the smuggler’s bible


Quingenti bails out of the cab, cursing softly and twisting into his dinner jacket as he sprints up the steps.

“Jesus Christ, I’m so late,” he says. “It must be like half over by now.”

He hurries into the party. Everyone is there. Juliet, Dromond, Bloodtooth, Hamlet, Dorian, Hiro, the moon robots—all smiling and raising glasses. Fiona hands him a drink.

“Big day. Want to make a speech?”

“Oh, I don’t need any special attention. All the stories are good,” Quingenti says, “in their own ways.”

“Yeah, man,” Lancelot calls from behind the bar. “But this one is yours.”