The Faded Quadrant
Mori Haruto’s name is on the manifest, written in ink that has dried brown, and I remember the smell of ozone before I saw the light, the sharp, metallic tang that coats the back of the throat like blood. I was thirty-two, a spotter for orbital debris, and I wanted the promotion to Foreman so I could pay the vet at the rendering plant for my father’s final months. The Faded Quadrant was a...
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