James Axler – Parallax Red Parallax Red

It seemed a long time before a square of light shone in the dimness ahead. He tried but failed to increase his wiggling pace. Then, mercifully, the duct widened and ended. The spinning blades of a big circulating fan, at least four feet in diameter, ruffled his hair.

Peering between the whirring blades, past a protective screen of wire mesh, he saw a large room filled with an array of clattering pumps, their armatures rising and falling in a rapid rhythm. Square ductwork rose vertically from huge, cage-enclosed fan assemblies sunk into the poured-concrete floor.

Kane’s perspective on the circulation station was limited. He couldn’t move too close to the spinning fan without risking a sliced-off nose.

Examining it closely, he saw a flexible metal conduit snaking down from the exterior of the motor mount. He thought a moment, considering and discarding several methods of interrupting the fan’s continuous cycle long enough to disconnect its power source.

Regardless of the virtually indestructible qualities Lakesh had attributed to his environmental suit, Kane knew jamming his arm between the whirling blades wasn’t a viable option. Even if the tough fabric wasn’t cut, bones were sure to be broken.

Propping up his right leg on his left knee, Kane inspected his boot. Attached to the legging just above the calf by a zipper running all the way around it, the boot appeared to be leather overlaid by layers of neoprene and Kevlar. The heavy, hard rubber treads were nearly an inch thick.

Kane didn’t devote much thought to the consequences. He unzipped the attachment and tugged off the boot, nearly poking his elbow into the fan blades in the process. He carefully folded the boot in half, then hitched around on his knees so he faced the fan. Taking a deep breath and holding it, he thrust the boot, sole first, toward the lower edge of the frame.

One of the blades caught it, nearly snatching it from his grasp. Kane strained to hold the boot in place, so it wouldn’t be flung into his face. The blade dragged it along the bottom of the frame. The spinning stopped suddenly with a shuddery, mechanical groan.

Leaning forward, Kane thrust his right arm through the narrow gap between two of the blades. The fit was tight, and for a panicky instant, he feared he wouldn’t be able to do it. Bending his elbow, he groped for the power conduit, his fingers brushing it twice before closing around it.

The fan groaned again, the blades shifting slightly, pushing the boot forward a fraction of an inch. Exerting all the strength in his arm and shoulder muscles, Kane yanked on the cable. It held fast. Clenching his teeth, upper body trembling from the exertion, he tugged and snapped at the conduit, up and down, side to side and then down again.

The tiny screws holding it in place on the mount sheared away, but Kane continued to jerk and yank, trying to dislodge the wires connected to the motor. The mechanical groan stopped for a second, started again, then settled into a stammering, on-off rhythm.

Finally the wires tore loose, and the fan’s noise ceased altogether. Working his boot free, he noted the blade-inflicted scars on the surface layer, but the leather beneath was still intact, as was the zipper. He tugged it back on and secured the seal.

Worming his way around and leaning back as far as he could, Kane braced his hands and hips against the duct and drew up his legs, bending them double. He straightened them out again with all his strength, landing a powerful double kick against the fan’s frame.

The banging sound of impact sounded horrendously loud, but it couldn’t be helped. He continued to launch kick after kick, even after slivers of pain began piercing his tendons and ankles. The frame seemed solidly seated and bolted into place, and he lost count of how many times his feet slammed against it.

When it shifted, and then the upper left corner popped out, he could scarcely believe it. He increased the speed of his kicks, concentrating on that spot.

With a clanging crash, the battered frame and motor assembly toppled into the room below, landing atop breakables, judging by the brief jangle of shattering glass.

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