Palmer tried to run, his brain remembering back to when that was possible. But his damnable body reminded him of more recent events by collapsing onto the sand. Palmer spit grit. He coughedhis swollen tongue in the way. Peering to the side, he saw the sarfer speeding toward him. Maybe they didnt see him. But the damn crows, circling and diving, a cloud of swooping arrows, betraying him. Here, here, they cried. And the sarfer came.
Maybe to save him. The rebels would save him. Palmer nearly stood and waved his arms, and then he saw Haps gaping mouth full of sand, his body twisted out of shape, heard the shouts inside that tent to catch him and kill him dead. Two more nights of walking and he wouldve made it to the outskirts of Springston. This is what his fevered brain thought as he began scooping sand over his head. On his knees, his forehead against a dune, ass in the air, the wind offering little help, he scooped handfuls of sand and dumped them on the back of his neck, sobbed for help, sobbed beneath the gyring crows, trying to bury himself before someone else did.
There came the approaching crunch of a sarfers foils carving the desert floor, and then a spray of fine sand as the wind-powered craft slewed to a halt. Palmer kept his forehead to the ground and bit down on his whimpers. His back remained arched up into the sky, his dive suit hanging loose around him, sand spilling through his hair and down the cuff of his neck.
He heard the whir and zip of a line passing through gloves and wooden blocks. The creak of boom and mast and the noise of a sail depowered and left to flap in the wind. Boots landed on the sand and crunched toward him. A sword to spill him or a canteen to fill him, he didnt have the courage or energy to look. Palmer had left his wits and senses a thousand dunes behind.
Someone asked him to show his hands, wanted to see his palms. They asked again. He tried to raise his hands but couldnt. It was the sword. The sword was coming for him.
Strong hands fell on his shoulders and rolled him over. Sand fell from his hair and across his face. Palm, the voice said again. Palm.
The mirage of his sister. A hallucination. His sister, the red flapping sail of a rebel sarfer behind her. His sister, tugging her gloves off, wiping the sand from his cheek, the mud from his crying. She was crying as well. Fumbling with her canteen, hands shaking, a mask of horror on her face from the sight of him, Palmer unable to speak.
She lifted his chin, crying, Palm. Oh, Palm. Precious water was tipped over blistered lips and around his fat tongue. Palmers throat was a clenched fist. There was no swallowing. No swallowing. He felt the water evaporate in his mouth, slip inside his tongue, become absorbed. Vic poured more. Her hand shook, canteen and eyes leaking, whispered his name. Had come looking for him.
The water sat in his mouth until it disappeared. Another cap,
and something like a swallow, a loud and painful gulp, a body remembering how.
Danvar, he croaked. I found it.
I know you did, Vic said. She rocked him back and forth. I know you did.
Might be trouble, Palmer hissed. He needed to tell her about Brock, about the bombs, about getting out of there.
Save your strength, Vic said. Everythings gonna be okay.
She wiped her cheeks, and Palmer watched as more tears spilled from her eyes. The loose sail flapped nearby, the crows watching to see what would happen, Vic telling him over and over that everything would be okay, even as she started sobbing. Even as she clutched him in her arms, whispering it would all be all right, but Palmer knew this was just a story, just a story told over a sputtering lantern in a family tent, and that it wasnt true.
Part 4: Thunder Due East 
35 Oasis
She jumped down to the sand and helped her brother out of the haul rack. The small bimini shed made to keep him in the shade was already tattered and threadbare from the half day of sailing due south. Part of her wanted to press on to Springston and get there before dark. The rest of her felt sure her brother wouldnt make it that far without water.
His head listed from side to side as Vic gathered him in her arms. He weighed little more than a tank and a gear bag. Vic lowered him to the line of shaded sand by the sarfers hull and grabbed Marcos dive suit from the gear shed crammed into his helm chair. She folded the suit several times, lifted Palmers head, and slid the pillow between him and the sand.
Palmer asked for water. Vic slung her canteen around from her back and shook it. Empty. Hang in there, she said. Im getting you some.
She left him in the shade. Back at the helm, her own dive suit was plugged into the small wind generator that poked up from the aft of the sarfer. She unplugged this, stripped down in the hot sun, grabbed scoops of sand and rubbed it over her armpits and her sweaty chest, then brushed herself off as best she could. She tugged on the dive suit, which was hot and smelled like melting rubber. Tears wetted her cheeks. She cursed these and wiped them away. Her brother was dying. Her brother was a pile of chapped and sunburnt bones. It horrified her to see him that way. Horrified her to think of Marco, her lover, dead. Killed right in front of her. And now she was going to lose a brother, too.