The high-pitched thermal whine radiating from the Syndicate's document chest built to a deafening, glass-cracking shriek in less than four seconds. The pale green light bleeding through the steel seams shifted to a blinding, incandescent white, scorching the pine floorboards beneath it and filling the vast timber space of the mountain engine house with the stinging, toxic reek of vaporized zinc and melting copper insulation.
"FIFTEEN SECONDS TO TOTAL DIRECT FORMAT..." the acoustic speaker buzzed, the synthesized voice warbling and distorting under the intense internal heat load.
The Syndicate's chief auditor didn't wait to see the physical outcome. He scrambled backward through the heavy timber doorway, his polished boots skidding uselessly across the grit as his two armed guards dropped their rifles entirely and fled into the bright mountain sunlight.
