Montana Skies

The vendor looks at me with a suspicious side-eye. His gaze shifts back to the group behind me. They stand there, looking wind-blown and sun-dried. Our skin is caked with dirt and sand, our lips are cracked and peeling.

We’re a mess.

“We’re not from around here,” I state, looking the ugly man straight in the eye. “Which is obviously why we need these.”

He looks at me again, but grunts the total. I extend my wrist, paying the credits.

“Thank you,” I say through clenched teeth as I take the clothing from the counter, giving him an annoyed look. I turn, distributing the items to everyone in our runaway group.

Zayne, Reena, my father, and I slip the hooded robes over our heads and step back out into the street.

Apparently, Stippe is nice on the other side of the planet. But the Frank our ship came with didn’t take landscape into consideration when he landed us on this planet. He detected commerce and civilization and touched down on the side closest to our descent.

This side of the planet is non-stop wind, high temperatures, and lots and lots of sand.

We landed a kilometer outside of the town to not draw too much attention. The Corsair is beautiful. A ship like it draws questions.

We left the Frank to guard it.

So, we had to make the walk through the wind and pounding sand to reach the town and this rudimentary market.

I slip the hood over my head, grateful for it. It’s thin fabric, but it’s stiff, so it holds its form and has a sheer net that cascades down in front of my face so I can see. It drapes down past my neck, covering much of my chest.

Guarded against the elements now, we head down the street.

I’m trying not to have an anxiety attack. I feel so exposed. My entire life, all I’ve ever known are towering skyscrapers. I’ve never been able to see farther than twenty feet, until the next towering building.

But here, it’s rolling hills of sand and wide, tan skies for as far as I can see.

It’s overwhelming and incredible at the same time.

“I vote we get some food first,” Zayne pipes up. “After nine days of rationed Korpillion food, I think I’m ready to see the offerings of the southern desert pole of Stippe.”

I nod in agreement. No one complains as we follow our noses down the lane and find a shop advertising the best food in town.

We push open the tent flaps and step inside. The floor is sand, drug inside from the street. The dust is thick in the air, but it smells like spices and some kind of protein, and it makes my mouth water.

We order whatever the cook wants to bring us and tuck ourselves into a table at the far back of the tent.