Jacob Smith

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She says, “I remember…working.” And driving home, and sleeping, and driving back to work. Big, hostile buildings. Drug regimens, containment protocols, endless piles of opaque numbers, personal fitness drills. Running. Calculating. Never, ever stopping calculating. She remembers, with unfair clarity, a variety of extremely bad dreams. And other than that, nothing. A huge, deep, ragged-edged black pit.
There Is No Antimemetics Division: A Novel
by qntm
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