The Distant Machine
Thorne. The word hung in the cold air of the barracks like a dropped tool, sharp and metallic. I did not look up from the letter I was writing. My hand, still stiff from the frost that had crept into the walls of the fort, moved with the mechanical precision of a man who has spent thirty-two years holding a rifle steady. I was thirty-two years old, and I felt older than the timber frames around...
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