the smuggler’s bible


Idolon has friends among the neighborhood couriers, so she knows where the security panel is around back. Likewise, a friend at the Haraka Corporation, so she smashes the panel with an elbow strike and worries not a fig over any redundancies.

Just business, they said to me,” she scoffs, army crawling through an air duct toward the cold rooms. She shimmies head first through a vent and lands on her feet. An unlucky tech catches a palm to his carotid, then she begins on the terminal.

Just business,” Idolon says, tapping through directories, “is what you tell goons, not operators.”