The melted rock waste barge groaned as it entered the rapids of the Third Smelting Canal.
Beneath the six-inch heat-proof iron hull, ninety tons of liquid pig iron surged toward the Great Culvert. An underground cascade where the molten waste plunged three hundred feet down into the earth-heat cooling basins. The surrounding air was a shimmering, orange haze that baked the grease on Ren Vale’s apron until it smoked. Every breath tasted of copper flakes and burning sulfur, scorching his throat with every breath in.
He crouched low against the heavy iron bulwark of the barge, his left hand pinning his satchel containing the three bismuth canisters against his ribs.
Beside him, Unit Ren stood erect at the bow, his heavy iron boots anchored into the solidified crust of black melted rock waste that covered the cargo deck. His left high-pressure arm had suffered load-bearing trauma. The barbed harpoon from the upper overhead frame had gouged a deep furrow in the main metal tube casing. A steady, rhythmic hiss of atomized stone oil sprayed from a cut copper return line.
“Damage check,” Ren shouted over the roar of the molten river. “Can you hold the line?”
“Internal pressure: twenty-two hundred PSI,” Unit Ren rasped through his brass chest muscle. “Backup storage tank compromised. Moving output reduced by fifteen percent. However, speed of hostiles is superior.”
