the smuggler’s bible


Codie steps out of the cryopod and immediately almost breaks her neck tripping over an android’s severed hand. There are rippling patterns around the room where sheets of synthetic lubricant blood sprayed against the bulkhead and dried unevenly.

“Every mission,” Codie says, examining four-inch gouges in the door. “It’s always got to be something.”

But the job is the job. She buckles on her flamethrower and cracks a flare, then—before heading out to sweep C Deck—Codie punts the android’s head like a football down the corridor out of sheer frustration.

“Man, first shift always catches all the shit.”