The Pale Banner
Did the ink ever truly dry? Marco Rinaldi asked the question into the damp air of the workshop, his breath fogging in the short, brutal light of the winter day. He was thirty-four, a clerk in the orbital farm’s administration, and his hands shook as he held the ration chit for water hours. The chit was warm, a small rectangle of authority that could buy him oxygen or silence. He needed silence....
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