The iron fire door behind Chief Splicer Krause’s control platform led Arthur Vance into a soundproofed upper mezzanine overlooking a backup underground tiered arena.
The contrast between the vivisection butcher shop they had just left and this hidden chamber was jarring in its ugly extravagance.
Below the mezzanine lay a private, circular arena sixty yards in width, floored with raked white quartz sand imported from the southern coast and enclosed by twelve-foot barriers of heavy bulletproof glass. Suspended thirty feet overhead were three huge brass chandeliers burning with clean, hum-free spark light. It cast a warm, golden glow over fifteen private viewing boxes draped in crimson velvet.
Seated in plush leather armchairs were twenty men and women who belonged to the highest commercial tiers of Mega-City Seven.
They were regional mine owners, corporate asset directors, and black-market syndicators. They wore bespoke cashmere coats, silk cravats pinned with gold clasps, and white-gold-trimmed furs. Attendants in black waistcoats moved quietly between the boxes, pouring sparkling vintage wine into crystal flutes and offering trays of candied fruits. In their gloved hands, the buyers held ivory-inlaid bidding paddles and leather-bound auction catalogs embossed with the world-serpent sigil of House Rask.
Arthur glanced at an abandoned auction catalog resting on a dark wood console beside the mezzanine railing.
