At four in the morning, the Great Rust-Mire was engulfed in a violent, rotten-egg downpour.
Heavy sheets of acidic rain beat mercilessly against the corrugated iron roofs and stone-hard peat embankments, turning the black marsh water into a churning torrent of yellow foam, skin-burning grease, and floating oil slicks. In the underground under-road drains beneath the abandoned cracking refinery, the water level had risen to four feet, swirling with powerful undertows that tugged wildly at the iron foundations of the ancient storm gates.
Arthur Vance stood atop the lead amphibious wagon, his heavy oiled-canvas duster buttoned to his throat, the wide brim of his slouch hat shedding nonstop streams of yellow-tinted rainwater.
Across his chest, the Vance Cryo-Pneumatic Transfixer hung securely in its three-point leather harness, its high-pressure valves sealed against moisture by a thin coating of petroleum grease. At his side, Kira Jansen adjusted the focus of her field binoculars, shielding the coated sight lenses with her wet leather gauntlet.
“Water’s rising four inches every ten minutes,” Kira shouted over the ear-splitting roar of the underground torrent echoing through the concrete vault. “If the northern water gate gates are locked shut by Mercer’s engineers, this entire under-road drain network will back up within an hour. The wagons will be pinned against the ceiling like wooden corks in a flooded drainage pipe.”
