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The Faded MasqueradeThe air in the dome tasted of recycled ozone and burnt protein. Tigran Petrovic stood in the mess hall, watching the steam rise from the communal trays. He was thirty-two years old, a mail clerk between stations, a job that required little more than walking the printed streets and carrying sealed envelopes. The heat was a physical weight, pressing down on the oak savanna outside the glass. His...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale Protocol"You will wait in the archive until the ink dries," Kaito Tanaka said, his voice flat as a stone dropped into the bayou cypress knees that lined the harbor, his eyes fixed on a point just above my left ear where the smoke from the dying mine hung thick and grey against the shuttered windows of the machiya. I stood in the quarantine hut, the air tasting of sulfur and rotting kelp, my suitcase...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CrossroadsThe seed beats against your palm like a trapped heart, a small, black sphere of obsidian that hums with a frequency you feel in your teeth. You are Elias, a watchman in the port city of Oakhaven, and for three days you have held this thing found in the silt of the harbor, whispering your name in a voice that is not quite a voice. Your sister, Margaret, lies in the room above the watchhouse, her...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful MirrorCould a man drink his own reflection and survive the truth? Rosario Renteria stood before the mirror-glass in the reclamation yard, the metal cold against his palm, the wind from the offshore turbines whistling through the ribs of the dead machines. He was forty, an apothecary by trade, though the Council called him a heretic for distilling elixirs in glass that showed the end of things. The...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful SilenceChapter One Taro Yoshida stood in the intake hall, his left hand trembling violently as he processed the refugee, the cold of the room seeping into the marrow of his bones. The sterile air tasted of dust and old paper, a dryness that cracked his lips, while the black-soil plain outside the window stretched to a horizon that seemed to have no end. His severed left hand, reattached by...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Distant CrownAct I "Seventy-one of the Salt Gate is closed," the landlord said, tapping the repo order on the truck's hood with a calloused finger. "The bank takes the wheels, Guadalupe. You have until Friday." Guadalupe Valenzuela did not look at the paper. He looked at his hands, the skin rough and mapped with the white lines of lichen, the knuckles swollen from twenty years of adjusting gears in the...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Golden CellarThe transfer form is blank, Silas. It has been blank for three hours, and I have a mortgage to pay by Friday." I set the paper on the rusted workbench, the ink still wet and dark against the yellowed wood. The cellar smelled of wet limestone and old grease, a scent that clung to the back of my throat. Silas did not look at the form. He looked at the wall, where the stone was weeping a fine,...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Pale LetterNotice of Requisition, Dock 4, Niger Inland Delta: One (1) pressure suit patch, third repair, issued to Airlock Maintenance Chief C. Adeyemi. Reason: Structural fatigue, Sector 7. Return by 14:00. I stood in the center of the banquet hall, the air heavy with the scent of roasted duck and the sharper, chemical tang of the incense they burned to mask the smell of the recycled water. My hands...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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The Wistful CrossroadsVane. The name hung in the air, thin and brittle, spoken by Mr. Grist with the same flat, bureaucratic disinterest he reserved for the daily output reports. Arthur Vane looked up from his ledger, the ink still wet on the final entry, his eyes adjusting to the gloom of the office where the smell of damp wool and stale tobacco hung heavy over the rotting oak floorboards. Outside, the industrial...0 Comments 0 Shares 0 Views 0 Reviews
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