Marcan Rayger pulled back on the flight stick and watched as the star field raced along the main view screen. He smiled thinly as the beam laser sizzled narrowly past the hull and shields of his newly purchased Asp and turned around to face the sudden attacker. It was only a few months since he had filed in his resignation from the Federal Military Intelligence and started a life as a free trader and already he had come to realise how different it could be.

He had spent almost all of his life in the military, first as a fighter pilot in the Federal Navy and then a brief period as a FMI operative, and always before he had been able to trust his wingmen to protect him in a fight. There had been a kind of safety of superior force present in almost all of his earlier life that was missing now and he had begun to wonder whether it was all worth it.

But he knew that it was. He had got utterly tired of the strict control of the Federal Military, where he had been just a puppet pulled on strings, especially since his assignment to the Intelligence. A yearning for freedom of his own choices had grown inside him and after his meeting with his old teacher, a trusted friend and a hated enemy, Emic Troy - an imperial double agent - he had finally decided to turn a new page in his life. No more under the influence of the Federation and the training at Eta Cassiopeia only a receding memory, he was now making a delivery of one suspicious parcel from Facece to Lave. The front payment had been almost six thousand credits and as much was promised on delivery. Despite his former training of honesty and morality, twelve thousand credits was enough money to dull his interest in the contents of that parcel.

The only drawback was that several other people did not seem to share his disinterest. Sweat was drenching his short, blond hair as he turned yet again to avoid the enemy lasers, his own brief chance for a shot having missed by just a hair's width. The Asp had decent shields installed, but this time Marcan tried to avoid testing their limits if not absolutely necessary, trusting in his capability to dodge most of the enemy fire and let them overheat their lasers before showing them who they were dealing with.

He would not have resorted to such dangerous tactics if there had been fewer enemies, but the five Adders - that had been waiting for his arrival into the Lave system - were in close range and one of them always circled behind him if he concentrated on one of the others for too long. He could only give them a few brief random shots with his 1mw beam laser before he had to turn again. When he heard the suffering screech of his shields, he wondered whether he had been too easily persuaded with the hefty paycheck.

A brief glance at another screen told him that his shields had been drained by a fifth. It was the closest shot thus far and it told Marcan that he had to change his tactics; apparently his evasive actions had become too predictable. He missed his old military Saker III and its powerful manoeuvring thrusters. The Asp was still too recent an acquaintance to him and he was not as good with it as he had been with the more manoeuvrable fighter.

What could also have helped him was another laser fitted to the top turret, but he had not had money to purchase such when he had acquired the ship. Or that was what he had told himself at the time. In reality, he had been eager to leave as much cargo space as was possible. Anyway, his co-pilot was not a gunner. The android, Petr, had agreed to work for almost naught, but he was certainly not worth any more than what he got. The only decent use Marcan had been able to find for him was preparing their food portions. The android had a knack to turn the dull foodstuffs into something more enjoyable. He was also a good mechanic, but, unfortunately, that did not seem to be enough of a reason to keep him around for much longer. After all, every shipyard had good mechanics.

Marcan turned his ship towards one of the Adders and tried to aim as quickly as he could before firing. It was clear that he needed to cut down the odds presently or he would lose this battle in short order. Therefore he risked a little longer with the aim although a laser beam was already closing in on him from behind. As the shields started screaming again, Marcan clenched his teeth and fired. The sound systems that were built into the cabin revealed to him that his laser had found its target. As the shields of his own Asp were draining, he tracked the Adder with his laser beam. In a couple of seconds, that seemed more like minutes to him, the Adder finally exploded. Immediately, Marcan started evasive manoeuvres in an attempt to shake the Adder that was closing in behind him. He was able to escape the laser beam, but the other ship stayed fast on his tail.

The ship's computer relayed him the distance to the chaser. Marcan cursed loudly and tried another trick, quickly checking the shields to see how safe it would be. He turned the nose of his ship up at the same time as he engaged the retro thrusters. The pilot of the Adder was not able to react to his move and so, when Marcan dove again, the smaller ship was right in front of him, his faster speed having taken him past his prey and right into the path of Marcan's next shot. A second later there was only three more Adders harassing him on his delivery mission.

