With Forgemaster Vorn incapacitated and the blast furnaces throttled to an idle hum, the true horror of Factory Alpha lay exposed in the southern holding bays.
Here, bolted to heavy iron framework frame stands, were twenty-eight mature tortoises of various native breeds. Mountain Terrapins, Granite-Shelled Box Turtles, and Iron-Spined Marsh Crawlers. Each animal had been fitted with heavy, crude sheets of boiler plate or cast iron-hard metal steel, anchored through their living back shells by thick, threaded iron bolts. In many places, the bolts were still scorching hot, having been driven in mere hours before Arthur’s assault. The metal sizzled against weeping margins of bone, releasing an acrid odor of fried horn-protein and inflamed bone-skin that hung heavy in the stale air.
Dr. Morrigan Calder strode through the shattered blast gates, leading six Vanguard medical orderlies pushing heavy work carts loaded with razor-sharp basins, air-powered power tools, and crates of sterile saline wash. Her razor-sharp visor was lowered, her green eyes scanning the rows of wounded beasts with skilled fury. Her tactical apron was already tied tightly over her combat fatigues, its pockets bristling with hemostats and bone curettes.
“Toby, hook the portable air compressors to the air-powered torque wrenches,” Morrigan ordered, stripping off her leather field gloves and snapping on a pair of sterile latex check mitts. “Arthur, where do we start? The heat black rot around these margins is horrific. If we pull these bolts cold, the friction will tear the underlying bone-skin to shreds and induce fatal…
