A new street appeared, ahead on the left. Rad saw a shadow move in that direction: Jennifer. He huffed and sprinted towards the corner, then almost collided with the agent’s back, only just sliding out of her way and grabbing onto her shoulder to stop himself from tripping.
Jennifer’s shoulders rose and fell as she caught her breath. Rad looked ahead, following the aim of her big gun — pointed at a large group of robots blocking the street. There were thirty, fifty, maybe more, the sound of their engines and motors and boilers and clockwork hearts and electric insides buzzing and fizzing and ticking and hissing in the night.
The robots didn’t move. Rad turned at a sound behind them. The other robots had caught up. They were boxed in, trapped on either side by a long block of brownstones, with robots between them and the intersections in front and behind.
The group of robots in front parted to let one of their own kind walk forward. It was intact, perfect, two arms and two legs and a head, the whole thing standing near to seven feet tall. It was entirely silver, like Cliff and the robots in the warehouse, its polished surfaces catching the weak streetlight well. Another upgraded model, although this one without the human disguise on top.
Jennifer trained the gun on the silver machine. The robot had a face, complete with nose and metal eyebrows. The thing’s jaw was a separate piece, square with a sharp edge. Rad’s knuckles ached in sympathy as he remembered punching a jaw not entirely dissimilar just a night ago. Only this time there was a cigarette hanging from the corner of the robot’s mouth.
“Oh, you’re in the wrong place, lady,” said the robot, slowing walking towards them, cigarette flapping as it spoke. Its voice was male and perfectly nuanced, although it echoed like it was coming out of an old radio set.
Jennifer was still, unmoving, the gun pointed at the robot. Standing at her shoulder, Rad watched a gentle ripple in the fur of her hat as it caught the air.
“Don’t come any further,” she said, and the robot stopped. It held up its arms like anyone would when someone was pointing a gun at them. Rad could have sworn the expressionless jaw was smiling.
Jennifer nodded at the robot. “You the King of 125th Street?”
The robot laughed. Rad found it unnerving.
EIGHT
Rad raised his gun, his finger tightening on the trigger. This was it. They’d had it.
“I hope you got a plan,” he said from the corner of his mouth.
“Plan stays the same, detective,” said Jennifer. She spoke in a loud, clear voice. At her words, Elektro lowered its arms and tilted its head. Then it took the cigarette from its mouth and flicked ash to the ground.
“Ms Jones,” said Rad, “I have no doubt of your abilities, but we seem to be surrounded by robots.” Rad waved his gun, like he was showing Jennifer around a yard of used cars. “It’s been nice working with you, if you want to call it that, but I pretty much believe our tickets are punched.”
Jennifer lowered an eye to the top of her gun. “Get ready,” she said. “I’ll clear a path. On three…”
Rad frowned, but he found himself tensing his leg muscles, ready for action. Maybe the big silver gun really was going to get them out of this.
“Funny,” said Elektro, replacing the cigarette before taking a step back and to the side. He turned his silver head to the robots crowding the street. “Time to teach these two a lesson, friends.”
The robots surged forward, so quickly a few fell and were trampled by the more able-bodied behind them. Those that still had human heads or faces leered horribly, while the metallic faceplates of those more complete machines made Rad think of the robotic sailor that had made its way from the ground to the top of the Empire State building just eighteen months ago, leaving nothing but destruction in its wake.
That’s when Jennifer pulled the trigger.
Her arm jerked up with the recoil that followed the whump the gun made, like a rocket being launched. Rad felt his ears pop and his mouth filled with the taste of lemon, and there was a pressure behind his eyeballs, the kind of buzzing he’d felt when he’d visited New York. He blinked, and saw Elektro twist as the air buckled in front of it. There was no flash or explosion, but it hurt to watch, like staring into the midday sun.
Elektro screamed, the sound an echoing, electronic screech as the robot vanished, leaving nothing but a single silver arm to fall to the ground, smoking cigarette in situ between two metal fingers. The other robots came to a halt, some sliding on the ice, the circle around Rad and Jennifer now small and tight, unmoving.
