I slid off the Sovereign, the soles of my boots hissing against the superheated glass of the Citadel’s roof. Above us, the night sky was painted a toxic, beautiful orange by the burning wreckage of the Aegis Destroyer. Ash drifted down like snow, settling on our leather vests and the chrome of our bikes.
But below us was where the real show was happening.
Through the two-foot-thick pane of reinforced smart-glass, we were looking directly down into the belly of the beast: the Executive Boardroom. It was a cavernous, sterile space of white marble and black mahogany. The twelve Directors of the Board the men and women who had turned Coldwater into a dystopian meat-grinder were huddled around the central table.
They were covered in dust from the impact of the airship, their bespoke suits ru