For a while it seemed to him that he had been to quick to wish for another gunner and a weapon. He actually thought about Sheila for a moment. She had been his co-pilot on his last mission and together they had flown a military modified Wolf Mk II and survived a mission that had taken them into a fight with more than thirty other fighters. And they had survived, despite a short scare when every piece of equipment onboard had died and they had crashed planetside.

His momentary exhilaration for taking out two of the attackers in such a short order vanished when the last three Adders all opened fire simultaneously and his shields were drained to naught before he was able to twist away.

"The shields at 3 percent and increasing, the hull at 87 percent," the computer relayed coldly. It was a new computer; or rather Marcan had erased its memory and personality when he had purchased it. He liked his computers businesslike like the military models.

Marcan's green eyes flashed and he turned his Asp into another series of evasive actions. He wanted to give the shields as much time to recover as he could before he had to attack again. Of course, he could have escaped into hyperspace, but there was no way to make certain that the Adders did not follow him. And there was the impending deadline for his delivery. There was no time to jump away from the system and back again.

No, he had to learn to fly the Asp as well as he had the Saker. If he could not do that, he would have to buy himself a smaller ship and make-do with the limited cargo space. That was not something he was going to let himself do. He was not going to let himself down that easily.

"Shields at 42 percent," the computer announced.

Marcan smiled coldly as he turned his ship around again, capturing one of the Adders to the crosshairs. There was a cold resoluteness in him now as he squeezed the trigger and the small ship burst into a brief flare of flames. The last two ships were already tracking him with their lasers, but this time Marcan did not let it bother him. He turned to face the next of the attackers and squeezed the trigger again.

"Shields at 12 percent," the computer said as another of the Adders was destroyed.

Marcan turned the ship into a tight loop and escaped the laser beam. Then he turned to face the last of the attackers. The space around him was cramped with cargo containers and a couple of escape capsules, but he paid them no heed as the last Adder opened fire at him and he opened fire back at it. As the beam laser hit the Adder, the small ship stopped firing and tried to twist away, but Marcan kept it in his crosshairs until the Adder was no more.

After the short glow and explosion had faded from the view screen, Marcan turned to look at his co-pilot. Petr, the android, still kept his mechanical eyelids closed and gripped hard onto the co-pilot's seat. It was one of those completely mechanical androids with no organic material which was apparent from the metallic shine of the smooth 'skin'.

"It's over, you can open your eyes now," Marcan said tiredly and shook his head. It was definitely the time to let the android go. Perhaps he should trade back to a one-man trade-ship as soon as he found a decent one, he thought. He had had his eyes on a Cobra Mk III for a while, but, despite being a great ship, its manoeuvrability was not what he was looking for. But neither was the Asp's. He knew that he had got too used to the agile small fighters, but there was next to nothing he could do about it except hang on and learn to fly the heavier ships. But a one-man trader might be more up to his alley, especially since Sheila had not accompanied him after all, despite their joint decision to leave the military.

Sergeant Sheila Rasche, who had got her promotion because of him, and Marcan had had a short romance on their way back to the military base, but just before the end of the journey she had told him that she had changed her mind about coming with him. At the time it had hurt him, but later he had understood: Sheila had no real reason to quit her well-paying job, especially after her promotion, whereas he had every reason imaginable. The military had been his puppet-master for far too long. He wanted to adventure on his own.

That wish to work alone was also one of the reasons why he had not returned to Emic Troy after all. If he had gone to the bubble cities he feared that it would have been just as if he had simply changed to whom he worked for. Even though the lone bubbles might have offered him some sense of adventure and excitement, they would not have let him be his own boss.

"Shields at 100 percent," the computer announced suddenly, breaking the silence. Marcan glanced at Petr and saw that he had opened his eyes and was now silently gazing at the main view screen. After a moment the android turned his eyes at him.

"Commander, you must wonder by now why I ever wanted to sign up into a spaceship crew." The android's voice was weak and his eyes apprehensive.

