#JBOA-D1 was a dump. It didn’t matter how much the big corporations had tried to sell it as a ‘New Earth’ to terraform and colonise, or how much some of the locals had grown attached to it over the decades of being stranded there, nothing changed the fact that #JBOA-D1, or ‘Job Done’ as one particularly dyslexic oligarch had once renamed it, was a dump. And it seems that with that nickname, the small telluric planet had itself always been aware of its imminent fate.

With it endless fine-sand dunes, dark blue seas, and overabundance of natural mineral resources, it could have been a fine paradise to live in. But between corporate disputes, the scarcity of fertile land, the overabundance of oversized bugs that would eat just about everything they landed on, the sandstorms that halted urbanisation projects on a weekly basis, and the reoccurring uprisings of those forced to work in the dark matter extraction plants, well, #JBOA-D1 had fallen into ruin, and fallen away from the central government that was meant to support it.

Now, only those that were born and raised here remained, as first and second generation settlers were slowly going extinct, due to sickness, wildlife attacks, mining accidents, and an overall lack of understanding that glowing water should not be drunk.

Mikhail Victorovich Semyonov was an exception to that rule. Of course he also thought that this tiny rock he lived on was a dump, and on particularly long and alcohol-saturated nights he would recall with fondness the days where he was but a boy, in a place that wasn’t here, he did nevertheless enjoy living here. It was home, more than any actual residence of people living in it could have ever been.

But, as Mikhail’s shoes got worn from days on end of walking though the desertic Great Nothing, as sand slowly penetrated through every layer of his protective clothing, and as he began getting used to tasing rust and sandpaper in his mouth, he had began to question his bonds to this rock. It was on day 26 of his travels, when a Calcium-Termite decided to burrow in the barrel of his shotgun, that Mikhail decided that he’d had enough. There wasn’t much he could do other than swear at the insect, and shake and hit his weapon in a helpless attempt to get it out, and in a somewhat less helpless attempt to let off some steam, but that had been his turning point.  Mikhail didn’t yet know what he was going to do, but he knew that the next time he’d see an opportunity, any opportunity, he’d take it.

The only issue with his otherwise fool proof plan was the fact that he was currently stranded in the Great Nothing, an endless sea of sand that occupied roughly a sixth of the planet’s surface, and ran from equator to pole. The place was littered with abandoned terraforming equipment, towns and villages that had long been reclaimed by the sands, and salvageable weapons and equipment for those with a keen eye. Towns on the edges of the Great Nothing actually prospered well enough, especially those that had been built on solid rock, or the massive cement blocks that tried (and on most days succeeded) to reclaim bits of the desert. They could drill deep into the bedrock or build vertical wells that collected atmospheric condensation to get water. They had their cattle and insects farms, and were in many way indistinguishable from the rest of the settlements on this rock.

However, they were also far from where Mikhail was now, and the fact that he couldn’t even really situate himself within the Great Nothing didn’t help. So he walked, putting one foot before the other, over and over, through the red and orange sands, under a red and orange sky. He could only hope that his luck would turn any day, and that he’d stumble upon a way out.

A dry and wind blew through Gab’s hair. Strands of black and purple tangled together, and, shaped by the heat, stood up straight, defying this planet’s gravity. If not for the scarf that was once blue, but had turned grey under the perpetual red sun, covering the top of Gab’s head, she would have looked like a hedgehog. Although, the young woman would have never used that word, and would have rather compared herself to a the bum of an Earwig. She would have then added that it was of course a compliment to herself, as Earwigs were amongst her top 10 favourite foods.

“Come on big girl,” Gab spoke as she patted the dented metal surface with her free hand, “You need to pick up the pace, otherwise we’ll run out of both fuel and charge. And then what would I do? You’re too big for me to push.”

The remote-controller in Gab’s other hand vibrated in response.

“Good girl.” Gab once again patted the metal roof of the tank carrying her. She could feel the speed of the wind accelerating against her skin, and soon, when the first grains of sand hit against her face, she propped open the roof access hatch, and slid inside.

She found herself in a tiny airlock. She put the remote-controller for her vehicle in its designated alcove, before squinting her eyes as jets of warm air hit her entire body, cleaning it of any sand and other dirt particles.

Gab remembered the days when she was small enough to fit in here with her brother. The adults always told them they shouldn’t because they’d stay dirty, but neither her or her brother, Dosi, cared much for that. With her being a farmer, and him a builder, they rarely went more than 15 minutes without getting dirty again anyway.

Those fond memories of simpler and happier times flooded Gab’s mind, and she remained in the airlock long after the jets of air had finished their job.

“How could you leave me?” She whispered, not daring to speak louder in fear of hearing the weight of those words.

