The siren didn’t rise in a gradual warning wail. It tore through the morning air with an ear-splitting, air-powered shriek that shook the tin roofing of the heavy-duty quarter like a struck sheet of iron.
Klaxon Zero.
In the rigid military hierarchy of the Vanguard Federation, sirens were coded by number, each digit dictating the price of survival. A Level-3 siren meant an outer trench had been breached by stray scavengers, something the commoner militia could resolve with bayonets and steam-carbines. A Level-2 siren meant a coordinated beast pack had crossed the razor wire. It needed academy reserves to saddle their mounts. A Level-1 siren summoned full guard post battalions to man the low roof walls with heavy aether-cannons.
Klaxon Zero was the sound reserved for an existential breach of the outer edge bedrock—a total collapse of the outer holding ring. It meant the bedrock had given way.
Arthur stepped through the heavy blast door of Outpost 9, the ARC-7 carbine resting in the low-ready carry across his chest. His right forefinger rested along the cold milling of the trigger guard, just above the dual-receiver toggle switch. Beside him, Grimm paced at his left thigh, his dark claws clicking against the frost-rimed cobblestones. The hound’s gait was deceptively relaxed, shoulders rolling with the heavy, loose driving force of an apex wolf anticipating a strike, his black glass-sheathed bone fangs catching the dull morning light.
