At quarter to five, thirty minutes before the ninety-minute countdown began, the sector captains gathered inside the canvas command tent on the basin levee. A hurricane lantern hung from the center pole. It cast a warm yellow light over Hal Rook’s service maps and Ada’s pressure charts.
Master Galt of the Watermen, Miller Tom, and Eren Tal stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Ada Morland and Jo Saye. There was no class distinction, no academy hierarchy, and no territorial suspicion. They were six practical builders looking at a common problem.
‘We open the intake at five o’clock sharp,’ Pella briefed them, her pencil pointing to the set. ‘Stage One: fifteen minutes of slow filling through Gate One. Stage Two: twenty minutes of full surge through the twin reed sleeves. Stage Three: simulated tear-seam rupture and diverter switch. Stage Four: minute seventy rest break. Stage Five: orderly shutdown and packing.’
‘And if the water kicks harder than expected, Pella?’ Master Galt asked, his rough hand resting on his knife belt.
‘If the water kicks,’ Pella answered. She looked him in the eye, ‘Hesta drops the red flag, Eren blows the whistle, Ada dumps the relief valve, and we all step back onto dry gravel. We’re here to learn where our limits are, not to prove we have none. Synchronize your watches, gentlemen. The rehearsal begins in fifteen minutes.’
