Halfway to the hangar, the timbre of the wavenet changed -- tense, panicky -- and Ilry felt the first pang of nerves down her own spine. Not the time to show it, though, not with her last cargo-pod stowed and the Alouette waiting.
She lifted a hand to the oval on her temple, adjusting the wave; once, twice --
The same mutterings on all private waves.
The Sublime Stellar Presence was dead.
Maybe she wouldn't plot a return course to the capital.