Hugh Howey - Sand

Conner hurried through the bustling Saturday markets in the dive district and down one of the side alleys that kept creeping along with the dunes. He let himself into Graham’s, one of the larger shops. An annoying collection of bells and chimes clattered and rang as the top of the door struck them. Inside, the walls were covered in artifacts. Mirrors and clocks, pumps and small motors, coils of wire and tubing and pipe, and bin after bin of bolts, washers, and nuts. Across the high ceiling hung the remains of dozens of bicycles. Conner had to duck under a few of these.

Most of the goods that studded the walls and hung from the rafters had been brought up by Graham himself. The rest had been bartered for with something else he’d discovered. Despite appearances and the occasional price tag, hardly any of it was for sale. Convincing Graham to part with a single washer could take weeks of pleading. Trade was the only coin that worked, and Graham always got the better end of the deal. He was a pain in the ass, but had been good friends with their father, which meant getting work done even without an official dive card from the Guild.

“Graham?” Conner let himself through the counter and peered into the workshop. Graham glanced up from his bench. He had a wire brush in one hand and what looked like part of a rifle in the other.

“Con.” He smiled. “Thought you were off camping this weekend.”

“Tonight. I’m getting some water and a few other things while Rob airs out the tent. Hey, I want you to take a look at something for me.”

Graham pushed his glasses up his nose. “Sure,” he said. “You scavenge up something good?”

“You know I’m not allowed to dive.”

“Sand in your hair says you do.”

Conner touched his hair, and sand rained down. He stared guiltily at the mess. “Sorry—”

“Forget it.” Graham shooed his apology like a fly. “Never gets all the way clean in here. So what’ve you got?”

“It’s this band here that Rob made.” Conner reached into his pocket and pulled out the band. He handed it to Graham. “The wires are ripped loose—”

Graham gave the band a cursory glance. He leaned over his workbench and studied the wires trailing over Conner’s belt, then looked down at his feet.

“Dad’s boots,” Conner explained.

“I see that. You got a suit on under there?”

“No, that’s the thing. You know how Rob is, well, I caught him trying to dive with these last night. Wasn’t doing too bad a job of it—”

“Diving runs in your family,” Graham said. “Guild made a mistake not taking you in.”

“Yeah, well, it’s just these boots, see? No suit. But I felt what they could do to the sand and I wondered if you’d seen anything like this before.”

“You felt it,” Graham said. “So how far down did you go?”

Conner glanced over his shoulder, made sure they were alone. “A meter. Maybe two.”

Graham sniffed. He flipped the band inside out and adjusted the long-armed and multi-jointed light affixed to his desk. “People have toyed with these before. You can have some fun with a pair of boots. Skate along the sand, dip your toes and what-not. But they’re no good for diving. If you can’t keep the pressure off your chest, you can’t breathe. And even if you could, you’d be in a world of hurt when you came back up. Did Rob do the wiring?”

“Yeah.”

Graham looked up from his study of the band. “He’s better than you.”

“Yeah, I know.” Graham didn’t mean it with malice. He didn’t have a cruel bone in his body. But the power of dry observation sometimes felt the same. He made space on his workbench, setting that long steel barrel aside. He plugged in his soldering iron.

“Can I see the boots?”

“Sure.” Conner pulled the wires out at his knees and kicked off his dad’s boots. “He put the power charge in the left sole.”

“Interesting,” Graham said. He grabbed a magnifying glass from his desk and peered into one of the boots, removed the leather insole. He inspected the other one. “Looks like he made room inside the right one to stow the wires and the band. A visor too.” He glanced up at Conner. “A meter, you say?”

Conner nodded.

“Hmmm.” Graham studied the ceiling for a moment. “Could you leave these with me awhile?”

Conner frowned. “I’m sorry. I wish I could. I was just hoping you could rewire them for me while I wait. I have a few coin.”

Graham grabbed the iron and tested the tip with his tongue. The hiss made Conner cringe and bite his teeth together. Graham began touching the wires back to leads, seeming to see at once how Rob had rigged the band. “You’re always eyeing that pair of visors in the case over there. The green ones.” He didn’t look up from his work. “I’d trade you those visors and a mostly new suit for these boots.”

Conner didn’t know what to say. “That’s… uh… I appreciate the offer, but those are my dad’s boots.”

“They were his old boots. Even he didn’t care about them anymore.” He finished his work and blew on the band, smoke curling from the iron. He looked up at Conner expectantly.

“Well, I’ll think about it,” Conner said. He reached for the boots. “What do I owe you for the repair?”

Reluctantly, Graham returned the boots. “Tell you what, promise me you won’t barter these to anyone else, and we’re even. Trader’s dibs.”

“Okay,” Conner said, knowing it didn’t matter. He wasn’t going to trade his dad’s boots, not after what he’d felt under the sand. “You got dibs.”

Graham smiled. “Great. You tell Rob to come by and see me when he gets a chance. Been a few weeks since he’s stopped by.”

“Yeah, about that…” Conner stuffed the band into the sole of one of the boots. He slipped them on, leaving the laces untied. “Knowing how useful Rob can be around here, if anything ever happened to me and Palmer wasn’t around to watch Rob…”

“I promised your dad I’d look after you boys,” Graham said. “I’ve told you that. I mean it. Don’t you worry.”

“Thanks,” Conner said. He turned to go, then paused by the door leading back into the shop.

“Tomorrow’s the day, isn’t it?” Graham asked.

Conner nodded. He didn’t turn around. Old Graham was too damn insightful. His rheumy eyes could see further into the deep sand than anyone else. He could tell at a glance how something was wired. If Conner turned to say goodbye, to ask one more question, if he even reached up to wipe the water from his cheek, the old man would know. He would know that tomorrow wasn’t just an old anniversary. But the start of a new one.

“Palmer sucks sand,” Rob shouted. He hitched the large pack up on his shoulders, had been complaining about having to carry such a heavy load since they’d left the house. “He promised us.”

“I’m sure he has his reasons.” In truth, Conner was tired of sticking up for his older brother. It was a full-time job keeping little Rob from being disappointed with the entire family. And here he was about to contribute to that. Just as the sand seemed to pile higher for each generation, so the youngest siblings ended up with the full brunt of familial mistakes. It was a tiring refrain, but Conner thought it again: Poor Rob.

He and his brother skirted Springston on their way toward No Man’s Land. Avoiding the open dunes, they stuck to the outskirts where they could spend much of the hike in the lee of homes and shops. They kept their kers over their mouths and rarely talked, shouting above noisy gusts of wind when they did. An escaped chicken flapped and clucked across their path, a woman in a swirling dress chasing it, calling its name. In the distance, the masts of a line of sarfers jutted up beyond the edge of town. Conner could hear the ringing bangs of loose halyards slapping aluminum masts. A solitary sail fluttered aloft, caught the wind, and the sarfer built speed toward the west, off to the mountains for a load of soil for the gardens or to trade with the small town of Pike, most likely. Conner and his brother pressed east. He scanned the horizon for other deserters, for families with heavy loads on their backs, but almost no one left town on a weekend. Mondays were days for departure. Wednesdays as well, for whatever reason. Maybe because Wednesdays were those depressing days as far from time off as possible.