Beta Sector, EV Carinae
The air was filled with swirls of red, made from a super fine rock dust that got into everything. The wisps are not thrown up by planetary atmosphere but by the eternal bathing morass of flares and charged particles from the great red star that dominated half the world. The ground was covered in dull rocks that had been sand blasted to ruin and had never seen life. All of it was encapsulated by a horizon that was the sort of almost rolling pin flat only a few billion years of nearly zero geological activity could earn and was only now once again drawn to action as the stars tidal forces drew upon it.
The nameless planet was an old dead world, tidally locked around a star on its death bed. Of little use to anyone till it finally keeled over and far from trade lanes or anything passing as civilization.
The things sprawled on its surface were not local or natural, a great multi kilometer morass of miss matched antennae, dome like scanners and gaping waveguides, all apparently stripped from a dozen species starships and brands. All of these and a selection of shafts were in the spaceward lee of a supergiant blasted mountain range, the dull shape of half a dozen types of thermal convertors on crude terraces on its surface. None of it bothered to hide. It was after all passive and who would dare EV Carinaes world swallowing pulsations to find it, a star a thousand times more vast than the average G type, whose distortion wracked surface could surge out three levels in magnitude.
A pair of suited figures tramped across an elevated walkway between the towering antennae, caked dust pouring off the surfaces as they passed. Occasionally they would stop to seemingly twist a section of railing, or broadcast a specific signal or simply step on certain points before progressing. The suits were widely different, one was lithe, screaming motion, the other a bulky tool laden thing who’s worn surfaces said above all else that it had seen far too much of the void. Between them they slowly took down a plate from one of the towers that appeared no different to the others, replaced it and returned by a different path to where they had come from on the edge of the antennae farm.
The spindly legs of what could only be a somewhat modified Sarian Beheader class assault corvette sitting atop a rough grid of metal cargo slats formed into an excuse for a landing pad sat waiting for them, its dorsal turret replaced with the dull form of a box launcher, the hull and general condition far in excess of what was the norm. If one could read the swirling garish Sarian glyphs apart from the clear warnings of a heraldic craft the name Dancing knife was prominent.
The hissing of the airlock took longer than usual, the dust had gotten on and in everything, even the thick block of waxen putty the tool covered suit had proffered to get it out of crevices took effort to work out the fines before the overhead glyphs changed and atmosphere rushed in.
The slim suits helmet folded away in moments into a thick decorated back neck guard, the others hand undid with a heavy click of clasps. Unspeaking both assisted each other out of the heavy outer wear to reveal vastly different sets of clothing, one almost formal, and the other utilitarian with carefully organized sets of ribbons. Then the accoutrements, symbols of rank, tools, weapons belts, the thin metal survival torcs. Finally after inspecting each other the lithe figure grinned and opened the inner lock, one hand holding a bulky void proofed data storage device.
Mak R Sekth, Herald of the Sarian raider clan Sekth rinsed out his mouth with a shot of luke warm plastic flavoured recycled water from his suits dispenser before striding inwards, the fading green tone of his companions skin showing his by comparison relatively young age just as the brocade of thermal superconductor mesh was in contrast with the ribbons that showed their respective castes. The economical moves of the gun warden as he took the device from a proffered hand and went down to the avionics bay to gently ministrate to it at odds to his own impatient strutting up to the Beheaders cramped con.
“Time to the next flare?” snapped out of the side of his mouth that was already smirking as the skilled fingers of his second wife neatly began gently moving his hair back into position and carefully began inserting the half dozen blades that normally were buried in its depths.
“Four hours” The reply was a gruff thing, the tone and accent simple, its owner long accustomed to being far from the height of social strata.
He sat back in the command chair, neatly linking into its restraints in a motion long practiced then glanced upward again taking in the halo of displays now appearing around him.
“Time we were offski then, helm get us off this dust ball and back into the shadowland and plot course back to the Pai Sarav, Guthri I want a jump as soon as ready.”
Another hand snaked out and grasped warmed steaming drink as it gently tapped through another set of flickering glyphs as they began to cascade down one set of displays as the data began to be processed from the module, the whining rumble of the Beheaders engines building in the background.
“Good plenty of transit time for Guthri to set up the queries… run the numbers Van dear I want a nice little logistics line ready for the Prince”
He grinned again, a horrid mix of avarice and blood lust as his first wife gently sat and brought up the endless dancing data. As Dancing Knife reached orbit and then went elsewhere the array sat silent again. Listening.
