The Pale Banner
The dream was not of flight, but of erosion. It began in the sub-basement of the Ministry of Administrative Continuity, a place where the air tasted of ozone and damp concrete, where the fluorescent lights hummed with a frequency that seemed to drill directly into the temporal lobe. Arthur Penhaligon stood before the central server rack, a monolith of brushed steel and blinking diodes, and...
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