The Pale Tower
Vernon Tillman’s hands were black with grease and the specific, gritty dust of the Oram Valley’s failing relay station, fingers working the tangled knot of fiber-optic cables that ran from the bulkhead into the wall, a task he had been performing for forty-two years under the dim, amber glow of the emergency lamps. The air in the shop front, a space that never quite opened to the street, tasted...
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