Issue 12 – The Emissary (Part 1)
- Zagreb, May 25 2039
The temporary command post was located just outside of the city amidst the ruins of what once had been a beautiful suburban area. The sapphire sky, the sweet smell of acacias and the songs of birds, oblivious to the carnage below, made the place feel almost idyllic.
The district had been a home to many once, a long time ago – but massive recession and the everlasting conflict drove its inhabitants away to seek their fortune in the arms of world's greedy corporations. A generation, born free but destined to die as slaves in all but name.
The bright colors of late spring contrasted with the decaying house ruins, the debris lying everywhere that nobody had bothered to clean for many long years and the dour faces of men in Clayburn uniforms, carrying large unmarked boxes and loading them on trucks. The evacuation was in full swing – such was the price of defeat, Seagrove thought sadly.
He passed Major Kathryn Grey, sitting on her tank, staring blankly into the distance. The sight of someone else he knew was sharing his misery somehow lifted his spirits a bit.
"Kate!" he shouted.
"I hate when you call me that and you know it", she responded with a serious face, but he recognized faint traces of a smile behind her expression.
"That I do. Still waiting for the boss?"
Any traces of amusement disappeared from her face. She nodded.
"He's late. It's not like him. And that Clayburn whelp is just looking for someone to pin the blame on."
He glanced towards the command tent, erected between two walls of a ruined house – right on time to notice Blackwood approaching with a grim expression on his face. Seagrove liked the man. Blackwood knew when to push and when to let things slide. He was a stocky man of an undetermined age – perhaps in his late fifties, Seagrove guessed. His hair was grey and his round rather jovial face usually carried a sly smile. Not today though.
Blackwood waved at them both and Seagrove went to join him. Behind him, Grey jumped down from her vehicle as he approached the tent entrance.
The inside was hot. The stale air smelled of dust and sweat despite the valiant efforts of a small air conditioning unit, trying to keep the inside cold while being woefully inadequate for such a job. There must be a parallel there, Seagrove thought, as he followed Blackwood towards the main operations table where the author of this disaster stood, his hands behind his back, watching them. His impatience was palpable.
To be continued...
