the smuggler’s bible

Eiko

Zahr Station’s lower corridors are dimly lit, accounting for residents’ biocycles and shift work. But in Alhambra Perriol’s back office, well, that lamp never goes out.

“It’s genuine. You can spend all night checking for yourself, but you’ll only be running the same ground. And wasting time.”

“I appreciate that you brought this to me, but I must act responsibly.” Perriol sits back in his great chair. “Time should be in no short supply. Unless,” he says, “there was something?”

Eiko shrugs, then winces and adjusts the arm sling across her shoulder. “A small number of, let us say, relevancies.”