Eleven thousand kilometres south, Hector Toshe reclined in his comfortable leather chair in his office in the UN Consulate. Thanks to the UNAF Minos curfew, there was no baying crowd at the gates. The Consulate was nowhere near as impregnable as Government House, and despite being an active member of Ariadne First, an angry mob looking for anything UN wouldn’t wait for him to explain the situation. They’d beat him to death and mount his head on a pole. Modern humans were barbaric.
He took in a deep breath. He knew what he had to do, as a patriotic Ariadnian, but it still made him nervous. If Ariadne somehow survived the Ascendancy War—something which seemed increasingly unlikely—the UN would come for him and every other member of Ariadne First. They’d probably take him to Pinnacle for interrogation, just to make an example of him, before hanging him publicly.
No—he would end his life long before it came to that.
His hands were still sweating as he authored the missive. Working for the UN gave him global network privileges that most others didn’t have, and he addressed the message to every registered Ariadnian IHD inbox.
He finished the message. Adrenaline coursed through his system. But he knew he was doing the right thing.
With a thought, he sent it, at almost the exact same time a rivulet of blood trickled from his nose.
‘What the…?’ he muttered, grasping for a tissue. He dabbed at the bright spattering of crimson. His IHD was having trouble identifying the reasons for it, but after a few seconds his implant nanobots had clotted the ruptured capillaries.
‘Strange,’ he said. He dabbed his forehead, which had broken out in a sheen of perspiration, too, but that he simply put down to nerves.