The smell of stagnant harbor mud and corroded pennies flooded the Level 4 gallery like an opened crypt.
Inside the warm room, the air pressure spiked so violently that the heavy mahogany doors shuddered in their steel frames. Condensation on the interior walls froze into thick rime, crackling as frost spread across the framed FCC licenses and the polished control dials.
Director Evelyn Cross backed into the secondary editing desk, her manicured fingers clawing at the blotter for support. Her face had drained of all aristocratic color. The pale, perfect composure she had worn all night was shattered into jagged pieces.
“Voss! Miller! Kroll!” Cross screamed, her voice cracking into a raw screech.
“Don’t just stand there staring! Get him away from the cabinet! Put him down!”
The three elite Notary Engineers stood frozen by the auxiliary tape deck. They were seasoned syndicate operators, men who had signed execution dockets in the cellars of St. Jude’s Hospital and audited debtors into the salt marshes. But their bodies refused to move.
Senior Engineer Voss drew his heavy service revolver from his leather shoulder rig, leveling the barrel straight at the dripping yellow chest of Mr. Zero.
“Step back from the console,” Voss barked, though his gun hand trembled violently. “Under authority of the Red-Ink Notary Syndicate, this transmitter gallery is restricted space! Step back or I fire!”
