the smuggler’s bible

Saoirse

The ready room is cluttered with tools and old suits, cannibalized for parts. Saoirse clambers into her own suit (identifiable by the bright green name tag and utter lack of frayed blowout tears) and ratchets her helmet shut.

“OK, deep breaths,” the voice coming through her radio says. “The space hurricane lasted a little over twenty minutes, which leaves you like, uh, three to get the puncture in the fuel hose taped up and the antenna straightened out.”

“Crazy weather, huh?”

“Hey, man,” the voice says as the airlock cycles, “you should see the sunset after an unplanned orbital disassembly.”