Sayeeda peered around at the preparations that were underway. It was a small force but larger than any organized unit she had yet seen on Hahn. Certainly it had more firepower. Her interest was drawn naturally to the fighting vehicles and she ached to give them a once over. Instead she folded her arms across her chest. The proximity to military hardware made her miss her armor at a subconscious level.

“So you are just offering jobs to random people who stumble into alleys?” she asked skeptically. Canek shook his head and tapped her shoulder.

“Well I can still kill you or sell you into slavery if you prefer, but no I recognise the tatoo.” Junebug glanced unconsciously to her right shoulder where three owls were depicted taking flight. The central bird was darker with the others and its eyes were slightly almond shaped like Junebug’s own. The other owls were white and snowy grey.

“I met a woman who had one just like it, well hers had the white owl centrally located,” Canek went on, smiling slightly at Junebug’s evident shock.

“Kyra Ren she called herself, she was running a cavalry squadron on Payson’s world, pulled me out of a few tight spots.” Sayeeda stared into nothingness for a moment assailed by sudden images of the past. Kyra with her mouth open in a scream as she hosed a Shemite position with her plasma cannon. Kyra her blond locks trailing smoke as she stumbled out of her burning vehicle to catch Junebug’s hand. The sound of her laugh as she tossed her last florin into the pot in some card game.

“She told me the story one night when she had too much to drink,” Canek’s voice drew her back to the present.

“Said there were three of you who had the same tat, the Owls of Minerva she said it was, whatever the fuck that means,” Canek paused looking a little concerned.

“Hey you still with me?” he asked. Junebug nodded her head, shaking of the reverie with obvious effort.

“So I figure that even if your hauling freight now you know how to handle yourself. How about it?” he reached out his hand as if to shake hers.

Above on the ridgeline Neil heard a soft clink of metal on stone. Glancing across the opening he could see the dark shapes of men wrapped in the cloth of desert nomads as the crept along the slight depressions worn in the rock by centuries of wind and blown grit. All of the men carried rifles and some had heavier weapons, shoulder mounted rockets or single discharge plasma lances, slong over their backs. They were focused on the opening in the rock and hadn’t spotted the pilot. There were a score or more of them, each moving with the stealth and care of a man born to it.