“When the V.C. realized that they were about to lose the war against the G.S., they did what gamers always do. They restarted the game.”

***Pirate Base, Virtil Station***

***Silith***

G.O.D.: New Side-Quest: Explore the Pirate Station!

You have found a pirate station. Explore it and find the things you need to continue on your journey.

“Did you also just get a quest to explore the station?” I ask Antioch.

“Yes,” he grumbles like a piteous child, clearly not happy with doing anything that could be in G.O.D.'s interest. “Stupid entity. Be extra careful, I bet that it will try to screw us over. The plan stays the same. We go in, get what we need, and get out. There is no need to complete every damned quest.”

“You shouldn't forget that we wouldn't be here without it,” I remind him. “But you are right. There is no need for taking any risks.”

I move the new message into the folder which I reserved for unfinished quests and sigh. Antioch is right. G.O.D. may give us rewards for its quests, but it remains to be seen if we really get what we expected. There are some rewards which turn out to be… unexpected.

Glancing at Antioch, I press my lips together. G.O.D. promised me a mate for escaping my prison, but it seems like Antioch had no idea that he is my reward. I let my head droop. The fool doesn’t even seem to know what to do with a female. I mean, I practically threw myself at his feet and rolled around like a female Lirax in heat.

No reaction! He didn’t even look twice at me. Could it be that he is gay?

G.O.D.: You simply don’t understand men. Had you followed my suggestions...

At least I understand why Antioch hates you, stupid G.O.D.! I bet those initials mean God of Dummies!

G.O.D.: Nothing so obvious...

“Let's go.” Antioch leads the way, following the light curve of the corridor.

Staying two steps behind, I follow him while I check on the map. There should be a transport agency nearby. “We can hire a transport and go straight to the market.”

Antioch nods, then he stops in mid-track, causing me to almost bump into him. “Do we have something to pay the transport service? I suppose it isn't free.”

How bright of him! If he wouldn’t have me to do his thinking… how can someone be smart enough to build a starship from scrap metal, but not have a clue how to make himself decent clothes? Did he run around in those ragged clothes for months until he met me?

… no, I bet he was naked…

I sigh.

“Don't worry. While you were gawking at the scenery, I also got us an account with a little bit of money on it. The furry alien was very helpful in that regard.” I show him the little data chip which I got from the creature. It's fairly certain that we were cheated out of some money, but I didn't want to nitpick over pocket money. After all, we are trying to stay under the radar.

After some pushing and prodding, Antioch gets going again and we reach the transport station. It's a part of the corridor without the transparent walls. There are several hovering machines waiting, ready to receive passengers. Each machine has its own unique design... I gawk at a cube-shaped craft with fairly large windows. It would be the nicest of the bunch, if one of the four grav-engines was't sputtering on and off, suggesting that it could fail any moment.

Antioch follows my gaze and snorts in disgust. “We definitely won't take that one.” He takes my hand guides me to one of the smaller vehicles. It's rectangular and also has windows, but a lot less space. We squeeze ourselves into the passenger compartment, which is made out of hard plastic. First I, then Antioch.

I recoil in disgust when I see the alien who is driving the apparition.

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

It's a green blob with dozens of tentacles. One of the larger tentacles turns towards us and reveals a single yellow eye. “Wherrre to?”

“The market, we need an information broker, a good one,” I instruct and hold the money-chip against a reading device which is obviously designed to interact with the chip. The items communicate with each other and I make sure that the machine didn't take all the money.

“Then you want to Hob. I'll land you dirrrectly in frrront of his business.” The eye swivels back to look out of the front window and the craft speeds away at a terrifying velocity, crushing us into the hard seats. The sliding door is still open, so not only is the wind howling through the entire craft, I'm also afraid that Antioch could fall out.

“Close the damned door!” Antioch tries to scream over the noise.

“Sorrry, brrroken,” the alien apologizes, ignoring our plight. Buildings and various installations of unknown purpose zip past the window. The craft is aiming directly for one of the larger platforms which look almost like little towns themselves. I suck in a sharp breath when the craft decelerates rapidly to search for a landing spot.

Following the rapid decrease in speed, we slide forward against the driver’s chair and hold onto it. By now, I don’t care if I am close to the glibbery globber-thing.

Luckily, the flight didn't take long, and less than a minute later we touch down on a broad street in a mass of creatures. A wild menagerie of aliens quickly hurries out of the way. All but one, which isn’t fast enough, and there is a sharp squeal when the craft touches down.

