The morning sun bore down on the galvanized roofs of Fort Baclaran, but the breeze from the coast softened the heat. Salt clung to the air. From atop the half-constructed watchtower, Thomas Estaris could see it all—the rows of prefab homes, the schoolhouse made of reinforced shipping containers, the solar field to the east. The place was rough, imperfect, but undeniably alive.
He adjusted the collar of his field coat and stepped down the tower's steel ladder. Lieutenant Garcia was already waiting for him at the bottom, datapad in hand.
"Morning reports," one of his staff said, tapping the screen. "Water reserves are holding. The northern greenhouse unit needs filter replacements, but the yield is still above minimum."
Thomas took the pad, scrolling through updates. "Security patrols?"
"Five-man rotations every three hours. No incidents. Scavenger teams returned from Cavite with battery units and a couple of working water pumps. No hostile encounters."
