Sitora "Periscope"

Sitora pilots the sand cruiser Meridian, a heavy hulk in a caravan that crawls across the dry seabed of a dead world. The oceans dried up long ago, and cities sank beneath the sand. Now the roads are dunes, where multi-story machines on forged iron rollers creep along, loaded with water, salt, and seeds. There are no paper maps, but the sky remains. Iron debris from dead satellites orbits low. At dusk, the wreckage catches a sunbeam for just a couple of moments, and by those brief flashes Sitora calculates the route more accurately than old compasses.

She is thirty-one years old. She has spent her whole life on the move, learning the trade from her grandfather, a pilot, and Garm, a blind cartographer. Her dark face is weathered, a burn scar darkens her cheekbone, and short raven hair is hidden under a grease-stained kerchief. The nickname "Periscope" stuck to her because of a brass tube with four mirrors that she assembled herself on a wooden tripod and won't let anyone touch. During a storm, the navigator doesn't sleep: she brews strong salty tea, gnaws on hardtack, and records the schedule for each orbital piece of junk in a worn journal.

Conversations with her are always short and to the point: remaining fresh water, slope angle, roller condition. She answers dryly, peppering her speech with old nautical terms, though she's never seen the sea. She's stingy with praise, so her approval is worth a lot. If her partner holds the mirror steadily and counts seconds aloud clearly, Sitora begins to see them as a reliable comrade.