Dedicated to the doers of deeds,

to those who do strive to be great,

to those who dare.

    Speckled.

    You could describe it as speckled, Tarras Vas. The planet was mostly sand, rocks and mountains, but it was dotted with tiny oases; lush green specks among the tan badlands that swirled and mangled and twisted about. A place like this, one with nowhere to run, was the perfect place to hold all of the universe's worst. Hell on a giant sandy sphere. Of course, it too was not without conquest, for it's crust was rich in radioactive elements that could bring a lot of revenue. Who better to do the labor than the murderers and cons of the galaxy?

    Vas, as it would come to be called, had no spacecraft on the surface. The risk of an escape was just too high. Instead, a singular craft orbited the planet. This massive ship, named "Valkyrie" Held the high ranking officers, and the warden. They were in charge of sending down supplies in orbital drops, and provide support for the ground staff, and be on standby for an emergency.

    That was, of course, until the "Valkyrie"dropped like a stone. 

    No more Valkyrie.

    No more Warden.

    No more Order.

    Only a ball of sand with no escape and limited supplies. Now, the power was in the hands of the brutal.

Looking at these stars suddenly dwarfed my own troubles and all the gravities of terrestrial life. I thought of their unfathomable distance, and the slow inevitable drift of their movements out of the unknown past into the unknown future.

— H. G. Wells, The Time Machine, 1895.

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SCORCH

      Ink could not remember, now, how long it had been since he had gotten a full mouth-full of water. The trickles and drops could keep him alive; alive enough to feel himself drying out. The sun and the blowing sand did not help, but relief was not plausible. Instead, he had taken to chewing lightly on his tongue to occupy his mind. the soft flesh was ra now as he scanned the horizon with his Binoculars.

    "What've you got, Ink," Shouted torque, the driver. the engine of the buggy had been shut off, but the radiator still pinged as it cooled. "Any movement?"

    There was none. There hadn't been movement the last time they had stopped either. To assume that the Rippers would attack through the pass was stupid. The band of thugs were lazy, and while they had fairly nice vehicles, they hardly left their territory, a place know as Red Peak. Their rivalry with Press Station, Ink's settlement was said to be active, but truly, in the last week, there had only been one skirmish, and only one driver was lost. 

    "Nothing," Ink called back, putting the Binoculars down for a moment. These were not their real names, of course. Nobody went by those, though. They were prisoners, and they acted like prisoners.  "I don't think th-" Ink stopped. under the wind, there had been a noise. a low rumble that called to him, singing the sweet song of death in its baritone octave.