I crossed the room and croudown in front of his chair so he'd have to look at me instead of the datapad. Kid smelled like energy drinks and paranoia. Glasses sliding down his nose. Hands twitching against the case.
"Nine thousand people live in those six blocks," I said. "Wednesday morning, seven a.m., there are sixty kids in that daycare and about four hundred adults in the retail strip and three apartment towers full of people brushing their teeth. If that Gate opens with them there, some of them die. Not a lot. Maybe forty. Maybe sixty."
Jacob's throat worked.
"I can't evacuate nine thousand people," I said. "Neither can Natalia. Neither can Braxton, and if we call the VHC, they'll show up ninety minutes after detection with a containment order and a press statement, and the people who built that Gate will have their data before anyone gets a name."
"So what do you want," Jacob whispered.
"I want you to close six city blocks by Tuesday night."
He blinked. Once. Twice.
