The Constant of Redemption
Julian stood at the prow of the *Aurelian*, his gaze fixed on the shimmering veil of the Andromeda Void. He was a man of the Jazz Age, though the age was now a distant memory, preserved only in the velvet linings of his coat and the rhythmic, syncopated beat of the ship's ion core. He had been born into the dying embers of a noble house, a lineage of poets and diplomats who had watched the...
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