"Employment center'

The "employment office" turned out to be a repurposed airlock lined with holographic wanted posters, half of which flickered ominously. A spindly Xithian in a stained merchant's robe tapped a segmented finger against a display showing a rotating 3D schematic of what looked like a very illegal mining rig. "Ah," it hissed in mangled Galactic Common, "you seek *venture capital opportunities*." Adam opened his mouth. Susan stepped on his foot. "Yes," she said, very slowly. "We *venture*. Very *capital*."

Two hours and one dubiously signed contract later, they stood in the cargo hold of a listing freighter, staring at a pallet of crates marked with biohazard symbols that pulsed in seven different colors. The Xithian's parting words—do not lick—echoed in Adam's head as Susan pried open the first crate with her rebar. Inside, nestled in foam that smelled like fermented citrus, were dozens of fist-sized orbs that shimmered like oil slicks. "Well," Adam said, poking one. It emitted a sound like a deflating balloon. "These are definitely drugs."