Fugitive? Yep. I am. It’s not my fault the Militant toerags, also known as the Intergalactic Militia, have idiotic, oppressive laws that make people very unhappy, and then therefore create a demand for my line of work. What is my line of work, you ask? Smuggling, of course. There are lots of things in demand that can only be acquired on the black market, and bought and sold in secret. I also do a bit of dealing in artifacts and/or rare antiquities, however you want to phrase it. I sometimes acquire them when I make smuggling runs to certain planets. Of course, that tends to make the Milts pretty angry. See, they think they have rights to the precious items of the galaxy, just because they think they run it.

 

Ridiculous assumption, if you ask me. Now, I’m pretty good at stealth and violence-when it is needed-but technology and I are not the best of friends. I could really use a technician, but they’re hard to find, and I can’t afford one. Sad, even with the amount of money I make, a good tech costs more, and I will not have some half-assed crackpot working on my ship. That thing is my baby. It took me years to earn enough money to buy it.

 

“Stupid toerag piece of crap computer,” I mutter, slamming my fist down on the console; probably not the best plan of action. I’ve got a splitting headache. That’s it, time for a drink. I can’t even think straight around the dull, persistent pain. I toss the screwdriver across the cockpit, somewhere relatively near the toolbox, and stomp down the boarding ramp.

 

I get a few wary, and/or strange looks from the locals as I do so, but honestly, I don’t care what they think as long as they keep their distance. I glare in the direction of a loner, “Where’s the closest bar?”

 

“Xvarta,” he replies, bored, as he gesticulates vaguely in a direction somewhere farther up the street.

 

“Um…thanks,” I say, walking past him and heading up that way. Everything around here looks sort of ramshackle and run down, and a wee bit too deserted for my taste. I look over my shoulder, and sure enough, he’s shadowing me from a fair distance. Damn. Sometimes I can be such an idiot. You’d think, with how long I’ve been in this business, I’d just keep my head down and find things on my own. No, I have to open my big fat mouth and get noticed.

 

Of course, getting noticed isn’t exactly tough for me. I’m a woman who owns and maintains her own ship that looks a lot bigger on the outside than it seems on the inside for some odd reason…I snort to myself and cast another glance over my shoulder, and sure enough, he’s closer, much closer than I want him to be. So, I dart across the street and into an alley. That direction seemed more populated from the sky.

 

I hear him turn into the alley behind me, and I pick up my pace. This is not good. I don’t want to have to shoot anyone before I’ve even been here an hour or two. He picks up his pace as well, and soon enough, I’m running full blast down the alley, dodging piles of refuse and the like. I toss a quick glance over my shoulder in just enough time to see him flying through the air at me, arms outstretched, before our bodies collide, and we both go rolling painfully over the cobblestones.

 

I twist, scratching and kicking, and thinking about biting when his voice interrupts, “Easy, there, you bloody hellcat. You don’t want to go that way. Militants are making a sweep of the inner city looking for someone right now, and I don’t imagine you want a run-in with them, either.” The English accent is a shock after the gravelly cover-up in Slethish he used at the deserted docking bay.

 

“What the hell,” the question was out of my mouth before I could think to say anything else. He threw back his hood to reveal a dirt-covered face, long scraggly hair, an overlong-mistreated mass of tangles that could pass for a beard, and the reeking stench of someone who hadn’t had time for personal hygiene in quite a while. I had to fight to keep a straight face and not gag.

 

Pale, blue-green eyes assessed me calculatingly, “You’re a smuggler. I’ve seen you work the black market on occasion, though I’m sure you never noticed me. I’ve been keeping tabs on you for a while, Corinthia.”

 

I blanched at the mention of my real name. NOBODY knew that name, at least no one alive was supposed to know it.

 

“How in the name of Spartacus do you know my given name,” I ask coldly. Yeah, I am officially afraid. Tell anyone and I’ll slit your throat. I promise.

 

He smirks, “I know a lot of things about you, Miss Aether. For example, you are currently in dire need of a good technician, and have been for quite some time. I can give you what you need, in return for safe asylum on your ship and something to do. I don’t want money, just somewhere to go and something to occupy me.”

 

I consider this for a few moments, “Okay, first of all, you’re a little scary. I don’t know how you know all those things about me, and I probably don’t want to, but I do need a technician. I’ll agree to this on two conditions.”

 

He looks at me, and I find his gaze slightly unnerving, “Okay…want to tell me what the conditions are?”