Blue smoke curled from the end of Jennifer’s gun as she held it aloft, barrel skywards. She was breathing hard. Rad glanced around, his own weapon seeming terribly small.
Jennifer didn’t move. Rad looked at her, and saw her eyes glance left and right, her throat moving as she swallowed. Rad had a sinking feeling.
“You going to shoot some more robots?”
Jennifer didn’t look at Rad. She adjusted her grip on the gun. “It needs time to recharge.”
Rad pursed his lips. “I guess that’s a no then.” One of the robots had moved forward and was examining the single remaining limb of their leader. The machine pivoted awkwardly at the waist and picked up the arm, then rotated its square head in their direction. “I think you pissed them off.”
Jennifer lowered the gun and looked over her shoulder, like she was searching for a way out that wasn’t there.
“I was aiming for the big group,” she said, and then: “Shit.”
The robots took a step forward. Maybe their timing was coincidental, or maybe they all spoke to one another by radio. Maybe there was a whole conversation, a debate, raging in the air around them.
Rad’s free hand found his coat pocket and he gripped the little metal rod. He wondered if it was valuable to the robots like it was valuable to the King.
Rad held his breath. The robots stepped forward again. Then there was a roar.
Rad felt his body brace itself. The robots in front of him were lit with a bright green light, and Rad’s and Jennifer’s shadows stretched out long before them. The roaring grew with the sound of screeching, the sound of fast wheels skidding on the slick road.
Rad leapt to one side, dragging Jennifer down with him. The air was filled with the hot smell of gasoline and rubber, and as Rad hit the deck and he slid on the ice, he got another face full of Jennifer’s fur hat.
Rad blinked, his ears ringing, and looked up.
The car was long and low, the chassis rounded like a teardrop. It was entirely black, polished to a grand piano’s mirror-like finish. Two tiny windows peered out from above the expansive hood, which curved gracefully down to two headlights, blazing green, mounted deep within the bodywork. The car shook as its engine revved, flames licking from the rear exhaust.
The suicide door opened wide, exposing both the front and rear seats. The driver sat, impassively, hands on the wheel. He turned to look at Rad with circular glass eyes set into a flat metal face. He was covered in a mass of black fur.
The driver pumped the accelerator and flicked the edge of his thick fur coat off the passenger seat next to him.
Jennifer pushed herself off Rad and Rad started to yell at her, tried to grab her arm, but she was too quick. She made for the car, the driver waving her in.
The man had driven the car straight through the crowd of robots, spilling them like skittles. They rolled on the street, unable to gain a foothold on the black ice. But the robots that had backed away from the thundering car and remained upright were now slowly creeping forward.
The man pumped the accelerator again. Jennifer had slid into the front and was pulling the door closed already. The robots started to move more quickly.
Rad dived headfirst into the car’s backseat, and rolled against the leather as the driver pushed the pedal to the floor.
The vehicle’s roar was even louder inside. Rad closed his eyes and pulled his feet in as the door swung back against its hinges.
The door slam
med shut, and Rad opened his eyes. Jennifer was twisted around in the front seat, watching him. He gave a nod and she laughed and turned to their savior. From Rad’s position lying on the backseat, all he could see was a ridiculous amount of fur and the back of the man’s… mask? Helmet? Or was the driver yet another robot?
Rad righted himself in the back of the car.
The driver pointed ahead. They were driving fast but in a straight line, towards the giant black building. Rad heard Jennifer gasp and pulled himself forward to see out the tiny windows.
Almost on cue, a green light came on at the top of the building.
The driver changed gear, the car lurching as it sped up, throwing Rad against the leather. In the front he saw Jennifer lean forward to peer out of the narrow windshield, looking up at the building ahead of them.
“Welcome to 125th Street,” she said.