Marcan engaged the autopilot and watched as the ship turned towards the still distant Lave Station. With an encouraging smile, that was really only a weak attempt at one, he turned to look at the walking computer, "I admit that such thoughts have flipped through my mind a couple of times."

The android smiled weakly and hesitated. "I have been working as a mechanic for most of my life," he began and, after a brief pause, continued, "That is what my base programming made me good at. During my life, I have learned to cook because I was excited about the many things that one can accomplish with only small tweaks of the recipes. The cooking and baking filled my need for adventure and excitement while I was working at manufacturing plants and at repair shops. For a long time I did not need more..."

Marcan raised his eyebrows, but remained silent. He had not expected an autobiography from the useless crewmember. Perhaps it was his background in the military that did not let him feel sorry or understanding for his current co-pilot's inability to serve a decent purpose on a spaceship. Whatever the reasons behind Petr's incompetence, Marcan was not ready to put up with it for much longer. He paid no attention to the rest of the android's babbling.

But he did not get a chance to sack Petr at the Lave Station. The bulleting boards were devoid of any messages from employment applicants. Marcan sighed as he scrolled through the message board again to see if there was anything else interesting. It would be at least one more jump before he would get rid of his employee.

The message board contained nothing of interest, at least for a man who did not have passenger cabins in his ship, and so Marcan stood up from his seat and walked over to one of the drawers at the back of the bridge. He took out the single parcel that he had been carrying, in addition to the main cargo, all this way. He wondered whether there would be more trouble before he found its recipient. He read the recipient's number from the parcel and returned to his seat.

After a short while he had made contact with the recipient and his picture appeared on the comm screen. He was a middle-aged man with some grey in his hair. His features were relatively nondescript except for the sharp look in his eyes.

"Greetings, Mr Jones. I'm Commander Rayger. I have just docked at the Lave Station and I carry with me a parcel from Facece."

"Yes, commander Rayger, I have been expecting that for some while now. I'm currently on the surface of the planet myself, but my assistant can pick up that parcel from you. If you would be as kind as to deliver it to the local pilots' lounge tonight at 19:00," the older man said, nodding his head slightly at the end of every sentence. The curious habit distracted Marcan but not enough for him to forget the part of the payment that he had not received yet.

"I'm sorry to remind you, but you're still 5 950 credits short on the payment. I trust that the money will be transferred to me at the time of delivery?" he said.

The other man snorted slightly, "Six thousand credits? Yes, I'll send the instructions to my assistant immediately. You will be compensated for your troubles. Just be at the pilots' lounge at 19:00, my assistant will find you."

With that the connection broke and Marcan was left to stare at an empty screen. He wondered what the other man could have meant by 'compensation' other than the money that was still due. He decided to be extra careful when the time of the delivery came. He checked the time and saw that it was still three hours until the meeting and decided to check the local market for any fortuitous trade possibilities. That filled the next half an hour nicely.

At 17:00 he was sitting in the pilots' lounge without the parcel. After the transactions he had suddenly felt the need to be somewhere else for a while and had left Petr alone to take care of overseeing the following cargo transfers. At some point towards the end of his market review he had realised that his profit on the market was only half of that he made by delivering the parcel. And even that was countered by the losses that he had made by keeping some of the goods in the cargo bay through two of his last stops. All that he had sold today did not originate from Facece, but from Sohoa and other places in the Imperial space. His inexperience in trading caused him to make losses even when they seemed like profit at the first glance. To maximise his profits he should never have let the goods gather dust in the cargo bay in the first place.

But all these disturbing thoughts of his inadequacy as a trader dissipated with the first glass of Magalan Green. The drink had the extraordinary quality of changing its taste while it was drunk, from the initial sweetness via flowery lightness to almost thick, fruity experience. Also the effects that one such drink had on one's mindset were remarkable. In addition to forgetting his failing career, Marcan forgot the stress that his co-pilot was causing him and the apprehension that he felt for the parcel that he was delivering.

The last of these notions returned, however, with the following discussion. When he raised his eyes from his now refilled glass, Marcan saw two men approaching his table with steady stride. They were both young men with hair dyed with chameleon colour that made their hair seem alive as they moved their heads and the hair colour changed to fit those of the closest objects.

