Chapter 1: Scavenger’s Fortune
Steam hissed angrily through cracked fittings as Asher tried to calibrate the drill’s pressure regulator. Sweat dripped from his forehead, staining the repair manual spread beneath him. The diagrams were right — they had to be right — but the pneumatic system continued its defiant protest.
“Well?” Garrett stood in the workshop doorway, arms crossed. The old mechanic’s face was creased with familiar disappointment. “That drill assembly needs to be back at the mines by morning, boy.”
“I’ve almost got it.” Asher wiped his hands on his already-stained work pants. “The pneumatic chamber’s aligned now. I just need to—”
The word ‘boy’ scraped against his consciousness like metal on stone, each utterance a reminder of how Garrett still saw him – not as the young man he’d become through eighteen years of learning, failing, and rising again, but as something unfinished, incomplete. Steam continued its angry song around him as he brushed away strands of sandy blond hair that had fallen across his eyes, the gesture more defiant than practical. His fingers left behind a streak of oil across his forehead, another badge of the work that should have earned him a man’s respect by now.
The regulator gave way with a shriek. A compression coil ejected from the assembly, sending Asher scrambling backward. Tools clattered across the workshop floor as pressurized air wheezed out of the system.
“Almost got it?” Garrett’s voice cut through the hissing air. “Like you almost got the bore shaft working? Or Mason’s excavator?” He stepped into the workshop, boots crunching on scattered brass fittings. “I took you in because your parents were good people, Asher. But good intentions don’t keep the lights on.”
Asher’s cheeks burned hot. Four years. Four years since the wasteland had taken his parents, and still every failure felt like letting them down again. “I’ll fix it. I just need more time—”
“Time?” The trader appeared behind Garrett, face flushed with anger. “I’ve got a mining crew waiting on these drill parts. Every hour those drills stay down costs me more than you’ll make in a month. I’d have better luck hitting this heap with a hammer than letting your apprentice near it again.”
“I’ll handle the repairs myself,” Garrett said, already reaching for his tools. “No charge, of course. Asher, clean this mess up.”
Asher gathered scattered tools with trembling hands, each one feeling heavier than the last. Through the workshop’s open door, he could see the sun rising over the Dread Wastes, the sky painted orange and red. The route his parents’ caravan had taken that day, before the wastes had swallowed them whole.
He shook the thought away. Focus on now. On proving yourself. On—
His hand closed around his father’s old wrench, its worn grip as familiar as a heartbeat. Dad had always said the best salvage came from knowing where to look. From taking chances others wouldn’t.
The idea formed like a crystal growing in solution.
That night, after Garrett had retired and the repaired drill was taken by the trader, Asher packed his salvage bag. Map, water, emergency flares. The basic survival gear every wasteland scavenger needed. His hands hesitated over his father’s old blunderbuss before adding it too. Just in case. He would leave at dawn.
The pre-dawn air bit through his jacket as he slipped out of Graven Pointe. The border between the town’s fertile lands and the Dread Wastes was stark in the growing light — verdant fields ending abruptly in sun-bleached sand. A cold wind carried the scent of kiju vineyards, as if the town itself was bidding him farewell.
Or warning him to turn back.
Three hours into the wastes, he found the first signs. Scattered pieces of brass and copper glinting in the morning sun. Then wagon tracks, weaving erratically. And finally, the caravan itself — or what remained of it.
Five wagons lay broken across the sand like discarded toys. Their tow-leg engines had been gutted, valuable parts torn free by something massive. Dark stains marked the sand where their crews had made their final stand.
Asher’s throat went dry as he counted the bodies. Five. All showing the distinctive wounds of a baldagaar attack.
He should mark the location and return to town. Let the militia handle it. That would be the smart play.
His father’s wrench was a comfortable weight in his hand as he approached the nearest wagon. Just a quick salvage run. Prove to Garrett he could handle himself. Maybe find something valuable enough to—
Movement caught his eye. A cargo container, half-buried in sand, its lock busted loose. But inside…
Asher brushed sand from smooth brass plating, revealing the still face of what looked like a sleeping child cast in metal and copper. An android. Intact. Powered down, but potentially functional.
His hands shook as he began to dig it free. This could change everything. Androids are extremely rare. They were useful in the old world, before the shift. Now, if you are lucky enough to find one, you can rake in a lot of quill with their delicate parts.
The wind picked up, carrying the first hints of an approaching sandstorm. And somewhere in the distance, something howled.