NINE
Nimrod stepped into the elevator, surrounded by expensive walnut panels and men in suits. He glanced up, as he always did when he entered the main elevator of the Chrysler Building, and admired the silver mirrored Art Deco sunburst design on the ceiling. He looked at his own reflection, twisted by the design of the mirror, and took a deep breath, trying to remove the fear, uncertainty, and doubt from his face.
It had been only a short walk from the Empire State Building, where his own Department was hidden on the middle levels behind a company nameplate that said Tisiphone Realty — apparently nothing more than a upmarket, private real estate firm that handled the kinds of accounts that came from countries rich in oil, with clients who liked to vacuum up little parcels of the United States without much fanfare. That the other department should be secreted in another famous New York landmark seemed appropriate, although their particular choice of office was unusual.
Atoms for Peace, founded by President Dwight D. Eisenhower. An olive branch offering of scientific cooperation and endeavor that stretched out across even the Iron Curtain. But in reality, a secret government department, an initiative to research technologies “acquired” from the Empire State, with the aim of building a defense against… well, Nimrod wasn’t entirely clear on that point and neither, it seemed, was Eisenhower. Granting Atoms for Peace carte blanche had only turned the new organization into the blackest of secret government agencies.
That they were tasked with handling research related to the Fissure and beyond was what bothered Nimrod. The Fissure was, well, it was his. He knew more about it than anyone else, in this dimension anyway.
He didn’t like Atoms for Peace, and he knew the feeling was mutual.
From the offices of Tisiphone Realty, Nimrod could see the Chrysler Building. He stood at the window often, watching. He wondered if the Director of Atoms for Peace, the remarkable Ms Evelyn McHale, did the same from the Cloud Club, the former cocktail lounge at the top of the Chrysler Building that Atoms for Peace had co-opted into their headquarters. He didn’t really think she did; from what he’d heard, Ms McHale had something of a phobia when it came to the Empire State Building. Perhaps that was part of the problem she had with him, and the Department.
Nimrod glanced at the men around him. There were five agents — two standing behind, one posted on his left and one on his right, and one in front. They each wore a black suit; each had a narrow black tie against a starched white shirt. Each wore a hat, black, of course. They were not Secret Service, but they did a fairly good impression. They were certainly better dressed than his own agents, but then his own agents had to melt into the general populace. Atoms for Peace were different. Their agents rarely made public appearances.
Nimrod wondered what his escort was for, exactly. The agents certainly weren’t for his protection (not inside their own headquarters) and they certainly weren’t for hers. The agents who stood around him in the elevator — and Nimrod, too — were nothing but insects to her, as was every other human who inhabited the city, inhabited the whole country.
Nimrod stroked his mustache in thought and the elevator glided to a halt, a bell announcing their arrival.
The doors slid apart, revealing an elegant lobby swathed in maroon carpet, the walls heavy with more of the walnut paneling. The lead agent stepped forward, Nimrod following and finding himself ankle-deep in the carpet pile. He heard the other agents’ feet swoosh as they walked behind him.
Opposite the elevator, across the lobby, was a large set of double doors, the bottom third of which were more of the beautiful walnut. The upper two thirds were frosted glass panels, acid-etched with sunburst rays and other geometric shapes. To a casual eye, they looked like just more of the Art Deco theme that filled the entire building. To Nimrod, the designs were a little off, a modern copy somehow altered.
Captain Nimrod glanced to the agent on his right, and saw the man was sweating inside his elegant suit. Nimrod smiled to himself. They were afraid. Nimrod was too — how could you not be, when you were about to have an audience with the ghost of a woman who had appeared as a glowing blue terror after the Fissure had almost been destroyed eighteen months ago, her phantom somehow expelled from the shadowlands between dimensions, granted with the appalling power to see and to interfere with the universe on a subatomic level.
Nimrod tapped his foot in the absurdly deep carpet as they waited. Finally, one of the double doors opened, and another man in a black suit nodded to the lead agent. He glanced at the party, and then looked Nimrod in the eye.
“The Director will see you now.”
