The silence that settled over the reef exchange gallery following the final collapse of the copper mainframe did not feel like peace; it felt like the heavy, suffocating vacuum left in the wake of a firing squad.
The pungent selenium smoke continued to rise from the floorboards, curling around the shattered glass data-tubes where the liquid mercury had cooled into dull, leaden streaks across the slate layout deck. The blue [STST] listing codes were completely gone, replaced by the jagged, physical distortion of the melted zinc tray sitting at the center of the table.
Elara stood with her back to the veranda rail, her fingers curled tightly inside the torn pockets of her charcoal wool coat. The wind blowing in from the delta mouth was bitter with salt-crust and the smell of the burning harbor galleon, but her grey eyes remained entirely focused on the single, deep indentation stamped into the cooling metal of the tray.
