The stopwatch clicked against Julian Vance’s lapel.
CLICK.
The red second hand swept into motion with a clean mechanical tick.
00:01.
“Timer is running!” Nurse Elena Rostova called out, her hands locked on the heavy brass door plunger.
“One hundred and eighty seconds on the clock, Julian! Keep your face out of the sludge!”
“Winch line is unlocked and feeding smooth!” Marcus “Mac”
Cole shouted from the threshold. “Thirty feet of aircraft cable paying out through the snatch block!
Don’t let the steel bite your hips!”
“Check the telemetry signal, Elena!” Julian called out, dropping to his hands and knees. “Is the baseline clear?”
“Sinus rhythm is seventy-six beats per minute!” Elena answered, eyes fixed on the scope.
“Adhesive leads are holding firm! Go, Julian!”
“I’m going under!” Julian yelled back.
Julian dropped flat onto his belly on the freezing aluminum sill of Door Three.
The fourteen-inch drainage trough beneath Shelf 1 stretched into the darkness like a narrow metal coffin. The aluminum pan was only sixteen inches wide. The bottom rack of heavy steel shelves hung four inches above his shoulder blades, groaning under four tiers of plastic milk crates.
A black wave of boiling toner-sludge rushed down the trough, slamming into Julian’s chest.
SPLASH.
The sludge was icy cold on the bottom and scalding hot on top, smelling of burnt photocopier ink, ammonia, and rotten vinegar. It splashed against Julian’s chin, soaking through the wool of Arthur’s navy cardigan.
“Toner in the trough!” Julian shouted, spitting black grit from his lips. “Henderson flooded the channel from the rear!”
“Julian, pull back!” Elena cried through the open door.
“That sludge will ruin your telemetry leads! I can hear interference on the monitor!”
“No!” Julian yelled, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.
“The lead wires are silicone-coated! Keep the door open, Elena!
Do not let that plunger drop!”
“The plunger is locked with my shoulder!” Elena called back.
“Heart rate is eighty-two beats per minute! Rhythm is normal sinus!
Five seconds elapsed!”
00:05.
“How is the cable tension, Kid?” Mac bellowed into the cooler.
“Tension is light!” Julian called back, pulling himself forward with his elbows. “Give me three feet of slack every five seconds!”
“Three feet of slack feeding now!” Mac shouted.
“Watch your shoulders on the uprights! Those galvanized posts have sharp zinc burrs!”
“I see the posts!” Julian answered. “The wool cardigan is taking the friction!”
00:10.
“Ten seconds elapsed!” Elena called out, her voice echoing into the cooler. “One hundred and seventy seconds remaining on Rule C-1!”
Julian dragged himself forward along the slimy metal pan.
His boots kicked against the aluminum lip as he pulled his hips into the narrow trough. The ceiling of the channel--the cold, ribbed undersides of forty heavy plastic milk crates--hung three inches above his nose.
Directly above his spine, the green Starlight Soda bottles on Shelf 3 began to chime.
CLINK-CLINK. TING.
It was a delicate, crystalline sound, like twenty-four glass wind-bells swaying in an autumn breeze.
Faint emerald bio-luminescence began to glow through the gaps between the plastic crates. The trapped clerks of the Background Chorus were singing through the glass. Their cold green light shone downward through the drainage slots, illuminating Julian’s crawl path through the black sludge.
“Listen to the bottles!” Mac called out from the doorway. “Do you hear the chorus, Kid?”
“I hear them!” Julian shouted back.
“They’re humming at sixty hertz! They’re lighting the trough with green phosphorescence!”
“That’s Arthur’s crew from nineteen-ninety-six!” Mac yelled.
“They bottled their voices to keep the cooling coils stable! They know you’re coming for Arthur, Chief!”
“Tell them to keep singing!” Julian called back. “Their light is cutting right through the toner!”
Up in the ceiling ducts, Henderson’s voice rattled the sheet metal, sharp and mocking.
“You can’t fit through there, Vance!” Henderson yelled down through the air vent.
“Those crates are packed tight! Bumping a single crate turns the whole stack!”
Julian’s right ear flared with a sudden, painful jab.
4,196 Hz.
Julian tilted his head up two inches.
Stenciled in greasy crimson crayon across the bottom ribs of the fourth milk crate was a fresh message:
CRATE WEDGED -- ROTATE NINETY DEGREES TO CLEAR PASSAGE
“Lie-Rule on crate four!” Julian yelled back down the trough.
“What does it say?” Elena shouted.
“It says rotate the crate ninety degrees to clear passage!” Julian answered.
“Don’t touch it!” Mac roared back.
“That’s Rule C-2! If that crate turns ninety degrees toward the door, the pressure differential flips and drops three thousand pounds of dairy crates straight onto your spine!”
“I’m not turning it!” Julian shouted. “I’m anchoring the rail with blue wax!”
00:20.
“Twenty seconds!” Elena called out.
“Core temperature ninety-seven point four! Heart rate ninety!
You’re ten feet into the cooler!”
