The Age Atomic es-2

by Adam Christopher

  The King was busy on the stage-workshop, sitting on a stool so tall his feet didn’t touch the ground. There was a jeweler’s eyepiece lodged firmly between his cheekbone and eyebrow, and a thin trail of smoke drifted towards the branches of the magical tree above as he soldered something minuscule on the bench in front of him. Jazz, something soft and melodic, filled the room.

  Rad paused, then strode down the center aisle between the stacks of parts, making his footfalls heavy enough that anyone should have been able to hear his approach over the music. He hated surprising people.

  “Mr Bradley, welcome back.” The King didn’t look up; his mouth was a grimace of concentration. Rad took off his hat and waved it, then felt stupid and replaced it on his head. Apparently finished with his work, the King replaced the soldering iron in its cradle and looked up at the detective, jeweler’s eyepiece in situ.

  “Ah, hi there,” said Rad. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, and felt the hard shape of his gun. His fingers curled around it. “Where’s Agent Jones? I think we all have a little talking to do, don’t you?”

  The King shuffled on his stool. “I’m sorry?”

  “Talking,” said Rad. “You, me, Agent Jones, just a little pow-wow about what the hell is going on here. You’ve got a building full of weird and my old friend is lying in some kind of machine downstairs. I think we need to clear some stuff up.”

  The King slid off the stool and walked to the edge of the stage. He looked down at Rad, his mouth still in the same expression of concentration as when he’d been soldering.

  “Mr Bradley,” he said, “to whom are you referring?”

  Rad paused. “What? Kane?”

  The King shook his head. “No, the other… Jones, was it?”

  Rad’s jaw went up and down, and then he let out a breath, slowly. “Where is Jennifer Jones, your majesty?” He pointed at the King with his hat.

  The King shook his head and smiled. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, Mr Bradley. I don’t know who this Jennifer Jones is.”

  Rad blinked. He was feeling more ill at ease with every passing moment. He raised his hat again, stabbing it forward as he spoke.

  “You tell me where Special Agent Jennifer Jones is right now, or I swear I’ll turn over every piece of junk in this place to find her.” He thought then that maybe he should have been pointing with the gun, and not his hat. The man in the blue suit in front of him seemed not even a little bit disturbed. He looked down at the detective with something like wry amusement.

  Rad huffed and dropped his hand. He needed to get help, get the police up here. He still had some pull down at the Empire State Building, and once they’d discovered one of their own had vanished into the far north of the city, he’d be able to come back with a whole posse, more than enough to deal with the robots outside and the King and the Corsair, and they could get Kane out and search the whole building.

  Or… maybe the King had killed Jennifer? No, that didn’t make any sense — why kill her and not him? And there had been plenty of opportunities to bump them both off since they’d arrived. Maybe Jennifer hadn’t found anything and had gotten tired of waiting and had left. Maybe that was the sensible option. She seemed to like doing her own thing.

  “OK, fine, whatever, your majesty,” said Rad, throwing his hands up. “I’m gonna go get some help and we’re going to turn your little operation upside down.”

  Rad turned on his heel, thinking his plan over, wondering whether he was making the right decision to leave Kane behind, helpless in the downstairs workshop. Lost in thought, his eyes fixed to the floor, he almost walked straight into the Corsair. Rad sucked a breath through clenched teeth and swept his hat off in surprise.

  “What the hell?” he said. “Excuse me, I’m going to the police.”

  Rad went to move forward, but the Corsair grabbed his arm holding the hat with lightning speed. Rad swore and pulled against the grip, but it was held firm.

  “Hey!”

  “It is not safe outside, Mr Bradley,” said the King. Rad looked up at him, the small man with the pointed beard now very tall and imposing on the stage. “The robots will have returned, and I’m afraid you would not make it very far.”

  “Then turn your fancy green light on, your majesty.”

  The King shook his head and tutted, almost with regret. “The lantern is still recharging. It will be nearly a full twenty-four hours before it can be lit again.”

  Rad pulled again at the Corsair. The robot didn’t even rock on its feet, and Rad’s arm remained locked in place. A cold fear began to creep into Rad’s bones.

  “I ain’t joking, your majesty,” he said, gritting his teeth and pulling, pulling, pulling at the robot. “Where are you keeping Jennifer? She locked up downstairs too?” Rad had an uneasy feeling. “You gave her the same story too, huh? Too dangerous to leave?”

