Chapter 502
Isaac Goodman
I tap my fingers against the splintered wood and wait for the giant screen in front of me to flicker to life.
The conference room in the ISA section of the Bastion is sterile. An old wooden table—splintered, scarred, stretched long enough to seat over sixty men—dominates the space. A giant screen serves as the main focal point, currently dark, currently waiting.
I hate being here.
I stand at the head of the table, hands clasped behind my back, boots planted shoulder-width apart. Standard posture. Regulation. The kind of stance that says I am not here to negotiate. I am here to inform.
The screen flickers to life. Multiple rectangular frames appear, each one showing a different face. Earth's leaders. The people who hold the purse strings. The people who have never held a weapon.
