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The Fixation Alastair Reynolds For Hannu Blommila Inside the corroded rock was what looked like a geared embryo—the incipient bud of an industrial age that remained unborn for a millennium. (John Seabrook, The New Yorker, May 14, 2007) KATIB, THE SECURITY guard who usually works the graveyard shift, has already clocked on when Rana swipes her badge through the reader. He gives her a long-suffering look as she bustles past in her heavy coat, stooping under a cargo of document boxes and laptops. "Pulling another all-nighter, Rana?" he asks, as he has asked a hundred times before. "I keep telling you to get a different job, it?." "I worked hard to get this one," she tells him, almost slipping on the floor, which has just been polished to a mirrored gleam by a small army of robot cleaners. "Where else would I get to do this and Actually get paid for it?" it "Whatever they're paying you, it isn't enough for all those bags under your eyes." She wishes he wouldn't mention the bags under her eyes—it's not as if she exactly likes
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