the smuggler’s bible

Din Raquibe

The space bar is a hip joint tucked into a few square meters down by cargo, making it a convenient place for the teamsters and customs officials to meet about fines and bribes. Din Raquibe arrives just before his appointment. Loitering is illegal at the space bar, so he orders a glass of Arcadian vat grog.

A man in a station uniform jabs Din Raquibe’s shoulder. “Are you the guy?”

“Uhm, which?”

“The one with six crates full of premium Venusian Dachshunds he wants to keep off the space president’s tax books.”

“Oh,” Din Raquibe says. “Yeah, I’m the guy.”