Chapter 27 - The Obsidian Scalpel
The concussive shockwave from above sent a shower of wet concrete dust raining down upon our heads.
High above, the iron cables of the service lift groaned in agony, swinging wildly against the limestone walls of the shaft. Across the cavern, the emergency strobes flickered, died for two terrifying seconds of pitch-black darkness, and then sputtered back to life with a dull, sickly orange glow.
The Clockmaker’s body slumped against the iron railing of the platform, his eyes glazing over into death, the secret of his employers dying on his bloody lips.
Marco didn't waste a second on the dead man. He spun around, his eyes locking onto my father.
"The upper perimeter just collapsed," Marco said, his voice hard, pushing aside the personal revelations for the immediate survival of the room. "Someone just hit the north wing with military-grade thermite. Samuel’s mercenaries didn't carry that kind of ordnance."
"The Consortium," my father said, finally looking up, his face grim, the guilt in his pale hazel eyes suffocating in its depth. "They have surveillance teams stationed along the shoreline. The moment the primary frequency loop in Samuel's chair locked up, their automated protocols initiated containment. They aren't coming to rescue Samuel. They're coming to incinerate every biological specimen in this facility."
"Julian is still on the catwalk," I said, running back down the iron stairs toward the transport gurney.
Julian was conscious, his breathing shallow, his hands trembling as he clutched the edge of the aluminum frame. His cardiac monitor was beeping with a steady, fragile rhythm, but the battery indicator on the transport unit was flashing red—less than fifteen percent power remaining.
"Laura," Julian whispered, reaching for my arm. "The terminal in the server room... we have to reach it before the fire reaches the subterranean fuel lines. If those lines blow, the entire lakefront collapses into the sinkhole."
"He's right," Marco agreed, descending the stairs, his hand pressed against the makeshift dressing over his pericardial catheter. "The central server vault has an independent blast seal. It's the only room down here built with reinforced titanium bulkheads. If we seal ourselves inside, we can weather the surface collapse and access the emergency drainage hatch that leads out into the breakwater of the lake."
"Then let's move," I said, releasing the brake on the gurney.
We pushed Julian through the final stretch of the vaulted tunnel, the water around our ankles now rising to mid-calf, freezing cold, rushing with an ominous, accelerating current. The lake intake valves were slowly failing under the pressure of the surface explosions.
At the end of the tunnel stood the primary vault doors—two massive, circular slabs of polished steel, bearing the insignia of the Bellini family: a coiled serpent biting its own tail, wrapped around a clockwork balance wheel.
The door was ajar by three inches, held open by a hydraulic safety piston.
Marco stepped up, wedging his rifle barrel into the gap, and threw his weight against the steel door. With a heavy, grinding groan of hardened rollers, the blast door slid back, revealing the inner sanctum of the Bellini empire.
The server vault was a massive, octagonal chamber, dry and climate-controlled, lined with towering racks of black server towers that hummed like a hive of mechanical wasps. Thousands of fiber-optic cables glowed beneath a floor made entirely of reinforced safety glass.
And in the center of the room, elevated on a circular dais beneath a battery of surgical shadowless lamps, sat a second chair.
It was identical to the one in the study upstairs—the massive, high-backed leather armchair with its mahogany armrests and bronze controls. But this chair was not empty.
Sitting in the chair was a woman.
She wore a faded, ivory silk gown, her wrists and ankles loosely bound by soft velvet restraints. Her hair was completely white, cascading over her shoulders like spun silver. Her eyes were closed, her face peaceful, pale as marble.
Connected to her chest, running beneath the delicate lace of her gown, was a bundle of translucent medical tubes filled with oxygenated blood, humming in unison with a large, freestanding cardiopulmonary bypass machine resting beside her.
Marco froze in the doorway, his rifle slipping from his fingers, clattering onto the safety glass floor with a sound that shattered the mechanical hum of the room.
His lips parted, his breath catching in his throat as if a bullet had just pierced his heart.
May you like
"Mom?" Marco whispered.
***
