The dot-matrix impact head struck the carbon ribbon with the rhythm of a machine gun.
CLACK-CLACK-CLACK-CLACK.
High-voltage blue sparks danced across the open chassis of the 1974 billing terminal. Inside the cashier booth, the mechanical platen spun, feeding a crisp, triplicate sheet of blue-and-white cardstock through the print guide.
Ten feet away down the corridor, Enforcer Ward slammed his shoulder against the heavy laundry bin, kicking the bent chrome IV pole aside.
“Cane, get up!” Ward roared, his boots splashing through the green soapy disinfectant on the tiles. “Smash the glass!”
“Don’t let that terminal print!”
Cane scrambled to his knees, his rubber half-mask hanging by one strap. He lunged for his fallen stun-baton, grabbing the rubberized grip as forty thousand volts hummed back to life with an angry blue hiss.
“Elena, the logbook!” Julian shouted, leaning through the cashier slot.
