The explosion of the bridge transformer sent a blinding cascade of blue sparks showering down into the dark waters of the Northern Sluice Basin.
In the sudden darkness, the sulfur rain fell like driving iron needles against the stone embankments.
On the eastern concrete bridge pillar, the crew of the second Type-58 howitzer reacted with brutal military discipline. The artillery commander—a cybernetically enhanced mercenary captain with a brass eye implant and an armored combat chassis—slammed his clockwork fist down on the manual cross lever, overriding the fried electronic fire-control system with a savage curse.
“Target the under-road drain arch!” the captain bellowed through his throat-speaker, his diesel-powered voice cutting through the roaring storm. “Load high-explosive canister! Sweep the water with shrapnel! Fire on my mark!”
The heavy steel carriage of the howitzer groaned on its greased ring mount, the tiny rifled barrel swinging forty-five degrees to bear directly upon the lead refugee wagon emerging from the under-road drain archway.
Seventy yards away, Arthur Vance stood on the concrete apron of the canal lock, his Zeiss-Vanguard monocle calculating the firing vector in glowing green map points:
“Titus! Castle wall protocol!” Arthur shouted into the storm.
GROOOOON.
