The air-powered clamp-shears snapped shut with the sound of a falling guillotine.
The two-inch iron boilerplate of Ren’s workbench cut like wet cardboard. Grease drums collapsed, spewing black sludge across the dark rock flags as Ren threw his weight sideways, tucking his shoulder into a forward roll beneath the low-hanging steam pipe hub.
Hot vapor hissed across his nape.
“Subject exhibits acute irrational pushback,” Silas Vance stated, his voice flat as he turned his pocket pressure gauge. “Execute field splinting. Pin the humeral joints. Ensure the lung tract remains intact for turbine installation.”
The two Clockwork Guards didn’t break into a run. Their assemblies were tuned for crushing torque rather than foot-speed. The left guard lunged forward, brass pistons on his thighs extending with a shrill whistle of escaping ether. His heavy iron gauntlet struck the brick top door beam where Ren had been kneeling a half-second prior, pulverizing five hundred years of mortar into grey dust.
Ren didn’t look back. He sprinted through the canvas partition, scooping up his ivory awl and the brass-backed Mechanized Power-coil Promise in a single sweeping motion.
“Ren!” Mira cried from her stool beside the stove.
“Down!” Ren shouted, his voice cracking against the silence that bound his throat. “Mira, stay below the iron ring!”
