Lieutenant Raim looked over
Domed huts
covered in a fine silver dust.
This is what passed for a village
On this rock.
The people are hard.
Scabs. Burnouts. Witters. Mirrs.
Natives and nomads.
Descendants of the workers
Who quit before ensuring
They had a way home.
Raim wears a dark grey environmental suit
Sleek and shiny
The same shade as the sand
Blowing in the air.
Martek’s mostly white suit
Is a sure sign
That he’s a priest. But
The holy symbol on his left glove
A three armed icon of the Galaxy
Is the only official sign.
A pair of stellar soldiers
Drag a body
Squirming and struggling
Wrapped in clothing stitched with metal
And a filtered mask covering the face.
Masks peer from the village buildings.
Plastic domes of different sizes
Bubbling
From the grey soil.
The masks watch with growing concern.
Other heads peer out. Some of them unmasked
Skin with a blue-gray coloring.
Furtive looks.
Murmurs.
Glances.
The natives, as they say,
Are getting restless.
“Tell your men,”
Martek says,
“To let that person go.”
Raim nods to them. “They say
He saw our suspect,” Raim says.
“What did you see?”
The person rubs his wrist, getting back
On his feet.
He starts to explain.
Disjointed and rambling.
Martek leaning in, trying to undo
Any mistrust sown.
“Stop!” calls out a voice.
Martek looks over his shoulder
Casually.
The makeshift environmental suit looks like the rest
But everyone
Gives her a reverence.
Now we are getting somewhere.
“Is there a problem?”
