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On the generation ship *Aethelgard*, the student radio station on Deck Twelve is the only place where the static feels honest. By day, Theo Alvarez and his crew spin archival drone and read nitrate advisories to an audience of sleeping hydroponics techs, surviving on bureaucratic invisibility and chicory broth. By night, a physics senior named Pip patches an unauthorized feed into their console and hears something the bridge has spent eighty years drowning out: the raw, whistling scream of a ship caught in a slow, fatal tumble through empty space, its navigation beacon nothing but a looped tape cartridge playing a lie.
Now the morning announcements still read "Course: Tau Ceti Prime β Status: Nominal," but the stars outside the observation cupolas don't match the rotunda projections. With a security patrol circling their door and the Provost's office one unauthorized broadcast away from reassigning them to the sludge-skimming shifts, Theo, Pip, and their reluctant engineer Ben have twenty-eight minutes of dead air to decide: do they read the weather, or do they tell twelve thousand people they're going nowhere at all?
*Dead Air on Deck Twelve* is a claustrophobic, warm-hearted campus novel set against the cold equation of a generational lie β where the only thing more dangerous than the truth is the static hiding it. Think *The Expanse* meets *The Secret History* in a steel can three centuries from Earth, where the most subversive frequency on the dial is the one that finally tells you where you really are.
Fiction
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