gear.
It was heavy in his palm, its teeth cut with impossible precision. It was a Cog of Solace.
— The debt isn’t to me, — Ben clarified, closing the box. — It’s to the Tinker’s Guild. We’re a network, not a faction. We keep the world running. The quiet parts. The broken parts. And we always collect.
The weight of the cog in Rhys’s hand felt heavier than a sidearm. It was a bond, a chain, a key. It was a commitment to a system that operated in the shadows, a world away from the sterile logic of the Compact or the radiant faith of the Chorus.
Ben turned back to his flickering comms terminal. — They sacrificed that much blood for a reason. They were after an asset, not territory. In the last week, there’s been chatter. Back-channel stuff. About a memory broker on the Drowned Causeway who moves things that shouldn’t be moved. High-value pre-Fall data, mostly. But sometimes, hardware.
He tapped a few keys, and a set of coordinates appeared on the screen. — His name is Julian Croft. He’s your next step. He’ll know what they were after.
Rhys memorized the coordinates. A memory broker. A lawless, floating market. The path forward was becoming clearer, and more dangerous. He and Nysa finished their coffee in silence. The bitter drink had cleared the fog of their exhaustion, replacing it with a sharp, cold focus.
They stood to leave. Rhys slipped the heavy cog into a pocket of his jumpsuit. It felt like a stone.
— On the Causeway, — Ben said as they moved to the hatch, his voice a low warning. — Trust no one. Especially not the man you’re looking for. He deals in lies the way I deal in parts. And his are far more dangerous.
He opened the hatch. The dawn had broken, a wound of bruised purple and rust-red light on the horizon. The air was cold and carried the endless scent of dust. They stepped out of the warm, functional world of the workshop and back into the Grey Wastes.
Behind them, the hatch hissed shut. The steady, rhythmic click of the perimeter Geiger counter faded as they walked away, leaving them in the vast, unpredictable silence of the world they had to cross.
Ahead of them lay the water, and a man who sold memories for a living.
