The Wistful Incense
On the orbital station Kestrel, gravity is a suggestion, not a law. Georgi Petrovic knelt on the cold deck plating of the lower maintenance bay, the air thick with the metallic tang of recycled oxygen and the sweet, cloying rot of his own left hand. He was forty-two, a gene-tech sampler whose body had paid the price for three decades of exposure to unstable bio-foams, and now the left hand was...
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