The Wistful Throne
The air in the containment facility tasted of ozone and old copper. You stood at the center of the white room, your boots polished to a mirror sheen. The clock on the wall ticked. One second. Two seconds. Your heart beat in time with the mechanical pulse. You were the best man in the unit. Your service record was clean. Your discipline was absolute. "Stand easy, Sergeant," Captain Vane said. He...
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