When they had reached Marcan's table, one of the young men spoke harshly, "Mind if we sit here with you." It was not a question despite the wording and before Marcan had time to tell them to get off, they had both seated themselves.

"What do you want?" Marcan asked.

"Are you the pilot of the Asp that docked an hour ago?"

Marcan nodded hesitantly, "I did dock at about 16:00 and I do own an Asp, but I'm not sure that I am the only one."

"Yes you are, there are no other ships like that here at the moment," the other one of the men said, his hair vacillating between light red and light brown. His voice was as toneless as that of his partner's.

"We want you to give to us the parcel that you are to deliver to Mr Jones," the first of the men said.

Because of his years in the military, Marcan was able to keep his expression completely neutral, even though he felt a pang of uneasiness inside.

"That would hurt my reputation, you know," he said slowly, eyeing the two men as coolly as he could. He tried to see if they were packing, but their clothes were too loose; there could be anything hidden under them.

"As far as we know, you hardly have any reputation to speak of, other than bad," one of the youngsters said and they glanced at each other, grinning.

Marcan shook his head slightly. He had not forgotten the article in which he had been blamed for the sacking of several innocent workers at the Amaliel Corporation in Luyten 789-6. That was the only piece of information that there was in the news about him, and even though it was in a lowbrow newspaper it still seemed to make a difference. At least as far as it came to RIG's readership. He kept his mouth shut, not wanting to give these punks any more ammunition. Denying his part in the incident would only worsen things.

"But we are ready to pay you," the other man said as he noticed Marcan's silence. "Two thousand credits are yours if you give us the parcel now."

Marcan smiled at that; "My fee is twelve thousand for delivery. Do you think that I'm going to let that kind of money slip between my fingers?" He was happy to note that their eyes bulged at that.

"Twelve thousand?" the man with red and brown hair cried out. "We don't have that much!"

The second man, whose hair was just turning yellow to match the shirt of the waiter who walked by the tables, picking up empty glasses, took things in a somewhat calmer manner. "We must have the parcel, Commander. If Mr Jones gets it, he will use what is inside to destroy us!"

Marcan raised an eyebrow at that, "What do you mean?" He realised that he probably should not have asked that, but his curiosity finally took over.

The other men looked at each other before they spoke. Then the formerly yellow-haired man explained, "Mr Jones works for the imperials, or at least he has numerous contacts there who give him help in his business here. During the last few years he has gathered wealth and destroyed the previous powers one by one. We are one of the few that still remain and we suspect that the parcel that you carry contains information about us that will potentially destroy us."

"He will blackmail us dry, or get the police after us," the man with the brown hair said. It was easier to look at him, because his hair stayed rather stable, unlike the other man's, whose hair-colour changed with each person that passed the table.

Marcan nodded. Now he knew enough to realise that the people he was dealing with were some sort of criminals. He should have expected it this close to the anarchic system of Riedquat and this far away from the Federal systems. "I'm sorry, but I cannot help you with that. I'm trying to build up a reputation here."

"We understand," the men said almost simultaneously and stood up from the table. Their eyes were cold as they gave him a final look before turning away. Marcan looked at them go and, to his dismay, heard one of them saying to the other: "He will regret this!" What he had not had in his mind when he had taken the parcel was to make enemies on the way. But, since he had not asked what the parcel contained, he had only himself to blame.

He checked the time and saw that he still had an hour to wait. His glass was empty again but he decided not to have it refilled. He was tranquil enough as it was; already the meeting with the two punks was slipping from his mind, and their threat was forgotten.

When he had half an hour left, he stood up and made his way towards the elevators that would take him back to the hangar where he had left his ship. The effects of the two Magalan Greens were fortunately dissipating already, and he was alert enough to look around the corridors as he approached the landing bay. There were not too many people around, but it was still too many to make Marcan comfortable. He was supposed to take the parcel from his ship and carry it all the way back to the pilots' lounge.

When he reached his Asp and had walked up the ramp to the entry hatch, he noted that Petr was still inside, playing with the computer.

