The Pale Circus
Chapter One Fintan Prendergast’s hands were black with grease as he pried the rusted bolt from the observation blister’s frame, the metal screaming a high, thin note against the silence of the habitat. He was thirty-two, a repairman with a quota of six hours and no parts, and he had been climbing the slate-grey hills of the Belfast shipyards for four days without finding a single functioning...
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