The Age Atomic es-2

by Adam Christopher

  The robot had only one arm; the metal of its right-hand side was tarnished, the innards exposed along the flank, sheered clean off, the damage reaching as far down as the hip and upper thigh. From the open side, a dozen cables fed out to the instrument banks in the laboratory proper, with several more connected to the framework suspended over the slab.

  “You and me, kid. What a team we could be,” said the robot, its amplified voice echoing around the laboratory like it was coming out of a PA. Laura flinched and turned quickly away. Doctor X just shook his head.

  “The Project has been in fine form this morning.” He returned his attention to his clipboard. “Are we ready for today’s test?”

  Laura nodded and moved to the largest instrument bank nearest the cage. “The new cell is calibrated. All we have to do is install it and turn it on when the Director gets here. She should be impressed.”

  Doctor X frowned but, secretly, he agreed. The Director couldn’t fail to be impressed with their progress after seeing the latest prototype in action. He put the clipboard down and moved to the table, pulling a large dust cloth off a squat metal cylinder a foot in length and half that in width. Each end angled inward, and around the top rim were a series of slots. Doctor X peered into the top of the cylinder; just below the rim the object was capped with a black glass circle.

  “Be a gem, pal,” said the voice. “Let me out and we can show the world what we got.”

  The doctor ignored the voice.

  Initially, the Project hadn’t spoken. In the first weeks in the underground laboratory, the doctor’s prime objective had been to get it to talk, because he thought if the robot could talk, it would make the work easier. Of course, he’d assumed the robot would be cooperative, just like all the other robots he’d seen as special advisor to the City Commissioner, back in the Empire State. True enough, the Project didn’t look anything like the machine hybrids constructed for the Ironclad fleets, but the doctor did recognize the design from early upgraded prototypes the Navy had been toying with.

  But then one morning he woke up in another place. His head hurt like all hell, but she’d made it better, made the pain go away. He recalled that morning, lying in an unfamiliar bed in what seemed to be a prison cell, a glowing blue woman floating a foot off the floor beside him.

  Doctor X removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. She would be here soon. He had to get on with his work.

  The robot — the Project, as the Director had called it — had started talking, eventually. But clearly it had been damaged in the transfer between here and there. It spoke nonsense most of the time, trying to get the doctor to free it, despite the fact that it was badly damaged and missing an arm.

  Doctor X soon realized the machine would not be of any help. Over the next months he’d learned to tune out the incessant, deranged ramblings of the robot.

  “Sweetheart, just think of it. Think of the possibilities.”

  The Project has turned its attention to the doctor’s assistant, Dr Richardson. A bright young thing from Columbia University, at just twenty-four she had advanced the field of electronics more than Doctor X ever had. The Director had brought her in before his arrival to prepare the laboratory. How exactly the Director had known he was coming was one of the mysteries that surrounded her; one that had led Doctor X to believe she could see the future.

  As Laura would say, creepy.

  Suppressing a shiver, Doctor X walked into the cage and opened the front of the Project’s casing. The robot lay motionless against the slab, but its red eyes fixed on the top of the doctor’s head.

  Inside the chest cavity was a circular port, six inches across and stretching clean through to the other side of the torso. The walls of the port were slotted at the compass points, and there were a series of small, glass-capped ports spiraling around the inside wall.

  “You gonna give me back my heart, pal?”

  The doctor looked up, despite himself. When he looked into the robot’s eyes he thought he saw something else, something moving, like the eyes were the windows to some kind of machine soul.

  Doctor X cleared his throat. Ridiculous. He stepped back out of the cage.

  “Prepare the fusor,” he said. He didn’t take his eyes off the Project’s, but behind him he heard Laura walk to the other bench to start the warm-up procedure. The doctor licked his lips. “The cell can sit hot for a while. Then we just need to wait for the Director.”

  “I am here, doctor.”

