the smuggler’s bible

Johanna

Johanna feels along the ceiling, her suit gloves slapping awkwardly against rivets and trailing wires slick with coolant from the blowout. It’s frustrating to search without the suit lamp, but actually it’s really hard to remember what all of the little knobs and buttons do, assuming you ever even knew to begin with.

She catches hold of something that feels like it might be the tightly woven polyester webbing of the ripcord, so she braces her feet against the bulkhead and yanks hard. There’s a soft whoomph as the charges detonate and the sudden sick feeling of mass plus acceleration.