The inside of the safe hall’s backup repair bunker was silent, save for the steady, rhythmic dripping of water drops from the overhead water pipes.
Arthur Vance sat alone on an overturned wooden footlocker, his back braced against the rough concrete wall. He had stripped off his charcoal coat, his gray linen undershirt soaked with cold sweat. Across his left forearm, the micro-centrifuge rapid-needle glove lay open, its six air-powered chambers cleaned, oiled. Then it reloaded with fresh bio-catalytic ampoules.
He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply through his nose, expanding his chest muscle.
Within his mind, the soul-palace hummed with five distinct points of blazing bright light, arranged in a perfect pentagonal shape around his central mental anchor.
To the north burned Grimm’s anchor. A dark, gravity star-core that pulled at Arthur’s spatial senses with heavy, protective thickness. To the zenith flared Pip’s point of light—a blinding, tiny sun streaming sun-hot warmth and sharp aerial restlessness. To the east stood Titus’s node. An unmoving, massive stone pillar of black dark rock that grounded Arthur’s nervous system against panic. To the west prowled Vesper’s star. A razor-sharp silver blade that sliced map point space with cold, hungry counts. And at the nadir, drifting in calm, endless depths, was Echo’s node. A soft, semi-clear azure pool that folded time and space with easy peace.
