Dr. Victor Corvo adjusted his round wire-rim spectacles with two gloved fingers.
In thirty years as chief coroner for the municipal morgue, he had witnessed many forms of institutional panic. He had seen hospital administrators scramble when quarantined wards broke containment. He had seen aldermen sweat under grand jury subpoenas in ninety-two.
Yet nothing compared to the clinical spectacle of an actuarial hive turning on its queen.
Inside the Mahogany Counting Cage, the forty green-visored tellers were no longer calculating demurrage. They were fighting for their lives.
“Look at them scramble,” Mac whispered, leaning his forearms against the brass wicket. “Like roaches when the kitchen light snaps on at three in the morning.”
“They’re burning the paper trail,” Elena said, watching smoke rise from a wastebasket inside the cage. “Look at that clerk by the corner desk. He’s eating index cards.”
“Pauper manifests,” Corvo noted calmly. “When an actuary begins consuming card stock, the insolvency is terminal.”
“How long do they have before the system defaults?” Lin Mei asked.
