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Meat Machines. By Sean. F. Stevens. Copyright Sean F Stevens 2001-2. The pale light of the full moon filtered through the tiny barred dormitory window and roused Z from her all too restless slumber, but it was neither the glare of the moonlight nor the quiet buzzing of the psi-suppression field constantly reverberating in the back of her mind that made her restive this night. She lifted the thin bed linen from her near-decrepit bunk and emerged fully clothed and ready, brushing an errant lock of her milk-white hair from her large cherubic eyes of deepest blue and making her way in the faint moonlight across the otherwise gloomy room to where a thin (though relatively warm) jacket was slung over the back of a much used aluminium chair, the only other furniture in her extremely spartan room. Z quickly pulled on the jacket and turned the chair upside down, she then pulled a small wad of rags from one of the chairs hollow legs and then carefully tipped the chair upright once more, with a satisfying metallic tinkle, two tiny tubes |
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