The sun rose late over Vardessa, as if reluctant to bless the grit and clamor of the rig yards. But the crew had been up long before the light. The smell of black tea, blood sausage, and boiled eggs filled the galley as the senior crew of this enterprise and the investors of this franchise gathered for a breakfast that meant something—the kind eaten before a long war, or a kingdom lost to frost.

The Captain offered a few well-meant words, but most just ate, nodded, and marked each other for the road ahead. Tarris arrived halfway through, travel-worn, clean-shaven, and flanked by the scent of polished wood and brass. He carried a light pack, a compact crossbow, and a box of tools no one dared to open without permission. A new lock was fitted to his quarters, a token of trust—or caution. Some of the dwarves didn’t like how lightly he traveled. Men who brought less often brought secrets.

Behind them, the Big Evil Beast groaned and clicked under the welders’ torches. New shielding was seared on in hex plates, sparking like fireflies as smiths shouted measurements in three tongues. The carrier grill at the prow was filed down and hardened. Blades were balanced, counters weighted. The ground crews bickered, smoked, laughed, and bled on their machines.

Inside, the Great Round Table hummed—activated for the first time since the last war-season. Six feet of alloyed intelligence, its polished dome flickered with contours, schematics, unknown depths, heat signatures, and something like a heartbeat. It would serve as their mapper, their seer, their judge. The beast’s brain. It spun once and clicked twice. No one breathed until it steadied.

The women from the night before were seen off with professional courtesy, met in turn with courtly indulgence from the investment class. Paid in Crown Gold, Tipped in sapphires, Gifted with ruby hairpins and ornate amethyst rings, they departed not as shadows, but as honored guests of a world just out of reach.

Their laughter lingered only briefly, absorbed into the steel sinew of the waking rig.

Back Behind the Beast

Petra was human, not dwarven—petite, keen-eyed, and too alert by half. One of the women from the night before. Just past dawn, in the grit-shadow of the rear rig ladder, she made her move.

She stripped fast, breath ghosting in the cold. Gooseflesh rose. Then came the coveralls—dusky gray, the uniform of a cleric’s novice. She bound her chest tight, sheared her braid to a rough bowl cut, and folded her rosium amber-pink “gurly” glasses neatly on a crate. In their place: sharp-rimmed, engineer-cut steel specs that made her look bookish, brittle, and just a bit too clever.

By the time she climbed the rig again, she passed—just barely—for a wiry sixteen-year-old apprentice boy.

The technician from the night before—the one who’d shared a steam bath with the blonde dwarf—watched her from the deck. He didn’t smile. Didn’t frown either. Just nodded once and stepped aside, letting her through without a word, without coin.

No papers. No guild mark. If she was caught, it wouldn’t be a scolding. It would be excommunication. Fraud was one thing. Fraud under the dwarven codes? As a woman? That was another beast entirely. Likely a beating, woman or otherwise.
You don’t run scams against the guild. But she walked like she belonged. And the dwarves respected that.

Assets, Stores & Preparation

The cook was pleased—remarkably so.

Food stores were full, dry-packed, and spiced properly for long runs. Even the salt blocks were cut clean. The quartermaster gave a rare nod of satisfaction—medical crates sealed, tonics labeled, and the bloodletting kits sorted by gauge and grade. The new ground-checker systems, too—freshly installed with crystal filaments and depth-screamers—ran smooth on the final boot. Support rigs buzzed clean. Flamethrowers, of course, ran low. But resupply was guaranteed within two days, straight from Guild reserves. Until then, the beast would bite in steel and shot alone.

The Final Checks

The navigator brought his own weight in books, charts, and a compass that whispered in rust. The quartermaster carried strange gear and arcane odds—no bees this time, thankfully. The gunner, grinning like a dog that bites, inspected the upper cannon: now reinforced with front steel plating, dome canopy, and a kick-slat trigger.

The turret groaned but held firm. Tarris and the Doc inspected it together, then parted with a nod. Both men approved of violence done efficiently. The last voucher-men arrived—young, hungry, freelance souls with dreams in their teeth. The guild tallyman stamped them through. The Captain signed the last of the paper with a stylus carved from old whalebone, then handed it to his accountant, who would spend the next hour sweating into his ledger.

And Then— The March

The Captain and Navigator stood over the round table. They argued about glacier splits and Hyperborean manslayers. Neither seemed afraid. Below deck, Petra was jammed, bunked between three sweating boys, her new world rattling with bolts and pipe-hiss and hot oil. She barely kept pace—but she would. Tarris admired the new proto-medical module in the corner: an illuminated projection board capable of reading bones without cut. He said nothing, just smiled. The Doc noticed.

The Beast was lit. The engine roared. A hundred systems blinked green. The rig dock unlocked. The Beast rolled. Two minutes on the road—and they bypassed hours of caravan gridlock, gears snarling as they took the ice-chipped bypass east of the river cut.

Above the cabin, the horns blew once.

and, just like that, they’re gone.