The war room of the Blackthorn Academy smells of ozone, burnt sugar, and the sharp, metallic tang of overheating silicon.
I stand at the head of the holographic table, my left arm resting heavily in the carbon-fiber sling. The neuro-blockers have finally allowed the blinding static in my head to recede, leaving behind a dull, manageable ache in my shoulder. But the physical pain is entirely eclipsed by the profound, heavy pressure of monitoring the new reality.
The holographic globe in the center of the room no longer looks like a map of the Earth. It looks like a living, breathing organism in the throes of a violent fever.
The golden and silver pulses of the biological internet are no longer calm. They are flashing a violent, angry red. Massive red flares bloom over London, Tokyo, and
