While the team prepared for the next release, Inspector Korr Var stood by the casement window, calculating the physical cost of the eleven-minute comms halt. He didn’t sugarcoat the reality for the sake of morale.
“Look at the High Tor cutwater, Pella,” Korr said. He pointed through the rain with his brass rule. “While we were tracing the gas leak and waiting for Tom’s slip, the upstream pool climbed fourteen inches. Sorell used the silence to re-engage two of his backup extraction coils. The Hollow Crown is humming again at eighty cycles.”
“And the foundation pier?” Pella asked, her thumbs resting on the copper wire.
“The sideways tearing force increased by another a tiny fraction of an inch,” Korr answered plainly. “The delay cost us margin, Pella. We don’t have room for a third halt. The next memory pulse has to seat the Three Gates permanently. Or that platform will plunge into the gorge before Ada’s countdown reaches zero.”
“We don’t regret the halt, Korr,” Pella replied firmly. “If we hadn’t stopped, Tom Carver would be lying dead in a gas pocket, and Ada’s pipe hub would be in splinters. We spent eleven minutes to keep our people alive. Now we use the minutes we have left.”
