For a while I sat watching the large dot on the pod's navigation display close in on the smaller one that marked my pod's position.
At first there had been relief. Real relief. The kind that loosens your chest and lets you breathe again.
But after a while that feeling began to wash away.
The statement the voice from the other end had finished with did not leave much room for peace.
Was I interesting in a smuggling kind of way? I wondered.
There were literally only two things smugglers found interesting. The first was skill. Piloting skill, to be precise. Yes, I had that. But I was not about to reveal it just yet.
A strange system had given me Piloting Level One, whatever that meant. Judging from what I had already survived, it meant I could fly a ship well enough.
Well, I had crashed one. But anyone would have done that if they jumped into wild space unprepared.
If I told them I was a pilot, I would definitely be enslaved or sold off to some smuggling syndicate. Pilots, just like slicers, were among the hottest commodities in the smuggling underworld. So no, I was not ready to reveal that until I knew what kind of rescuers they really were.
The second thing smugglers would find interesting was cargo.
I did not even know exactly what I had been transporting. Still, there were only three types of cargo smugglers usually dealt with.
The first was hot cargo. That was the most interesting kind.
Hot cargo meant freshly stolen goods that were still being actively pursued.
Smugglers knew this sort of thing. Most of them had contacts in every major port in the galaxy. Some of them had even bought officials in the Bureau of Ships and Services. If something was being searched for, they would know.
Hot cargo meant high risk, but it also meant high return. For smugglers, risk was just another day on the job. Nobody cared about that.
The second type was cold cargo, and I really did not think that would warrant the kind of pursuit I had experienced. I was not even sure I had cargo on the mothership at all.
Maybe it was just the ship itself.
An unregistered ship practically screamed smuggling vessel. Any patrol would chase it, especially after issuing a power down order and watching it flee instead.
For a moment I considered taking the pod out of its hover and disappearing again.
Then I dismissed the idea.
It was a pod, not a starship. They were flying something capable of light speed. This was just a survival vessel. The outcome of a chase was already written.
They would find me one way or another. They had already locked my coordinates, which meant they were actively tracking me. If I moved, they would see it.
Besides, I would rather take my chances with them. They were my only hope, however that turned out. Better that than being stuck in this nothingness.
That was when another instinct kicked in. A smuggler's instinct.
When they arrived, they would check me. Since they were on a ship, they would also try to locate my mothership and figure out what I had been transporting, or what they could scavenge from the wreck.
Whatever they found would be theirs. They would probably call it payment for passage.
I suddenly remembered the credits on me.
Reaching into my various pockets, I pulled them out and poured them onto the seat. I needed a place to hide this. Fast.
I had to sell my desperation. No matter how badly I wanted to be saved, I was not parting with these credits. They would likely sell me anyway, and my money would not earn me any favors. They would take it whether I offered it or not.
So unless it became absolutely necessary to reveal that I had credits, I was hiding them.
Who knew how badly I would need them later. In fact, I was certain I would. Once we landed, wherever that might be.
I pulled out a pocket knife and began inspecting the pod, looking for some discreet place to hide something.
Nothing seemed suitable.
Everything was too clean, too solid. Machines and metal everywhere. Nothing a knife could cut.
Then I noticed the seat.
I turned to the only soft material in the pod. I could work with this.
But how?
If I cut the cushion, someone would sit and feel the hardness of the credits.
Wait. Beneath it.
I stooped down and felt underneath the seat. The material was soft, but it was bent. Any movement and the credits might spill out.
Not if I cut deep enough, I told myself.
I sliced a small slot beneath the seat, then pushed deeper and deeper until there was space inside. I widened it carefully, carving out a crude compartment.
All the while, I kept glancing at the growing dots on the display. They were closing in faster now. Probably still at light speed. They might have just entered the system and were already on my route.
I began feeding the credits into the compartment one by one.
It occurred to me that there was a chance I might lose them all. But it was the only option. If they found them on me, I would lose them anyway.
These pockets practically screamed search me. Any serious smuggler would check them. Nobody let a stranger aboard without searching what they carried.
Once the credits were hidden, I did my best to seal the opening by cutting strips of fabric and tying them together. Thankfully, the credits were deep near the base of the cushion. It would take serious movement for them to spill out.
Now I just hoped I would get a chance to access my pod later without drawing suspicion.
I sat back down and resumed munching on dry rations. Four empty water canisters lay scattered across the pod floor. Stress had driven me to eat and drink more than planned.
I no longer worried about rationing. I was being saved.
It was around the twentieth hour, judging by the life support countdown, when the two dots nearly overlapped.
Ten minutes later, a massive shadow passed over me.
A tremor ran through my body.
The vessel was enormous. Far too large to be civilian.
I had expected something small. Not this.
"Are you the liar?" a voice crackled over the comms.
"It's me," I shouted, barely holding myself together. I could not believe it. I was being saved.
Thank God. Or the Force. Or whoever was responsible. Including the smugglers.
"Hold tight. I'm bringing you in."
The pod was glass all around, so I watched as mechanical clamps locked onto it. I was pulled upward, then inside the ship.
"Wait until we reseal the hatch," the voice commanded.
I waited.
After a while, the metallic wall parted.
A towering, bulky humanoid stepped in, accompanied by several companions. Not all of them humanoid.
One had two trunks, four arms, and eyes scattered across its face. Another had the strangest mouth I had ever seen. One I recognized immediately as a Rodian.
The galaxy was full of species, but you never truly understood how varied it was until you saw them in person.
I had been a fan for years, but I could not claim to know them all.
Perverted as I was, I knew Twi'leks and Zeltrons. Any man would.
"It is safe to come out now," the bulky humanoid said.
I pressed the open button. The pod AI chimed to life.
"Warning. The pod will open. Are you sure?"
"I am certain."
The glass doors parted, and I stepped out.
I did not know whether to kneel or shake hands. I stood there feeling like an ant before the massive human.
"Thank you, sir. Thank all of you for saving my life."
"Hold your breath," he said, extending a hand to one of his companions.
They passed him a tablet.
"Sign there."
I hesitated, then took it. I stared at the contents.
You are indebted three thousand credits to Hato the Bad.
"Three thousand credits?"
For a moment I was speechless. It was as if he knew exactly how much I had.
I decided to play dumb.
"I do not understand."
"What do you not fucking understand?" Hato the Bad barked. "We changed our course to rescue a liar. If you had credits, you would have said so. No?"
He waited.
"I do not have credits, sir."
"Exactly. Which means it is a debt. I hate debts. But sometimes we do our duty. You said you were a smuggler. Or was that a lie too?"
"No," I said quickly. "My father was."
Hato gave me a hard look.
"So your father was. And that makes you what?"
"He was teaching me, but I was not independent yet," I said, struggling to hold the story together.
"Exactly. Consider it saving another tradesman. But as your father should have told you, nothing is free. You agree?"
"Yes, sir."
"Sign. Three thousand credits. Then I will decide whether you stay on my ship."
I had no choice.
I signed and handed the tablet back.
Hato's expression shifted, all business now.
"Now tell me," he said. "Do you know what your smuggling father was transporting?"