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Merlin's Gun Alastair Reynolds Punishment saved Sora. If her marksmanship had not been the worst in her class, she would never have been assigned the task of overseeing proctors down in ship's docks. She would not have had to stand for hours, alone except for her familiar, running a laser-stylus across the ore samples the proctors brought back to the swallow-ship, dreaming of finishing shift and meeting Verdin. It was boring; menial work. But because the docks were open to vacuum it was work that required a pressure suit. "Got to be a drill," she said, when the attack began. "No," her familiar said. "It really does seem as if they've caught up with us." Sora's calm evaporated. "How many?" "Four elements of the swarm; standard attack pattern; coherent-matter weapons at maximum range . . . novamine countermeasures deployed but seemingly ineffective . . . initial damage reports severe and likely underestimates . . ." The floor pitched under her feet. The knee-high, androform proctors looked to each |
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