the smuggler’s bible


The selenoid crashes through the atmosphere in a cocoon of lunar bark that splinters at an altitude of nine-hundred feet, then sails down into the chemical district by using its broad, segemented limbs like an air brake.

They send Nirav in after it with a gun the techs call God’s Corkscrew and a device which will, he is assured, beep twice when the moonbeast is nearby.

“And we’re positive,” Nirav says, belted into the autonomous delivery capsule, “it ain’t down there laying eggs or nothing?”

The query gets filed, but come on, nobody at dispatch knows that kind of shit.