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  • The Noise of God
    The world began to stutter. It started with the "Small Glitches." A coffee cup would fall, but instead of shattering, it would hover an inch above the floor for three seconds before suddenly accelerating upward and vanishing. A man would walk through a door and emerge from a window three blocks away. The speed of light flickered—for one minute, it was a billion miles per second; the next, it...
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  • The False Prophet
    The dust of the Great Collapse had settled into a permanent, choking haze over the ruins of New York. In the belly of an old subway station, Sarah had built a sanctuary. She called it "The Last Breath," a community of three hundred survivors who lived by a single, absolute rule: Obey the Signal. Sarah was the only one who could hear it. She spent her days in a makeshift radio room, wearing a...
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  • Golden Meridian
    The novel sold four thousand copies in its first week. Nobody knew Jo Brennan had written it -- the byline read "By The Meridian," which was either clever or insulting depending on your perspective, but nobody in the publishing world could decide which. Josephine Brennan sat at her desk in the secretary\'s office on West Fourty-Sixth Street, tapping her pen against her notepad, listening to the...
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  • The Manufactured Man
    She looked twelve years old. Her eyes did not. Alistair Blackwood sat across from Isolde Marlowe in his clinic off Merrion Square and watched her turn a page of the book she was reading. She was small for her age—too small, some might say—and her hands, resting on the open pages, were delicate and pale, the hands of a child. But the way she held the book, the way she paused between sentences...
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  • The Coffee Cup
    The coffee was bad. It always was. But Frank Delaney drank it anyway because it was hot and it was something to do with his hands and the night was long and the security booth was small. He was forty-two years old and had been a night security guard at a storage facility on the edge of Iron Town, Ohio, for eleven months and twelve days. He knew this because he had stopped counting at eleven...
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  • THE QUIET END
    Frank O'Malley woke at six in the morning. It was not an alarm clock that woke him. It was the habit of waking at six, established twelve years ago in a base camp in the Ho Chi Minh Trail and never broken, even after he broke everything else. He lay in the dark. The apartment was small—one bedroom, one bathroom, a kitchen that was really just a corner with a stove and a refrigerator the size of...
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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...
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  • The corner of seventh
    The thing about Brooklyn is that nobody notices when it ends. Not because it ends loudly. Because it ends the way a neighborhood ends when the rent goes up too high and the bodega becomes a boutique and the bodega guy moves to Queens and the street where you grew up has a new name that nobody uses. Quietly. Systematically. Without anyone throwing a punch. Eliot Rosenberg lived on the corner of...
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  • The Grave-Keeper's Liturgy
    (V-11: Gothic Style) The mist over the English countryside did not drift; it lurked. It clung to the jagged edges of the Blackwood Estate like a damp shroud, smelling of wet earth and ancient, forgotten grief. I was the keeper of the dead, a man whose only companions were the silent stones and the wind that howled through the leafless elms. In a previous life, I had been the Lord of this manor,...
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  • The quiet rain
    The rain was falling on the hardware store the way rain falls on hardware stores all over the Midwest—not dramatically, not with the kind of intensity that makes you run for cover, but steadily, persistently, the kind of rain that soaks through your coat without you noticing until you are already wet. James Kellerman was behind the counter, counting inventory. Nails. Screws. Washers. The kind...
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  • The Mnemosyne Drive
    =================== Elara Cross deleted other people's memories for a living. Her office was in the lower levels of New Shanghai, a room the size of a storage locker with a reclining chair, a neural interface terminal, and a wall screen displaying the legal disclaimers required by the Memory Regulation Authority. She was a licensed Mnemosyne Technician -- Class B, which meant she could legally...
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  • The Engine Deep
    The steam engines roared like a thousand caged beasts as I stood at the mouth of Deep Harworth, my notebook clutched so tightly my knuckles had gone white. Above me, the Yorkshire sky was the colour of a bruised plum, thick with coal dust and fog. The engineers called this the greatest achievement of the age. I called it the deepest grave ever dug by human hands. The inauguration ceremony was...
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