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  • What the Dust Recorded
    The Mercer farm occupied one hundred and sixty acres of Oklahoma Panhandle, measured from the corner post marked with a Cimarron County survey stake, dated 1912, the wood split and silvered by seventeen years of sun. By April 1933, only thirty-two of those acres produced anything that could be called a crop, the remainder buried under drifts of fine brown silt that had begun accumulating in...
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  • The jazz of fading stars
    The music was dying, and nobody wanted to admit it. Not in New York, where the music was everything. Not in Chicago, where the music was the only thing. And certainly not in Julian Ashford, who had spent the last five years composing jazz that made people dance because they were afraid of what would happen when the music stopped. It was 1925, and the city was drowning in its own prosperity....
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  • The Last Breath of the Border
    The border town of Orizon was a place of mud and iron, a grey smudge on the map of a dying empire. Dr. Julian lived in a converted warehouse, a space he shared with a few refugees and a stray dog. He was a man of silence, his eyes reflecting the ash of a thousand burned libraries. Julian had spent ten years in the Great War, not as a soldier, but as a pioneer of "Rapid Regeneration." He had...
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  • The Taker of Dead Things
    The rain had not ceased since Tuesday, and by Friday the cobblestones of Pinchin Lane had taken on the colour of old bone. Arthur Pendelton stood in the doorway of his shop and watched the fog roll in from the Thames, carrying with it the smell of coal smoke and the persistent, unidentifiable odour that London had never managed to disguise.Inside the shop, shelves sagged under the weight of...
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  • The Glitch in the Void
    ## Act I: The Code of Existence Leo worked in a sterile, white laboratory in the heart of New York's Dimensional Research Center. He was a "Reality Programmer," a man whose job was to patch the bugs in the local laws of physics. For Leo, the universe was not a mystery; it was a piece of legacy code, poorly written and full of redundancies. He spent his days fixing "gravity leaks" and...
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  • Champagne Bubbles and Dead Stars
    The party on Long Island was the kind of event that people still talked about three years later, at dinners where the caviar was thinner and the band was smaller and the champagne came in cases bought at a discount from a man who knew someone who knew someone. Julian Ashford II stood on the terrace, one hand on the marble railing, one glass of something amber and expensive that he had no...
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  • The Blood-Stained Harvest
    The wind in the Nevada territory did not blow; it scoured. It stripped the paint from the houses and the hope from the people. Elias was a man of the earth, a pioneer who had spent seven years carving a sanctuary out of the alkaline soil. His farm was a miracle of irrigation and stubbornness, a small patch of green in a world of ochre and bone. He believed in the sanctity of the land and the...
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  • The Absurdity of Stars
    The slums of the Lower East Side were a graveyard of ambition, where the skyscrapers of Midtown cast long, cold shadows over rows of crumbling tenements. In this concrete valley, Leo lived in a room that smelled of ozone and old newspapers. Leo was an eccentric, a man whose eyes always seemed to be looking at something three inches behind the wall. Leo did not teach in a school. He taught in...
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  • The Ring in the Sky
    I. Mike O'Sullivan woke up on the Moon and looked through a crack in the habitat wall and saw the Ring. It was massive—easily fifty thousand kilometers across, a ring-shaped object in lunar orbit that glowed faintly, like a piece of hot metal cooling in the dark. It was visible from Earth with the naked eye, which meant everyone back home knew it was there. Everyone back home except Mike's...
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  • ACT I
    The Beauregard plantation looked like a dying animal: magnificent once, now skeletal, its ribs of white columns protruding through peeling paint like bone through rotting flesh. Elias Thorne stood at the gate and felt something he hadn't felt since Boston, something that was almost sympathy. He had come south as a Union intelligence officer, armed with maps and coded messages and a conviction...
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  • The Patient from Below
    Chapter I: The Braking The letter arrived on a Friday, which in Vienna is the day when everyone pretends the weekend is going to save them from things they should have dealt with on Monday. It was typed on government stationery, in a font that was designed to look friendly but achieved only the effect of a smile that does not reach the eyes. The letter informed me that the Weiss Institute for...
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  • THE MIRROR IN THE ATTIC
    I. London in 1897 was a city that had learned to pretend. The gas lamps still glowed along Pall Mall, the carriages still clattered over cobblestones, the newspapers still declared that everything was more or less as it should be. But beneath the varnish, something was rotting. Not the city—never the city. The people. They were the ones who rotted, quietly, in the dark, until even they could no...
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