The sudden, total silence inside the Board was heavier than the thunder that had preceded it.
For thirty thousand years, the Grand Administrative Hall had rang with the ceaseless sound hum of three-phase sky transformers. A thousand golden indicator lanterns had cast their amber glare over the marble dais, lighting up the polished dark rock flags and the towering jade pillars with the arrogant luster of eternal mandate. Now, every single light had died.
The backup power bus was dead, its unshielded copper power bars fused into solid melted rock waste by Lin Tao’s cold chisel.
Above the apex dais, the huge dome hung in pitch darkness, save for the pale, silvery shafts of starlight filtering through the northern air-flow angled slats. The air was cooling rapidly. He dropped from the stifling forty degrees generated by the short-circuit down toward the sharp mountain chill of eight degrees. Cold air poured into the cavernous hall like water filling an empty quarry. He carried with it the clean scent of crushed shale and distant pine.
Lin Tao stood at the base of the central stairs, his land-mapper boots planted firmly on the cold flat stone slabs.
His bandaged palms throbbed with a rhythmic, dull ache beneath the mutton-animal fat dressings. But the tight linen wraps held firm, preventing clockwork abrasion. He reached into his coat with careful, deliberate fingers, pulled out a glowing-bronze oil lantern. Then he struck a flint against his pocket striker.