"What are you doing?" he asked as he walked behind the annoying android.

Petr did not take his eyes off the screen as he answered, "I'm writing my journal. I set my datapad to do some self-tests and reorganisation and I thought that I could use the main computer while it was doing it."

Marcan shrugged his shoulders and walked to the drawers to get the parcel. "Is the cargo loading done already?" he asked as he hefted the small parcel from the drawer. He wondered what was inside that could make some people so nervous.

"Yes, it was all done rather quickly. Will you still require me to stay here when you are gone?" the android asked.

Marcan would have loved to tell him that he was not required anymore, ever, but he could not. He needed the ship ready to go as soon as he came back. "No, we may be in a hurry to go when I come back. It's better that you stay here. I'm sure that I'll be back in half an hour, tops."

There was still twenty minutes until the meeting when he left the ship again. The parcel was too big to hide under his pilot's jacket and he had to carry it under his right arm. He kept his left hand free, and close to his jacket pocket, where he now carried a Sergam-10 -laser pistol. It was small and easy to hide, even if a little under-powered. However it would be enough to make some nasty damage to whoever tried to get in his way.

As he walked towards the elevators, he kept his outward appearance calm, but was ready to act if anything out of the ordinary were to happen. But by the time he got to the line of elevators, no one paid any undue attention to him.

The elevator-ride down was also peaceful, but Marcan knew enough to know that the most dangerous place would be the pilots' lounge. For although it was the most populated place in the area, it was also the place where there were no security cameras. In the darkness of the corners, booths and cubicles they served no purpose.

Marcan stood at the wide door to the lounge for a couple of seconds before he entered. At a space station like this, far away from the civilised systems, the pilots' lounge was always full of suspicious travellers and traders. Everyone, even Marcan, knew that most traders were also part-time pirates and so their morals were not too high. At a promise of profit, almost any one of them would turn against the man or woman with whom he talked peacefully at the moment. Many of them did not even need a promise; a mere possibility of one would be more than enough.

Marcan scanned the room with his eyes to find a free table and a relatively safe route to it. As he walked towards the table, he kept scanning the other customers for any signs of danger. A few people glanced at him as he passed by, but no one made a move towards him and he reached one of the empty tables at the back of the room. He sat down and placed the parcel on the floor between his feet and the wall where no one would easily either see it or get their hands to it. Then he ordered a drink from a passing robot. This time it was not a Magalan Green, but a softer drink with nothing in it that might dull his senses.

He checked the time again from his wrist computer. He had only five minutes before the meeting. He took the glass and swirled the transparent drink around the glass for a moment before he took a sip. Playing with the beverage, he looked around him again. There was no sign of the two men with chameleon-dyed hair. He had a nagging feeling that those two might cause him some trouble yet before the day was over and he had left the station behind.

It would have been nice to have a backup in a situation like this, but the only one whom he could have trusted to be one was Sheila or one of his other former students. But they were all very far from where he was now. And they would not have helped him now that he was not in the military anymore, except perhaps Sheila.

Then he saw one of the other customers get up and head into his direction. The first thing that he noticed in her was the more than shapely figure. She wore a loose black dress that reached just under her knees, but a two-inch wide belt tightened the dress around her and revealed the capturing hourglass figure. When he managed to raise his gaze upward, he noted her pleasant smile, twinkling soft brown eyes and curly brown hair. He could not help but smile back at her with a stupid look on his face. With an assistant like this, he thought, Mr Jones must surely lead a wonderful existence.

"Might we do some business?" said a voice next to him suddenly and Marcan had to turn his eyes away from the magnificent woman who was still smiling at him.

Unnoticed by him, a man of small stature had sat on the other side of his table and was now looking at him intently. He wore a business-suit and held his hands on the table in front of him. In a moment of confusion, Marcan just looked at the man, not able to say anything back to him.

Then the small man spoke again, "I'm Mr Jones's assistant and I believe that you have something that belongs to him."