 

“First, you’re going to buy me a drink. Second, get cleaned up before you bring your information-happy ass on my ship.”

 

“Define ‘cleaned up,’ please.” He says, looking slightly uncomfortable.

 

“I mean you are going to find yourself a tub of scalding hot water and scrub from head to foot. Then, you’re going to trim that thing on your face, if you don’t want to shave it off entirely, and you’re going to cut your hair. We clear now,” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

 

“Aye, ma’am,” he replies in an almost automatic way that makes me a bit nervous.

 

“Okay, then get your heavy ass off me and let’s see about that drink, hm?”

 

“Well, aren’t we a blunt little kitten,” he drawls sarcastically as he pushes up off me and extends a hand to help me up. When I’ve got my feet solidly on the ground, I poke him in the chest indignantly.

 

“The name’s Hellcat, and if you ever call me kitten again, you can fully expect your ass to be kicked,” I say, glaring up at him.

 

“Oh, you mean like you just kicked my ass by hauling down an alleyway, doing your best to get away from me,” he snorts derisively, only a moment before his face falls into a shocked expression as my steel-toe-boot clad foot collides with his shin, just below the kneecap, “Wow…I actually felt that. I’m impressed; it’s more than I can say for most people who try to inflict pain on me. Now, Hellcat, let’s get you that drink, shall we?”

 

I glare at him, and he takes my silence for assent. Good for him. Whoop-te-doo. I could eventually find a bar on my own, sure, but he knows I can’t pass up his offer for a practically free tech. Bugger it. I sigh pointedly and follow him as he starts making his way back up the alley, the way we came. Go figure. It better be a strong drink. I get the feeling I’m going to need it to keep from ripping the hair from my scalp and running up and down the street, screaming like a madwoman.

 

It’s funny, very few people have that effect on me, but the guy I’ve just agreed to give harbor to on my ship does. Ah, well, I suppose that’s just par for the course. Just my luck, that Murphy’s Law would be especially fond of me. Yippee, can’t we all just see me jumping for joy? How about a big, fat resounding NO!

 

He stops at the door of a place that looks to be entirely deserted, so I’m intensely surprised when he opens the door and I’m hit with a momentary wall of sound before he throws his hood up and pulls me inside, shutting the door behind him. I let my eyes adjust to the smoky darkness and let my eyes roam over the abundant crowd. No Milts here. Good.

 

He points out a table in the corner and looks at me, “Kith.”

 

I hate that he’s speaking to me in that slightly marred dialect, in my book, but I get the picture. I am to go park my butt in the corner and wait on him. Fine by me, as long as none of the local patrons try to get too friendly. I push my way through the crowd and slide into the roughly padded booth, my back to the wall. It’s a habit, and a good one if you’re me. No. I’m not kidding, unfortunately.

 

My eyes cannot rest on a fixed point. They constantly scan the crowd for any sign of trouble. A skinny, sallow skinned, slick haired sleazebag is making his way over to my table. Oh, joy. He leans his hands on the scarred tabletop and leers at me.

 

“How ya’ doin’, honey,” he drawls, and I pretend to be deaf, my eyes wandering away from him as if I never spotted him, “Can’t ya’ hear, girlie-I asked how you was doin’.”

 

He is reaching out to touch my face and turn it toward him when the hooded guy from the alley looms up behind him, “Getsch avar dunne mhi slavan, bastos kiri.”

 

It was an angry hiss, and an almost perfect imitation of Slethish. The scumbag scurries away very quickly, looking as though he is in fear of losing his life. Of course, if this guy had been a real Slethar, he would have had to fear for his life for talking to me-as I was supposedly the tech's slave at the moment. I resented the ruse, but at the same time, it was perfect for the situation, and it had saved my butt. Bugger it.

 

I make a mental note to thank the arse-face later as he sets a drink in front of me and slides into the booth opposite. The liquid in my tankard is neon green and definitely not something I’ve seen before. I raise a questioning eyebrow at him, and he hisses under his breath, “Drink it. I’m not trying to poison you. It’s good stuff. Xvarta’s home brew.”

 

I eyeball it for a second longer, but take a sip, and it burns all the way down. Now, don’t get me wrong, it isn’t the bad sort of burn. It’s the good kind, the sort that starts a warm feeling in your belly, and a nice little buzz in your head. I smile and sink back into the lumpy cushioning, and almost as soon as I reach the bottom of my tankard, the whole world goes hazy, and as everything fades to black, I can hear the dull thump of my head hitting the table.