Julian reached into his chest pocket and pulled out the thick stick of Carter’s Indelible Blue Anchor-Wax.
He didn’t try to crawl past the crate. Instead, he reached up with his right hand and slammed the blue wax tip against the steel guide rail running along the edge of the rack.
SCRAPE.
He dragged the wax along the steel in one long, unbroken cobalt line, welding the bottom flange of the milk crate directly to the structural channel.
The blue wax sizzled as it touched the frozen steel. A rich scent of pine rosin and beeswax cut through the toxic stench of the toner sludge.
The crimson letters on the crate bottom turned dark brown, their greasy pigment peeling away like scorched paint.
CHUNK.
The milk crate locked solid against the rail.
“Rail one is anchored in blue wax!” Julian yelled. “The crate won’t budge an inch!”
“Keep moving, Julian!” Elena shouted.
“Twenty-five seconds elapsed! You have one hundred and fifty-five seconds left!”
00:25.
Julian shoved the blue wax back into his pocket, dug his boot toes into the aluminum pan, and lunged forward.
The sludge was thicker now, rising three inches deep. It coated his neck, his ears, and the cuffs of Arthur’s cardigan.
Every time Julian pulled himself forward, the rough knitted wool of the sweater caught against the sharp aluminum rivets of the trough. The cardigan scratched his forearms, but the heavy wool kept the bitter frost from penetrating his chest.
“How does the sweater feel?” Elena called through the door. “Is the wool keeping you warm?”
“It feels like Arthur’s holding my shoulders!” Julian called back, panting hard. “The wool is warm, and it’s grounding the static!”
“Arthur was the toughest clerk in the district!” Mac yelled from the front.
“That sweater carried thirty years of graveyard shifts! Trust the wool, Kid!”
00:30.
“Thirty seconds elapsed!” Elena called out.
“One minute and thirty seconds until the half-way mark! Heart rate ninety-six!”
Julian hauled himself another five feet.
Suddenly, his ear flared again. The forty-two hundred hertz hum plunged down into the sour rattle.
4,196 Hz.
“Second Lie-Rule!” Julian yelled, coughing as black toner splashed into his nostrils. “Crate number eight!”
“What did Henderson write this time?” Mac barked.
“It says: KICK CRATE TO RELEASE PRESSURE!” Julian called out. “Another rotation trap!”
“Slam the blue wax on it, Kid!” Mac shouted. “Don’t let your boot heel kick that flange!”
Julian pulled the blue anchor-wax stick again. He drove the cobalt tip along the second guide rail, laying down a thick, waxy bead that fused crates seven, eight, and nine to the steel crossbeam.
SCRAPE-CHUNK.
The whole rack shivered once, then locked rigid.
“Rail two is sealed!” Julian shouted. “The entire center bank is frozen in place!”
“Forty seconds!” Elena’s voice was rising in pitch.
“One hundred and forty seconds remaining on Rule C-1! Elena to Julian, report status!”
00:40.
“I’m at the twenty-foot mark!” Julian shouted, wiping black sludge from Arthur’s bifocals. “I see the rear fan housing!”
“How deep is the sludge at twenty feet?” Mac yelled.
“Four inches deep!” Julian answered.
“The aluminum pan is completely submerged! I’m dragging through pure toner!”
“Don’t inhale the fumes!” Elena called out.
“Toner powder contains carbon black and polymer resin! Keep your bandana tight over your mouth!”
“Bandana is holding!” Julian shouted.
Ten feet ahead, the drainage trough ended in a square concrete sump. Beyond the sump rose the rear evaporator wall--a massive bank of frosted aluminum fins, sixteen feet wide and eight feet tall, glowing dull silver in the green light of the soda bottles.
Henderson’s sewer hose was still dumping gallons of steaming toner into the sump. The black fluid formed a swirling whirlpool around Julian’s hands, trying to push him backward down the channel.
“You’re running out of air, little clerk!” Henderson screamed from the ceiling vent directly above the sump.
“Forty-five seconds! When the defrost timer hits sixty, the auxiliary fan engages!”
“The fan is hot-wired?” Julian shouted toward the ceiling.
“I wired the motor straight to the three-phase bus!” Henderson laughed maniacally.
“Those steel blades will turn eighteen hundred revolutions a minute! You’ll never get your hands inside that wire cage!”
“Mac!” Julian yelled back down the trough.
“Did you hear that? The fan motor is hot-wired!”
“I heard him!” Mac roared.
“Use the ground wire on your harness! The copper tether carries the register shunt!”
“Fifty seconds!” Elena screamed from the doorway. “Julian, you have ten seconds before you hit the one-minute mark!”
00:50.
“I’m at the twenty-five foot mark!” Julian called out. “Reaching the concrete sump!”
“Watch your head on the compressor drain line!” Mac shouted from the threshold.
“I see the pipe!” Julian answered, ducking low. “It’s venting hot oil right into the sump!”
“Don’t let that oil touch your bare skin!” Elena warned through the radio. “Refrigeration oil is acidic!”
