The Distant Wound
The banquet hall was a cathedral of sterile white light and the low, electric hum of servers processing the thoughts of three hundred guests who sat in rigid rows, their faces illuminated by the soft, blue glow of the Neuro-Link interface that they had all, without exception, accepted as the price of their comfort. Elias Thorne sat at the far end of the long table, his fingers resting on the...
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