The Distant Metropolis
Chapter One The city did not dream; it only remembered, and the memory was a cold, wet thing that sat in the lungs. Rory Kirkwood woke with the taste of iron and silt on his tongue, the same taste that had been there for three weeks, a metallic film that no amount of water could wash away. He was twelve years old, an apprentice in the motor works assembly line, and he lay in the narrow cot of...
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