Dr. Victor Corvo took a measured sip of black espresso from his Pyrex beaker.
“Technically speaking,” Corvo said, swirling the dark liquid against the glass, “we do not peel four hundred and eighty volts. We invite it to go somewhere else.”
Mac Cole wiped grease off his prosthetic brass wrist. “Doc, I love your bedside manner, but that handle is wrapped in live lightning. If you invite it into my chest, my heart stops before I hit the floor.”
“Ventricular fibrillation,” Corvo agreed smoothly. “At four hundred and eighty volts and fifty-eight hertz, sixty milliamperes is enough to disrupt the myocardial rhythm.”
“That generator is pumping at least forty amperes. Touch it with bare skin, and your blood boils in your carotid arteries within point four seconds.”
“Comforting,” Julian Vance said, leaning over the catwalk stanchion. “How long do we have, Lin?”
Lin Mei clicked her stopwatch. Her thumb was shaking, but her voice stayed precise.
“Three minutes and twelve seconds,” Lin Mei said. “Thirty-eight inches of the layoff scroll have cleared the silicone nip-rollers.”
