Fields of Dust

By Simon Cantan

In a blistering future, they'd kill to have kids

The world is choking on dust. Nothing grows outside the towns. The nobles rule everything, decide who can have children.

Tom wants to become a father, but he was born damaged. The only cure is to become a champion in the game. A brutal contest where most players end up dead. He'll compete to give his wife what she wants; to give them both a future.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Simon Cantan
• Release date: Jun 11, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386696728

Simon Cantan

Simon Cantan is an Irish Science-Fiction and Fantasy author living in Fredrikstad, Norway.

Book preview

FIELDS OF DUST

FIELDS OF DUST

BY

SIMON CANTAN

First published September 2016

This Edition published October 2016

Copyright © 2016 Simon Cantan

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

The moral right of Simon Cantan to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs, and Patents Act 1988.

Fields of Dust is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents are either products of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously.

Published by Simon Cantan

In a blistering future, they’d kill to have kids

The world is choking on dust. Nothing grows outside the towns. The nobles rule everything, decide who can have children.

Tom wants to become a father, but he was born damaged. The only cure is to become a champion in the game. A brutal contest where most players end up dead. He’ll compete to give his wife what she wants; to give them both a future.

Chapter 1

The Dust

The heat poured from the sky and seeped from the ground, catching Nama between its fingers. It was so warm, the air seemed to singe her nose with every breath, filled with the coppery tang of blood. The dust had soaked up the offerings of the last players thirstily, the only thing it got to drink anymore.

Her eyes were drawn to the players on the team opposite, walking out with the same wide eyes she’d had a year before. They were mostly farmers or farmers’ sons. None of them looked ready to kill in the name of sport. But, dotted among them, a few steady gazes met her own. Those few were different. They weren’t there for some vague notion of glory. They were there to win.

The roar of the crowd made her heart beat faster. She glanced up around her at the jostling mass of slaves in the stands, the nobles in their enclosed box. All of them wanted blood. Her blood or her opponents, they didn’t mind. But by the end of the game, someone’s life had better be pouring out on the sand.

Chapter 2

Farm

Tom raised his shovel and stuck it into the pile of dirt. He knelt on the ground beside the hole he’d just dug and pawed earth off the top of the box buried there. It was heavy, difficult to lift out. He dropped it beside the hole and popped off the plastic lid.

Rows and rows of paper with King Gardner’s face on them smiled back: hundreds of thousand pound notes. Everything he’d saved from twenty years of pushing a plough, and it was all going to pay for a man to have sex with Tom’s wife.

He straightened up and watched the sun setting over the wastelands. His farm was wedged between the sea to the north and the wastes to the west. It was the reason he’d been able to buy it cheaply. Not many wanted the end of the pipe, the furthest point from Freshfield where you could still grow anything. At the edges, dust blew over the crops. It suited Tom, though. He liked the isolation.

He put the box of money onto his cart and wheeled it away, giving the wastes a final glance. On the northern edge of his farm, where it sloped away toward the edge of a cliff, was his filtration device.

He took the sheet of ragged plastic off the hole and got down into it, picking up the large bottle standing there, half filled with water. It hadn’t been warm that day, so there was less than usual. Violet would complain about that.

Screwing a cap on the bottle, he put another in its spot and replaced the plastic sheet. Then he carefully put a stone on top of it, making sure it dipped just where the mouth of the bottle was. The sea water he’d ladled into the hole would evaporate, condense onto the sheet, and fall into the bottle.

It had cost him a hundred pounds to learn that trick from a scavenger, but it was worth every penny. It gave them untainted water, and Violet’s cycles had started again. If she drank the water supplied by the kingdom, they’d stop.

With the bottle secured on his cart beside the box, he set his sights on home. The fields were bumpy and difficult to navigate, but once he reached the dirt road to Freshfield, it became easier. After a full day pushing the plough, the cart almost felt light.

Waylan Evett was waiting for him, further down the road, leaning on a fence. As usual, Waylan was beaming from out of his black beard, his eyes twinkling with mischief. What you got there, Tom?

Nothing, Tom said, not in the mood for banter.

A big box of nothing, Waylan said, falling into step beside him. Do champions take nothing as payment now?

Tom didn’t answer, hoping Waylan would take the hint.

No need to get sore, Waylan said. My missus is on at me to do the same. Just don’t have the funds yet. Not all of us work as hard as you.

Sure.

Course, if you had a little extra, might be I could afford it sooner.

Tom shook his head. No extra.

Waylan chuckled a little and nodded. Didn’t think there would be.

They reached the end of the dirt road, where it opened up into the main street through Freshfield. Single-storey houses lined either side of the street, each made of sheets of plastic, metal, wood, anything they could get their hands on.

