The floor dropped out from under Julian’s boots.
It didn’t fall toward the center of the earth. The swollen mahogany deck planks ripped upward, pulled toward the ceiling by a howling vacuum. Black river silt and hundred-year-old sea brine lifted into the air like inverted rain.
“Rack One!” Julian yelled, skidding across the tilting Persian rug. “Arthur’s still plugged into the serial bus!”
Across the chamber, the massive IBM RS/6000 mainframe cabinet groaned. The smoked-glass doors blew outward, showering the room with black safety granules. Inside the rack, the magnetic tape reels spun so fast they blurred into solid circles of amber plastic.
Resting on top of the operator console was the small grey plastic housing of the Casio PCR-T280 pocket-register.
The register’s thermal printer was chattering like an angry machine gun:
[HEY KID!]
[RS/6000 VOLTAGE COLLAPSING!]
