In the Old Dome Command Control, every screen was full of blips moving toward and away from the bubblecity. Half the view screens were dark, others so badly scrambled they resembled a pay-per-view trideo channel before you coughed up the nuyen. In various stages of dress, the staff members were racing in through the doors and jumping into the first empty seat they found. In the middle of the organized chaos stood Shawn Wilson. He was scowling and chewing an unlit deepweed cigar.