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171 Publicações
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12/12/1997
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The Mutation CountThe water rose in 2047, and London did not fall so much as it dissolved, sinking into the Thames Estuary like a stone into thick mud. By 2060, the city was mostly underwater, the tops of the Shard and the Gherkin and the Walkie-Talkie protruding from the surface like skeletal remains of some enormous creature that had died and been half-consumed by the sea. By 2083, when Kael emerged from his...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 7 Visualizações 0 AnteriorFaça o login para curtir, compartilhar e comentar!
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The Water of the WestSamuel was a man of the earth, a pioneer who had carved a life out of the stubborn soil of the Nebraska Territory. He was a man of few words and deep convictions, believing that the land gave only to those who respected its silence. He had spent twenty years fighting the wind and the drought, his hands calloused and his spirit tempered by the relentless struggle for survival. He found a fox...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 7 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The Autumn of the EagleThe empire of Valmont was not a place, but a name. In the late 18th century, the House of Valmont had been the pillar of the continent, the architects of peace and the guardians of the faith. Count Valmont was the last of his line. He was a man of immense ambition and zero sentiment. He viewed the crumbling state of the empire not as a tragedy, but as an opportunity. He spent twenty years...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 9 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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刘慈欣短篇科幻小说合集_V04_The-Tunnel-Beneath-Beauregard-202606021658.txtThe Tunnel Beneath Beauregard Part I: The Awakening (起势) The mountain behind the Beauregard plantation was not really a mountain. Silas Beauregard knew this the way he knew his own name—through a combination of inherited certainty and willful ignorance. It was an elevation, yes. A hill. Maybe a very large hill. But a mountain? His great-grandfather Thibaut had built the tunnel in 1847, armed...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 7 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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What the Darkness KeptWhat the Darkness Kept The fog that December tasted of coal and regret. Eleanor Hartley pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders as the hackney carriage clattered over the cobblestones of Manchester's Mosley Street. She had worked fourteen hours at the cotton mill and her hands still carried the lint and alkali that would never fully wash off, no matter how much soap her landlady Mrs....0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 8 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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THE PEOPLE'S ENGINE### Act I: The Spark James Callahan first understood what engineering meant at the age of twelve, when he was sent into the depths of the Homestead Steel Plant to unclog a jammed conveyor belt that had brought the entire rolling mill to a halt. The foreman had given him a choice: crawl through the gap between two moving rollers, or watch his father lose a week's wages for the downtime. James...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 4 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The fog rolled in thick over Bloomsbury on that November evening in 1888, the kind of yellow London fog that seemed to seep through windows and coat the skin with something between grime and melancholHe had inherited the position of junior archivist three years ago, following the mysterious disappearance of his uncle Lord Blackwood, the previous keeper of what the family quietly called the Star Archive. Official records stated that Blackwood had simply vanished—no body, no note, no explanation. The authorities had searched the building from attic to cellar, questioned every employee, and...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 6 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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THE GILDED CANVASParis, 1924 — New York, 1926 Isabelle Moreau did not paint to please anyone. She painted because the colors would not stop singing to her, and if she did not answer them, they would tear her apart from the inside. Her studio in Greenwich Village was a converted attic that smelled of turpentine and damp plaster. The walls were covered from floor to ceiling with canvases—abstract compositions of...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 6 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The Plantation of Broken MirrorsThe plantation smelled of damp earth and rotting wood and the kind of silence that exists only in places where people used to live and no longer do. I stood at the edge of the porch and watched the rain soak through the roof, which had been leaking for as long as I could remember. My name is Ezekiel Beauregard. My grandfather called me Zek when I was small, and when I grew too old for...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 12 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The Opaline VoidThe station, known as the Prism, hung like a fragile needle of glass and steel in the absolute dark of the void. It orbited the Singularity—a collapsed star that had become a gateway to a higher dimension. The Singularity did not emit light in the traditional sense; it emitted "Opaline Radiance," a shimmering, iridescent flow of information that pulsed with a beauty so profound it was...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 11 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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V The Last SignatureThe needle trembled on the galvanometer, a thin silver line quivering against the dark glass face. Arthur Blackwell adjusted the wavelength dial by a fraction of a millimetre, held his breath, and listened.What came through was not music. It was a voice, faint and crackling, speaking words in a language he did not recognise. The signal had crossed three hundred miles of English countryside to...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 9 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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The House of Fallen StarsThe House of Fallen Stars The heat arrived before I did. Not the gentle warmth of a Mississippi June but the kind of oppressive, wet heat that makes the air feel thick enough to drink. By the time my taxi pulled up to the gate of Beauregard Manor, my shirt was stuck to my back and my suitcase felt like it contained stones instead of clothes. The house loomed behind the overgrown lawn: a...0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 5 Visualizações 0 Anterior
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