8NEVERMORE (II)

It waited silently in the darkness.

There was no breathing, no heartbeat, no sound that belonged to "life"—only deathly silence. It was familiar with this quiet, almost enjoyed it, but it had already lost this privilege of the living.

It simply waited.

How much time had passed? It did not know. Where was this place? It did not know.

The only thing in its void-like, empty mind that could be called a memory was a desolate, pitch-black planet.

Whenever it thought of it, an intense longing rose within it.

Go back, it thought. I must go back.

The darkness agreed.

The miners' foreman, Nadal, bent down and gathered up a pile of unremarkable black ore, carefully carrying it to the bed of the hover truck behind him.

The driver leaned against the door with a cigarette dangling from his lips. Sweat born of heat and impatience ravaged what little humanity remained in his ugly face.

He removed the crumpled cigarette with his deformed left hand, limped over to Nadal's side, glanced at the truck bed, and asked, "Looks like you lot didn't get much today?"

"Not a single day this month has been good," Nadal replied gloomily. "This vein's basically been mined out."

The driver raised a hand to grip the edge of the truck bed and examined the black stones carefully, unable to stop himself from sighing.

He turned back and said, "Once all the ore is gone, we'll have to call the red-robed ones in again."

Nadal angrily removed his heavy safety helmet and tucked it under his arm. His reply was distinctly displeased. "I'd rather they didn't come."

"Why?" the driver asked, staring at him in confusion.

"I hate them, and those machines." Nadal spat on the ground. "When I was a kid, I heard those