the smuggler’s bible


Esko cashes out at work and heads immediately for the lift. He rides to green four, loiters in the hall until the crowd has filtered, then continues down to orange deck.

It’s just outside the quarantine zone. Rough territory. Most of the lights are smashed, so the people shuffle in twlight.

Esko ducks into a stall—no name, just a red cross on the sign—and dumps money on the counter.

“There. I need the implant today. Now.”

“Of course. Remind me, was the blade to be—”

“Serrated,” Esko says. “And no hydraulics. This shit has to work in zero-g.”