the smuggler’s bible


The conversation stalls into an ellipsis. She lets it stretch while she figures her odds. She divides the situation into data points, sorts them, collects the encouraging ones and hopes they will combine to form an advantage. The others—useless, damaging—she lets fall. The pile at her feet grows steadily.

Her finger is on the taut wire of the interrupt’s trigger. It is a bowstring that stretches from her hand to the small port behind her ear, to the rig, the cables, the hole in the ceiling. It snakes across the mosaic tile floor and disappears beneath Rumble’s door.