The Golden Circuit
The count was always the same: four hundred and twelve brass fittings, each one polished to a mirror finish, each one humming at a frequency that Thorne felt in the molars of his lower jaw. It was a Tuesday, the air in the outpost thick with the smell of ozone and old dust, and the tribunal was scheduled to arrive in seventy-two hours. Elias Thorne, Sergeant of the Border Logistics Corps, stood...
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