“I’m keeping my head down!” Julian yelled back. “Exiting the trough now!”
Julian clamped his jaw shut. He dug his elbows into the slimy metal bottom, ignored the burning pain in his knees, and threw his body forward in three massive, desperate lunges.
LUNGE.
LUNGE.
LUNGE.
His hands cleared the end of the milk-crate rack. The low aluminum ceiling vanished.
Julian scrambled up out of the black toner sludge, his boots finding purchase on the raised concrete curb of the rear evaporator chamber.
He sat up on his knees, gasping for air. His mechanical stopwatch gave a sharp internal click against his chest.
00:55.
“Fifty-five seconds on the nose!” Julian called back, checking the red needle.
“Check your stopwatch, Julian!” Elena shouted through the radio. “What is your elapsed time?”
“Fifty-five seconds!” Julian repeated into his collar mic. “I’m through the gap!”
“Good boy, Chief!” Mac bellowed from the door.
“Keep your head down and stay grounded to that copper!” “I’m in the rear chamber!”
“Julian is through the crates!” Elena yelled to Mac.
“Core temp ninety-six point eight! Rhythm holding!”
“Winch cable locked at thirty-two feet!” Mac shouted back.
“Hold your position, Kid! You’ve got two minutes and five seconds left on Rule C-1!”
“What do you see, Julian?” Elena called out. “Do you see Arthur?”
Julian wiped the black toner from his eyes with the cuff of Arthur’s cardigan.
The rear evaporator chamber was narrow--only four feet wide between the back wall and the rear of the milk crates. The air here was bitter cold, hovering right at zero degrees despite the defrost cycle.
Julian pulled his 365-nanometer ultraviolet penlight from his chest pocket and clicked it on. The brilliant purple beam swept across the frosted aluminum fins of the evaporator unit.
Julian froze.
“Arthur,” Julian breathed, his voice catching in his throat.
“Julian, report!” Elena called from the front door. “Is Arthur conscious?”
“He’s here, Elena,” Julian whispered into his radio mic, his hands trembling. “He’s fused into the machine.”
“Can you reach him?” Elena asked urgently. “Is he responsive?”
“His right eye is open,” Julian called back. “He sees me.”
Sixty-one-year-old Arthur Pendelton was not standing beside the wall. He was embedded directly into the evaporator block.
Arthur’s lower torso and legs were encased in solid, translucent blue ice, fused chest-deep into the jagged aluminum fins of the central unit. His faded grey work vest was frozen stiff as sheet metal, covered in thick rime frost.
His single unfrozen right eye was open, looking straight at Julian with desperate, pleading intensity.
“Arthur, can you hear me?” Julian whispered, kneeling close to his frosted cheek.
Arthur blinked once, his frosted eyebrow shivering in the cold.
“I’m going to get that time-card,” Julian said firmly. “And I’m going to get you out of this machine.”
“Telemetry picked up a faint second signal!” Elena called through the radio.
“Arthur’s heart is still beating, Julian! Thirty beats per minute!
Extreme hypothermic bradycardia! You have to extract him before his cardiac conduction stops!”
“I’m on it, Elena!” Julian called back.
“Is the fan cage locked?” Mac yelled through the opening.
“Yes,” Julian called back, looking at the heavy steel mesh. “Padlock is frosted solid with blue ice!”
Right in front of Arthur’s frozen chest, the industrial evaporator fan unit was mounted inside the heavy steel wire cage. Through the wire mesh, Julian saw the center hub of the fan.
Wedged tightly between the three razor-sharp steel blades, pinned against the electric motor shaft, was a blood-stained, frost-encrusted rectangular cardboard card:
TIME-CARD #003 -- PENDELTON, ARTHUR -- CLERK 03
The card was vibrating violently. The three steel fan blades were not stopped. Powered by Henderson’s hot-wired circuit, the blades were beginning to twitch, their sharp edges humming as electric current surged into the motor windings.
“The motor is energized!” Julian shouted back. “Henderson wired the blades to spin!”
“Use Key C-3 Master on the lock!” Mac roared. “And ground the freon pipe!”
“Arthur’s time-card is trapped in the center hub!” Julian yelled back. “If the blades spin up, the card gets shredded!”
“You’ve got four seconds before the fan reaches full speed!” Elena cried through the radio.
Arthur’s lips were blue and cracked. He couldn’t speak, but his single eye flicked frantically toward the fan blades, then down to Key #C3-MASTER in Julian’s trembling hand.
“I see the key, Arthur!” Julian said, kneeling close to the frosted cage.
“I have Key C-3 Master! I’m opening the wire guard right now!”
“Be careful of the blades, Julian!” Elena shouted through the radio. “Do not reach your hand inside while the motor is energized!”
“Ground the freon line with the copper tether!” Mac bellowed from the front. “Blow the motor fuse!”
“I’m grounding it!” Julian yelled.
Above them, the ceiling duct rattled as Henderson laughed.
00:56.
The fan blades began to spin.