PRAKITH, THE DEEP CORE...
Helen Holcomb, ace pilot and Galactic adventurer, drew up the coarse synthweave cloak she wore over her flight suit, vainly trying to keep out the cold wind that whipped down through the mountain passes to blast the crude spaceport in which she found herself. Had she any other choice, she would not have come to this planet, but her quest had dictated she set down to investigate a rumor.
For what felt like years - hells, it had been years, now that she thought about it - Helen had wandered the Galaxy in search of those who had been stolen from her world. Alien bandits had taken many of her kind; her world was primitive by Galactic standards, long severed from mainstream civilization, and its people had been able to do little about the slavers from the stars.
The slavers' first mistake, however, was assuming that the people of Tolvis VII would take such treatment meekly. Primitive though their technology might have been, they were not mere savages to be over-awed by blaster fire and some old third-hand freighters. They had fought back. Were fighting back.
Their second mistake was their decision to take Lieutenant Helen Holcomb, United States of Hemispheria Naval Air Service, alive.
The town abutting the star-port proper was a ramshackle affair, with steep, twisting streets nestled in the hills and canyons that surrounded a mountain plateau upon which a few crude fusion-formed landing pads had been built. Its buildings were mostly made of rough stone or local wood; many were built in such a way as to be narrower on the first floor than the second, creating gloomy, shadowed streets due to the overhangs. Even by the very low standards of Prakith, it wasn't an especially nice place to be, although that could be said for most of the planet, in truth. However, it was an out-of-the-way town on an out-of-the-way world in the Deep Core, and so for the purposes of Helen's quarry, it was perfect. They probably even thought they were safe here.
As she walked along the street, Helen caught movement, turning to see a figure emerge from a doorway, a rectangle of light in the overhang of a building. Above it was an old-fashioned wooden sign, lettering picked out in electroluminescent paint identifying the establishment as "The Busted Drive". The Lepi paused, considering; it would be nice to get in out of the wind, and in a place like this there might be information on the people she was hunting. Turning, she ducked inside, looking around at the decor and patrons as she entered. Not a few of the latter studied her back.
The place was a typical spaceport dive. Built of thick timbers and rough stone, it looked like something out of a fantasy novel, with a few notable exceptions. Behind the wooden bar, for example, was a battered droid of indeterminate make and model, while the various booths and tables were occupied by an assortment of mostly sullen aliens.
Helen, assessing the beings around her with a well-practiced eye, sat down in an empty seat at the bar, which was occupied by a handful of other beings. Idly, she wondered just what she might find out in a place like this...
For what felt like years - hells, it had been years, now that she thought about it - Helen had wandered the Galaxy in search of those who had been stolen from her world. Alien bandits had taken many of her kind; her world was primitive by Galactic standards, long severed from mainstream civilization, and its people had been able to do little about the slavers from the stars.
The slavers' first mistake, however, was assuming that the people of Tolvis VII would take such treatment meekly. Primitive though their technology might have been, they were not mere savages to be over-awed by blaster fire and some old third-hand freighters. They had fought back. Were fighting back.
Their second mistake was their decision to take Lieutenant Helen Holcomb, United States of Hemispheria Naval Air Service, alive.
The town abutting the star-port proper was a ramshackle affair, with steep, twisting streets nestled in the hills and canyons that surrounded a mountain plateau upon which a few crude fusion-formed landing pads had been built. Its buildings were mostly made of rough stone or local wood; many were built in such a way as to be narrower on the first floor than the second, creating gloomy, shadowed streets due to the overhangs. Even by the very low standards of Prakith, it wasn't an especially nice place to be, although that could be said for most of the planet, in truth. However, it was an out-of-the-way town on an out-of-the-way world in the Deep Core, and so for the purposes of Helen's quarry, it was perfect. They probably even thought they were safe here.
As she walked along the street, Helen caught movement, turning to see a figure emerge from a doorway, a rectangle of light in the overhang of a building. Above it was an old-fashioned wooden sign, lettering picked out in electroluminescent paint identifying the establishment as "The Busted Drive". The Lepi paused, considering; it would be nice to get in out of the wind, and in a place like this there might be information on the people she was hunting. Turning, she ducked inside, looking around at the decor and patrons as she entered. Not a few of the latter studied her back.
The place was a typical spaceport dive. Built of thick timbers and rough stone, it looked like something out of a fantasy novel, with a few notable exceptions. Behind the wooden bar, for example, was a battered droid of indeterminate make and model, while the various booths and tables were occupied by an assortment of mostly sullen aliens.
Helen, assessing the beings around her with a well-practiced eye, sat down in an empty seat at the bar, which was occupied by a handful of other beings. Idly, she wondered just what she might find out in a place like this...