Stone Hill. The land was showing the first signs of autumn. The trees were grudgingly shedding the first of their yellowing leaves to the wind, scattering them amongst the gutters and alleys of Stone Hill Garrison. Tranter had never seen a border before, not outside of photographs and theatre news-reels. Even having worked in the field he had never seen one first hand, having either travelled by night or come to land via the sea. Now that he saw one with his own eyes it brought his heart to his mouth. It was simply enormous. He watched it, dumbfounded. How any nation could have afforded the construction of the thing was a miracle. Even without the troubles of the economy and the lack of capital it seemed unimaginable that there could ever have been a large enough workforce to complete the job within a thousand years. And yet there it was, spanning the entire horizon and reaching a hundred feet – a hundred and fifty at some points - from the wasteland below into the forget-me-not sky.
