The iron mortar was cold and heavy, forged from the salvaged metal tube head of a diesel locomotive. It sat upon a heavy oak workbench in the corner of Dugout Seven. It was surrounded by heavy clay jars, brass measuring balance pans, and linen filter sacks.
Arthur Vance washed his hands in warm carbolic water, drying his fingers on a clean cotton towel before turning toward the workbench. On the zinc running slab ten feet away, Titus lay resting quietly beneath a warm woolen blanket, his breathing shallow but remarkably regular. Grimm remained curled on the floorboards beside the table legs, his notched ear twitching in sync with every breath the tortoise took.
“The cleaning was only the clearance phase,” Arthur said, adjusting the weights on his brass balance scale. “We have removed the rotting infection, but Titus currently has less than ten percent of his protective armor leftover. His vertebral column and internal organs are shielded only by a fragile layer of spongy bone. If we don’t stimulate rapid, dense osteogenesis right away, stringy scarring will seal the bone beds. He will remain a crippled runt for the rest of his life.”
Sergeant Corvo stood beside the bench, holding four canvas bags filled with raw stone materials gathered from around the outpost.
