He touched the cutter to the plate where it was welded to the duct’s ceiling. The metal started to soften. He had to be precise with his cutting. If he left any protruding metal, he could slice himself wide open as he crawled past it.
The work was painfully slow, progress measured in millimetres. But a gap gradually opened up along the top of the plate. A minute passed, and it extended about halfway along. Matt’s estimate seemed accurate. He kept working.
Jablonsky was, not for the first time, envying his companion’s electronic time-killer. He checked the monitors again. The archive’s aisles were empty, the images seeming almost like still photos; only the timecodes assured him that they were live. The only sign of life was in the reading area. Whatever Eddie was doing for Dr Wilde, it was obviously engrossing - he had barely moved since returning to his seat.
He considered making another patrol . . . but resisted. He still had three more hours on duty - might as well spread out the ‘excitement’. In twenty minutes, maybe.
After another minute, the plate had been entirely separated from the ceiling. Eddie switched to the bottom. More care was needed here; if he accidentally cut through the duct floor, molten metal could drop on to the suspended ceiling below and start a fire.
The need for greater accuracy slowed him down. Over three minutes passed before the plate finally came loose. He caught it with his thumb and forefinger before it fell. ‘Ow, ow, shit,’ he hissed, carefully laying the hot piece of steel flat before blowing on his fingers. A quick check of the duct; there were some sharp-looking edges, but nothing capable of giving him more than a superficial cut.
He started on the other plate. With the cutter at full temperature it took slightly less time, but by the end he felt as though he was working inside an oven. He lowered the second piece of metal, then checked his watch. The obstacle had cost him over ten minutes, and he still had to reach the vent.
He switched off the cutter. ‘I’m going through.’
‘Okay.’ Karima sounded more tense than before. ‘We’ve got less than twenty minutes before the police come back. If they make us leave, we’ll have to cut the camera feeds. You’ve got to be out of there by then.’
‘No pressure, then . . .’ He fastened the cutter back on to his arm, careful to keep the still-hot tip clear of his skin, and raised the suction cup. The routine of movement began again, six inches at a time. He passed over the cuts, feeling the metal tugging at his bodysuit - then something gave. ‘Shit.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Got a cut.’ He moved forward again, trying to push himself upwards. Nothing seemed to snag this time. ‘Hope it’s just the suit and not me. I don’t want to leave a nipple in here.’ He had hoped to raise a laugh from the other end of the line, but Karima was too worried.
He was now above the vault itself. Directly ahead was his next obstacle. Blocking the duct was a rack of ventilator fans, blowing air down into the vault. ‘Okay, I’m at the fans. Let’s have a look . . .’
He tilted his head to direct the torch beam over the machinery - and didn’t like what he saw. ‘Shit. The screws holding the grille in place go right into the frame - I can’t get at them. I’ll have to cut them out.’ He took the cutter from his wrist again. The rack’s frame reached to the duct’s top, bolted to the ceiling above. If he cut the vertical supports, he might be able to slide the entire unit out of his way into the section of ducting on the other side of the vent . . .
He reached round the fans and cut one of the supports farthest from him first. That corner of the rack dropped slightly, rattling. One down. He repeated the task on the other side—
The whole far end of the assembly lurched, the edge of the grille dropping two inches from the opening in the duct. Shit! The fan system was heavier than it looked. He saw that the separate power cords to each fan joined into one thicker cable that disappeared through a hole in the duct roof. A plan formed: cut through the third support, then keep a firm hold on the cable as he severed the last strut to stop the entire thing from crashing down on the vault’s weight-sensitive floor.
He started cutting the first of the nearer supports. Through the grille, he could make out the vault’s interior, dimly lit by emergency lights: another safety feature to help anyone who got locked inside. At least he wouldn’t have to work entirely by the glow of his little head-mounted torch—
The cutter severed the third strut - and the entire fan assembly, grille and all, plunged as the final overstressed support was torn from the ceiling.
Eddie’s free hand lashed out, clamping round the cable as it shot past. The weight slammed his elbow painfully against the edge of the opening. The power line slithered through his sweat-soaked grip. He tossed the cutter across to the other side of the hole and grabbed the cable with his other hand—
Knocking the suction cup over the edge.
If it hit the floor, the alarm would go off . . .
He heard a thump of impact—
The faint sound was not followed by the scream of sirens. Instead, Eddie heard a rapid fluttering like the beating of a moth’s wings. Grimacing at the pain in his arm, he squirmed forward and looked down. The assembly hung an inch above the floor. The suction cup had landed on one of the fans, jammed against the frame as the whirling blades beat against it.
‘What was that noise?’ Karima asked, alarmed.
‘My fan club,’ he rasped, pulling the cable back up. ‘Did those guys hear it?’
‘It doesn’t look like it.’ The vault’s thick walls had muffled the sound.
He hauled up the rack until it was swaying about two feet off the floor, then knotted the cable into a butterfly loop to hold it there. ‘How much time?’
‘Thirteen minutes - but Eddie, they could come back before then.’
‘Yeah, I needed to hear that, Karima. Okay, I’m going to climb down.’
Forcing the cable out of his way, Eddie dragged himself forward. The opening beneath him made movement easier, but he didn’t drop through it - yet. Instead, he pulled himself over the gap, still towing his cargo, then unfastened the strap from his belt, leaving it hanging over the edge, and carefully lowered his legs into the vault.
The fans swung on their makeshift tether, the flapping sound still coming from the suction cup. The pedestal desk containing the security terminal was about two feet to one side. Eddie swung down to land on it with a thump.
He was in!
Leaning down, he recovered the suction cup . . . and realised he was screwed.
The fan blades had slashed a ragged tear in the synthetic rubber. He tested it on the desktop, but knew even before he pulled the lever that it was useless. A pathetic puff of air came through the rip. It couldn’t create a vacuum.
Which meant he had no way to get back through the duct.
‘Buggeration,’ he whispered. He would have to find another way out, and soon.
First things first. He stood and pulled the strap, slowly tugging the case over the edge. It dropped - he caught it, gripping the second strap and dragging the plastic container after it. Both bulky items retrieved, he put them on the desk and opened the case.
The rapid prototyper was inside. He lifted it out, closed the case and set the machine on top of it, pouring the glutinous liquid into the tank. As soon as it was full he switched on the machine, darkly cursing as it ran through a self-test mode, the laser head whining along its tracks. Thirty seconds, wasted. Finally it was ready.