The blast hatch of Medical Ward Three blew inward with the percussive violence of a depth charge.
A gale of warm, high-pressure air—rich with the smell of antiseptic, blood, and fear—roared through the opening, dragging loose tracking data strips, sterile cotton gauze, and empty plastic saline bags into the depressurizing hall. The sudden pressure differential created an instant white fog as the surrounding moisture in the ward condensed into tiny ice crystals that swirled like an indoor blizzard across the doorway.
Arthur hit the doorframe with his right shoulder, his magnetic boots engaging with a sharp clank against the threshold doorstep. He threw his left arm across the frame, bracing his body against the outward rush of sky exhaust.
“Titus! Keel the hatch!” Arthur roared through his helmet microphone.
From the rear of the squad, the land-wide terrapin responded. Titus didn’t hurry. Hurry was a body impossibility for twelve tons of earth-shaking bone and fiery dark rock. But his movement was total. Titus plodded forward, his massive, clawed feet crushing the warped metal debris beneath him. Then he wedged his broad anterior belly shell directly into the burst hatchway.
THUD.
The terrapin’s shell fit the box-shaped doorway like an iron keystone. Titus lowered his head. He pressed his thick, rugose neck against the top frame. Then he extended his lateral armor scales. The gaps between his shell and the doorframe sealed under a dense, expanding layer of black-rock aether. A living seal ring that choked off the venting air within…
