The inside of the water gate control tower smelled of ozone, burnt empty pocket tubes, damp wool, and stale military rations.
Through the rain-streaked heavy glass windows, the Great Rust-Mire stretched out beneath the storm. A vast, churning expanse of black water, stone-hard cypress stumps, and jagged iron towers. To the south, three miles through the sulfuric mist, the rusted catalytic chimneys of Refinery Fourteen rose into the night sky like jagged fangs, their exhaust stacks venting plumes of sickly violet vapor.
On the central steel command desk, an encrypted tactical radio console was chattering with urgent, self-running military traffic. A crimson emergency bright light was strobing rhythmically on the console faceplate. It cast bloody reflections across Kira Jansen’s pale, rain-dampened features.
Beside her, Toby Mallow was bent over the mercenary commander’s logbook, his quill scratching wildly across his ledger parchment.
“Listen to this,” Kira said. He pressed the audio playback switch on the Promethean end-post with a trembling gloved finger.
A cold, clipped high-born voice echoed from the heavy cast-iron speaker. A voice accustomed to issuing death warrants from plush executive offices in Capital Metro:
“Taskforce Zero-Nine. This is High Inquisitor Mercer. Report on the Northern Sluice bridgehead... Hostile interference confirmed. The rogue convict unit and their unlisted beasts have breached the outer cordon.”
