It was another hot day, and it was only going to get hotter. Twin suns rose high into the sky, so close to one another they formed a continuous bar of searing light. They tortured the earth, scorching it to dust. And it was dry as a bone. The air felt coarse. Each breeze felt like a hot gust wafting from an oven. In the hot wind the dust blew and swirled as though dancing, laughing at his vain attempts to grow anything in this forsaken place.

His skin was as dry, rough as the straw of his wide-brimmed hat. His hands were calloused and chapped. His face was weathered and tan as a nut. It felt as though he’d aged a million years since he’d arrived. It felt like it had been a million years since he’d arrived, six months earlier. They’d promised him land, room to grow, and privacy. They hadn’t told him how little any of it was worth. The colonial authority called this planet a “Paradise”. Having now seen it for himself, he felt that if there was a hell, this was as close as any man could come to it.

MIguel rose early, most days. On this day he’d slept through his alarm, his sleep disturbed by the most wonderful dreams. He’d tossed and turned through the night, dreaming that he was drowning in a wide, open sea. As the late-morning sun poured through his window, he’d awakened to disappointment. Once, he’d lived on the coast, on a very different world. There, the sea breeze greeted him each morning, the sounds of the gulls squabbling were his alarm. Here, there were days when he’d kill a man for enough water to fill an eyedropper.

After a meager breakfast, he grabbed his gear and his tab, and set off into the baking desert that was his home. Dust blew across a dirt track that led to his fields, if one could really call them that. He began to sweat, but the hot wind took the moisture from his body as quickly as he could make it. Even the air on this planet was greedy for water. He set off on foot; his crawler hadn’t worked for weeks. Not far from his house, the track passed between rows of condensers. He stopped, checked the solar panels to make sure they were working, brushed sand from their surfaces. Of course they were working. Sunlight was in no short supply here.

Half a kilometer down, he reached the fields. The track was flanked by milpa, row on row of wild gardens. Chiles and beans grew in bushes, mingling with squash and yams, squatting at the feet of the staple crop: the maize. It was the key to their survival in this desolate place. Maize meant masa, and masa was food. He stopped at the first planting, passing through a gap in a low mud brick wall, and scanned the plants. The chiles were healthy; they seemed happy here, and they were the only ones. But the maize was always thirsty. 

“Hola, Miguel!” one of his neighbors called out. He was taking soil samples around a bean plant not far from him.

“Hola, Jorge,” he replied, focused on his scans.

“Que pasa?” Jorge asked.

“Caliente,” Miguel replied, flatly.

“Si,” Jorge replied, shaking his head. “Siempre, con Hoyo Seco.”

Miguel gritted his teeth at the term. Officially, his new home planet was named Cinteotl, after a god of maize worshiped by his ancestors. Unofficially, the planet’s inhabitants called it Hoyo Seco: “Dry Hole”.

Glumly, he returned his attention to his tab. He scanned the soil for nutrients. In the milpa, the plants helped each other. They produced nutrients the others lacked, working together to grow. Nothing was wasted. He sympathized with them: in a place like this, one could afford to waste nothing. He squatted near a chile plant, its broad leaves gleefully soaking up the sun. But as he reached down to check its fruit, he heard a shout from behind him.

“Cabrón!” someone called out behind him. “Cabrón en los campos!”

Miguel spun around, and found a hulking monster clambering through the next milpa. It was at least three meters long, its long neck and tail giving it the appearance of a snake with legs. He’d seen these creatures before; they were among the few animals hardy enough to eke out an existence in the barren wastes. The monster hissed loudly as it ambled over the nearby fence, rushing toward them. He remained still; the creature was drawn to movement. But Jorge was new to Hoyo Seco. And, giving in to panic, he dropped his tab and turned to flee. The cabrón turned to him, flicking its tongue hungrily.

Miguel grasped for the weapon at his hip, drawing it quickly. The cabrón reared its head, then charged. Jorge screamed, stumbling over a bush and sprawling in the dust. He scrambled forward, running into the barrier wall, then turned around, eyes wide in fear. The cabrón towered over him, its hiss revealing fangs laden with venom. One bite would deliver enough toxin to drop a dozen grown men. He had seconds. Miguel raised his pistol, checked his aim, and fired.

It was a keen shot: the beam burned a hole clean through the cabrón’s skull. The creature didn’t even have time to issue a dying hiss. It collapsed in a heap, its long neck flopping into the dust as it twitched and died.

Panting with adrenaline, Jorge looked down at the monster, then up at Miguel. “Gracias, amigo!” he said, smiling.

For his part, Miguel just looked down at the creature, then turned to call out to his fellow farmers. “Ey, muchachos!” he bellowed. “Tacos esta noche!”

On Hoyo Seco, nothing was wasted.

END