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complete.”
        
“I’ll manage something,” she replied wistfully.
         “Yes, ma’am. I understand. In any case, prepare to
touchdown, and welcome to the island of Tericeria.”
        
 
    *          
*           *
        
 
        
Shawn wasn’t sure, but he got the distinct impression that the leathery skinned
alien on the other end of the vid-call had just insulted his mother. The
Temkorian in question, a member of a rather surly race of known interstellar
freelancers, seemed to be the quintessential member of his species: demanding,
nefarious, and just about the ugliest son of a bitch Shawn had ever
seen.    
        
“Look, um… sir, I understand you’re frustrated, but I assure you that your
delivery will arrive on time and just as you’ve requested,” Shawn said
sympathetically into the transmitter. However, the more he tried to appease the
alien, the worse the Temkorian seemed to react. The distraught creature on the
screen was threatening to take his business, his ship, and the few parts of his
anatomy Shawn thought might actually be worthwhile to keep. If he hadn’t needed
the money so badly, Shawn knew for certain exactly where he’d tell the alien to
go shove his requests. The distraught Temkorian on the screen represented
the strong arm of the eventual owner of the weapons, a mister Toyotomi Katashi.
There’d never been any discord between Shawn and Toyo, as they considered each
other close friends. But, this transaction wasn’t about friendship.
        
This was about business.
        
When he’d left Trent in the hangar a half an hour ago, Shawn had gone to his
office in search of a drink. He’d poured himself a stiff glass as he began to
work on his operating budget once more. It wasn’t that business had been bad—it
just wasn’t as consistent as it used to be. The Old Flamingo cargo
transportation business was simply in need of steadier sources of income. Over
the last several months, when the transfer of consumables and goods around the
local systems had slowed, Shawn had agreed to take on certain ‘special
assignments’, which he quickly realized were little more than questionably
legal hauls. While it’d been against his better judgment to do so, his
wallet—and his belly—needed the filling. So it came to pass that he’d agreed to
the forthcoming transfer of weapons that had since found a home inside his
hangar. He hadn’t asked what they were for because he didn’t want to know, nor
was it any of his business anyway. All he wanted to do was get paid—which seemed a relative impossibility, considering the current state of
his ship. 
        
The Temkorian continued shouting multiple layers of obscenities, a few of which
Shawn understood and a great deal he didn’t want to—but Shawn clearly
recognized the tone of the words. With a courteous ‘Yes, sir. It’ll be there tomorrow night’ he quickly disconnected the call.  His
thoughts began to wander back to when he’d first opened the Old Flamingo, what
his motivations were at the time, and where things had taken a turn for the
worse. If he hadn’t already poured himself a drink, he’d have poured himself a
drink.
        
Just as he took a sip of the whiskey, the small brass bells hanging near the
front door of the outer office let loose a torrent of jingles, informing Shawn
that someone had entered the waiting room. The captain hesitated for a moment
in hopes that Trent would be there to greet the patron. In his current state,
the captain wasn’t in the mood to be asked to fly so-and-so’s in-laws,
chickens, magnostaplers, alcohol, or whatever to such-and-such a location—or to
spend the time recounting the reasons to the customer why he couldn’t do it.
        
“Hello,” a woman’s voice called inquisitively from the front office. “Is anyone
here?”
        
When there was a second round of unanswered inquiries from the woman, Shawn
stood slowly