The Factory. Zero Defects

A marriage at a defense plant isn’t paperwork in a report.

It’s dead pilots and someone’s millions in their pocket.

I died trying to stop it.

I woke up in the body of a drunkard scrap collector—that very drunk I’d tried to fire twice for mistakes.

Now I have his debts, his collectors at the door, and the same plant that churns out rotten castings for oxygen reducers.

In a week, these “products” will be sent to the troops.

The chief technologist is already calculating the profit.

I have three days to keep my fingers from being broken.

And one night to find the file with the evidence—for which I gave my life.

Forty years of engineering experience against a system that has long been selling lives wholesale.

I already died once.

This time, they will be the ones to die.