Two
Presidential Palace
New Kilrain, Fuercon
President Derek Harper sat at the head of the conference table, the fingers of one hand drumming a harsh beat against the tabletop. His pulse thundered a matching beat as every instinct demanded action. The images displayed on the holoscreen on the far wall might not be the worst he had seen during his time in office, but they were bad enough. He didn’t doubt this was a military operation, not a random attack by pirates or smugglers. An attack against their supposed allies. Allies who, for whatever reason, not only denied the action but refused to ask for assistance.
Damn it!
Silence, save for the drumming of his fingers, filled the room as the holoscreen went dark. A moment later, the room’s lights came up. Harper leaned back, glancing at his closest military and diplomatic advisors. All looked as serious—and as seriously pissed —as he felt. Several made notes on their datapads. He waited, giving them time to digest what they’d just seen and heard.
This was not how he wanted his last year in office to begin. Unfortunately, it was what he expected. Unlike his predecessor, he paid attention to the reports sent not only by those in the room, but by others as well. His instincts, honed by years in the military and then by leading Fuercon and its allies to victory in a war they should have won long before he took office, warned him trouble loomed on the horizon. He even warned those present, only to learn they shared his concerns.
How he wished his instincts had been wrong.
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