Hayden Connolly twists the key placed in an ignition switch under her left leg. The engine beneath her putters twice, then rumbles to life. Its idle is rocky at first, but as the battered pistons loosen up with the flow of fresh oil, the sound become a deep powerful purr. She sighs. A hard day’s work has paid off. Her motorcycle has returned from the dead. Hayden looks up at the sky, to the sky that surrounds her. A herd of cumulus migrates quietly above, shading the glass sands of the Iridescence below. It’s a bright blue afternoon.

She takes a deep breath.

Inhale.

Exhale.

She can still hear the thunder from the night before. The last match of the Dust Bowl qualifiers. Slip Drift season has officially begun.

The sun has set and the moon glows brightly above.

The sound is everywhere. The ground rumbles beneath her. There are powerful forces at play, quaking the Earth beneath and filling the air above. Machines of immense speed and agility—marvels of perilous engineering: Slip Drift bikes. Racers glide across the slip faces of enormous colorful dunes. They speed forward between each dune, then turn their bikes sideways, rapidly drifting across each one.

The stadium roars with the sounds of both man and machine. The track is encircled by hundreds of energetic spectators. Enormous floating drones circle the track, shining bright colorful arena lights downward.Hayden watches from the crew pit of her local team, The Ammolites.

She used to be a racer—a pretty good one, too. But she didn’t make the cut. So, here she is. In the pit. The headset over her ears is filled with chatter between her fellow mechanics. However, she can’t hear any of it. Her attention is entirely focused on the Ammolite racer. On the motorcycle he’s riding. On her machine.

Then she hears it.

Pop! Pop! Pop!

Something’s wrong.

Hayden returns the clouds. The noise is gone, but the ground continues to rumble beneath her. The bike is quiet again. She sighs. She hasn’t fixed it yet. But she’ll get it soon. She has to get it. She couldn’t be a racer, so she decided to be a mechanic. A pretty good mechanic. She has to get this right.

She climbs off the motorcycle and takes a few steps back. The left side of the bike is marred with an enormous collection of scars. Road rash. The engine stalled. The Ammolite racer went off the side of a dune. A hairpin turn with almost seventy degrees of banking. A nightmare of a dune. Cosmically horrendous timing. Hayden is still waiting for word from the hospital. It’s been almost twenty hours. They’re saying it was his time. Nobody’s blaming her. Not out loud.

The rumble beneath her won’t stop. It's never left her.

The more she focuses on it, the stronger it becomes.

The rumble becomes an earthquake.

Hayden loses her balance.

A large blast shakes the ship to its core. Dusty falls against a nearby wall. She holds on tight as Tyrannis makes a sudden evasive maneuver.

"That was a direct hit! Dusty get on the starboard cannon! They have armored troops on the ground with anti-air!" Ringo yells from the intercom.

She jolts up to her feet. If Tyrannis’s hip joints get hit from the below, it could cripple the ship. She sprints into the turret booth and slides open the armored port window. Little figures dressed in camouflaged armor run around on the ground far below like panicked ants—their shadows more visible than their bodies. She spots one with a rocket launcher pointed towards the ship. Without a moment to hesitate, she releases the turret’s safety.

Pop! Pop! Pop!

Dusty swings her glass of whiskey to her lips, taking the entire cup like a shot. Everyone around her cheers excitedly. The force of the drink slams into her brain, momentarily distorting the sound around her.

"That’s the spirit, Conolly!" Ringo yells, his face made bright red by the alcohol.

The atmosphere is jovial.

The ship has landed.

The crew is hidden.

Dusty is safe.

But the ground beneath her won’t stop shaking.

It never stops shaking.