She’d had many fights with her brother, as all siblings in the settlement did, at times she called him names and told him that she hated him. He’d do the same. They hit each other when the adults weren’t watching, perhaps more often than the other kids, but when Gab had fallen down the foundations of some building project, Dosi didn’t hesitate to jump down to get her. And when he got attacked by a hungry Hornworm (Order knows where he’d found it), Gab wacked the thing with a rake until it stopped moving. They had always had each other - until he left.

He hadn’t saidd a word.

Not goodbye, not an explanation. Nothing. One morning Gab had woken up, and Dosi just wasn’t there. She knew that she’d never forgive him for that. She might act like it was fine, and things might become like they were before, but forgiveness wasn’t something she was capable of anymore, not for what he did.

Gab felt a vibration under her feet. This wasn’t the same kind of gentle humming that her girl did when she wanted to talk. No, this was the engine acting up again.

“Come on baby, don’t die on me. You’re hungry and broken? Can’t do both. Pick one.”

Gab opened the hatch under her with the press of a button, and slid down along the ladder rails, in that way that would have gotten her yelled at if someone had seen her.

She ran through a well-treaded pathway towards the lower guts of the tank. She opened another hatch, and slid into the engine room. There were narrow stairways at each end of the vehicle, as well at other key locations that were meant to divert people from the main passageways, but Gab had enough faith in her arm strength to exclusively travel via the emergency hatches. The fact that most stairways were filled with clutter that her grandad refused to call anything other than ‘emergency supplies’ and ‘essential parts’, only further encouraged her.

She winced as she landed amongst the heavy machinery, and rubbed her right leg. It had been almost a full season, but her fracture hadn’t fully healed yet.

“Right, let’s see what’s wrong.” Gab spoke as she got up, and walked around inspecting the engine.

The massive cylinder at the enter of the room wasn’t humming louder than it was meant to, and many of the pipes and wires connecting it to the rest of the machinery were very visibly mended with tape and soldering paste. In other words, nothing unusual. Gab spent another good half hour checking under every mobile piece and inside parted metal seams for the only thing she knew how to fix: exogenic material. But once that was done, and no bugs were found inside the guts of her girl, she resigned herself to swiping the fine layer of sand into its dedicated exit vent, before taking a seat on the ground, in between the humming vibrating and squealing machinery, and praying.

“The Order has made you such as you are, and I pray for the Order to reconsider the decision to set you on the path of death. I do not have your foresight, but I believe Piccadilly can still serve her purpose, and serve me in mine. If you have decided to leave me behind, that’s fine, I can’t say I understand, but I accept it. However, Piccadilly cannot understand or accept her fate, so I pray you let her live at least long enough to fulfil her role in my journey."

Gab paused, thinking about her predicament. The tank was like family to her, she was attached to it the same way some people got attached to their houses or weapons. She knew that if Piccadilly was to critically malfunction, she could still continue her journey on foot, but that journey would be harder, and her heart would be heavier. The woman continued her prayer in silence, and by the time she was done, the noises and shaking of the engine had died down ever so slightly.

At first, when the full red and yellow of the horizon was broken by irregular grey shapes, Mikhail thought nothing of it. Another abandoned town, or a chunk of some unlucky ship, he reckoned. But as he approached the shapes, they began to define themselves into something familiar, and yet strange. Perhaps strange was not the correct word. Unusual? Unexpected? Rare? But even then, Mikhail didn’t really consider it a lucky find.

However, as he continued walking towards the two-storey tall and more than twice as long vehicle, and as he heard its engine buzz, like a dying Megachilidae, and as the air filled with the heavy odour of petrol, something awoke within the man’s heart. Hope. Hope to finally get off this rock, to get to a place that wasn’t here.

He hasted his pace, as he contoured the all-terrain vehicle. The modifications that had been brought to this terraforming vehicle were obvious even to a man like him. Of course, he couldn’t know just how much of the insides of the vehicle had changed, but it was clear from where he stood that its mining and extraction drills, as well as their holding compartments had been removed. The smooth rear flanks of the vehicle were testament to that. The dual machine guns mounted onto the roof of the vehicle, and half-covered with polarised fabric were also hard to miss. However, the most surprising change was the removal of the front ‘legs’ of the all-terrain vehicle, as its cockpit now overhung in the front by a fair bit, giving the vehicle an almost animalistic aspect.

Like a bear, Mikhail caught himself thinking.

However, with all this careful observation, the man did not manage to find an access hatch. And as he continued to walk around the tank, he quickly understood that he was looking for the wrong thing. As his goal was not to steal, but to bargain for a ride, his current best bet was whoever was on the other end of the thick fuel cable that run from the guts of the vehicle, to the oil pumps a few dozen of meters away.

Mikhail hastily made his way along the half-meter wide tube, hoping, but not counting too much on, finding a friendly stranger at the end of it.

