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The President had intended to fire at once, but her hand goes only slowly to her staser and she draws it as if in a dream. She's often imagined those tense features stilling in death, but at the hands of some thwarted subordinate: never her own.
She walks forward, pace by pace. The impostor doesn't move. It will be a neat execution, one well-placed staser bolt at point-blank range, not a scattershot blast of fire.
At last the President suddenly grabs at her, and the moment their hands touch—