Djibril's voice continued to rise. When he said the word "weapons," he slammed the edge of his hand down on the table. This time, even the glass pitcher of mineral water vibrated with a shrill tremor.
Every cent of military spending should be exchanged for the enemy's deaths.
That was the iron law of war, something even a three-year-old child understood. But what did these old fools think nuclear bombs were?
A trump card that never had to be played? A prop for bluffing at the negotiating table? Those were bombs bought with taxpayers' blood and sweat, not decorations left to rot in an arsenal.
It was always like this.
Whenever something happened, these foolish old men shirked responsibility and tried to evade the problem.
He had seen it too many times—at budget meetings, strategic decision-making meetings, and every moment when someone needed to step forward and take a risk, they always chose the safest path: delay. Leave the problem to the next administration, dump the mess on their subordinates, and shift the burden of war onto the soldiers at the front.
Leave it to these people, and the war would never end. They only calculated their votes, terms of office, pensions, and memoir sales, yet failed to see the "garbage" floating in the sky—those so-called PLANTs, like twelve artificial scabs plastered onto the skin of space—slowly eroding humanity's living space.
If he were a Coordinator, he would definitely be watching the parliament deliberate right now while laughing at humanity's stupidity.
Azrael had been different in the past. When that name surfaced in his mind, Djibril's mouth twisted downward.
That man's contemptuous attitude had been unpleasant—he always wore that lofty expression, sweeping those blue eyes over him from above as though the leadership of Blue Cosmos had naturally been meant