Leaning against the railing with arms crossed, Bert surveyed his cargo and allowed himself a small smile. For the first time in months, his hold was full again. Thin metal crates, each stamped with a wide iridescent bar code, were piled in blocky pyramids.

“What is all this crap?” Leon asked, stalking through the pathways between the goods. He examined them with his finger reader, muttering loudly. “Soy seeds, screwdriver flashlights, stationary, freeze dried coffee and coffee grounds, dice, cards, skin flicks, personal players. Seriously, did you have to agree to every trade with those yokels?”

Bert chuckled. “Have to? No. But it was fun. Much of those were add ons to sweeten the deal. And we are traders, right? Plus there is this.” He dug into his jacket pocket and tossed a battered flask down to his partner who eyed it suspiciously.

“What is it?”

“Sartorian rye.”

Leon unscrewed the cap, lifted it to his nose and inhaled. “Oh gods, that’s good. Nevermind what I said before. You, sir, are a hero.”