#skitarri

She was frighteningly still. Minute motions guiding the hauler, sand churning beneath them. The wheel might as well have grown hands, connecting to a short red dress. Complete with petticoats. It reminded him of a maid. Sand and treads growling beneath his feet, threatening to swallow them all. Cold dry air heaving through the vents. Their own private winter. He wasn’t even sweating. It was 41C outside.

He looked in the front mirror. Rich brown skin, a finely trimmed beard, and green flecked eyes. He flashed a winning smile. Teeth white, but artificially. Who wouldn’t pay for it? Nothing caught between them. Perfect. He ran a hand through his hair. Dreadlocks, short, sides of his hair faded. His hand was shaking.

This was a venture, yes, a venture! He thought, slowing his breath. He looked around the hauler.

Courtesy of the 14th Regiment of the Blade Kin. A local Imperial Guard regiment, this vehicle was acquired with half a dozen others for the dig. Money only bought so much.

Made for desert nights. Designed for freight hauling on this dustball, then converted into a tank. Ample cargo-space converted into the magazine, then auspex. Treads widened for the extra weight, furthered by armor plating meant better suspension and replaced coils. Like drills, he thought. Inside, it was tight. After the tuned engine, all that was left was portholes, screens for the auspex, and two sets of cushions, benches fused into the wall. He stood just off center, holding tight the long rails. Like subway cars. All they saw was twisting sand like fog and pale lilac skies beyond.

In the drivers seat, and not welded to it he was sure, Adara-59. Skitarius, to Magos Hellene Katracta. Selected by her to accompany him, and he was glad for the escort. Imposing and lethal in her motions, he knew. She spoke little, most of it quick bursts of static chatter. She spoke twice in High Gothic. Once to confirm their destination, and second to announce their new ride was the real deal, after extended negotiations with its enginseer.

Her counterpart, Ex-Tasca-86, was above him. She hadn’t spoken at all, only nodded when Magos Katracta informed him by vox of her name. When the doors opened she moved quickly, scampering up the ladder into the gun-bay, thing. She wore the same dress Adara-59 wore, that dark red, with little Omnissian embellishments, short, with petticoats. They both wore high boots, with kitten heels, which gave them both a tall and defined figure. He’d have to get boots like that.

Neither had any skin exposed, wearing implacable metal-masks with large blue lenses over their eyes. He hadn’t got their number just yet.

Across from him, strapped into the bench, and somehow asleep. Ms. Burrows. Sanctioned Psyker of the Astra Telepathica, under dishonorable discharge of the Imperial Guard. She took off her commissars hand with warp-lightning. He’d heard worse, so he put her on the payroll. Hair silvered with age, skin a tanned olive. Around her eyes crows feet, in a long trench-coat, the Telepathica I emblazoned on her breast. She curled her arms around a staff as tall as she, laced with circuits at the head. A strange sigil of a dozen words fused into one, as if put into a hydraulic press. On her hip, a standard issue las pistol, sitting to her left a rucksack.

Psykers were dangerous, but as he saw it, he’d fight one eventually. Better to take one out of the equation and put them behind him. Risk-mitigation, he’d said to his crew.

Himself. Tarik Achebe of the newly minted Achebe trading dynasty. He wore a set of Janissary-pattern power armor, fitted close to his skin. It took time to adjust. He didn’t want augmetic interfaces, so it just meant the voyage here was practice. He enjoyed it. It gave him in edge, either in a confrontation or in a cave-in. Dark green with a light cloak and festooned with matte filigree of gold and sapphire. The armor left creases in his skin when he removed it. */On his hip, and elegant sword, bearing a generator in the pommel. A power sword. But, it was lighter than many Imperium models, and the blade was designed for cutting in mind, rather than piercing, or the rough-hewed chopping of the Astartes blades. Emperor knew he wanted one, but no amount of money could convince their armories to part with it. Some said Astartes weapons would turn on unworthy hands, but he didn’t believe it.

In the cargo bay, top-tier stock of medical supplies and camping gear. Tents, blankets, portable stoves, you name it. Ms. Burrows picked most of it. A pict-recorder and vox beads too. Once he arrived, they’d be linked to their vox array. Any signal from orbit could reach him, or his team. A condition of Magos Katracta’s aid. A small favor, one given freely.

They began to slow. Adara-59’s head tilted as if by a string.

“Have we reached camp, Skitarius?” Tarik called. His voice was deep, imploring, but kind.

“We will, captain.” For the first time in hours, her hand severed from the wheel. It placed a hand on the console. Whispering to herself, to the machine. “It appears we must cross a sandstorm.” The screens before them were endless gyres of sand, not unusual, but they seemed like fog now. He strode to the front, eyes searching. They approached the valley. It looked like the lakes of his homeworld.

“Is the camp intact?” He said, squinting. “Have we heard anything from them?”