The global monitoring networks of Sector 3 beneath the Brooklyn docklands had entered a state of apocalyptic, multi-dimensional calculation. The subterranean command cathedral no longer just hummed with the standard indigo or gold light of the alchemical mainframes. The entire space was bathed in a brilliant, terrifyingly dense violet-platinum luminescence as the supercomputers synchronized the newly integrated core grids of every faksi on the planet. Outside, the New York sky was a restless sheet of static, but inside the facility, the air was frozen solid, carry the heavy, majestic notes of vaporized silver mint, liquid platinum, and the unmistakable signature of pure white tea.
Lord Orion’s lunar dreadnoughts were crossing the exosphere, and the terrestrial nursery had to fuse its enti
