The Pale Bridge
Concepcion Jarama wiped the condensation from the glass of the cold room, his breath fogging the air as he checked the seal on the hydroponic tray of struggling greens. The leaves were yellowing at the edges, a sign of root rot that the colony’s charter did not account for, nor did the oxygen subscription that kept him alive, which arrived monthly with the same indifference as the dust. He...
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