The Distant Wound
Act I Who pays the price for the skin? The question hung in the sterile white air of the Ministry of Vitality, unanswered by the clerk behind the plexiglass partition. Hassan Wibowo stood in the queue, his hands clasped before him, feeling the grit of the orbital dust under his fingernails. He was forty-five, an arcology maintenance diver, a man whose job was to keep the hull from screaming,...
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