The high-pressure nozzle of Elena Rostov’s liquid-nitrogen canister hissed like a pit viper as fifty pairs of iron-shod boots charged across the frosted marble.
Elena planted her boots shoulder-width apart at the head of Clara’s transport cot. Her left thumb stayed clamped onto the soft, cool skin of Clara’s radial artery, maintaining constant physical contact under Sheet Z Rule Five. With her right hand, she leveled the brass wand of the medical cryogenic tank, her dark eyes locking onto the front rank of attackers.
“Keep that line tight!” Elena barked over the thunderous roar of the Sub-Harbor Brine Shaft. “Rule Five is active! If my thumb loses Clara’s pulse for three consecutive beats, her biological custody reverts to the municipal coroner!”
The fifty remaining bailiffs were not dissolving into sapphire light.
They surged forward in a tight, wedge-shaped phalanx across the narrow span of the Probate Bridge. Their faces were not the faded, sorrowful parchment of 1996 mill hands. They were stiff, bleached pigskin, stamped across the brow with dripping crimson seals that bore the sharp, predatory monogram of Director Evelyn Cross: E.C. -- UPTOWN SPIRE.
“Form the ring!” Elena shouted, her voice cutting through the mist like a surgical blade. “Do not break contact with the cot! If an escheatment pike touches Clara’s skin, her vitals will drop straight to zero!”
