Offices of the Supreme Council for the
Preservation of the Faith, McNair
The weekly Defense Council meeting over, Chef Councillor Polk beckoned Councillor Jones over. Polk waited until the room cleared before speaking, his face dark with anger and frustration.
“Kraa damn it!” Polk said with a snarl. “I am sick and tired of this council telling me what I can’t do. When”-his hand smacked down with a dull thump-“will you tell me what I can do? All I hear is excuses!”
“Well, sir, as you know,” the councillor for war said warily, “our antimatter warhead stocks are limited. We expended most of our inventory in the Comdur attack. We need to conserve what few missiles we have left. And there is an armistice in force.”
“Yes, so? That sounds to me like more of the same, Councillor Jones,” Polk hissed venomously. “So tell me. What the hell is the point of stockpiling missiles? The bloody things are there to be used, for Kraa’s sake. As for the armistice, what do I care? It’s just a bit of paper. I signed the damn thing. I can unsign it if I want, and I will.”
Polk pushed himself back in his seat. “I’ve had enough of this, Councillor,” he said. “I want the armistice torn up. I want offensive operations against the Feds resumed. I want them hounded back to the negotiating table. I want them forced to make the concessions we need. Kraa! We have antimatter weapons, and the damn Feds don’t. How much simpler does it get? So brief Fleet Admiral Jorge. Tell him I want to see an options paper from him for next week’s Defense Council meeting. It is time to take the offensive.”
“Yes, Chief Councillor,” Jones said glumly.