Bram Ash lowered the lead-weighted crowd-stave until the iron tip rested on the pine floorboards with a dull thud. His breath was coming in short, painful gasps, his forehead slick with the greasy sweat of three days of untreated bullet-fever from the oil depot raid.
He turned on Urel, his left hand shooting out to grab the technician by the wool lapel of his upkeep vest, twisting the cloth until Urel was pulled on his tiptoes across the drafting table.
“You gave them that holding room, Urel!” Bram shouted, his voice shaking the tin reflectors overhead. “In Year Nine, when you were second technician on the Star tower chimney pipes, you designed the drainage cages behind the main steam cooler! You drew the wiring diagram that connected the cell doors to the central annunciator in Morn’s private study! Every time a prisoner touches the lock, a brass flag drops on the high judge’s desk! You built the trap she’s sitting in!”
Urel didn’t struggle. His thin, sallow face remained fully blank, his watery eyes behind their steel-rimmed glasses staring down at Bram’s knuckles.
“I built it, Bram,” Urel said, his voice flat, drained of all defense. “I drew the blueprints. I supervised the stonework. I installed the backup steam pipes that run through the floor grating to keep the prisoners from freezing to death in the winter. And when the Survey Office brought down four lathe-hands from the third shift who refused to sign the emergency pledge, I stood by…
