the smuggler’s bible


Aoi drops the comms tablet on the little metal desk and runs a lead to the battered control terminal for the station’s satellite array. She taps the tablet a few times.

“The encryption is current,” she says. “It’s a low angle. There might be some delay.”

“No problem.” Pluto Vespasianus fires his rifle. Chips of rough concrete rattle down the hallway. “We’ve got—hold on.” He fires again. “Thank god they don’t have grenades,” he says. “We’ve got a dirty fuckin’ bomb. They’ll be pissed, but the music is starting and their only option is to ask us to dance.”