Clara’s heels dug into the sodden Persian rug as the mahogany armrests squeezed tighter.
The silver needles in the brass halo hovered a fraction of an inch above her forehead. They hummed with a thin, greasy static that smelled like scorched copper and wet dust.
“Julian!” she cried out.
On Julian’s left hip, Arthur Pendelton’s portable Casio register began to chatter. The little printer spun with a dry whine, feeding a two-inch strip of yellow thermal paper into the damp air:
[CLERK 03: HOLD THE LINE, KID! RESISTANCE IN CIRCUIT 03 IS DROPPING FAST!]
“Stop pulling away!” Julian shouted, lunging across the flooded floorboards as his boots threw up sheets of oily brine.
“Mac, drop your shoulder! Elena, let the winch take you--don’t fight the pull!”
Across the chamber, Mac ground his teeth as the SCSI ribbon cable wrapped around his chest hauled him two feet backward.
