Sterling watched the incinerator screens from his station, his face bathed in the cold blue light of six monitors. The room around him was nearly dark, lit only by status LEDs, the occasional sweep of a diagnostic bar, and the pulsing red indicator above the sealed door. Every few seconds, one of the ventilation fans shuddered somewhere in the ceiling, carrying the faint chemical tang of ash and antiseptic through the control room.
On the leftmost display, Ginger leaned against the reinforced observation glass outside the incinerator bay.
Her shirt hung open to the navel, the fabric damp at the collar and beneath her arms. Sweat glistened along her throat and the rise of her chest, catching the sterile overhead light. She was performing for Carl again. Sterling had seen the pattern enoug
