Mac Cole tightened his grip on his brass spanner until his knuckles went pale.
“Drowned boatswains,” Mac spat, leaning over the catwalk rail. “I worked the coal docks for twenty years, Julian. Bilge mud and salt-cured wool.”
Down in the black sump water, the four figures waded forward.
The brine reached their chests, parting around their stiff, laminated coats. Every time their lead boots hit the concrete, a heavy thud vibrated up through the catwalk iron. They moved together like rusty cranes on a scuttled barge.
“They aren’t breathing,” Lin Mei whispered. She clicked her stopwatch.
“Zero chest expansion. Their collars are sealed with pitch.”
“Of course they aren’t breathing, Miss Lin,” Dr. Victor Corvo said, checking his pocket watch. “They drowned in nineteen twenty-four. Breathing would only get in the way of their duties.”
Behind them, the Titan-84 press gave a steady, wet purr.
