In the waning hours of the evening, the two brothers sat and warmed themselves on a dying fire. A glittering blanket spread above them, jewels in the night sky. Their future, an escape from the desert sands below. A whole day of digging, scraping, and exploring had passed; and now it was time for rest.

 

‘Spelunker’ Ernst wrapped and rewrapped cloth around the handle of his shovel, balancing it on his knees. A practiced maneuver, born of repetition and experience. He chewed a wad of spicegum - loudly.

 

“Isn’t she a beaut, Bertie?” He grinned at the dark shape that loomed from the next dune over, all hard edges and sharp angles. The glowing embers were reflected in his eyes.

 

‘Thrice-Dead’ Bertolt frowned, looking at his own shovel, stuck standing up in the sand. He tasted grit on his lips; rubbed the calluses on his fingertips. “She’s half-buried in sand, Ern.”

 

Ernst smiled wide, teeth shining white along with the stars. “That’s why she was so cheap! Hah!”

 

The schematics rippled on Bertolt’s knee in the gentle breeze; specks of ash fluttered along. He held it down with a thumb. The claim had cost them a few months of scrapper work, and a few months more of scrambling to beg the audience of Lord Rust.

 

Bertolt’s frown deepened. “I’m pretty sure she’s missing an engine.”

 

“Semantics! We can find a new one!” Ernst spat the gum into the fire. It sizzled. “Or an old one, at least.”

 

That was true enough. The sands and wastes of the plateau held an untold number of wrecks and hulls. Their planet had been an old scrapyard or garbage dump, centuries past. Warships, liners, even old pleasure yachts - all pulled into heaps on the golden dunes; the detritus of thousands of corporate enterprises. It wouldn’t be that hard to find parts. But every ship had its claim, and Lord Rust kept meticulous records. It wasn’t like the old days anymore; you couldn’t just go out into the sands with a shovel and a lamp.

 

Bertolt reached behind him and fumbled around some old fabric, taken from the wreck. He tossed it onto the fire, angling it to avoid knocking over their kettle. The fabric lit up so fast he barely had time to remove his hand.

 

That stuff could have gotten a fair price back in town, but it was hard to get wood and other burnables out on the plateau. It got cold out in the sands.

 

Ernst was still staring up, eyes filled with stars. “It’ll be easy. Nothing we haven’t done before. An engine, fix up the drive, a new coat of paint and she’ll be golden.”

 

Another gust of wind threatened to take the schematics away; but Bertolt flattened it down with his palm. Warmth spread up his cheeks. He took a breath. “Ern, we fix speeders. We fix petrochemical vehicles. We’ve never done a spacecraft before.”

 

His brother shook his head. “We’ve got the books, the diagrams.”

 

Bertolt grumbled. That was true. He had the schematic in front of him, and, well, if you viewed it like a normal speeder diagram, it did look like it could be done. Easy, almost.

 

But — Bertolt shuddered — a technical failure on the speeder would not be the same as a technical problem up there, where the only thing keeping you separated from hard vacuum was a metal plate thinner than a fingernail.

 

He reached for the kettle, then remembered himself and grabbed the heavy tongs. Boiling water poured into a mug and a thermos, mixing with the powder within. The air smelled sweet.

 

Ernst settled himself back into the sand, cupping his thermos in two hands. “Just a few more days, Bertie, just a few more days and we’ll have her out of the sand and ready for diagnostics.”

 

And then what? A contract always had a time limit, and Bertolt had no desire to get on Lord Rust’s bad terms. Or get buried a fourth time. “From what I’ve seen, she’ll need new plating, new wires, and a complete cleanout. I don’t think the two of us are up for it.”

 

“Well,” Ernst snapped his fingers, “I’ve been thinking ‘bout that. We can just get Jess’s kids involved. They’re sharp and need something to keep them out of trouble.”

 

Bertolt froze, stuck his tongue up in front of his upper teeth, then made a wet, popping sound. “I don’t think our sister would appreciate us taking her kids.”

His brother sat up, eyes glowing. “Appreciate? Bertie, she’ll damn well thank us for keeping them out of her hair.”

 

Bertolt tried to rub the sand out from under his fingernails. “Besides, how old is the eldest - fifteen, sixteen?”

 

“He’s turning seventeen this year and the others aren’t much younger. They’ll be fine.” With that last word, Ernie spread his arms up and out. A gesture of his confidence, or a plea to the stars. “Bertie, they’ve helped out in the shop. They’re good with their hands. How much more do we need?”

 

Bertolt kept his teeth clenched and closed his eyes.

 

How much more did they need? A whole salvage team, for one! Preferably with spacecraft experience. And nevermind that one got her apprenticeship with the charmworker, another was planning a sand-sail voyage, and the last was spending all his time with his nose in a book. They’re young.

 

They’re young, and couldn’t think of life off the planet. The farthest world for them was the speeder trip to the spaceport.

 

But Bertolt knew what to say. “We’ll think about it, Ern.”

 

His brother smiled, holding his shovel and looking up. The two of them had been together for so long.

 

Above, the stars waited for them.