The war room is a crucible of frantic, controlled energy.
Holographic projections of the solar system dominate the center of the table, casting a sickly, pale blue light over the faces of the pack’s leadership. Morgan is flying across the console, her fingers a blur as she updates the telemetry from the deep-space observatories Helena has hastily secured.
"Jupiter’s orbit was breached four hours ago," Morgan says, her voice tight, stripped of its usual clinical calm. "The vanguard consists of three distinct entities. They aren't ships in the human sense. They’re massive, geometric constructs of negative mass. They’re moving at a fraction of light speed, decelerating as they approach the inner solar system. ETA to Earth’s magnetosphere: fourteen days."
Fourteen days.
Two weeks.
I stand
