The shock of the water spray hit Melli Dorn like an icy fist driven into the center of her chest.
The water falling from the overhead nozzles was nearly freezing. It was drawn from the high snowmelt tarns beneath the northern granite ridge. But three inches below the spray, the iron hub of the broken-sun governor was streaming a heat so intense that the water exploded into steam before it could pool on the metal.
Melli breathed through a double layer of wet linen tied across her nose and mouth. The air tasted of boiled machine oil, sulfur, and the metal tang of blazing bright iron. Every breath was a scald against the lining of her throat, but she didn’t step back. Her boots were wedged into the four-inch notches of the heavy oak chocks Len had bolted to the dark rock floor. The braided courier harness crossed her ribs like an unbending pair of hands.
Beside her, Urel took his grip on the opposing spokes on the right side of the wheel. The older man was trembling, his thin shoulders hunched beneath his drenched canvas undershirt, his gray hair plastered to his skull by the spray. But his scarred fingers closed around the flax-wrapped rim. Then, his knuckles turned white with a grip that had held pipe wrenches for thirty years.
