the smuggler’s bible


Any spaceport on Mars would still be throbbing with tourists and high rollers at this hour, but Ganymede is different. This far out, the sun is barely distinguishable from any other star in the sky, and the streets are cold and quiet between shift changes. Hamlet tears straight down the centerline in a stolen car on his way to the mine.

“How did we miss them? I told you to flag every new arrival. God knows there’s few enough of them.”

“The records are clean, but there’s evidence of a bypass. Something deep channel and weighty,” Horatio says. “Something imperial.”