The canal lock was an imposing massive stone structure of oil-stained granite and pre-Cataclysm iron plating, standing thirty feet above the churning, amber waters of the drainage channel.
Mounted along the low roof wall of the lock gate were six self-running twin-barreled tiny rotary cannons, their water-cooled barrels resting in armored gun-troughs, slaved to a central gyroscopic sensor mast that rotated with a steady, clockwork click every four seconds.
Arthur Vance knelt in the shadow of a collapsed drainage under-road drain forty yards downriver, his boots sunk in six inches of rotten-egg silt. He held his left wrist up to his face. He watched the green eerie-glowing second hand on his pocket watch tick down:
01:29:55... 01:29:56... 01:29:57...
Beside him, Titus crouched low in the water. The great terrapin had pulled his limbs partially into his shell armor scales, his heavy horn beak hovering an inch above the scum, his dark eyes locked on the iron water gate gates with ancient patience.
Behind them, Grimm stood tense, his black glass bone spurs locked in high-stiffness posture. Meanwhile, Vesper clung to the upright concrete face of the under-road drain wall like a carved silver gargoyle, her claws sunk a fraction of an inch into the weathered stone.