Halfway down was Hubardy’s Bar. The only thing to distinguish it from the other buildings was its size. It was three times the width of the houses and had its name in red paint over the door. Not that Tom could have read it, but Hubardy assured them that was what it said.

At the end of the street was a different sort of building. Two storeys high and made of timber, rather than rough sheets, Lord Leister’s house seemed to watch the rest of them from where it stood.

All told, less than fifty people lived in Freshfield, most of them farmers.

See you later, Tom said to Waylan, happy to leave the man and go home.

He got a jaunty wave in return and had to bite back his irritation. Waylan didn’t need to be so damned happy about it all.

Tom wheeled his cart into its spot beside the house, lifted out the box and bottle, and went inside.

Close the door, Violet said, the moment he stepped through. You’ll let the dust in.

He did as she said, kicking the door shut with his heel before taking the box of money over to the kitchen table. He put it down, rattling the cutlery, and leaned over to kiss Violet.

Not now, I’ve just gotten clean, Violet said.

Now that he looked at her, she did seem even more beautiful than usual. Her blonde hair was down around her shoulders, some kind of blue makeup was around her eyes, complementing them. She even had on her pink dress.

You look nice, he said. Then he remembered why and flinched inside.

Tidy yourself, she said. Hubardy says they’re already there, drinking him dry.

Tom nodded and went to the pump, cranking it until he had a bucket of water to dunk his head into. He took off his shirt and scrubbed himself, keeping going until he got a nod from Violet.

She handed him a fresh shirt. Remember, don’t take the first offer. But don’t play it too hard, either.

He nodded.

If you can, get a second night, Violet said. It might not take the first time.

He nodded again.

And cheer up. It’s only once or twice, then—

I know, he said, opening the box of money and taking out a few hundred. He would need cash for drinks. Everyone knew getting the champion drunk before the negotiation helped the price. Not too drunk, of course, or he wouldn’t be able to hold up his end of the bargain.

Tom went to the door and took a last glance around the house. Violet had turned it upside down and right-side up again to get it ready. He had to make sure it was all worthwhile.

Chapter 3

Former Champion

Tom didn’t want to imagine the champion’s hands all over his wife, but he couldn’t help it. Flashes of the man pawing Violet kept going through his mind. The drunken sot sitting opposite reeled in his seat, his breath toxic enough to stagger a goat, sweat dripping down his cheeks.

You agree? the man on Tom’s left asked.

Tom turned to the broker and nodded. The thought repulsed him, but what else could he do? He couldn’t give Violet the child she wanted. The money is back in the house.

Good. The broker was old, missing an arm he’d told Tom he’d lost in the game. Excellent, then let’s go to your place and make your wife happy.

They had to help the champion up from the table and keep him on his feet. As they left, Tom could feel all the eyes in the bar on him. The only thing that kept him moving was knowing they were all in the same situation as him. Someday soon, their wives would want a baby, too. A baby none of them could provide without a champion.

Outside, the champion coughed in the dusty air, shaking his head a little. Tom wondered what the man had looked like, back in the day, back when he’d won a Test. Whatever he’d been then, he was a wreck now. Decades of drink and food had swollen him and turned his nose purple. Any winning muscles and reactions were gone.

Tom steered the champion and broker toward his house at the end of the street. They walked past a dozen other houses, all made of the same scrap.

His house wasn’t the smallest or the largest, just somewhere in between. As they got closer, Violet opened the door and smiled eagerly out. Her eyes sparkled with anticipation. It was all she’d talked about since they’d first gotten married. Endless pleas and entreatments for him to work harder, earn more, so they could get a champion for her.

After more than two decades of saving every penny, they had enough. Just in time, too. Violet was getting older. She didn’t have many child-bearing years left. With every extra year, she became more insistent. All she’d ever wanted was to be a mother.

Young lady, the broker said, bowing slightly. Here is your champion. May he come in?

Of course, Violet said, stepping out of the way and ushering the drunkard through the door.

And the payment? the broker asked.

Tom nodded and went inside, fetching the box on the table. He’d negotiated Violet her second night, but only after promising every note in that box. He handed it over to the broker.

The man took off the lid and his eyes ran over the money. Then he pulled them out and shoved them into his backpack. By the time he was done, the box was empty. He gave an appreciative nod to the champion, who reeled, barely able to wink back.

Violet closed the door, leaving Tom and the broker in the howl of the wind.

It won’t take long, the broker said. And then, with luck, you’ll have a little one running around. If not tonight, on the second night it’s almost guaranteed.

Tom nodded, not wanting to talk about it. Instead, he looked around the tiny village of Freshfield. No one was out, with the evening winds whipping dust in from the wastelands. A fact he was grateful for.

