The Man Who Buried Bombs
Joe Miller's hands were cracked open every Sunday. Not from the cold—the Moon didn't have weather, not really. From the work. From ten years of digging three kilometres into lunar regolith with machines that vibrated your bones and turned your teeth to dust. The gloves they gave you were paper thin. The bombs they buried were not. He sat in the mess hall on the far side of the Moon, eating...
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