In the damp, high-pressure staging hall leading from the foundry to Sector 7, Arthur Vance set up his field potion-made centrifuge upon an overturned ammunition crate.
The 50-minute mark was approaching rapidly. Through the floor plates, the ground-shaking tremors had intensified into a nonstop, low-hum that made water droplets dance in chaotic rings across the dark rock pavers. The entire Bermuda Atoll was shivering like a ship caught in an ice grind, the earth-shaking fault lines beneath them groaning under the escalating overload from Father Genesis’s reactor.
“Arthur, the earth-heat pressure readings are off the charts,” Valerie reported, her eyes glued to her scanning end-post. “The heat at the crust-sink boundary five miles below has risen by three hundred degrees. If Osric’s detonator fires, the steam explosion alone will rip the sea floor open.”
“Which is why our execution must be flawless,” Arthur replied without looking up from his work.
His gloved hands moved with the practiced, rhythmic elegance of a master surgeon. He uncapped one of the retrieved first-born salt water canisters and passed fifteen drops of the glowing rainbow-bright fluid into a specialized heat-proof glass reaction vial. Beside him, Echo floated near the rim of his container, his frilly pink outer gills fluttering with eager interest.
