The morning sun rose over District Nine, casting long shadows through the high windows of the Central Relief Hospital's administrative records wing.
Outside in the upper atmosphere, the colossal battleships of the National Directorate's Grand Fleet hovered in a tense, motionless holding pattern above the clouds.
On the bridge of the lead dreadnought, several fleet captains flatly refused Director Sterling's illegal orbital bombardment order after seeing Diana's live television broadcast showing five thousand innocent patients recovering inside the hospital wards.
Below the defensive grid, Mela's anti-orbital railgun batteries remained locked on the flagship's primary bridge, ready to vaporize any hostile ship that lowered its shields.
Inside the quiet records wing, Vasa sat behind a wide glass desk, her fingers dancing across the keys of a glowing holographic ledger console.
