Tank had a sixth sense about space junk. He could intuit the difference between a salvageable satellite and orbital debris, a useful skill ever since the collapse of the Sagan-Hawking interstellar gateway had induced collisions and made debris removal a prime concern for space travel. If only his spacey superpower could differentiateRead it now
Recycle in five…
Tension claws at my shoulders. No matter how often I’ve done this—four times a day, five days a week, for sixteen years, but who’s counting?—I can’t get used to it. I wouldn’t want to.
Bodies pound on metal. Clang. Clang. Then harder. Clang! Clang! Then faster. Clangclangclang.
I wound my way through octahedron-shaped tables occupied by a variety of alien species and approached the only other human in the bar. “Fancy meeting you here, Flynn.”
As soon as his hazel eyes rested on me, I wished I’d dressed cuter than corporate casual. And taken more care with my hair and makeup.