The visibility was low enough that he almost couldn’t see Lord Leister’s house. He’d seen it enough times that his mind could fill in the blanks. It was made of fresh wood from Bosky and stood twice as high as anything else in the village. But, as untraveled as Tom was, he knew it wasn’t much as lords went. Hamilton Mole had been to Second Go to the east and endlessly talked about how large the lord’s wing of the main building was there.

From inside the house, Violet’s scream rang out. Tom was through the door before he’d even had time to think. She was naked on the bed, her clothes strewn about her. But the champion wasn’t anywhere nearby. Instead he was lying face down on the ground in the kitchen.

Tom ran over and rolled the man onto his back, but he could already see he was dead.

I’ll get help, the broker said from the doorway, hurrying away.

Violet was shaking, her eyes on the dead champion.

Tom went to her and put his arm around her. It’s all right, he was old. It must have been too much for him.

She nodded, her head nestled against his shoulder. O… Okay. It’s okay. We can find another champion.

He nodded, but then his gaze went to the doorway and his heart sank. What help was the broker fetching?

Chapter 4

Gone

The broker was long gone, and their money with him. Despite rousing the other men in the bar, none of them could find any sign of him. The dust storm had erased any tracks the man might have left.

By nightfall, Tom had to admit defeat and trudge back to his house. When he got there, Violet was waiting. The champion’s body had already been removed. Lord Leister’s men would have taken it to be buried.

Did you find the broker? Violet asked.

He shook his head. He’s gone.

And our savings?

Gone too. He frowned. Did she really expect the broker to have left their money behind?

Her face turned a deep shade of red and she stood. He cringed, already knowing what was coming.

Twenty years, Tom, she said. You think we can wait another ten?

He shook his head. He hated when she got like this, but he didn’t know what to say.

Why would you pay him in advance? Violet asked. You pay when the job is done.

He insisted, Tom said.

In ten years, I’ll be forty-five. Do you know anyone who has children at forty-five?

He shook his head again.

You need to get me a seed.

He spread his hands. How? We’ve no money and that’s the first champion we’ve seen in months.

Violet’s eyes brightened. You’ll compete. If you become a champion, we’ll have enough seeds for a dozen children. More. We’ll be rich too.

Compete? In the Test?

We’ll go to Second Go, you’ll join their team and win your manhood.

Tom went to the table and sat, his mind reeling. He’d thought of competing before, when he was younger. What young man didn’t? But those thoughts had fallen away with the years. No one tried the Test at thirty-five. They found a champion instead, a banged up wreck willing to sell his time.

Or even sometimes a woman, who’d won her right to unlimited fresh water and a cure for the man of her choice. Once in a while, they had enough children for themselves and would sell an extra. Not often, though.

What about the farm? he asked. And supplies? We have no money to travel that far east.

We sell the lease to Waylan Evett. He’s been eyeing this place for years.

That won’t get us all the way to Sayso.

We don’t have to get to Sayso, she said. Just to Second Go. If you make the team, the educator will pay for us to travel the rest of the way.

He sighed. I have to think about it.

What’s to think about? she asked. When you win the Test, they’ll fix you, make you a man. Then we’ll do the same trick with the water to get more.

Tom nodded, getting back to his feet. He went to the door and opened it.

Where are you going? Violet asked.

I said I have to think about it, he said, hurrying out and closing the door before she could reply.

He scurried away from the house, trying to get out of earshot before she might emerge. His feet automatically took him out of Freshfield along the dirt road to the farm. It was a long walk, but he needed the time to think.

The Test was held every year in November. It was only a little over two months away. People in the village talked about it, but no one had ever seen it. Hamilton Mole said he’d seen a tryout once, on one of his trips to Second Go.

He’d talked about the dust kicked up by the players. The brutality of the game. The struggle to get the ball into the goal, as if their lives depended on it.

In a way, it was more than that. The promise to every player was a chance at manhood for the men, unlimited fresh water for the women and a cure for the man of their choice.

He paused for a moment in the road, looking down at his crotch. Why did life have to revolve around such a little thing? When he’d been young, he’d imagined he’d somehow avoided the curse. That his manhood would rise as he got older, but it never did.

Such a small thing was the difference between scraping through in the poverty and hard life of a farmer, and unlimited wealth as a whole man. A champion could sell his time and seed to dozens of willing buyers. He lived in luxury, with meat in every meal and the best liquor. He might even buy his way to becoming a lord.

Tom kept walking, imagining all the things he would have if he had the money. His back wouldn’t ache from the fields. His ears wouldn’t hurt from Violet’s demands. He could do what he wanted. People would respect him.