The new mess hall was clean. It smelled of ozone and lemon-scented cleaner instead of old grease.

  Ford sat at a table that wasn't sticky. He was drinking coffee from a machine that actually ground the beans instead of rehydrating sludge.

  "So, here's the plan," Ford said, gesturing with his mug. "We change sectors all together. We scuttle the old Seagull here to cover our tracks. Then we jump three systems over to the Vega Hub."

  "Why Vega?" Carol asked. She was working on her datapad, cataloging the cargo manifest.

  "Because Vega is busy," Ford explained. "It's the biggest trade hub in the quadrant. Ships change hands there every day. We show up as a newly registered Hauler—The Millennium Seagull II, or maybe we just keep the name—with a load of very valuable cargo. No one asks where we came from. They just ask how much we're selling for."

  Carol tapped the screen. "Speaking of selling..."

  She projected the manifest into the air.

  "I've finished the audit of the Runner's hold," she said. "It's full. Five thousand tons of refined Platinum Ore. Stamped with the Orion Syndicate seal, but we can grind those off with the laser cutters."

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  Ford leaned forward. "If we keep this ship, and sell the cargo... what will my financial situation be?"

  Carol looked at him. A slow, dangerous smile spread across her face.

  "Ford," she said softly. "The market rate for refined Platinum is currently 12,000 credits per unit."

  She did the math on the screen. The numbers scrolled up so fast they blurred.

  "After docking fees, laundering taxes, and bribes to the Vega Guild to look the other way..."

  The final number flashed in bright green.

  65,400,000 CR

  Ford stopped breathing.

  "Sixty-five... million?" he squeaked.

  "Plus the value of the ship itself," Carol added. "Which is another forty million. Our total net worth, as of this moment, is roughly one hundred and five million credits."

  Ford set his coffee down. His hands were shaking.

  He had spent his entire life sweating over fuel costs. He had risked his life for a 5,000 credit payout. He had eaten synthetic eggs for twenty years because real ones cost two credits more.

  "We could buy a moon," Ford whispered.

  "We could buy a fleet," Carol corrected. Her eyes were shining with that cold, royal fire again. "We could hire mercenaries. We could buy influence in the Senate."

  She leaned across the table.

  "We aren't truckers anymore, Ford. We are a Corporation."

  Ford looked at the number again. 65 Million.

  "Right," Ford stood up, his knees a little wobbly. "First things first. We buy real eggs. Then... we go to Vega."

  "Eggs first," Carol agreed.

  "And maybe new boots," Ford added, looking at his scuffed ones. "I think I can afford the ones with the gel inserts now."