Preoccupied with such thoughts, Moira was oblivious at first to the fact that the Farm was suddenly crowded with people looking at the big Situational Awareness Monitor above the end of the table where she and Tekla were having their breakfast. The viewing angle was awkward, and so she had to change her position to get a good look. It was a news channel showing scraps of cell-phone video that had been spliced together to approximate a story. At the beginning of the story the People’s Justice Blockade was riding at anchor in the waters between the beach and Devil’s Island, just beginning to catch the pink light of dawn. At the end of the story the sun was shining on a churned slurry of crushed hulls and floating corpses visible through gaps between dreadlocks of smoke. In the middle were glimpses of black motes droning in from the sea and fantastic bubbles of flame spreading to envelop vast areas before they burst and disappeared, leaving behind wreckage that looked like it had been beaten with sledgehammers and doused with napalm.