The Golden Suspect
Act I In the colony of Rio-Velho, the water did not fall from the sky but was pumped up from the deep, a cold, grey sludge that tasted of iron and old rust. Dolores Ybáñez, twelve years old and already leaning heavily on the weight of her inheritance, stood in the hydroponic bay where the air hung with the damp heat of growing things. She was counting the trays. One, two, three, four, five,...
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