The executive sub-sky-high launch bays atop the eighty-fifth floor of the Federal Apex Spire smelled of aviation kerosene, chilled ocean wind, and the silent panic of trapped aristocrats.
Outside the hangar’s high-pressure blast doors, thirty-four private corporate shuttles sat parked on the silver-steel apron, their fusion engines whining in idle spool. Flight crews were wildly loading heavy diplomatic luggage cases, encrypted server racks, and liquid-cold air embryo storage dewars, preparing for emergency liftoff toward offshore tax havens.
They never left the tarmac.
CLANG-THOOM.
The heavy hard dark metal security gates of Hangar Alpha slammed shut under remote military override.
At the same time, four platoons of Vanguard heavy shock-troopers, clad in matte-black baked-clay armor and carrying magnetic pulse cannons, took up linked firing positions across the narrow high walkways. At the hangar control end-post, Toby Mallow slammed his override drive into the main flight dispatcher console, cutting the starting relays to every shuttle in the work-yard.
“All flight paths are grounded by order of Grand Marshal Sharpe,” Toby announced over the hangar’s public address horns, wiping high-pressure grease from his chin. “Turn off your turbines, step away from the airframes, and place your hands behind your heads. If a single engine throttles past idle, our railgun batteries will turn to steam the landing gear.”
