The brass housing burned straight through Lenna's thick leather gloves. She held her grip on the focal ring. A millimeter left. Another fraction. The domain-reactive quartz locked into the groove with a heavy, satisfying click.
The machine settled into a steady, tooth-rattling drone. Four point seven kilohertz of coherent light. The sound vibrated behind her eyes and hummed deep in her jaw.
"Cooling jacket pressure?" she asked.
"Holding at eighty pounds," Rhen said. He stood at the far end of the projection console, a heavy stonesteel wrench tight in his hand. Sweat dripped off his chin, collecting in the collar of his grease-stained shirt. "Valves are open. The water flow is clear."
Lenna exhaled. The air in the projection booth smelled of ozone, hot metal, and the sharp tang of heated cinnaite. She wiped a streak of black grease from her forehead and leaned toward the observation glass.
