The pale-green sludge under Arthur’s boots had a frozen, oily consistency that resisted the cleat spikes of his crampons.
Arthur swept his shoulder-mounted halogen searchlight across the cave floor. Then, the true nature of the underground basin revealed itself. Emerging from the six-thousand-meter ice wall were the mangled, frost-shrouded ruins of a heavy-duty processing work-yard.
Rusted steel narrow high walkways hung twisted like broken ribs from the ceiling. Shattered silver-steel support pillars were wrapped in thick rime, and dozens of tube-shaped holding vats—each four meters tall and stamped with the clear world-serpent sigil of the Sovereign Chimera Order—lay burst across the dark rock flat stone slabs.
“Facility Seven-B,” Arthur said, reading a rusted through brass signboard half-buried in the ice. “A forward field lab. Abandoned at least thirty years ago during the First Continental Purge.”
Grimm stepped past Arthur, his upper lip curled in deep distaste. The hound lowered his snout to within an inch of the green sludge. It drew in a long, analytical breath before letting out a sharp, sneezing snort. To Grimm’s refined smell senses, the chemical stench of man-made growth hormones, formaldehyde, and decaying chimeric marrow was an active insult. He scraped his front paw against the dark rock, trying to wipe the foul residue from his pads.
