Four miles to the north, perched on the windswept granite crag three hundred meters above the valley floor, the central Star tower citadel hummed with the high-hum whine of overloaded dynamos.
Inside the underground instrument gallery, Chancellor Ves Morn stood before the master status switchboard, his hands clasped behind the back of his tailored charcoal wool frock coat. The room was lit up only by the faint, greenish glow of empty pocket tube indicators and the amber dials of sixty-four deep water pressure gauges. The air was dry, hot, and smelled of overheated copper coils, ozone, and spark heat padding varnish.
On the central dark wood panel, five large fine china indicators had dropped into their downward slots, their enameled faces painted with bold red slashes:
RIVER WARD: SEVERED. ORCHARD WARD: SEVERED. SALT WARD: SEVERED. TRAM WARD: SEVERED. QUARRY WARD: SEVERED.
“Anchor Five dropped thirty minutes ago, High judge,” Chief Technician Vane reported from the low console beneath the battery banks. His voice was hoarse, his shirt soaked with sweat at the collar. “The main solenoid in the lower limestone vault snapped. We lost fifteen hundred heat units in the surge before the safety breakers tripped. The country grid is running at twenty-two percent capacity.”