  The doctor turned quickly, and blinked, the spell of the Project’s red gaze broken. From the other end of the laboratory, Evelyn McHale glided three feet from the floor, her monochromatic form outlined in electric blue. As she got closer Doctor X felt the weird sensation behind his eyes again, the pressure, the buzzing in his head, the nauseating feeling of being pulled away, back to the other place.

  “Director,” the doctor began, swiping the glasses from his face and polishing them on his lab coat before replacing them with shaking hands. “Thank you for coming. I felt it was important for-”

  “Are you ready for the next phase, Doctor X?”

  The doctor glanced sideways at Laura, then stood to one side as the Director floated towards the cage to examine the Project.

  The Project’s head rocked back and forth, the red eyes scanning but seemingly unable to get a fix on the Director. It didn’t speak, but the doctor could hear a faint sound, a whine, coming from it, like the machine’s voice box was jammed. Or like the machine was… in pain.

  Ridiculous.

  “Doctor X?”

  He jumped and found the Director looking at him. He nodded, then moved to join Laura at the instrument panel, where she was gently coaxing the controls. A series of dials sprang to life, along with a row of lights the same shade of red as the Project’s eyes.

  The doctor watched the dials for a moment and then nodded. He turned back to the Director and almost reached out to touch her shoulder, but thought better of it. He coughed.

  “Sorry, yes, we’re ready. If you would please step… ah, move… away from the cage, we can begin.”

  The Director turned in the air, and the doctor suddenly found himself very near indeed to her veiled face. He held his breath, his skin tingling from the sensation of standing so close to her event horizon. She was beautiful and his heart raced, but not out of attraction. She looked grey and sad, but her eyes were electric blue and terrifying.

  What things could she see, he thought, and then he gulped. The Director smiled and drifted backwards.

  “How is the isolation cage performing?”

  Doctor X paused, the question a distraction. The cage in which the Project was placed was a remarkable device in itself, and, if the doctor was honest, perhaps even more of an achievement than the fusor reactor. Anything within was isolated from the universe around it; in theory, a simple application of the properties of the tether that connected New York to the other place which allowed the interior of the cage to exist elsewhere, while still being an accessible part of the workshop. In practice, Doctor X hadn’t quite been able to get his head around it. It was the Director herself who had done much of the work.

  But it worked. And if anything went wrong with the experiments — anything nuclear — the cage would contain it. That was some comfort, at least.

  “Doctor X?”

  He blinked, and shook his head. “I’m sorry. The cage is performing admirably. The isolation field removes all interference from the instruments well.”

  The Director nodded, apparently happy. “Please,” she said, “continue.”

  The doctor turned back to the instruments and clutched at the edge of the console, pressing his fingernails white. He had to get a grip, had to control himself. It would not be long now and the work would be complete. Of course, what fate the Director had in store for him afterwards he could only guess. He hoped — prayed — that she would simply forget him as his usefulness diminished.

  “Dr Richardson, are we ready?”

 
“Ready.”

  Laura moved to push a small wheeled console close to the door of the cage. The Project’s red eyes rolled lazily in her direction.

  “Sweetheart, you’re killing me here.”

  The doctor coughed, and lifted the cylinder from the trolley.

  “Does it often talk?”

  The doctor froze. He glanced back at the Director, but she was watching the Project. He hefted the cylinder against his chest and adjusted his glasses with one hand.

  “No,” he said quickly. From the corner of his eye he saw Laura glance sideways at him.

  Doctor X moved into the cage and lifted the cylinder, mating it with the port in the Project’s chest. He twisted it slightly and carefully pushed it in until the black rim of the cylinder was almost level with the top of the port. Reaching up, he pulled a three-pronged clamp connected to a sprung arm down, and adjusting the spread of the fingers, attached them to the slots on the cylinder’s rim. Clamp connected, he gripped the sprung arm and twisted, using the leverage to rotate the cylinder further. At half a turn, there was a click as the cylinder was aligned with the slots on the inside of the port, and the unit slid another inch into the Project’s chest. At once, the glass cap on the end of the cylinder brightened to a reddish glow. The doctor peered into the cap, and then turned to his assistant.

