Episode X Dark Hunter

The Raid

PZ-85 was right. The rows were not straight. The heat of the late-afternoon sun bore down on the hover plow producing ethereal heat waves that rose from the top of the its russet metal. Videsse was hungry, and tired, and hot, and not a little drunk. Although considering our heroine's state, it was remarkable that the rows were as parallel as they were. The hover plow crept along, its ventral air blade carving a moderate trough into the cracked ground and revealing the black fertile soil.

Videsse leaned forward, resting her left arm on the console and her chin on her arm. With her right hand, she guided the control arm. The whiskey canister lay empty on the floor by her feet. She raised her head a little, yawned, stretched her left arm, and shook her cramped hand before returning it to the original position. Only a few more rows before she was finished.

A low squeal suddenly cut through the engine hum, the telltale pitch of her comm's alarm. An observer sitting next to Videsse, like we are, would not consider it a low squeal, rather a blaring alarm. However, to her, it sounded distant. Did you not hear that piercing electronic cry, Videsse? Were you so tired or deeply under another influence, that the alarm from your comlink sounded so dull? Yet, that was what it looked like. She slothfully turned her head and stopped the plow. She reached to her belt and detached it, the red light flashing and reflecting off the entire interior of the operating cabin. Her thumb flipped open the communication flap as if she was flipping a coin.

"Yeah, Peezee," she said with a huff. "What now?"

"Uh, M-Mistress Dess," PZ-85 stammered. "I believe we have a visitor. It appears to be a moderately sized ship-- a M-Marrak starship approaching from the eastern sector."

The information traveled down her auditory nerve to her whiskey-soaked brain, where it was processed. Somewhere her deep instinct of survival overcame the mental stupor, awakening the young bounty hunter who had grappled with kidnappers, hounds, and pirates. Now, Videsse woke up. Her heart seemed to overcome the physical state she was in, as her adrenal glands jerked to life. Fresh blood filled her face and limbs with every heartbeat. If anything was constant in Videsse, it was the drive to survive, even if it meant fighting for a life not worth living. Though to label a life not worth living is a definition that can not be absolutely defended.

She shook her head and sat up straight. "Armed?"

"Yes," PZ-85 replied. "Looks like Hornet model. I-I don't think it's here for quinto."

"No, no it's not," Videsse quipped as she lowered her sand goggles over her eyes. "Raiders."

She swiped up the carbine rifle and checked the charges. "Still good," she stammered in disbelief.

"Pardon," PZ-85 questioned over the comlink.

"Just get into the Vigilance and start her up. I'll be there in a flash," Videsse ordered. "And activate that destroyer droid programming of yours while you're at it."

She threw open the cabin door and rushed out, her foot catching on the edge of the top step. Though her mind was waking in fight or flight, her coordination did not. She fell face-first in the dust, and recovered gracelessly, somehow regaining an upright posture.

"Sod it!" she exclaimed and ran toward the hut, her slight limp evident. She grimaced her teeth as she ran and swallowed the sharp pain of the old blaster-fire scar tissue from her left thigh. She thought of when she had been injured years ago in that leg and her mother advised her to get a bacta tank treatment to heal the wound. Of course, she did not listen.

A high pitched wail preceded the black starship as it materialized behind her, descending through the jaundice clouds. It cut through the air overhead in a sharp line toward her hut a hundred meters away. Videsse looked up but continued to sprint as best she could.