Brad Avery entered the President’s office with his usual panache. He crossed to the desk and said, “Sir we can’t allow this to continue!”
The handsome young SecDef emphasized his agitation by using a little more force than necessary to set down the papers he’d been clutching
“Calm down, Brad,” Pres. Branson replied in the silken tone he used to pump money out of sow eared donors. “And, sit down, boy, sit down!”
“Sir, the Cray commander has left us with no options.” “Son, the door is closed” the President replied. The younger man looked relived
From his coat pocket he slipped a slender, hand-sized device which most people over 50 might have identified as an antique iPhone
“Dad, Cray 47 has to be returned tonight.” He handed the phone to his father, who pressed the speaker icon. As he did so, they both flinched
“I am Cray 93, Commander of the Northern District!” Even in the Translator, the tone of the Cray was aggressive. “Cray 47 will be released!”
“Brad, he’s not even a triple digit! What the hell?” “Dad, he claims to have Dara!” The President’s head fell forward into his hands
“Dara!” he whispered. “Is this true?” “Yes Dad, Dara’s been uncounted for two periods.” “Release him then! Release him now,” he commanded
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