  “Go ahead, Dr Richardson.”

  She nodded, her hands moving over the controls.

  “Reaction engaged,” she said. “Magnetic field stable. Ionization rate constant. Injection to commence in five, four…”

  The doctor detached the clamp from the cylinder as Laura began the countdown, and then quickly moved out of the cage. As the countdown reached one, he swung the door closed and engaged the catch, then stepped back. He risked a glance at the Director watching him, a smile playing over her face.

  “One.”

  The reddish glow from the cylinder flared to a bright orange-red, the light moving in a clockwise spiral. The Project’s eyes rolled, but it remained silent, save for the quiet whining.

  The doctor peered over Laura’s shoulder, reading the dials on the console. He nodded to himself.

  “You have made much progress, doctor,” said the Director.

  The doctor looked up and nodded again, removing his glasses.

  “Yes, Director. The fusion reaction is stable, and the power output exceeds our estimates by a considerable margin. More than adequate for our needs, but-”

  There was a whining sound, a low thrum like the engine of an aircraft slowing down. The lights in the laboratory flickered. In the cage, the Project twitched against the slab, banging its back into it loudly. The light in the chest cylinder flared again, then faded. Two seconds later it was out.

  The Director glided closer to the cage.

  “But there is still work to be done. Progress remains slow, doctor. The fusor must be fully functional if we are to go into production on schedule.”

  “The test was successful,” he said, puffing out his chest a little. “I said the reaction was stable. I didn’t say it was sustainable.” He glanced down at the console. “How long this time, Dr Richardson?”

  “Eighteen seconds.”

  The doctor looked up at the Director, a wide smile on his face. Eighteen seconds was a vast improvement, twice as long as the previous test. He was pleased with his work; producing nuclear fusion in a portable, virtually hand-held reactor was quite a feat. Eighteen seconds of stability was incredible.

  The Director was smiling too. The doctor’s expression faltered. He didn’t like it when she smiled.

  By the time Doctor X drew breath, the Director had vanished into thin air.

  He watched the space where Evelyn McHale had been just a moment ago, and then slowly removed his glasses and rubbed his forehead with shaking hands. His skin was hot, slick with a thin layer of sweat. He closed his eyes, squeezed the bridge of his nose, and finally sneezed. It was a nervous reaction. He sniffed loudly and dropped his glasses onto the console.

  “Laura, detach the fusor and prepare for reset.”

  “Yes, doctor.”

  The doctor turned to the cage. The Project’s eyes were on him.

  “Philo, my friend, we could do great things together, you and me.”

  Doctor X blinked as the Project used his first name, and wondered if it had been speaking the truth all along.

  THIRTEEN

  “Quite a set up you’ve got here.”

  Rad was lying. He exchanged a look with Jennifer, but their tour guide didn’t seem to notice the sarcasm in his voice.

  The King’s 125th street “castle” was a theater, it was as simple as that. Leading them first through the main double doors, the King had turned quickly through a side passage, taking his guests through a series of narrow, twisting corridors filled with random doors and random intersections, and even random spiral staircases rising up in dark levels above. Most of the walls were brick, and most were painted thickly in a dirty white or equally dirty black.

  The King laughed and kept marching forward. Rad stopped and wondered several things: what the hell he was doing here, what the hell this wacko with a beard and a blue velvet suit had to do with not just robots but anything at all, and where the hell was Kane Fortuna?

  “You planning on standing there all day?”

  Rad turned. Jennifer was right behind him, wry grin on her face, but he noticed that her finger was resting on the trigger of her gun.

  “You expecting trouble?” he asked.

  She adjusted her grip on the weapon. “Always.”