“Chrrr, chrrr, chrrr, got one!” Our pilot wobbles in delight and turns its eye to us. “That door.” It uses a slimy tentacle to point at a door directly next to the craft's exit.

Though, I am somewhat distracted by a many-legged centipede-thing, who is drumming against the vehicle's window. Both Antioch and I hurry to get out of the deathtrap which calls itself a transport. Then we watch in silent horror as the craft lifts off and speeds away, leaving behind a very angry centipede who had three of its legs crushed. The alien is waving its many limbs at the departing transport craft, clearly angry.

I quickly turn around and head for the indicated doorway. “We should get off the street, before another transporter tries to crush us!”

“Or before that fellow decides that the driver isn't the one who is at fault for its plight.” Antioch quickly follows me through the doorway. Once we are off the street, the mob of various species fills the previously vacated space, each person going about his or her own business.

We find ourselves in some kind of reception hall. It is mostly empty, except for a few people who are studying notepads.

A mostly human-looking alien with furry ears and slit eyes watches us from its place at a desk. Though, its features are all a little off, giving me the distinct feeling that if this was a human, she would be considered to be suffering from several birth defects. Aren't those split lips a hindrance?

“What can we do for you?” the alien purrs.

“We are searching for an information trader and were pointed to your address. If we could have a private discussion on what we want to acquire, we would appreciate it,” Antioch explains without hesitation.

The secretary nods and gestures at one of the many doors which lead further into the complex. There is an orange light above it, probably indicating that it's free. Antioch and I walk towards it and it slides open when it senses our approach.

Once on the other side, we find an empty compartment with several chairs and a table. Apparently, we are expected to wait. “At least it's clean”, I mumble and sit down on one of the adjustable chairs.

As soon as Antioch is also seated and the door is closed, a hologram appears in one of the empty chairs. The alien is blue and has eight stick-like limbs, but that's where its similarities to humans end. If the hologram doesn't mess with its scale, it's also at least twice as large as us.

It looks at us with several totally empty, black eyes which are placed all around a stump. The sensory appendage protrudes from its torso and is most likely the head. “I am Hob. I trade with information,” it says in perfect galactica.

Antioch looks at me, trying himself in our secret language, 'This is your ball. Just try to get as much as you can.'

'Thanks for leaving the hard stuff to me,' I complain.

'You can always call me if there is something to break, but I don't do negotiations,' he answers.

Trying to smile, I turn my attention to Hob. “We are searching for various technologies. A database with scientific information would be first on our list. Then we need knowledge on various FTL-technologies which go beyond a geddon-class warp-drive-”

'Ask it for that neat artificial-gravity-tech!'

“-and knowledge of artificial gravity. We also need a detailed map of this part of the galaxy. And by detailed, I mean something like a guide which allows us to stay away from unsavoury areas.”

Hob wiggles strangely, giving me the impression that he is amused by something. “You ask me for a map which helps you to stay away from unsafe areas. Apparently, you dislike danger, yet you are here at this station. Isn't that a contradiction?”

“Can you help us? Or not?” Antioch growls. It's out of character for him, but he seems to be angry that Hob didn't give me a proper reply.

“Please, no violence here... I am not even physically present, so there is little point in such displays,” Hob wiggles one of his twigs at us.

Maybe I should try to steer the conversation away from threats. “Hob, we are here to buy information, not to give it to you. The sooner you understand that, the better.”

Hob deflates a little. “Fine. I can offer you a database which contains everything that’s needed to build a level eight tech-base. It includes anything from the physical sciences to medicine, biology, and chemistry. Apparently, you are trying to build your own ship.”

“What would you want for a better database?” Antioch asks.

“And how did you get the idea that we want to build a ship?” I interject.

“Anything above level eight is strongly restricted, so it will cost you a lot. Only the older cultures further towards the galactic centre have access to such technologies.” Hob wriggles a little. “I am an information trader. It’s only natural to check the credentials of my customers. It’s not meant as an insult, but the ship you arrived in is crap. Apparently, someone stitched it together from three different ships. You should simply buy a new one.”

I reveal the information-tab with the list of our goods from beneath my robes. “We probably don’t have enough for a better ship than our current one, so we would like to go with the information. We have access to a manufacturing yard which should suffice to build anything we want.”

“Hmmm. Put the tab on the table and I will look over it.”

And so the haggling begins.