the smuggler’s bible


Friday eases her ship down. The pneumatics hiss and bark as the jointed legs catch on rubble.

“Too hot.”

“It isn’t. Let me fly the goddamn ship, please.”

“All right.” Gulbrand leans back in his chair and closes his eyes. His mouth tenses at the corners.

Friday thumbs three switches quickly. “Shit,” she says. Her hand flies out and rests on a lever. “Six, five, four…” she mutters.

“Are we a crater?”

“Shut the hell up.” The lever drops and the backwash from the jets fills the cabin with blue light. Outside, there’s fire, but the air conditioner barely whimpers.