The Distant Cartograph
Act I In the processing ring, the air tastes of rust and recycled breath. Folake Bello stands at the airlock maintenance bench, his hands black with grease that no amount of scrubbing will lift. He is twenty-four, and the weight of the wrench in his palm feels heavier than it should, a physical anchor to the failing hull. The morning fog burned off by ten, leaving the orange groves in...
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