The quartz blast door of the control booth was locked from within by a magnetic deadbolt drawing power directly from the archive’s backup battery bank. Arthur Vance didn’t bother with chemical bypasses or explosive charges. He gestured toward Vesper, who was perched gracefully atop the mangled chassis of the lead security drone, licking a fleck of grease from her front paw.
“Vesper, the latch,” Arthur said softly.
The white lynx gave a haughty flick of her notched left ear, trotted over to the door with silent, velvet steps. Then she extended her right forepaw. Her razor-thin claws, shimmering with cold slaughter aether, sliced through the two-inch high-speed quartz along the outer edge of the lock assembly with the easy ease of a hot wire through cheese. A neat circular plug of quartz fell inward, hitting the carpeted floor of the booth with a soft thud.
Arthur reached through the opening, disengaged the manual release handle, and pushed the door open. He stepped into the warm, carpeted control room, the Vance Cryo-Pneumatic Transfixer resting comfortably in the crook of his arm. Valerie followed closely behind, her mag-rifle covering the corners. Meanwhile, Grimm took up a guard position in the doorway, his massive shoulders fully blocking the exit.
