“Send the order again.” Owen Reeves said from his high-backed leather chair.

“Sending, what if he doesn’t comply? He hasn’t yet.”

The live feed from the Juno Spaceport Security shuttles showed 2 views of the standoff unfolding between Pitcher’s ship and the USNE cruiser. Reeves squirmed a bit, “For some reason he has calculated that the target is critical to his own survival. A poor assessment.”

The chamber was large enough to create an echo whenever Reeves spoke loud enough. Hamsa leadership held high posts in the Colonial Authority, a good front for living well and having unfettered access to things like live security feeds.

The operator who sat at a small terminal in front of Reeves did not see the same footage, but had been briefed on the rising body count Pitcher had accumulated. “If we are seeking discretion, this guy has blown it sir. Now he is not executing orders.”

“Discretion is subordinate to deflection. No need to be quiet if the din is not coming from you, right? Any response yet?”