Eleven
The conference room’s padded chair felt like heaven.
I’d worked my last shift as a tritium cannister inspector, then suited up and gone outside to engrave the world of Tritium into my memory. That had turned into a bonus work session. A quick shower, downing a liter of water, and clean clothes had revitalized me enough to answer President Kendall’s summons, but I needed a solid meal and about nine hours sleep before I did anything else.
But the thought of Madre Redding’s little girl working on an alien contact team poured fresh life in my tired bones and made me willing to keep my sore feet in my boots a little longer.
At least the conference room was quiet. The only sound was the gentle hiss of air in the vents. The blank wall screens demanded nothing. The polished stone table
