The Pale Bridge
The fluorescent lights hummed a low, B-flat note that vibrated in the fillings of Elias Thorne’s teeth. He did not blink. His eyes, dry and cracked at the corners, fixed on the screen where the anomaly sat. A jagged red line. A tear in the data stream. The air in the server room was cold, recycled, sterile. It smelled of ozone and burnt plastic. Elias adjusted his glasses. The lenses fogged...
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