Falling Iron

The question was not whether the iron roof would hold, but which direction six tons of buckling girders would fall when the rivets snapped. Overhead, the primary conveyor chain shrieked against the seized guide wheels, dragging a dense tangle of fused bull carcasses straight into the loading bay's central ceiling truss. The meat had caught in the heavy steel lattice. Instead of clearing the turn, the automated drive engine on Deck Four kept hauling, using the factory's own relentless steam power to winch the ceiling down toward the floor plates.

"Get them behind the flue hatch!" Kolskegg shouted, stepping between the shaking freight elevator gate and the butcher line.

Torvald gripped his bone-saw with white knuckles, shoving a stumbling Brandur through the low archway of the grease corridor. Two dozen line butchers scrambled in their wake, aprons soaked in brine and ox blood, their heavy iron boots clattering over discarded rib cages and split marrow bones.

Above them, rivets popped with the sharp crack of rifle fire. A sheet of corrugated iron peeled from the rafters, twisting like wet parchment under the torque of the drive chain. Through the breach, pale ropes of gristle and stitched hide hung down like tangled butcher twine, blindly lashing the chemical spray pipes.

Guard Provost Einarr took a stance beside the hatch frame. His brass-buttoned coat was splattered with yellow grease, but he held his heavy stun-baton level, thumb locked on the ignition toggle. "The lintel is warping inward, Kolskegg. If that central column folds, the whole freight bay caves. It will seal the flue before the shift clears the threshold."

"Then stand clear of the pivot," Kolskegg growled. He shook the excess aerosol mist from his leather visor and hauled the high-pressure pneumatic hose over his shoulder. "Your Meatpacking Watch regulations say a standard brass tunic protects against falling suet. Let us see how it handles half a deck of channel iron."

Einarr's jaw tightened beneath his sulfur respirator. "The regulations specify structural collapse as a municipal liability, not a floor hazard."

"Good to know," Kolskegg said. "Sue the estate when you're flat."

He did not waste another breath on corporate bylaws. With his heavy splitting cleaver securely sheathed at his hip, Kolskegg planted his steel-capped boots against the greasy floor grating and examined the shuddering load-bearing stanchion. The vertical I-beam was bending under ninety tons of concentrated lateral torque. The automated rail above was pulling south-southeast, dragging the carcass knot into the switchbox. If the beam fractured naturally at the mid-flange, the collapse would drop straight down, crushing the grease flue entrance and burying the butchers in tangled rail iron.

Kolskegg saw the tension line. The pressure was concentrating along the upper shear pin, three inches above the joint bracket. If he severed the retaining flange on the northern side, the kinetic tension from the runaway conveyor would whip the entire lintel northward, dropping the mass of falling masonry and girders directly onto the charging chimeric meat-heap instead of the evacuation hatch.

He reached down and hauled the pneumatic bone-saw's starter cord.

The two-stroke air cylinder fired with a deafening, rhythmic hiss. The circular diamond-toothed blade spun into a silver blur, screaming at four thousand revolutions a minute. Kolskegg adjusted his grip, leaning his full body weight into the vibrating housing. He smelled scorched grease, hydraulic oil, and the sharp copper stink of hot beast blood boiling on the exhaust manifold.

He drove the spinning blade directly into the four-inch steel retaining flange.

A plume of orange sparks erupted across the ceiling, lighting the dark freight bay in jagged, blinding bursts. The diamond teeth bit through rolled iron with a screech that set Kolskegg's molars rattling in his jaw. The saw bucked hard against his shoulders, kicking up oily grit that peppered his visor.

From the shadows above the sagging rail, the meat mass responded to the vibration.

A knotted cluster of four ox skulls fused by thick sinew dropped from the torn ceiling plates, dangling by a rope of braided spinal cords. Its jawbones snapped rhythmically, yellow teeth grinding against exposed bone as it swung directly toward Kolskegg's neck like a butcher's pendulum.

A blinding flash of electric blue lit the corridor.

Einarr lunged forward, thrusting the tip of his stun-baton straight into the cluster of bovine snouts. Three thousand volts of discharged capacitor power detonated against the wet flesh with the sound of a split timber. The monster shrieked, muscle fibers scorching black as the current forced its jaws wide in violent convulsions. The smell of singed hair and ionized fat flooded the air.