“’Afternoon” A female voice called out from the pump. Soon, its owner came into view as well, as she got up from behind the pump, where she’d been manually holding the fuelling tube in place. “What can I do you for, stranger?”

That was a good start, the man thought, no shots fired, no profanities exchanged.

“Is it yours?” he asked, gesturing towards the modded terraforming vehicle behind him.

He’d come close enough to finally distinguish the woman’s traits. She was of average height, bulky, and dressed in typical deserter clothes; layers upon layers of mispatched fabrics, some fitted, some not, that did nothing to keep the heat out, but did an excellent job of preventing the sand, and more importantly insects, from getting in contact with her skin. The burnt-out and faded colours showed that she was an outdoors worker, and the purple strikes in her unkept hair suggested that said work was almost, if not exclusively, done in proximity to Cladite mines.

“What’s it to you?” She asked, with now noticeable hostility in her voice, as she pulled down the once-red scarf covering her nose and chin. “Think you can take me on and steal her?”

“No, not at all. Quite the opposite in fact.” Mikhail slowly spoke, raising both his hands up, to further prove that he held no ill intent. Despite his looks, clothes, and attitude, fighting tended to come last on his list of solutions to any given problem, right before running away.

The woman twitched her mouth upwards and raised an eyebrow in an all but convinced expression. Then she nodded towards Mikhail to encourage him to carry on talking.

“I’m looking to get to the nearest town. I can be your gun for however long it takes, and I’m not picky when it comes to living arrangements.”

The woman gave him another doubtful lookover. Then her expression softened.

“Alright. Don’t need your gun much, with how much bugbones are comin’ out of it, but I’ll give you a ride.”

Mikhail dropped his arms to his side and let out a sigh of relief. It had been a very, very, long time since things had gone his way so quickly and so smoothly. He then briefly glanced back at the shotgun stepped to his back. Its barrel was overflowing with semi-solidified calcium paste, as it had for the past weeks, but for some reason, now that the woman had pointed it out, Mikhail became suddenly bothered by it.

“But there are rules.” The woman continued.

“Of course. Don’t question your lead and all that I’m assuming?”

“Well, I guess. But you look wised-up enough to know what to and not to touch,” the woman smirked. “Her name is Piccadilly.” She nodded towards the tank. “Call her an ‘it’ one more time, and we’ll have a problem. The bloody kind of problem.”

To demonstrate her point, she flinged up a 50 or so centime-long metal rod from a holster on her belt, flipped it in the air, and placed it over her shoulder, as if she were about to swing it at him. Mikhail was quick on the uptake. He didn’t care if the tank was a ‘she’, or if he’d need to start addressing her as ‘your royal highness who graciously allows us to be carried on her back’. He hadn’t always held that position of authority that he had before he’d ended up in the desert, so he knew what it took to deal with authority, in whatever shape it came.

“So, she’d Piccadilly. I’m Mikhail. Mikhail Victorovich Semyonov, as my residence slip says. And you are?”

“Gab. Golf Four Bravo Knot Eight Foxtrot. But that’s not written anywhere, and people mostly call me Gab.” The woman but her improvised weapon away, and extend a hand to Mikhail. “So, I guess that sine we’re acquainted now, you wouldn’t mind helping me to feed my big girl? She ain’t exactly got a standard-sized spindle.”

Mikhail agreed, and picked up the pump nozzle. In addition to having its top part cut-off, which wasn’t surprising considering some of the other mods on the vehicle itself, its partially exposed pressure spindle was circular, and not hexagonal or triangular like the ones used in all of the heavy machinery Mikhail had had the chore of maintaining during his long career.

“Mah’ grandad needed the metals for some gun or the other.” Gab explained. “Works decently well without the bits, so no one who could ever bothered to replace it.”

Mikhail didn’t even realise as he mumbled under his breath:

“That’s 5 BEAK violations, gotta tell Swindston about it.”

“And I shall leave you to that.” Gab said, with a raised eyebrow, before giving the man a ‘good luck’ type of pat on the shoulder. “If you need me, I’ll be checking the other pumps for anything we can haul to the next settlement. Don’t think they’ll have any fuel, but anything that looks mech enough might get us a trade.”

Mikhail did briefly consider telling the woman that most things that ‘looked mechanical’ as she’d put it were worth close to nothing for most people, and to spot the tradable parts one needed a sort of expertise that she very clearly did not have, but decided against it. They hadn’t known each other for long enough for him allow himself those kinds of remarks, and experience had proven that even with people he knew, he was better off keeping his mouth shut.

So, he placed the fuelling tube over the aperture into which it was meant to dock, and after a close inspection of the area, found the manual pressure override lever. For the next two hours or so, he played the role of a human clamp, holding the tube in place and trying to minimise leakage. The only though that kept him from feeling degraded by this position was the knowledge, or rather heavy suspicion, that the woman who owned the tank had done this many more times than him.