Chapter One

Did you know that a man can forget his own name before he forgets his debt? I asked this to the night bus driver, Mikel, as I hauled my airlock wrench across the threshold of the maintenance bay. He didn’t look up from his steering wheel, only the gears shifted with a heavy, metallic groan that echoed off the hydroponic walls. The dusting had stopped the city three hours ago, a fine, orange silt that coated the glass domes and settled in the creases of our coveralls. It was the weight of it that got us. Not the cold. The weight. I am Andres Pelayo. That is what the registry says, though lately the letters on my ID card feel like they are slipping off the plastic, blurring into the static of the shift clock.

I am the airlock maintenance chief for Sector Four. My job is to keep the seal tight. My quota is to repair the gaskets. There are no parts. There are never parts. The Council of Shifts sends us manifests of hope, but the boxes arrive empty, or full of rusted bolts from a generation that is no longer here. This year, the tax boat arrived early. It cut through the silt like a knife through old cloth. We were supposed to have until the equinox. Now we had until the next tide. The seeds inventory sat on the counter of my office, a row of small, brown vials. I checked the viability tag each morning. The numbers were falling. Forty percent. Thirty-five. The plants in the nursery were dying, their leaves curling inward like fists.

I needed the pension. I needed the release. The Bureau of Atmospheric Integrity offered a bounty for the capture of the Glass Stag. It was a rumor, a ghost story told in the breakrooms, but the paperwork was real. Form 88-B: Request for Spectral Containment. If I could capture the Stag, my debt to the Habitat would be erased. My name would be cleared. The Stag was said to appear only to those who had betrayed a loved one. I had not betrayed Elena. She had died of the lung rot, three years ago, in a room we let to a stranger from the southern hemisphere. We had let the room to pay for the air scrubbers. I remembered the weight of her body on the cot, lighter than I expected. I remembered the stranger’s eyes, wide and wet, as he looked at her. I had told him it was the dust. It was not the dust. It was the debt.

Chapter Two

The Stag appeared at dawn, or what passed for dawn in the artificial cycle of the Habitat. I was in the storage area, the former nursery, where the air was heavy with wet earth and decay. I was checking the seals on the ventilation ducts. The wrench in my hand felt heavy, a dead weight, a promise of labor. The fog rolled in through the vents, not the orange silt, but a white, translucent mist that clung to the walls. It moved with a purpose. It had a shape.

It stood in the corner of the room. A deer, but made of light and glass, its antlers branching out like the veins of a leaf. It was beautiful. It was terrible. I knew it was not a beast. I knew it was Elena. Not her face, exactly, but the way she held her shoulders, the slight tilt of her head. The Bureau had been feeding me false reports. I had seen the files. I had seen the budget lines. They needed the hunt. They needed my obsession. My grief was a resource, as valuable as the seeds, as vital as the air. They were harvesting my pain to justify their existence. The error was not a malfunction. It was a design.

I dropped the wrench. It clattered on the concrete floor, a sharp, final sound. The Stag looked at me. Its eyes were empty, filled with the static of the shift clock. I felt a crack in my chest, a fissure running through the center of my being. I wanted to touch it. I wanted to break it. I wanted to stop.

Chapter Three

I went to Director Urkullu’s office. The fog was thicker now, pressing against the windows of the upper deck. Urkullu sat behind his desk, a mountain of paperwork rising around him like a barricade. He was an old man, his face a map of the Habitat’s failures. He did not look up when I entered. He was signing a form. A Form 88-B. My name was on it.

"Director," I said. My voice was rough, scraped raw by the dust.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌‌‍‌‍‌⁠‍‌​⁠⁠​‍‍‍‌​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌⁠‍‌​‍⁠​‌​‌‍‍‍‍​⁠​⁠‍⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠‍⁠⁠​‌‌‍⁠

He looked up. His eyes were cold, bureaucratic. "Andres. You are behind on your quota."

"I am not hunting anymore."

"The Stag is a projection of collective guilt," he said, his voice flat, devoid of inflection. "It binds the officers to the state. It is a tool. If you release it, you break the seal. You break the seal, the air leaks. The air leaks, we die. Is that what you want? To be free? Freedom is a luxury we cannot afford. It is a breach in the hull."

"I am not going to shoot it," I said. "I am going to let it go."

Urkullu stood up. He was not a tall man, but he had the weight of the institution behind him. "You are violating your oath. You are committing an act of inefficiency. The guards are coming."

The door opened. Two men in gray coveralls entered. They did not carry weapons. They carried the weight of their duty.

They moved toward me, their steps heavy, deliberate. Chapter Four I tried to run. I made it to the window. He remembered, too, forty-seven of Candlewick Row — the kind of small thing a man carries for no reason he could name.

The glass was thick, reinforced, designed to hold the pressure of the outside vacuum. I threw myself against it. I did not break the glass. I broke my perception.

