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“HOW MANY SURVIVORS?”
Ethan Jacobs, his lab coat unfailingly spotless, consulted his clipboard. The digital display recorded a long list of names, the majority of which were now grayed out, leaving a much smaller sampling in highlighted color.
“It appears there are eight, Councilor.” Ethan kept his voice carefully neutral, clinical. He scanned the list a second time, concerned his count might be inaccurate. Sterne didn’t tolerate sloppiness. “All others have been accounted for.”
“Eight.” Sterne stood facing the polarized window, hands clasped behind his back. Lightning flashed purple in the distance. The storm clouds reduced the mid-afternoon sky to near dusk, but Stern appeared not to notice.
Ethan understood the folly of interrupting his employer’s thoughts. He dialed up a new screen on his digital clipboard, anticipating.
The Councilor turned from the window. “We’ll proclaim tomorrow an official day of mourning.”
He watched as Ethan dutifully entered the information, efficient and precise. “We’ll also call for an emergency Council session tomorrow evening. Various assistants will need to be promoted, responsibilities shuffled in light of our losses—that sort of thing.”
“If I may, sir?” Ethan looked up from his clipboard. “The Council Chamber, or what’s left of it, is still an active crime scene. Where should I tell them this meeting will take place?”
“Here, in the Citadel,” Sterne replied without hesitation. “The symmetry is perfect. Everything began here, after all.”
Ethan scribbled a note. “And Mateo?”
“Has been apprised.” The Councilor cut him off. He’d lost interest in the conversation. “He’ll be here.”
He gestured at the clipboard in Ethan’s hand. “Have that printed on official letterhead, and send it out right away.”
Sterne returned to his post by the window, his back to his underling. Meeting adjourned. Ethan tucked the clipboard under his arm.
“As you wish, Councilor.”