Back on the raised timber platform of the tram shed, everyone could feel the reek of spilled whale oil, sulfur fog. The bitter copper stench of an overheated spark circuit.
Len Vey stood beside the main junction box mounted to the heavy brick pier that anchored the northern approach arch. The junction box was a massive slab of oiled slate, two inches thick. It carried twenty-four heavy bronze end-post blocks mounted on glazed fine china insulator cups. For twelve years, those terminals had routed the tracking data lines from the outer wards. High-voltage return leads from the River intake, deep water pressure signals from the Quarry sump, and fire draft data from the Salt kilns.
In his calloused right hand, Len held the eighteen-inch crucible-steel cable shears. The drop-forged jaws were notched for shearing heavy copper. Their cutting edges shone dull silver in the lantern light. His left radius was shattered and bound within its rigid ash splints. Because of that, he couldn’t employ the tool with a standard two-handed lever action.
He adapted with the crude, clockwork smooth speed of a laborer who had no choice. He braced the lower wooden grip of the shears against the iron plate of his courier belt buckle. He pressed his right hip against the brick pier for lateral leverage, gripped the upper handle with his bare right palm. Then he threw the entire weight of his torso forward.
