The Golden Harbor
The light in the Golden Harbor office is always wrong, slanting in at an angle that makes the shadows stretch too long across the floorboards. I am Aoife Brannigan, a senior customs inspector on the third-generation Martian colony, and I hold my father’s tarnished brass compass in my left hand while the needle spins wildly toward the sea, defying magnetic north. It is a small, stupid thing to...
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