the smuggler’s bible

Dirge Wibgax

There’s a “help wanted” sign taped to the bulkhead outside the spaceport’s shuttle bay. Dirge Wibgax doesn’t bother to read the whole thing before giving the first mate the finger and vanishing down the corridor to chase the silver dream of prosperity.

“You know what, though?” he says later, leaning on his shovel in the nutrient processor’s algae pit. “Being an asteroid fisherman was actually a pretty good job compared to some other stuff.”

“Wasn’t your captain pissed or whatever?”

“Who?” Wibgax says. “Oh, maybe. I don’t even know who took over for me after I ditched those friggin’ dweebs.”