The lift cage struck the river gravel at the base of the limestone gorge with a shuddering bounce, its iron balance weights clattering in the oak guide channels. Pella Rook hit the ground running, her heavy work boots kicking up showers of gray river mud and wet shingle as she sprinted toward the timber levee bell post. Behind her, Korr Var and Eren Tal hauled two forged crowbars from the lift floor, their work smocks spattered with powdery pipe lime and dark river silt, their expressions set with hard, focused resolve.
High above them in the narrow deep gap, the upright granite walls were shrouded in thick, swirling billows of sulfur steam that rolled down the canyon like an avalanche of boiling fog. The air tasted bitterly of copper green rust, scorched pitch. The pervasive silt stench of disturbed riverbed clay. The Gray Rush was no longer an ordinary autumn spate swelling against the banks. It had become an artificial, sixty-thousand-cubic-foot deluge of scalding wastewater, frothing with yellow scum and splintered driftwood as Davin Sorell’s opened purges dumped the entire upper cooling reserve into the lower reach.
Pella reached the levee post, seizing the braided hemp lanyard with both hands. She didn’t hesitate, throwing her full body weight into the descent. The four-hundred-pound bronze bell atop the cedar gallows swung wide. Its iron clapper struck the lip with a rapid, ringing staccato of four-stroke distress beats that tore through the damp river air: one-two-three-four, one-two-three-four. The brazen clatter shattered the…