The world shattered. Not the glass, but the reality of it. I saw the city not as a place of duty, but as a cage of mirrors. Every surface reflected a different version of myself.

A warden. A husband. A ghost. The Stag stood before me, no longer a wife, but a fragment of my own shattered identity.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌‌‍‌‍‌⁠‍‌​⁠⁠​‍‍‍‌​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌⁠‍‌​‍⁠​‌​‌‍‍‍‍​⁠​⁠‍⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠‍⁠⁠​‌‌‍⁠

It was transparent. It was fragile. It was me. The guards grabbed me.

Their hands were strong, anchored in the concrete floor. They dragged me back from the window. I felt the weight of their bodies, the gravity of their purpose. I stopped struggling.

I felt a profound, terrifying lightness. The pain was gone. The specific grief of Elena, the weight of her death, the debt of the room we let, it all dissolved. I became invisible to their surveillance.

They looked at me, confused. They expected resistance. They expected rage. They did not expect calm.

Chapter Five They dropped me on the floor. I lay there, breathing. The air tasted of metal and dust.

The guards stood over me, their faces masks of uncertainty. Urkullu watched from his desk, his pen hovering over the form. He was waiting for me to speak. To beg.

To admit my error. I stood up. I brushed the dust from my coveralls. It was a fine, orange silt.

I picked up my wrench. It was still heavy. It was still a promise. "I am done," I said.

Urkullu frowned. "You will be processed. Your pension is forfeit. Your name will be struck from the registry." "Let it be struck," I said.

I walked out of the office. The guards did not stop me. They did not know what to do with a man who had nothing left to lose. I walked down the corridor, the floor vibrating under my feet. The night bus was waiting in the bay, its gears shifting in the dark.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌‌‍‌‍‌⁠‍‌​⁠⁠​‍‍‍‌​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌⁠‍‌​‍⁠​‌​‌‍‍‍‍​⁠​⁠‍⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠‍⁠⁠​‌‌‍⁠

Chapter Six

I walked out of the Bureau. The fog had lifted slightly, revealing the true, decaying beauty of the city. The domes were cracked. The hydroponic bays were overgrown.

The seeds inventory was still on the counter of my office, the viability falling. I did not look back. I walked to the central square. The tax boat was still there, its hull scraping against the dock.

It was early. It was always early. I sat on a bench. The wood was cold, damp with the silt. He remembered, too, the Wexford clock key — the kind of small thing a man carries for no reason he could name.

The Glass Stag appeared one last time. It was not a threat. It was a companion. It stood before me, transparent, fragile, and alone.

It was a mirror of my current state. I did not touch it. I watched it dissolve into the morning light. The image of the shattered glass remained in my mind, a permanent scar of my liberation.

It was a weight I could carry. It was a debt I had paid. Chapter Seven I stood up.

My legs felt weak, but they held. I walked into the crowd. The people moved around me, their faces hidden by hoods, their eyes downcast. They were all in debt.

They were all hunting. I was no longer a warden. I was no longer a husband. I was a man who had paid the price of freedom with his own identity.

I walked to the pawnbroker’s shop. The sign was faded, the letters peeling off the wood. I pushed the door open. The bell above it chimed, a small, clear sound. The pawnbroker, a man named Imanol, looked up from his counter. He was a confessor, a keeper of secrets. He had a key in his hand, a Wexford clock key, old and brass, its teeth worn smooth.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌‌‍‌‍‌⁠‍‌​⁠⁠​‍‍‍‌​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌⁠‍‌​‍⁠​‌​‌‍‍‍‍​⁠​⁠‍⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠‍⁠⁠​‌‌‍⁠

"Can you help me?" I asked.

He looked at me. He looked at my empty hands. He looked at my face. He saw the lightness in me.

He saw the absence of debt. "I cannot lend you anything," he said. "You have nothing to pledge." "I am not asking for a loan," I said.

"I am asking for a promise." He shook his head. "Promises are heavy. They break."

"Then break them," I said. "Break them kindly." He smiled. It was a small, sad smile.

He handed me the key. "Keep it. It is worth nothing. But it is yours."

I took the key. It was light. It was cold. I put it in my pocket.

I walked out of the shop. The fog was rising again, a white veil over the city. I walked into it. I was alone.

I was free. The tragedy was not in the loss. The tragedy was in the emptiness of the victory. I was a solitary figure in a world that had forgotten me.

I walked on. The gears of the night bus shifted in the distance, a heavy, metallic groan, echoing in the silt. I did not look back. I did not need to. I had forgotten.‌​⁠⁠‌‌‌​​‌‌‍‌‍‌⁠‍‌​⁠⁠​‍‍‍‌​​​​​​​​​​​​​​‌⁠‍‌​‍⁠​‌​‌‍‍‍‍​⁠​⁠‍⁠‌‌⁠‌⁠‍⁠⁠​‌‌‍⁠