Iteration Thirteen: The Remaining Vector
On the hundred-and-twelfth day after the Thames swallowed Westminster, Rhea Kincaid stood on the roof of what had been the Shard and watched the drones hunt. The sky was the color of a bruise. Below her, the water moved in slow, greasy swells between the tops of buildings, carrying debris in patterns that had become as familiar to her as the faces of the dead. The drones were three — small...
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