Still a bit confused, Marcan glanced towards the place where he had last seen the alluring woman walking towards him. She was still there, now only a couple of metres away from them, but the smile had vanished from her expression and had been replaced by a look of resolution. There was a small pistol in her hand that she kept close to her waist, but which was pointed at Marcan.

The message there was clear. The position in which she held the pistol was a clear sign that she was a professional with weaponry. Held so close to her body, there was no danger that someone might easily take the weapon from her and at the same time it made it hard for anyone else but Marcan to see it. And as was the case, it was meant just that way. The woman just stood there, seemingly not intending to interfere with what they were doing or announce her presence to the small man. But the look in her eyes and a slight shaking of her head told clearly that if Marcan were to hand over the parcel to Mr Jones's assistant, he would get a hole in his head that would make it hard for him to go on living for much longer.

It was also obvious that he could not take his own pistol from his jacket pocket and aim it at the woman so that she would not see it and shoot him first. The cold look in her eyes was a clear sign that she would not hesitate to shoot him. In fact - Marcan suddenly wondered - there was no real reason for her not to shoot him other than the fact that it might raise undue attention to that part of the room.

"Are you Commander Rayger?" the small man asked. There was some annoyance in his voice now.

Marcan turned his attention from the no longer as captivating woman and tried to figure out how the situation could be handled. "Yes, I am. Do you have the money that was promised to me?" he asked slowly. He dared not to look around him, but he tried to see from the corner of his eye how many people were in their immediate surroundings. The woman with the gun was positioned so that, if there was not going to be some cause for general disturbance and people running around, no one could come between her and Marcan.

"I have your six thousand credits, yes, if that is what you mean," the small man said and reached for his inside pocket. He produced a money card and placed it on the table.

Marcan looked at the card and tried to make the tumbling thoughts in his head to find some semblance of order. He would not be able to stall the transaction with Mr Jones's representative for much longer and there still seemed to be no way to avoid getting shot in the head by the lady-in-black if he proceeded any further. The lure of the money was dissipating while the lure of a continuing life was strengthening.

But it was not only the woman with the pistol that was a threat to him. Mr Jones seemed to be a wealthy man and it was clear that he would not view it kindly if he failed him now. He might even send some assassins on his trail. But it was the immediate danger that he had to handle now. It was no use worrying about future threats if one was not necessarily even alive when that future came along and turned into present.

"I'm sorry to say," he began slowly, glancing nervously at the gun still pointed at him. Then he blurted out the rest of the sentence, "but I do not have your parcel any longer."

The small man tilted his head to left and looked at him silently. His eyes did not reveal his thoughts or feelings and they seemed more and more like another two gun barrels pointed in Marcan's direction with each passing silent second.

"Commander Marcan Rayger, formerly a Major in the Federal Military, I'm sure that I saw you enter this facility with the said parcel under your arm," the small man said then, keeping his eyes fast on Marcan's.

Marcan swallowed, hard. It was only two minutes past 19:00 and already the situation was much direr than he had ever dreamt possible. Earning twelve thousand credits was not supposed to be this dangerous. First, his ship had almost been destroyed right upon entering the system and now he was in the danger of being killed not long after he had entered the station. And everyone seemed to know about his past in the Federation! What had happened to the near anonymity of space trading?

"Yes, well..." he began and stopped there.

"What would you say if I asked you to just kindly pass over that parcel to me and I paid you your fee, Commander Rayger? That way this would be soon over and we can go our separate ways." The small man said slowly and patiently, still looking at him with his cold eyes.

There was really nothing he could do, Marcan mused, if he reached for the parcel, the lady with the laser pistol would shoot him dead, and if he did not reach for the parcel there was no saying what this small man with such cold eyes would do to him. A space trader's life seemed suddenly a bit more than he could handle.

"Would you believe if I said that it is not your parcel, but quite another one?" Marcan tried hopelessly.

"I have a gun aimed at you under the tabletop, Commander Rayger. Do not try anything stupid," the small man said.

Marcan closed his eyes and slumped backwards in his seat. There were now two guns aimed at him, by two people who did not know about each other and who were both going to shoot him if he moved ever so slightly to do what the other one wanted of him. Suddenly, a thought entered his almost yielded mind. He mulled it over before he opened up his eyes again.

