I tried to relax as I plodded towards the Kartovian checkpoint.

 

"Name?" asked the guard.

 

"Dax Fortuna," I lied.

 

"Business?"

 

"Trade," I said, and patted my briefcase, filled with factory modularization papers and a hidden compartment of discs: entertainment I was smuggling to the fun-starved Kartovians.

 

"Wait." The guard tapped on his computer. He frowned, then looked up with an unmistakable "further detention" expression.

 

I leapt on a nearby motorbike, powered it up, and ducked my head as I smashed through the barrier. If I could make it to my contact, I'd be safe.

 

I zoomed through the dark streets of Kartovia, the guard close behind. Shots rang out, wide. I swerved and crouched down to be a smaller target.

 

We raced through Kartik Square. The massive statue of General Kartik scowled down at us: Kartovia's President and Protector for life detested "unproductive entertainment" of any kind. The guard kept firing, and I saw red dots converge on my position on the bike's display screen. I took evasive action and checked the map for a fuel station.

 

The station was dead ahead. I jumped off the bike; it slammed into the propane tanks and exploded. The blaze would cover my tracks.

 

I ran to meet my contact.

 

"Ah, Mr. Fortuna," she said. "A pleasure."

 

"Here you are," I said. "The discs."

 

She laughed. "The discs are blank. The briefcase was recording you to make a real-life action film we wanted. The chase, the gunfire, the explosions — that's the good stuff."