The yellow bubbles that breached the surface of the central vortex did not smell of ancient limestone or pure mountain snow.
They burst with the foul, choking stench of burning acid, scorched copper, and high-pressure kerosene. A slick of rainbow-bright chemical oil spread outward across the clear blue waters, catching the dim lantern light in greasy rainbows of purple and sickly green.
The chemical slick spreading across the clear water was composed of packed sulfuric acid, refined kerosene, and whale-lard machine oil. Zhu Heling had lined the inside compartments of his chassis with lead acid-cells to provide spark power for his voice synthesizers and sight zoom systems. When his chassis had flooded, several cells had burst, releasing their acid-burning contents into his internal cavities. The resulting chemical reaction had generated huge volumes of hydrogen gas, creating floating pressure that sped up his ascent through the water.
“He is rising,” Qiao Ming said, his voice flat, calm, and utterly devoid of surprise.
“The Scholar?” Yan Zhiqiu asked, lowering the Broken Slate to her waist, her knuckles white against the river-stone as she stared down into the churning funnel.
“A man who believes only in iron does not accept death from water,” Qiao Ming replied. He wrapped the hemp cord twice around his calloused right hand. “He considers drowning an insult to his machinery. He will claw his way to the surface until his last gear is stripped of its teeth.”