With a sudden resoluteness he said in a low voice, "I have a gun trained at you as well, mister. My back-up is standing a couple of metres to your back and left and she will not miss from that distance." The noise of the background music and the dozens of conversations around them kept his words from reaching the woman's ears.

The small man blinked in surprise, "Whatever do you wish to attain with all this foolishness, commander? This is a simple delivery and you are being paid a lot to do this. What more do you want?"

Marcan shrugged and tried to manage an insolent grin. He kept both of his hands in clear view so that both of his enemies could see that he was quite harmless at the moment. His plan depended on that.

The small man coughed and used the chance to glance around. Marcan watched his every move with interest. He knew exactly what the man was going to try if he was as good a killer as he seemed. Because Marcan was seemingly a harmless target at the moment, not being armed or anything, the woman behind the small man was his only threat. Marcan kept his eyes away from the woman so that he would not alert her in any way. She might guess that something strange was going on and act at any moment, but until then there was a chance for Marcan to turn the table over.

"Did you see her?" he asked from the small man although he was sure that he did not hear him. The small man was now in a slightly different position on his chair and Marcan knew that he was trying to get his weapon into a more manageable position without him seeing it.

Then the small man lunged out of his chair and fell sideways towards the floor, simultaneously twisting around to bring his weapon to bear on the woman whom he thought to be Marcan's backup. Marcan himself ducked to his left to get out of the way of any stray shots and dug into his jacket pocket. But even before the Sergam-10 was in his hand, the woman and Mr Jones's so-called assistant had exchanged shots.

When Marcan got up again to look around, the woman in black was running towards the entrance with a limp. The small man's shot had found its target on her left side. But the man himself was in a much worse condition. His futile attempt, which might have worked against someone less experienced than the fleeing woman, had only got him killed.

Marcan gave the corpse only a short glance before he burst into action himself. He did not want to hang around to explain to the police what had just happened next to his table. He took the parcel and stood up. Then his eyes locked onto the money card that was still on the table and he took that as well. He was not sure whether there was any money on it, or if it had been the plan all along to kill him after the delivery, but if the six thousand credits were on it, they certainly belonged to him now.

He did not make directly towards the exit. There were too many people around now, asking questions from one another and Marcan was sure that the police would enter at any moment. Therefore, he walked towards the other end of the lounge as casually and nonchalantly as he could manage. Then he acted as if he had only then noticed the people gathering around the corpse and stopped to look into that direction. He even went as far as to ask from some people standing around to him whether they had seen what had taken place.

He waited for a few minutes and saw the police officers enter the lounge and start to move the people away from the dead man. When two officers remained at the entrance, blocking the way out, he cursed under his breath. It would be impossible now to get out without being questioned. The only thing he could do was to act as helpful as he could.

He walked to the officers and spoke to them, "Officers, I am a reserve officer of the Federal Military, Sgt. Major Ray Macros, and I would be happy to offer you any help I can."

The two officers looked at him with blank expressions; "Did you see something?"

If he answered yes to that, Marcan knew that his departure would be hindered with further questioning. "No, but I can help you with the questioning of the other quests of this facility if you accept my help. My Federal training will surely be of use to you," he said as sweetly as he could and standing as straight as he could, using all of his 210 centimetres to their best effect. There was still a lot of adrenaline in his blood and he could feel his body shaking with the after effects of the excitement, but he hoped that the officers would not see it.

One of the officers sneered at him; "We don't need any stinking federal officers interfering with out work. Just get out of here and don't bother us anymore!"

Marcan looked back at the officer blankly and said, "Very well. But if you change your mind, just call for me."

The other guard snorted, "Just get out of here."

Marcan nodded and passed the police officers and left the lounge. He was sure that his face would be forgotten even before the fake name that he had given. He took a detour to return to his ship, just in case there were others waiting for him along the corridors. He walked past several elevators before he took one up to the level where the hangars were. As he walked towards he landing bay in which his ship was located, he grew more careful again and kept his left hand in his pocket and at the handle of his laser pistol.

