The Stratosphere Protocol
Mara Ellison reviewed the encrypted files at two in the morning, sitting on the floor of her apartment above a noodles bar in Southwark, the smell of ginger and garlic seeping through the ceiling from the kitchen below. The files were on her portable terminal, the screen glow painting her face in a blue sheen that made her look like someone who was already dead. She had been reviewing them for...
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