Commander Ulan Ferr stopped the deck with its leading wheel a handbreadth short of the rail mark.
The ordinary operator set the catch. The loaded carrying frame settled against its supports, and the inner bridge’s drive continued through its idle turn beneath the fixed cover.
Ferr kept his boots on sound metal until the last movement ended.
Track grip held for those few seconds. He released it when the mechanical catch took the load. His ordinary right arm felt the strain of guiding the lever while the piston in his grafted left forearm supplied its short stroke, useful force applied through a tool to the connected latch, not a gift of control over every machine in the room.
His other seated functions were boiler jacket, shear cutter, and flywheel reserve. Five channels, the working set he trusted for the post. His comfortable capacity stood near four hundred and ninety charges, enough for an experienced Engine’s hard shift and a fight if the shift became one.
It was not enough to make him stronger than the Chorus restorer coming up the gallery.
Ferr knew that before Iven arrived.
He had been assigned to hold the inner crossing, not win a fair contest on an empty field. The crossing was not empty. It carried people, live machinery, hot supply frames, and the consequences of stopping any of them in the wrong place.
