A mechanical token chute was designed to reject zinc slugs, but it had no defense against an authorized audit voucher.
Julian Vance stood two inches from the yellow safety line of Turnstile #1. The blue-white electrical sparks snapping off the stainless-steel tripod arms illuminated the sharp angles of his face, reflecting in his grey eyes like miniature lightning storms.
The flood timer drum on the airlock wall rattled with an unhurried, mechanical countdown.
FLOOD LOCK RESET: 07 MINUTES 14 SECONDS.
Behind them, the four-inch armor-plate airlock was sealed. In seven minutes, thirty million gallons of river silt would roar through the conduit, submerging Morgue Siding #00 to the ceiling.
Ahead of them, the 1968 Budd R-Zero subway train stood idling beside the platform edge. Its dual tungsten headlights poured twin cones of brilliant amber light through the damp tunnel steam, illuminating the six Unclaimed Skin Bailiffs who blocked the turnstile bank.
The bailiffs shook their brass cups in synchronized, menacing rhythm.
CLINK-CHINK. CLINK-CHINK.
