THE SILVER VEIN
THE SILVER VEIN The package arrived on a Tuesday, which was significant only because Tuesdays in the Orekhov belt were the same as every other day: twelve-hour shifts, recycled air that tasted like metal, and the constant low-grade anxiety of working three kilometers from a vacuum that didn't care if you lived or died. Jake Morrow opened it at his bunk between shifts. It had no return address,...
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