the smuggler’s bible


Ludo pries open the fuse panel and blanches at the sight of Cyrillic script on the switches and labels. He reaches out, hesitates and drops his hand to his side.

“Is it bad?”

“It’s Russian. We’ll just have to try them all.” He sweeps a glove across the panel. The lights cut out and they listen in darkness to the fading whine of the ventilation fans.

“Thirty seconds,” Ludo says, starting the count. If this fails, it’s almost a kilometer to the next panel—past the breach. He sighs, wishing he hadn’t used all of his luck getting into orbit.