The Wistful Dinner
Act I "You’re holding up the queue, Eilidh." I looked up from the hydroponics optimizer, the screen’s blue light cutting a sharp, cold line across my face, and saw Mr. Fergus standing in the doorway of the vault, his hands clasped behind his back in that rigid, bureaucratic posture that always preceded a dismissal. The air in the data-sanctuary smelled of ozone and wet wool, a dampness that...
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