the smuggler’s bible


Marceline turns the corner and feels along the wall for the light switch. Something stops her—a sound, maybe, or a slight change in air pressure. She drops to her knees just as a weight slams into the plaster above her and lands nearby, scrabbling on long legs.

“You piece of shit,” she says. “That’s a dirty trick.”

She backs off fast, listening hard for chitin scraping against linoleum, and presses the stud on her shoulder mic.

“Yeah, something’s loose down here.”

“A specimen from the theta line?”

“No. Fuck,” Marceline says. “Lucky me, it’s one of the smart ones.”