The Cloud Club had been among the city’s finest, most exclusive establishments. In the early days, Nimrod himself had received numerous invitations to attend functions there, but he was never comfortable in social engagements, and besides, he preferred to drink his scotch at ground level. Over the years, as he worked at the Empire State Building just a few blocks away, probing the mystery of the Fissure and what lay beyond, the fortunes of the Cloud Club declined as the Great Depression and then the Second World War took their toll. The top of the Chrysler Building had been closed for several years by the time Atoms for Peace were brought into existence.
The main clubroom had been left untouched: a cavernous space interrupted at intervals by dark square marble pillars, with ceilings two floors high. One wall was nearly entirely glass. The wall opposite was covered with a continuous mural depicting the cityscape in minute detail. Nimrod had no doubt that club patrons had spent many an hour studying the illustrated city while behind them, through the glass, the real thing winked in the night.
The room, once filled with tables, was occupied now by a single desk, standard government issue, at one end. Two Cloud Club armchairs sat in front of it.
Nimrod walked towards the desk, studying the mural behind it. This section was an enlargement, a stylized rendering of the Empire State Building that took up nearly the whole wall. Nimrod smiled and took a seat.
The room was empty, the agent who had opened the door having decided to wait with his colleagues in the lobby. Nimrod crossed his legs and let his eyes wander over the mural. He felt his back teeth begin to ache, and he held his breath.
“Captain Nimrod, so good of you to come.”
Nimrod’s smile was tight, his teeth clenched against the pain spreading along his jawline. He knew the pain would subside shortly. It was always like this.
She stepped out of the corner of the room on Nimrod’s left. There was no door there, just the two murals meeting in a slight shadow cast by the nearest marble column. One moment Nimrod was alone, the next he was not. No matter how many times he had an audience with the Director of Atoms for Peace, her sudden appearances unnerved him.
She glided forward an inch from the floor, glowing only slightly. Nimrod wondered if she was making an effort to fit in, though if so it was a token attempt. Her tweed suit was out of date, monochrome, like something from a film, as was the matching hat and lace veil. Nobody had dressed like that in years.
Nimrod’s fear melted, replaced by sadness. He felt sorry for her. She wasn’t alive, and yet h
ere she was, doomed to an eternity of slavery to the Federal Government. It was no wonder she looked miserable behind her veil.
“Director, a pleasure as always,” said Nimrod, and it was a lie but he didn’t think she noticed. He didn’t think she ever did.
Evelyn glided closer to Nimrod, keeping her back to the Empire State Building mural. He found himself sitting up a little straighter, his heart beating a little faster. He couldn’t imagine what it must be like to work with her. It was bad enough just being in the same building. Although he really didn’t know where she spent most of her time.
Which reminded him…
“There have been reports of another sighting,” he said. Then he steepled his fingers and brought them to his lips. “The Ghost of Gotham, as I believe they call you. It is on the front page of both the New York Courier and The Record.”
Her mouth curled into a smile. Nimrod wasn’t sure he liked it when she smiled.
“I didn’t plan it to be quite so public,” she said. She turned in the air and floated over to the long wall. She reached out, her fingers trailing the line of the East River.
Nimrod frowned and stood, moving to join her at the wall. He drew breath to speak but she tapped the wall with her finger, making the mural go slightly out of focus around the contact point. Nimrod felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.
Evelyn jerked away from the wall and looked at the Captain. Nimrod blinked and shrank back; her eyes were bright and clear with an impossible and terrifying depth and lit with something fierce and blue. A light with which he was intimately familiar. The light of the Fissure.
“Our department operates with the upmost secrecy,” she said, her lips in a sly grin and her blue eyes unblinking, “but sometimes I need to… go out. See things for myself. Reconnect.”
Nimrod pursed his lips. Conversations with Ms McHale were frustratingly vague.
“You called me here, Director,” he said. “And while I am happy to oblige, I do have a department of my own to run. If we could perhaps progress to the matter in hand, whatever that may be?”
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