Steam screamed from the blown manifold gasket at the far end of the catwalk, shooting toward the iron roof in a white plume.
Julian Vance wiped hot condensation off his face. His right ear rang with a steady, dry hum at forty-two hundred hertz. Down in the flooded sump pit, the brown water sloshed against the base of the Titan-84 press.
“Diverter valve held,” Mac Cole said, wiping his greasy sleeve across his forehead. His prosthetic left arm gave a quiet mechanical click as he adjusted the brass spanner fitting.
“Steam didn’t cook the tubs upstairs. Miss Lin’s drop-flag trick did the job.”
Lin Mei adjusted her cracked tortoiseshell glasses. Her voice was thin, but steady.
“The check-valves slammed shut the second the Six-Warden writ hit the admitting slot. All five tubs upstairs dropped back to ninety-eight degrees. Dr. Helen Vane’s pulse was eighty-two over the speaking tube.”
Dr. Beatrice Hahn sat in her oak wheelchair at the head of the catwalk. Her knuckles were pale on the armrests, but her spine stayed straight.
“Helen has survived thirty years in Ward Zero, Julian. She won’t drown in warm bathwater today.”
