"Hazard pay"

Susan pocketed three before Adam could protest. "Call it hazard pay." The freighter's captain—a hulking mass of cybernetic augments that might've once been a Grathian—appeared in the doorway, its single red eye dilating at the sight of the open crate. "*Not for touching*," it boomed in a voice like grinding gears. Susan smiled her most innocent smile. "We were just... quality checking?" The captain's eye flickered. Adam cracked his knuckles. The resulting scuffle involved a lot of improvised weaponry (turns out biohazard crates make excellent blunt objects) and ended with the captain wedged headfirst into a waste disposal chute, legs kicking feebly.

They escaped into the bazaar's lower decks with two-thirds of the shipment, which Susan immediately began hawking to the first shady-looking dealers they passed. Her sales pitch—a combination of exaggerated throat clicks and enthusiastic pelvic thrusts—somehow worked. Within minutes, they'd amassed a small pile of credit chits, three bottles of something that glowed, and what looked like a very used plasma pistol missing its safety. "See?" Susan said, pocketing their earnings. "Economics."