"A speeder would have been faster," a digital voice said, emanating from the strap on the stranger's left wrist. Looking down at his worn, filthy hands, red with Glyconian grime, chapped from dryness, and leathered from sun exposure, he cursed himself, wishing he could have afforded a speeder. The only bit of a color not tainted by the red of the planet were his eyes, horizon blue, and reflecting a steely resolve. His lips, for the most part, stayed closed, tight like a crease in his face. The stubble across his face made the strong line of his chin fuzzy. It was always a free-for-all at the beginning, with colonists, merchants, and miners, trekking off in every direction and settling wherever they could find a good vein of underground water or ore.Ĭlip-clopping along, he was a lone figure on the landscape, covered head to toe in the fine red dust of the transforming planet. On these frontier planets, towns and villages were always few and far between. But he had enough left over to feed himself and buy a few canteens of water, which, in the end, was all he needed. The stranger reckoned he'd spent most of his reward money on the animal, just to get to the next town and the next job. The mounts didn't come cheap, but they were reliable. For a world so new to life, it seemed as though Glycon-Prime was dying.īut the stranger in the tattered serape knew better, riding his mount through the expanse of red-soiled wastelands toward life and work.
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