The cold mist drifting off Canal Basin One smelled of diesel exhaust, wet wool, and overheated electrical wiring.
Ten feet ahead of Bus Number Zero-Four’s crumpled steel cowcatcher, Auditor Ninety stood anchored between the four massive hydraulic bollards. The automaton’s twelve-foot brass frame gleamed beneath the plaza floodlights, river water streaming down its polished crystal panels.
Its four revolving door blades had slowed to a steady whisper, but they hadn’t stopped. Every three seconds, the beveled glass edges sliced past the bus’s front grille with a low, whistling hum that vibrated through the floorboards.
With a grinding screech of bronze gears, Auditor Ninety’s chest popped open. A jointed brass armature extended across the ten-foot gap to hover directly outside Mac’s side window, its metal fingers clamping an aluminum clipboard of crimson-bordered paper with a silver red-ink stylus dangling from a chain.
“WAYBILL NUMBER NINE-SIX-ONE-ZERO-TWO-ONE PROVISIONALLY ACKNOWLEDGED UNDER FREIGHT PRECEDENCE,” Auditor Ninety’s synthesized voice boomed from its shoulder horns. “ACCESS DENIED PENDING PHYSICAL MANIFEST DISCHARGE. UNDER MUNICIPAL FREIGHT CODE NINETY-FOUR, SUB-CLAUSE B, THE DESIGNATED VEHICLE OPERATOR MUST PERSONALLY DISEMBARK ONTO THE SKYBRIDGE CARPET AND SIGN THE BOLLARD RELEASE LOG IN RED INK.”
“Look at that clockwork bastard,” Mac growled, his hand resting on the pneumatic door release valve. “He’s just waiting for an excuse to turn this rig into scrap metal.”
