Vance’s eyes narrow. "An exclusion zone? Luna, the Security Council will never agree to cede airspace over sovereign territory to a private pack. It looks like a militarized buffer."
"It’s not a buffer," I say, leaning forward, letting a fraction of the Anchor’s heavy, resonant pressure bleed into the room. The coffee in Vance’s cup ripples. "It’s a quarantine. The energy fluctuations from the nodes are highly volatile. If unauthorized aircraft—military or civilian—enter the zone during a discharge event, they will be vaporized. You want your energy, Ambassador. This clause keeps your pilots alive."
Vance stares at me. He’s a master diplomat, but I can see the calculation behind his eyes. He doesn't believe the 'vaporization' threat, but he recognizes the absolute, unyielding authority i
