The Silverlark

“Just more bloody sand.”

Tharok raised the macro-binoculars to his eyes, revolving on the spot, scanning the horizon.  There was nothing in sight no matter where he turned, the rising and falling sand dunes continuing on into the distance, until they came to the sky, the cloudless blue streaked with purple.  “How’s the team, Sati?”

His companion, silhouetted against the lowering sun, looked down from the crest of the dune to where four Rovers were parked, encircled by dark treads on the sand.  Around them, hiding in the shelter of the cool shade, their team were resting, checking over their weapons and stores.

“Still there.”

He snorted, placing the macro-binoculars in a pouch hanging from his neck.  With a final glance at the darkening horizon, they returned to the vehicles.  The crew rose to their feet on their arrival, waiting expectantly as the pair of them trudged across the churned sand, the drab greys and browns of their garb blending with the sloping descent of the dune.  The team were dressed similarly, with sandy jackets and dark utility vests, the only spot of colour being the flowing purple of Sati’s long coat.  One of the crew stepped up to Tharok.

“Orders, captain?”

Tharok shook his head, striding past to the nearest Rover, tossing the macro-binoculars onto the trailer at the back, pulling open the door and slumping into the shotgun seat.

“There’s nothing – the target’s not here.”  Disappointment settled over the team like a blanket, smothering them all.  They sighed in unison, walking dejectedly back to their spots of shade.  The pilot door of the Rover opened and Sati sat in the seat next to him, leaning back against the cool leather head-rest.  She exhaled loudly, and Tharok slowly turned to her.

He watched as she lazily reached down to her waist, pulling out a short flintlock pistol and oiled rag and began to clean it methodically, rubbing the smooth muzzle with love and care.  She noticed him watching her, and held out the gun to him.  He took it and held it affectionately in his hands, feeling the weight of the gun in his hand, caressing the gears and dials with the soft flesh of his thumb.

“Do you remember her?” Sati asked him, raising a questioning eyebrow.  He did.

Watching her rag slide over the cool, white metal, polishing it with patient, tender strokes of the rag, removing every grain of dirt and speck of sand that had found its way into the cracks, he remembered everything.  They’d been at the end of a heist, raiding the archives of a Core-world museum, when Sati had caught sight of the gun through a crack in a door.  She’d stopped to pick it up, marvelling at the craftsmanship, declaring it was hers.

She’d kept it by her ever since, stowed in the dual holster at her hip, one of a brace of pistols that had seen the end to many an attacker, and Tharok watched her caress the trigger of the flintlock, seeing her stroke her finger over the name she’d etched on.  Flashy.

Tharok looked back out the windscreen at the dunes surrounding them on all sides, their flowing slopes sheltering them from unwanted prying eyes.  They were deep within the Exhaustion Zone, the ongoing desert that carried on, seemingly forever, to the sky, stretching out over the planet’s southern continent.  For fifty leagues in all directions they would find no inhabitants, the landscape and environment so harsh and desolate.

Out here there were no cities, no technology, no water.  Nothing.

Lauma, a desert planet thrust deep into the Backwater systems, was a haven for smugglers, fencers and the scum of the galaxy who arrived in their droves.  The continents, each with varying states of desolation, soon became rife with spice-plantations; the potent drugs being cultivated becoming the primary source of profit.  The ruling cartels, of which there were many spread across the planet, latched onto the trade, quickly controlling the production, trade and transportation, each one bidding to outdo its rivals.

As such, the Exhaustion Zone made for the perfect route to transport cartel goods, out of the way of raiders, hired by rival cartels for the sole purpose of bushwhacking these caravans.