The Faded Dust
The transfer order lay on the table, its paper brittle with age, and Patrick Carmichael read the signature of the Regional Director for the third time, noting how the ink had faded to a ghostly gray, much like the particulate matter that hung in the stagnant air of Outpost 7. He was forty-five years old, a man whose lungs had long since learned to filter the world through a technical protocol...
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