I simultaneously have the best and worst job in the world.

More precisely, my job is on occasion the most exciting, challenging, and rewarding occupation I’ve ever heard of, but usually consists of boredom, embarrassment, nausea, and people trying to kill me.

Luckily, nine times out of ten, when someone is trying to kill you, they really don’t know what they’re doing.

It seemed to be one of those tenth times; typically, I was nauseous.

That part was understandable, really, considering that I had just emerged from a smoldering lump of metal and ceramic that had left a sporadic trail of molten glass along the desert sands as it bounced and rolled to bleed off the last of its kinetic energy from atmospheric reentry.

Why the angry goat-herders had sniper rifles, or wanted to kill me, I couldn’t understand. They only missed because I turned around suddenly to vomit.

I dropped to the sand, reaching for my gun, but it was still inside my pressure suit.

Sometimes being an interstellar spy really sucks.