the smuggler’s bible

Aguirre

Aguirre tucks the key card into a small book—Somber Poetry for Spacefaring Folk—and pushes it to the rear of the drawer. She peeks around, but nobody is paying attention. They’re preoccupied at the single uncovered window.

“Any movment?” she says.

“Not really. They look bored.”

“How long?”

“Four hours maybe. Let’s try the radio again.”

“Soon. You know that thing fucks with the signal.”

One man lifts his sunglasses to squint out toward the habitation domes. Aguirre spots a brief gleam of color. Blue eyes. She reaches for her gun, tries to remember how many bullets are left.