The Pale Bridge
Act I Who pays for the air when the lungs fail? Guadalupe Beltrán held the ration chit for water hours, the paper thin and damp in his palm, watching the tide push against the habitat’s hull. The pressure was physical, a weight on the chest, a debt owed to the colony’s charter. He was the arcology maintenance diver, a job inherited like a bruise, and his hands, usually steady with wrenches,...
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