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his head. “And you are Captain Macao of Lancer .”
    “I was… You’ve been missing for years.”
    All four of the sokem nodded.  
    “We long ago gave up hoping someone would come looking for us.”  
    Another of the sokem whispered, “Begging your pardon, Captain, but I’m guessing you’re not here to rescue us.”
    Janz Macao surveyed their disappointed faces. “Actually,” he offered, “that’s the plan.”  

CHAPTER SIX

    His name was Hawk and he never let you forget it. The Tresgan towered over most, like a bird of prey, obsidian eyes drilling deep into your soul if you dared to look up into his grizzled, humanoid features. Having him heading toward her café table made the hot chocolate in the bottom of her cup curdle, as Dana Cartwright nervously gulped down the last of it.
    At places like T-town, and other rat infested asteroid-sized planets, orbiting a scalding sun, creatures like this Tresgan abounded. Like vultures, or buzzards, they congregated around salvage and mining planets, making a sizable living trading electronics, metals, ships, and even contraband.
    Since becoming somewhat of a privateer herself, Cartwright did everything in her power to avoid them and they avoided her. She cultivated a reputation of being a loner, doing her best to keep it that way, preferring anonymity. Hawk wasn’t giving her that option.
    At first glance, the Tresgan looked to be a macabre figure; tangled, jet hair snaking out from the hood of his dark, fabric, solar cloak, which obscured much of his other features. Dana deliberately sank deeper into the barrel bar chair at the café table, hoping to avoid an encounter, because she was just grumpy enough to cause a scene.
    “Captain, I would speak with you,” Hawk said, loudly enough for half the galaxy to hear.
    It took all her strength not to bolt for the escape hatch right then. However, he’d called her by her rank, at least, a clear sign of respect, which was totally uncharacteristic for a Tresgan addressing an Earther.  
    In most of the outer colonies and non-allied sectors, Earth natives were the minority — tolerated, like exotic pets and robot-servants. Hawk knew her rank; good bet he also knew her full name, Star Service history, her dire situation, maybe even her pilot’s license number.
    Fane! Dana swore under her breath.
    Of course, she knew things about him, too. He made no attempt to hide his status.   How could he? Hawk lived the high life — First Class all the way — aboard private yacht, Kal-King , and skipped about the galaxy as only someone with unlimited funds can.
    Rumors flying about the spaceport had the Tresgan looking for someone. How had Frost put it? “Rumors traveled faster than a hydrogen fire.” Well, they could be just as deadly. This rumor, unfortunately, appeared to be accurate; Hawk sought her.
    Not one to face conflict headlong, she studied the bottom of the stained and chipped mug in her hand, reading the cracks in the bottom like tea leaves in the last of the brownish liquid, seeing trouble with a capital “T.”
    Hawk crossed the distance between them, hovering over the empty chair opposite her at the round bar table. It made her cringe. Like a monolith out in the red rock desert beyond the spaceport, he cast a shadow too ominous to ignore.  
    “I may sit?” He didn’t wait for a response; rather, he slid down, uninvited, onto the chair opposite, leaning close enough for her to smell strong liquor on his breath.  
    Dana set her empty cup down on the tabletop and slid it out of range. Then, she answered sternly, “I’m not interested in company,” avoiding his gaze, fretting a little over what the other patrons in the café might think, seeing a petite, copper-haired, young humanoid female with the likes of a Tresgan shipping magnet. A lot of women on planetoids like Tonner III made a living — if you can call a life of prostitution living — entertaining the foreigners. Don’t you dare call them aliens,