Pella Rook stepped to the central speaking tube in the museum gallery, calling the roll of the stations for the final shift check. “Station One: Turning Basin. Report status.”
“Station One ready,” Hesta’s voice came through, clear and firm as a brass bell. “Water at Notch Four. Sleeve Beta carrying eleven thousand gallons in the green sector. Silt channel running clear. The basin is stable.”
“Station Two: Eastern Flume. Report status.”
“Station Two ready,” Bessa Marr answered from the marsh. “Water chute open to sixty percent. Dog-ratchet seated. The tide is taking the discharge without backing-up pressure. Zero leaks on the stonework.”
“Station Three: Third Gate. Report status.”
“Station Three ready,” old Renn Vos shouted proudly from the lower vault. “Bronze spindle turned six revolutions and locked. The throat is breathing at twenty-two pounds. Master Garrow has greased the gears. We can hold this gate until next Christmas.” Pella looked at Kel, who recorded the three confirmations with three bold black ticks in the register. The city was defended by its own people.
At 54 minutes past one o’clock—minute 87 and 25 seconds on the brass bridge pocket watch, cold mountain runoff carrying soaked saddle-felt swirled against the vaulted undercroft piers. It sent a sharp echo in the undercroft across the box-stitched hemp slings. He stood beside the hesta confirms notch 4 stable (bone-crushing pressure). Kel Dorr checked the three-station whistle check with a three-tone brass signal whistle, verifying that Alpha, Beta. Gamma had answered the final roll-call in order…
