The main airlock of the Boreas Deep Mining Rig 01 hung half-open, jammed by a three-ton block of black ice that had crept through the threshold over a century of earth-shaking pressure.
Arthur raised his right gauntlet, signaling the squad to hold their positions. “Titus, clear the portal. Gentle pressure—we don’t want to bring the ceiling down on our heads.”
Titus stepped forward, placing his massive dark rock shoulder against the frozen blocked path. With a slow, air-powered exhale from his nostrils, the tortoise leaned into the ice. His forty-five tons of mass surged with steady, high-pressure force that made the steel frame of the airlock groan in protest.
CRACK!
The black ice block fractured along a clean stress line. It slid aside into the dark inside of the airlock with a hollow, echoing thud.
Arthur stepped through the breach, his boots crunching on ancient frost. Grimm followed closely at his heel, his low growl humming in his throat, his black canines catching the beam of Arthur’s headlamp. Behind them, Pip perched on Arthur’s shoulder cowl, his solar aura dimmed to a low, amber glow to avoid exploding any volatile gases that might have piled up in the high-pressure decks.
