The first pale gray light of false dawn broke through the chemical inversion layer hanging over Sector 7. That turned the stale waters of the outer smelting canal into a slick ribbon of hammered pewter. Cold grease, dissolved coal dust. The pungent, stinging reek of sulfur-heavy Gorgon pheromones drifted along the surface, clinging to the moss-grown brick inner walls like a rancid shroud.
On the north bank of the canal, five figures and three beasts moved in low, disciplined bounds through the ruins of the cooperage district. Arthur Vance led the point, his ARC-7 Mag-Carbine held in a low-ready cant across his chest, the sling cinched tight over his soot-blackened leather tactical coat. Behind him stepped Valerie Koslov, her shock-lance braced across one shoulder, her three-legged mastiff Brutus trailing silently in her bootprints. Toby Mallow hurried behind them, his shoulders hunched under a heavy canvas pack of spare charge bank banks and squeezing bandages, while Dr. Morrigan Calder walked with her brass sampling kit rattling softly at her hip.
Grimm ran low along the muddy drainage ditch flanking the canal, belly fur brushing the greasy reeds. The hound had grown substantially since his first days in the scrap pens. His frame was that of a massive, heavily corded dire-hound, his jet-black coat drinking the weak dawn light like velvet poured over cold steel. His broad skull stayed level with his shoulders, ears pinned flat, nostrils flaring as he sifted through thirty distinct layers of heavy-duty decay to isolate the sharp…
