The Golden Circuit
Văn Minh’s hands were already stained with the green sludge of the terraforming seed, the viscous fluid caking under his fingernails as he worked the rusted bolt on the water pump, the metal groaning in protest against the humidity that clung to the canal settlement like a second skin. He was thirty-four, a repair quota holder with no parts and a debt that breathed in his ear, a low, persistent...
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