When Crate Fourteen was hauled from its shelf, the black water beneath it didn’t drain clear.
A shimmering, oily film of deep rainbow-bright violet spread across the surface of the pool. It bubbled faintly as it contacted the acidic marsh water. A sharp, choking odor of burnt copper and bitter garlic cut straight through the vinegar filters of their respirators, making Tomas’s eyes stream with instant, burning tears.
“Hold the derrick!” Tomas hissed, freezing in his tracks.
Nessa instantly brought her moss jar closer to the floating tub. By the emerald light, they could see the lower corner of Crate Fourteen had rotted away. Through the gap in the split batten, three glass spheres—each eight inches in width—were visible inside their shredded straw nests.
Two of the spheres were cracked. A thick, dark crimson liquid was weeping from the fractures. It hissed wildly as tiny droplets struck the standing water.
“Class-Four pyrogallol matrix,” Nessa whispered, her voice tight with terror. “The glass casing was thinned by acid rusting. If that liquid contacts open air, it flashes at four hundred degrees. The heat will shatter the other eight spheres inside the crate.”
“Get the dry chalk paste,” Tomas said. His voice dropped into the steady, clockwork calm of a man handling unstable weight. “Don’t lift the crate out of the water. If it breaks the surface, the air will ignite the cry.”
