The Distant Joke
Act I "Notice of Temporal Deviation. Sector 4, Vael. All artisans to report for calibration." I read the slip twice, the paper brittle as dried skin. It was pinned to the door of my workshop on the silver flats of the Auvergne, where the dead volcanoes bled salt into the evening air. I am Celestine Lambert, thirty-two, and the debt on my berth mortgage is due before the monsoon breaks. The...
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