"Hurry!" Einarr yelled, knocking away a second dangling tendon with the baton's insulated shaft. "The battery cell has two charges left!"

"Hold your ground and keep the flanks clear!" Kolskegg bellowed without taking his eyes from the cut.

The blade had sunk three inches deep. The steel plate groaned, weeping hot metal shavings into the slurry below. Kolskegg felt the vibration change through the saw handles—the pitch dropped from a high scream to a deep, shuddering hum as the structural stress reached its breaking point.

The remaining quarter-inch of iron turned cherry-red under the friction.

"Drop!" Kolskegg roared, yanking the saw free and kicking the base of the severed stanchion with his heavy heel.

The northern flange sheared with a thunderous bang.

Deprived of its anchor, the enormous lateral tension of the runaway conveyor chain acted like a released ballista spring. The entire northern lintel whipped sideways. Tons of structural iron, ruptured aerosol conduits, and heavy ceiling masonry tore loose from the rafters, roaring downward in an avalanche of twisted metal.

The falling wreckage slammed directly into the charging meat mass, pinning the monstrous amalgamation against the lower conveyor switches. Bones shattered beneath the crushing weight of twenty-foot girders. Caustic aerosol spray erupted from sheared brass lines, bathing the pinned chimeric tissue in boiling sulfur mist that hissed and dissolved the knotted sinew into gray froth.

The air blew thick with dust and scalding vapor. The loading bay behind them was utterly obliterated, filled with a smoking wall of crushed masonry and severed iron chains.

The entrance to the grease flues remained clear.

Kolskegg killed the throttle on the saw. The blade whined down to a steady, ticking idle. He wiped a mixture of coolant and sweat from his forehead with the back of his leather sleeve, his lungs burning from the sharp chemical air.

"Move," Kolskegg said, grabbing Einarr's shoulder harness and shoving the guard provost through the narrow hatchway into the exhaust tunnel.

They scrambled down the brick-lined grease corridor, their boots splashing through inches of cold tallow runoff. Behind them, the iron hatch slammed shut, bolted securely by Torvald from the inside. The muffled thud of shifting rubble on the other side signaled that the freight bay had fully collapsed.

The passage sloped upward toward the Citadel's boiler house. The air here was drier, smelling of coal dust and superheated steam pipes. Torvald and the surviving butchers were catching their breath against the curved brick walls, holding their bone-saws ready in the dim glow of emergency oil lanterns. Line-Foreman Brandur sat hunched on a drainage pipe, clutching his manifest satchel to his ribs.

Einarr leaned against the damp brickwork, running a gloved hand down his soot-streaked coat. He looked at the sealed iron hatch, then at Kolskegg.

"The structural damage to Deck Three is absolute," Einarr said, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "The repair division will take months to clear that fall."

"Nobody is coming to clear it," Kolskegg replied, checking the air pressure gauge on his tool belt. "The Directorate knew what was in those pens before the morning shift started. We head for the boiler house. If Berglind hasn't vented the main steam lines yet, she's about to find out what's coming through the flues."

Before Einarr could answer, a sharp metallic ring echoed down the exhaust duct.

High above them, near the dark opening of a vertical ventilation shaft that led to the upper administrative levels, an object tumbled through the iron grating. It struck the brick floor with a heavy bounce and rolled to a stop against Einarr's boots.

It was a standard Watch stun-baton, identical to the one in Einarr's grip.

Einarr knelt and turned the weapon over with the edge of his boot. The brass casing was scorched black, and the knurled grip was slick with fresh crimson smears. Stamped into the pommel plate was the insignia of Second Squad, the unit assigned directly to the administrative steam exchange on Deck Four.

"My second-in-command was stationed at that switchboard," Einarr said. His voice was barely a whisper against the hum of the pipes, drained of all official protocol. "There were six armed men with him."

Kolskegg looked at the blood on the brass casing, then turned his back on the darkened vertical shaft. He hoisted his pneumatic saw against his shoulder and pointed the blade toward the upward slope of the brick tunnel.

"Then your men are already on the hooks, Provost," Kolskegg said, his heavy boots setting a steady pace toward the iron doors of the boiler house. "Pick up your weapon. We have four levels of pipe to climb before the steam dies."