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“You might win them over quicker if you were less of a cunt about it,” suggested Khouri idly.
Volyova glanced up. “We already tried that, Ana. Speak softly and carry a hell-class weapon, remember?”
“I just think you–”
The console beeped. Volyova scanned the transmission.
“Hm. It seems our latest overture has failed to meet with Ganymede’s approval.”
She forwarded the message to Khouri’s bracelet, watching the woman’s brow crease as she took in its contents. The Ganymede representative’s dismissal had been detailed, unambiguous, and strikingly anatomical.
“Charming.”
“Quite. So–”
Khouri dismissed the transmission. “Fuck it. Orbital bombardment it is.”