  Rad huffed and nodded down the now-empty corridor. “He sure doesn’t look like a criminal mastermind.”

  “Looks can be deceiving,” said Jennifer.

  “You mean it’s an act?”

  Jennifer waved her hand around. “Well, we are in a theater.”

  The King appeared again at the end of the corridor. Even from this distance, his broad smile was easy to pick out.

  “You’re dawdling! There’s still plenty to see, plenty! This way!”

  Jennifer squeezed past Rad in the narrow corridor.

  Rad sighed and stuffed his hands into his pockets. At least it was warm inside. In fact, it was getting warmer. Frowning, he pulled out a hand and placed it on the painted brickwork on his left. His fingertips prickled at the contact. The wall was not quite hot.

  The King waved like a showman from the doorway at the end of the hall. As Jennifer approached, he bowed and gestured for her to step through. Halfway across the threshold, she shot Rad a look over her shoulder.

  Rad raised an eyebrow. “What?”

  “I think you’re going to want to see this.”

  Jennifer turned back and stepped through the door.

  The King had led them to the main stage. Rad paused in the doorway, and swept the hat off his head. He looked around, rubbing his scalp absently.

  “You’ve been busy, your majesty.”

  They’d entered from stage left. The performance space in front of them was a vast platform of polished wood, sweeping out towards the orchestra pit and a row of footlights, all but one blazing in the dark space. Beyond, lost in the gloom, the theater stalls stretched back and up before disappearing into the darkness. Above, the theater circle — Rad could see it still had seats, all red velvet and gold painted wood. Unlike the stalls.

  The stalls had been emptied, torn out, replaced with what looked like a junkyard, metal scrap collecting against the edge of the orchestra pit like frozen waves. At first Rad thought the theater’s roof had collapsed, bringing with it rubble and tons of roofing lead. But as his eyes adjusted, Rad could see there was some kind of order, pieces stacked according to size or shape. Several clear paths — the theater’s original aisles — led straight out from the stage to the back of the room.

  “I think we’re in the right place,” said Jennifer. Rad frowned and shook his head, rolling his hat in his hands.

  The scrap was robot parts. Rad saw arms and legs f
irst, then torsos and breastplates, some intact, some in halves like clamshells. Large elliptical waist joints were racked over poles like hula-hoops. There were limb components, individual feet and hands and elbows, and smaller parts that looked like shoulder collars or articulated elbow joints.

  And heads. Stacked like coal scuttles, one inside the other in teetering, curved towers. Robot heads, or the external shells of them anyway.

  It was a robot graveyard.

  The huge stage was filled with materials too, but here the order was more regimented, the space a workshop. Trolleys, racks, shelves, and workbenches were arranged around three large tables, which looked to Rad like the slabs from a hospital mortuary. Every surface but the slabs was covered in more of the robotic parts, most in considerably better shape than the junkyard collection in the stalls. Metallic body parts that were not stacked and arranged neatly were held in various bench clamps and cradles, some opened like fruit, tools ranging from giant wrenches to fine surgical clamps protruding, wires thick and thin trailing out to the banks of equipment ranging from small tabletop boxes to floor standing cabinets. The equipment buzzed and the smell of ozone was rich in the air, and lights flashed red and yellow and blue.

  “Rad, look.”

  He felt Jennifer’s hand on his arm as she spoke breathlessly. He turned, and whistled.

  The back of the stage was occupied by a tree, growing out of the floor on the left side, the trunk curving up towards the center. The tree was enormous, the branches starting just below the remains of the stage lighting rig hanging high above them. The branches spread out evenly and thickly, obscuring the ceiling in a mass of leaves that glistened wetly in the dark. It looked to Rad like the tree was growing into the structure of the building, the curve of the trunk almost penetrating the wall, some of the back branches growing flat against it.

  “What the hell?” Rad whispered. He replaced his hat as he looked up at the tree. Jennifer turned to him, her eyes wide, a smile flickering across her mouth.