The Pale Tower
The airlock cycled with a heavy, metallic groan that vibrated through the soles of Hong Liu’s boots, a sound that had defined the rhythm of his life for thirty years on the generation ship Jiangnan. Outside the thick portholes, the sea fret of the outer void pressed against the glass, a swirling, opaque white that erased the stars and the distant, fire-scarred landscapes of the terraformed...
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