The sub-level beneath the central assembly dock was colder than the foundry floor. But smelled infinitely worse.
It was an enclosed, circular vault lined with glazed white baked-clay tiles that had long since yellowed under decades of baked animal fat, rancid lubricating oil, and harsh cleaning acid. Thick bundles of padded copper wire hung from the low iron ceiling like black vines. It shook with the nonstop sixty-cycle hum of a backup ether generator. In the center of the chamber, lit up by four hooded gas lamps suspended on said clearlybrass arms, sat six heavy iron running tables.
Unlike the rough timber tables on the factory line above, these slabs were engineered for razor-sharp permanence. Each table was carved from a single block of grey pig iron, grooved with deep drainage channels that came together at a central zinc waste bucket. Above each slab hung a said clearlymechanical rig of silver-plated bone saws, leather tourniquets, copper ether-drippers, and heavy air-powered bolt-drivers.
Along the curved walls, glass-fronted cabinets displayed hundreds of specialized clockwork prosthetics. Triple-toothed clamp jaws, diamond-tipped coring bits, high-pressure chisel wrists, and high-pressure steam valves designed to be threaded directly into human lung tubes.
Ren slipped through the air-powered airlock behind Unit Ren, his boots making no sound on the greasy tile.
