The Goss-Heidelberger web tower did not slow down. It accelerated.
The rhythmic pounding of the platen vibrated through the steel girders of Sub-Level 6 like the heartbeat of an iron whale. Three hundred and thirty-three sheets per second.
Twenty thousand sheets every minute. The white paper web from the lower spool room vanished into the belly of Unit 3.
It erupted from the drying rollers in a blur of wet crimson ink, filling the chamber with the heavy scent of heated bone tallow and iron salts.
Otto Kreutz stumbled forward, his heavy boots sloshing through the pooling red ink on the diamond-plate deck.
“Stop it!” the Master Pressman screamed. His voice was ragged, cracking through his speaker grille like dry pine twigs snapping underfoot. “Cut the main breakers! Kill the turbine! That isn’t our copy! That isn’t the mandate! The Founders will liquidate the entire guild!”
“Nobody touches the panel,” Julian said, his voice flat and calm.
Julian stood on the lower catwalk, his hands resting on his leather tool belt. Behind him, Elena was finishing a neat square knot on Mac’s compression wrap.
