The blast of Unit Ren’s backup steam pipe hub tore through the freezing air of the Sanctum in a blinding geyser of white-hot white vapor and scalding lubricating oil. The brass pipes across his chest warped and popped under total internal pressure. Gear catch gears and steel ball-bearings spun off their axles, ricocheting against the black dark rock pillars with ear-splitting metal cracks. Yet, even as his core vented into ruination, the star-iron vice-wrench clamped around the Man Who Returned’s left boot didn’t open. The clockwork teeth had sunk two inches into the leather and the silver glass, locked tight by an internal cranking dog that could only be released by manual disassembly.
‘Positional lock: kept,’ Unit Ren rasped through his buckled steel jaw-brace. Thick, grey smoke poured from his vocal actuator. He smelled of burnt transformer windings and scorched whale fat. His brass sight housing was smashed, two of its three rotating lenses dangling from copper wires. But his leftover green lens burned with cold, calculating focus. ‘Causal evasion... Exactly constrained. Target speed: zero. Keeper, execute the stroke!’ The machine’s high-pressure lines pulsed with desperate, shuddering surges as he dumped his final reserves of steam into the clamping jaws, anchoring the headsman to the floor with three tons of clockwork leverage.
