The seven voices died at once.
The silence that followed wasn’t quiet. It was full of steam, dripping water, and the low, fifty-eight hertz electrical drone humming through the floor tiles. The smell of ninety-eight-point-six-degree medical saline and wet canvas hung thick in the air.
Julian Vance didn’t move his boots. His hand stayed clamped on the cold brass ring of Master Key WZ-Zero-Zero.
Across the circular room, seven heads remained turned toward him. Seven pairs of cloudy, milky eyes stared through the drifting steam. Their chins rested just above the tight circular collars of seven heavy canvas shrouds, laced across the tops of seven massive steel tubs.
“Don’t drop your guard, Jules,” Mac Cole said quietly.
Mac took half a step forward. His work boots squeaked against the slick tiles. His prosthetic left arm gave a dull brass click as the fingers adjusted around the grip of his heavy naval spanner.
“Seven tubs,” Dr. Victor Corvo said. He adjusted his glasses with one finger, his dark eyes sweeping the perimeter.
“Arranged in a radial symmetry. Fifty feet across. Look at the plumbing.”
