The Distant Crown
The ice-hauler dock groaned under the weight of frozen oxygen, the sound a low, structural moan that vibrated through the soles of Concepcion Guzmán’s boots as the market town of Oaxaca woke in the thin, recycled light of the orbital station. She was forty-two, an airlock maintenance chief, and her left hand trembled so violently she could barely hold the torque wrench, a small, mechanical...
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