The sound inside the master vault was no longer the deafening roar of volcanic steam or exploding nitro-gelatin.
It was the steady, rhythmic, terrifying click of a hundred brass logic drums spinning in perfect, synchronized harmony.
The geothermal vents along the circular floor emitted a soft, crimson light that illuminated the thirty-foot iron cylinder at the chamber's center. Stacks of unrefined platinum, copper ingots, and gold bars—worth hundreds of millions in Old World terms—lay piled along the basalt walls like raw, unpolished iron.
Lord Julian Vane remained on his knees near the shattered staging, his arms held firmly by two union riflemen. His fine linen shirt was torn, his hair messily plastered across his forehead with cold sweat. His gold-rimmed spectacles sat crooked on his nose as he stared at the primary differential core in utter, helpless horror.
