The iron narrow high walkway behind the Broodmother’s nesting basin was slick with water drops, oil, and black chimera blood.
Arthur Vance ran along the narrow service gallery. His tactical boots hammered against the punched holes in steel decking. Across his back, the cryo-flask containing the Primordial Glandular Core thumped rhythmically against his spine. In his hands, the Vance Cryo-Pneumatic Transfixer was loaded with his last three high-mass heavy metal dart rounds.
Beside him, Grimm bounded through the steam, his jet-black coat bristling, his ears pinned flat against the sirens that were beginning to wail throughout the underground complex.
At the far end of the gallery stood the master pumping station.
It was a monstrous assembly of Victorian-style cast-iron machinery: four towering back-and-forth pistons, a massive brass pipe hub six feet in width, and three padded storage tanks labeled in faded yellow stencil: Heavy-duty Cooling-oil SOLVENT - CLASS IV CORROSIVE.
An air-powered solenoid valve had already opened three inches. Through the sight glass, Arthur saw the clear, heavy chemical fluid surging into the lower drainage pipes leading toward the karst limestone fissures.
“Titus! Jam the intake lever!” Arthur shouted.
Titus surged out of the sludge basin below, rearing up onto his hind limbs with huge reptilian power. Then he brought his heavy dark rock beak down across the cast-iron emergency shut-off lever with the force of a high-pressure press.
