Dr. Victor Corvo watched the frosted specimen jar roll across the grey floor tiles and come to rest against the zinc footing of Table #3.
The impact made a dull, wet sound against the metal casting.
THUMP.
The glass cylinder was heavy, industrial-grade borosilicate, four millimeters thick, molded in the 1960s to withstand deep subterranean temperature swings without shattering. But through the milky frost coating the cylindrical exterior, the amber liquid inside sloshed with an oily, unnatural viscosity.
It was Kaiserling preservative solution--the classic anatomical mixture of formalin, potassium nitrate, and potassium acetate Corvo had brewed by the fifty-gallon drum in the 1970s.
Under normal clinical conditions, Kaiserling solution was designed to preserve the natural pinkish-grey color of human viscera for medical students to dissect. But down here in the Grey Shift, chemical preservatives had a habit of curdling into something far more dangerous.
Corvo adjusted his vintage Carl Zeiss jeweler’s loupes, his velvet baritone dropping into a tense, warning whisper. “Hold your ground, Julian. Do not let your gloves touch that glass.”
Julian Vance stepped up beside Corvo, holding the five-foot braided copper grounding lance vertical in his left hand like a sentry’s spear. Lin Mei lingered three paces behind them, her back pressed against the soapstone sink of Autopsy Bay 3, the green screen of Clerk 03’s Casio register casting a faint emerald glow across her face.
