The maintenance corridor beyond was narrow, lined with pipes wrapped in cloth. Steam moved through them like blood through a vein. The floor sloped slightly downward, and water ran in a thin channel along one side, catching lantern light in dull flashes.
We moved quickly and quietly.
The corridor opened onto a junction where three paths met. I paused, listening.
Then I heard a faint scrape ahead. A muted cough.
“Wait,” I mouthed, holding up a hand.
Tamsin, Griff, and Elias froze instantly. Bishop’s hand hovered near his coat where his pistol waited. Eamon stayed perfectly still, looking to me.
Footsteps approached in our direction.
A maintenance worker rounded the corner, a flashlight in one hand, a wrench in the other. He didn’t look up at first. He just kept walking, muttering to himself.
“Damn valves… always the fucking valves…”
He glanced up when he was nearly on top of us and stopped short, not exactly alarmed, but surprised. His gaze flicked over our coats, our tool bags, and settled on me like I was the most senior annoyance in his path.
“What’re you lot doing down here?” he asked. “This run’s closed.”
I lifted my chin and put mild irritation in my voice. “Pressure fluctuation reported on the south line. We’re here to check the secondary valve.”
He frowned. “South line’s not?—”
Tamsin stepped forward half a pace, her body language non-threatening. “We’re just doing what the boss tells us. You know how it is.”
The man hesitated, then exhaled.
“Fine,” he muttered, stepping aside. “Just don’t make it worse.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I said.
He walked past us, boots splashing lightly through the thin runoff. He didn’t look back.
When his flashlight glow faded, Griff leaned close and murmured, “That was too easy.”
“Don’t jinx it,” I whispered back.
We moved down another corridor, then through a narrow service stair that climbed and then dropped, designed more for pipes than people. The air grew warmer as we approached the lab sector. The steam here was steadier, and quite a bit warmer.
Then we hit the first locked gate.
It was steel with a simple mechanical latch. No code panel. No electronics. Just a heavy lock and a key you either had or didn’t.
I crouched, pulled a thin pick from my sleeve, and worked by feel. The lock resisted at first. It had newer tumblers and tighter tolerances, but then it gave way with a soft click.
Griff’s breath left him in a quiet exhale. “That’s a useful skill.”
“Try not to sound too impressed,” I muttered.
He chuckled under his breath.
We slipped through and re-latched the gate behind us, leaving it looking untouched.
A minute later, we ran into our first real problem.
A soldier.
