The "Iron Shroud" had blinded the Imperial cryptographers, but it had also created a pressure cooker within the valley. Wrapped in wire and grounded to the earth, Oakhaven felt more like a prison than a protectorate. The "gritty realism" of life under a Faraday shield was a constant, low-frequency anxiety; the air felt "heavy," the static of the wool mills was gone, and the workers began to feel the psychological weight of being disconnected from the sky.
Count Valerius had left, but he had left behind something far more insidious than an antenna: a cell of Sleeper-Saboteurs. These weren't Imperial agents in disguise; they were Oakhaven laborers, men like Hallow's cousins, who had been promised Imperial titles and Southern estates in exchange for a single hour of "maintenance" on the primary geothermal manifolds.
"The pressure in the Section 7 pumps is fluctuating, David," Miller reported, his voice tight with a lack of sleep. He was staring at the master pressure gauge in the command center. The needle, usually rock-steady, was vibrating in a jagged, irregular pattern. "It's not a leak. It's a Harmonic Oscillation. Someone is manually cycling the intake valves at the rhythm of the mountain's pulse."
Deacon didn't need the Logistical Insight to know what was happening. If the intake valves were cycled in resonance with the geothermal tremors, the back-pressure wouldn't just stop the pumps; it would shatter the cast-iron casings. It was a "Mechanical Assassination" of the valley's heart.
"Who was on the midnight maintenance shift for the 7-well?" Deacon asked, grabbing his heavy leather tool-belt and a high-pressure lantern.
"Barrow and his crew," Miller replied. "Good men. Five-year veterans of the foundry."
"Even good men have a price when the Empire is holding the purse," Deacon said.
They reached the Section 7 pump-house just as the floor began to heave. The sound was a rhythmic, subterranean thud—the "Water-Hammer" effect. In a 19th-century steam system, a water-hammer was a death sentence. It occurred when a column of liquid was suddenly stopped, sending a shockwave through the pipes that could hit with the force of a thousand-pound sledgehammer.
Deacon burst through the door and found the crew. They weren't working; they were standing around the main lever, their faces pale in the flickering gaslight. Barrow held a Southern-stamped gold sovereign in his shaking hand.
"The pressure is too high, Lord Cassian!" Barrow shouted, his eyes wide with terror. "The mountain is angry! We can't stop it!"
"You aren't trying to stop it, Barrow," Deacon said, his eyes fixed on the lead weight the man had tied to the governor-arm. "You've bypassed the safety-cutoff. You're forcing the hammer."
A deafening CRACK echoed through the chamber—the first of the main bolts on the pump-casing had sheared. A jet of superheated steam hissed into the room, instantly turning the air into a scalding white fog.
"Get out!" Deacon commanded Miller and the crew. "Barrow, if you want that gold, you stay and help me vent the manifold. If the casing blows, the entire Section 7 sector collapses into the magma-shelf!"
The "gritty" struggle for the pump-house was a fight against physics. Deacon and the terrified Barrow crawled through the scalding mist toward the Manual Bypass Wheel. The metal was hot enough to melt the skin off their palms; Deacon had to wrap his hands in his heavy wool duster just to touch the wheel.
With every revolution of the wheel, the water-hammer shook the room, threatening to bring the basalt ceiling down on their heads. It was a brutal, physical test of the Oakhaven Standard. Because Deacon had insisted on over-engineered, reinforced iron stays, the pump held just long enough for the bypass to open.
With a roar that sounded like a dying beast, the excess pressure was vented into the canal's overflow basin. The vibration stopped. The pump-house fell silent, filled only with the sound of dripping condensation and Barrow's frantic sobbing.
Deacon stood over the man, his duster charred, his hands blistered through the wool. He didn't take the gold sovereign. He simply looked at the heavy iron pump. "The Empire didn't want the iron, Barrow. They wanted the silence. They wanted to prove that our 'Standard' is only as strong as the weakest man holding the lever."
The sabotage was thwarted, but the damage was done. Section 7 was down for a month of repairs, and the trust in the valley was shattered. Deacon had to implement the Internal Security Protocol: no man was to work on a primary manifold alone, and every valve-cycle had to be logged on a standardized, carbon-copy sheet.
"We're becoming a police state, David," Julian said, watching the first 'Internal Inspectors' begin their rounds. "The shroud is on the buildings, and now it's on the people."
"The Empire is done with 'Audits,' Julian," Deacon said, looking at the charred bypass wheel. "They've tried the code, the wire, and the men. There is only one thing left they can use to break the cage."
"What's that?"
"The Grand Rail-Head," Deacon said. "The Imperial Sovereign is returning. But this time, it's not coming for calibration. It's coming with a 'Diplomatic Escort' of ten armored carriages. They're going to use our own tracks to drive a spear into the heart of Oakhaven."