"Bah, your brain isn't on board!"

 

They continued to argue, and Beckendorf pointed downstairs. We descended as

quietly as we could.

 

Two floors down, the voices of the telkhines started to fade.

 

Finally we came to a metal hatch. Beckendorf mouthed the words "engine room."

 

It was locked, but Beckendorf pulled some chain cutters out of his bag and split

the bolt like it was made of butter.

 

Inside, a row of yellow turbines the size of grain silos churned and hummed.

Pressure gauges and computer terminals lined the opposite wall. A telkhine was

hunched over a console, but he was so involved with his work, he didn't notice

us. He was about five feet tall, with slick black seal fur and stubby little

feet. He had the head of a Doberman, but his clawed hands were almost human. He

growled and muttered as he tapped on his keyboard. Maybe he was messaging his

friends on uglyface.com.

 

I stepped forward, and he tensed, probably smelling something was wrong. He

leaped sideways toward a big red alarm button, but I blocked his path. He hissed

and lunged at me, but one slice of Riptide, and he exploded into dust.

 

"One down," Beckendorf said. "About five thousand to go." He tossed me a jar of