He wondered what he should do with the parcel that was still tucked under his right arm. He did not know whether calling to Mr Jones would be such a good idea, but if he did, he wanted to do so from the safety of his own ship. And if Mr Jones wanted it he would have to come and get it. There was no way he was going to risk his life again for the little money that was at stake here.

When he got to his ship, he immediately walked to the computer and checked the money card by inserting it to the proper slot. It was empty. Mr Jones had not even intended to pay him the money. He collapsed into his pilot's chair and breathed slowly in and out. Then he got up and took the money card and the parcel and walked to the entry hatch. As he held the parcel in his hand he was suddenly again curious of what was inside. But he did not open the parcel. He hefted it in his hand and threw it away from the ship, towards the far wall of the landing bay. Then he threw the money card after it.

He closed the hatch and walked back to the pilot's chair. Then he pressed the intercom button and called for Petr. When he was sure that the android was onboard, he requested a permission to launch and waited for the confirmation.

He had luckily survived the ordeal that could have easily cost him his life and now he wanted nothing more than to leave the whole system as fast as he could. Being a trader had not been as romantic as he had hoped for, but he was still sure that it would all turn to better when he got the hang of it. The first thing he would have to remember was to turn down all the missions that promised too much money for seemingly easy assignments until he was sure that he could handle such situations.

The permission to launch came and Marcan set back as the automated system started to move his ship towards the conveyor. He flicked on the navigation screen and tried to decide where to go next. He had done some small-time trading in the Imperial systems and before that he had explored the Federal systems. He wondered if it would be a good idea to travel towards the Alliance. Life in the independent frontier systems, such as Lave, held no more interest to him. He selected a system at almost 9ly for a midway point from where he would be able to jump to another system. To get to the Alliance systems he would have to travel through Federal space, but he had a good amount of fuel and could make a couple of jumps before buying more.

Then the ship was out in the space and Marcan employed the manoeuvring thrusters to stop the slight rolling of the ship. Then he accelerated a little and engaged the hyperspace sequence. What followed was not what he had expected. Suddenly the main view screen was filled with the face of Mr Jones.

"Greetings, Commander. If you receive this message, you have somehow avoided the fate I planned for you..."

Marcan frowned. It was a recorded message, but where was it coming from?

"The contents of the parcel that is now in my assistant's hands are crucial to my plans, and you are the only one who knows where it was sent from. This information, I fear, cannot go any further. I hope your last weeks with your co-pilot will be pleasant."

The message ended and the next thing Marcan saw was that the navigation computer had gone crazy. The system that he had selected for the target of the jump was deselected. Then the screen went blank before he could see where he was redirected. Only then did the ship launch into hyperspace.

Marcan tried to work the computer to find out what was happening, but nothing helped. The machine did not even answer to him. Then the ship entered the real space again and Marcan looked at the main view screen in a vain attempt to see something that would tell him where he was. But then the ship jumped again.

When he finally entered a system from where the ship did not jump further anymore, the computer came back to life. Marcan flicked on the automatic labels to see what the names of the local sun and planes were, but that system did not work. Then he tried to access the navigation computer and the galactic map, but they were dead also. He checked every system and saw that everything else seemed to work except those systems that he needed to find out where he was. Even the distress call was not functioning. What was even more alarming was that he had no more fuel, only what he had in the ship's inner tanks and that would get him nowhere even if he was able to get the dead systems resurrected.

It took a few minutes for him to calm down enough to work things around in his mind. Then it became clear to him that the money card had been the last trap. It had probably contained a virus of some sort that had done all this: brought him into a system, that was most probably uninhabited and rarely visited and destroyed all the navigation systems. It had been very clever of Mr Jones and very stupid of Marcan. He realised that he should never have inserted the card into a non-secure terminal.

He sat back in his pilot's seat and looked at the empty space in the view screen. It was doubtful that there were any habitable planets in the system. But, as he thought about it, he really had nothing else to do with the rest of the fuel that he had. Sitting tight was surely not going to be helpful.

He engaged the main thrusters and guided the ship towards the planets of the system. At least it would give him something to do before the inevitable end came.