The dawn over Harbor Gate was clean and crisp, breaking through the high Atlantic fog in long, brilliant shafts of yellow light.
In the deep-water basin, the heavy grey warships of the former Intercolonial fleet sat silently at anchor, their iron gun turrets turned inward, their battle flags replaced by the simple, blue-and-white striped banner of the Unified Provinces. Surrounding them were dozens of wooden steam-tugs, coal barges, and merchant freighters, their cranes swinging long timber crates of wheat, iron, and refined oil onto the newly reinforced docks.
Elara Vance stood on the observation balcony of the Grand Central Junction, a cup of bitter black tea resting untouched on the brass rail before her. Her charcoal wool coat was neatly buttoned against the morning sea breeze, her silver-grey eyes scanning the bustling layout of the harbor below.
