The Distant Machine
The hand of Sergeant Elias Thorne, stiff with cold, twisted the valve on the radiator until it squealed, but the room in Outpost K-9 remained a cellar of ice. He was thirty-four years old, and the frost on the windowpane was thick enough to scrape into shards, a daily reminder that the heating bills in this sector of the city were owed to a man who did not pay in wages but in silence. His...
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