By Sand and Stars
On the day The Stranger rode into town, the winds of Zanthium’s moon were blowing harsh and cold, and the town of Pride was hunkered down for a storm. The sands scratched and tore at The Stranger and her mount, but her sparkmesh cape kept her safe and warm. Her hood was drawn so far forward that the few townsfolk watching through the windows couldn’t make out a face, just the glow of a pair of sand-goggles, wringed in shadow. Her mount wheezed below her, cogs groaning and straining as it plodded slowly, coming to a stop before The Stranger’s destination.
The only inn of the town doubled as a town hall, and tripled as the mayor’s residence. The mayor themselves sat at a round table with their closest friends, sharing a drink as they waited out the storm. The soft laughter and talking fell silent as the front door slid open to admit The Stranger, the worn rubber seal screeching uncomfortably.
The silence lasted only a moment, before the mayor stood up, walking around the table towards the entrance with hands clasped together. “Welcome, traveler! I’m glad you made it here when you did, any later and the sands would have been much less forgiving. I can give you free lodging for at least a night, but after that-“
The mayor was interrupted not by a voice, but by a ping on their eyepiece, indicating a new message from an unknown user: No lodging needed. I hear you have a bandit problem?
The mayor squinted, focusing on the text, then looked back at the stranger. “Truth be told, they have been an issue, but they’ll be holed up in their hideout at least until the wind dies down.”
Another ping, another message. The Stranger stands uncannily still. Perfect, where would that be?
“Up at Prior’s Pass, but even if you could make it through the storm, the hideout is heavily shielded.”
This time, there was no ping. The Stranger simply turned on her heel and opened the door again. The wind had picked up, bringing sand into the room, and blowing over a bottle on the table.
The mayor cried out, and several others at the table stood. The Stranger simply walked out into the storm as though it wasn’t there at all. The mayor followed, reaching a hand to her shoulder, but a harsh growl from The Stranger’s mount stopped them in their tracks. A final ping reached their eyepiece, reading simply: thanks for the location. Don’t touch me.
Sand pelted the mayor, forcing their eyes closed as they felt their way back into the inn. The Stranger swung up onto her mount and, with a quick consultation of the world map, set a course for Prior’s Pass.
~~~
The bandit hideout was huddled against a cliff, and was indeed covered by a heavy braking field. The dome glowed a bright blue, and were it not for the sand it would have been visible for miles around. This made it a terrible defense for anything that claimed to be a ‘hideout,’ but it had the saving grace that to anyone without the properly transmitted access codes or a manufacturer’s admin code, it was completely impenetrable.
The Stranger passed through it like a bird through a cloud.
The bandits inside lay asleep around a still crackling fire, further towards the cliff face. There were fourteen of them, and none were awake. After all, who would they need to guard against in the middle of a sandstorm? Moving quickly and quietly, The Stranger made her way to the center of the dome’s field, where a battered metal form lay, missing an arm and both legs. Its left ocular lens was cracked, but its right still glowed faintly, mirroring The Stranger’s goggles.
The unit was barely functioning, and all the power at its disposal was currently going towards generating the bandits’ shield. The Stranger bent down over its form, sending a ping on all open channels. No response. She began looking for an open bus.
A quick gasp from her left was all the warning she had that she had woken someone. She jerked her head to the side, and locked eyes with the bandit who had sat up. He took in a breath to alert the others, and in the same instant the Stranger’s gun was in her hand. It was a solid energy weapon, the length of her forearm, and it did its job quietly and quickly, carving a column of nonexistence into the bandit’s forehead. He fell back where he lay.
No one else moved.
The Stranger returned to her task, finding the bus plugged by a small shield. She removed the shield, drew a wire from inside her cloak, jacked in, and sent a message. Query: Identify?
The response was almost immediate: 3rd Generation Pseudonoid, Model # 2305. Then, a moment later: Query: Identify?
The Stranger responded: 8th Generation Pseudonoid, Model # F001.
The dying Pseudonoid almost immediately asserted a service request. Error: Information not found on 8th Generation Pseudonoid. Query: Current Timestamp?
The Stranger spent a moment translating the date into a format the dying pseudonoid would understand, and sent it over, followed by another message. Query: History? Type: Location Data?
The dying pseudonoid shunted the raw nav info to The Stranger over the connection, then got very quiet, no doubt processing how long they had been dysfunctional. The Stranger alerted that she was about to sever the connection when she thought better of it, sending a final message. Query: Can you disable the braking field?
The dying pseudonoid hadn’t expressed much emotion, but the response it sent was giddy, brimming with excitement: Yes.
~~~
The bandits woke with sand in their mouths, choking. A few managed to rush masks on before passing out, but none of them could see well enough to make out The Stranger swinging back up onto her mount. She didn’t bother dealing with the stragglers. The sands would only get less forgiving as night fell, and they had just lost their only defense.
Besides, she had a lead she needed to follow.