The red targeting diode of the handheld Motorola Symbol LS2208 scanner cut a razor-thin line through the roiling steam of Aisle 3.
Julian Vance didn’t flinch or hurry his breathing. His worn leather work boots were planted squarely on the ribbed black rubber anti-fatigue mat behind Register 1, his heels locked against the oak baseboard, his shoulders square.
For six months he had worked the graveyard shift at Starlight Mart #04, scanning thousands of condensation-slick soda cans, crumpled potato-chip bags, and rain-smeared inventory tags under pressure. He knew that an optical laser gun was more than plastic housing and a photodiode. In the hands of a seasoned night clerk, it was a precision surveying instrument.
“Countdown at twelve seconds!” Lin Mei shouted from Station 2. Her bloodied fingertips flew across the mechanical keys of the 1998 Underwood Typewriter, which she had patched into the Casio POS terminal’s auxiliary RS-232 serial port via Clara’s copper alligator clips. “Julian, the serial buffer is dropping parity packets under the cold! If we don’t return a valid 650-nanometer barcode handshake within nine seconds, Cash Drawer #1 executes a permanent cold-lockout!”
Across the scarred wood-grain laminate, the Customer Without a Face lunged forward against the broken aluminum frame of the shattered sneeze-guard.