  The King shook his head. “It is for your own good, Mr Bradley. The robots will kill you for sure. You must remain here.”

  The Corsair pulled Rad closer and shoved a handful of cotton wool in his face. Rad gasped as the unmistakable sickly sweet stench of chloroform assaulted his senses. He held his breath, but he knew that was no defense.

  “Lock him up with Kane,” said the King, his voice a hundred thousand million miles away. Rad’s lungs were on fire. He released his breath, inhaled deeply, and the last thing he saw was the Corsair’s oddly familiar black metal face spinning in his vision.

  SEVENTEEN

  Nimrod watched the floor indicator lights as the elevator carried him up the spine of the Empire State Building. There was no polished walnut here, no mirrors or brushed Art Deco steel. The elevator was a service one, spare and functional. It did the same job.

  He had walked the few blocks from the Chrysler Building to his own, enjoying a clear, if cold, day. The agents from Atoms for Peace who trailed him from the Chrysler Building didn’t make much of an effort at disguising their movements as they followed him from one block to the next.

  Nimrod frowned. Atoms for Peace putting agents on his trail did not surprise him, but it did worry him. It wasn’t personal. No, it was the position, the job they were watching. He was a threat. He was protector of New York City in many ways and custodian of the Fissure. His position meant, in theory, he was the custodian of her, because she was part of it, an unliving, unbreathing embodiment of the Fissure itself.

  Nimrod chuckled. That was a fudge, of course, something similar to what the President had been told. She was a quantum copy of a woman who had died long ago, who had somehow been caught in the gap between the universes by physics so far beyond the comprehension of mortal men.

  Atoms for Peace. Nimrod felt uneasy. Evelyn McHale had appeared only a few short months ago, and the whole operation was so new but wielded such power with a certain branch of the establishment in Washington, the kind of people who worried Nimrod, those who thought that America was under attack not from the Soviets or Castro or China, but from within, by intellectuals and artists and people who liked to ask questions.

  Nimrod certainly included himself in that last group. The country was still reeling from the televised hearings led by that Senator McCarthy, and while Nimrod suspected the Senator’s influence was on the decline, there was no doubt that people were still afraid of the Red Menace.

  The elevator indicator continued its slow curve to the right.

  The Red Menace. Maybe he’d be labeled as a Communist. That would make it easy for Atoms for Peace to move in and disestablish his department. He wondered what their Director thought, if she was even still capable of comprehending the politics of the situation. To her it would be like understanding the politics of a termite colony.

  Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe he could resign, pass the torch and they’d leave him alone.

  Alone.

  That was the real fear, wasn’t it? To be surplus to requirements, cast aside, to be alone.

  Nimrod rolled his most recent conversation around in his m
ind. She had said they were preparing for war. War against the Empire State.

  It was impossible, of course. Inconceivable.

  And yet… the other side of the Fissure was closed. Something was happening in the Pocket universe. Clearly something bad. And, despite her vague suggestion that he would be involved, only Evelyn knew the truth. The future.

  Nimrod had to know. He didn’t trust Evelyn — how could anyone? She wasn’t even human, not any more. And, as far as he was concerned, his own position was still pre-eminent: he was custodian of the Fissure, his department the overseers of the tether between the Origin and the Pocket. And, therefore, the first line of defense for both.

  The elevator pinged and the doors rolled open. Nimrod exited, and quietly strolled through the lobby of his floor, past the little lounge and the agent stationed on duty who sat flipping through magazines, disguised as someone patiently waiting for an appointment. Nimrod knocked on the door of Tisiphone Realty, spoke the password, and was allowed entrance.

  Nimrod paused, surveying the office before him. Agents and staffers were going about their usual business.

  “Mr Grieves?”

  At Nimrod’s call, the lead agent appeared from behind a pillar, drained his coffee, and marched towards his superior.

  “Sir.”

  Nimrod paused. Was this the right course of action? What was the threat, and where did it come from?

  Was it from the Empire State? Or was it from the Chrysler Building?

  Mr Grieves shifted his weight. “Sir?”

  Nimrod brushed his mustache. The decision was made. “Call in all agents, Mr Grieves. This department is now on high alert. We must secure the Fissure at once.”

  Mr Grieves nodded. He turned, then paused and turned back to Nimrod. “Have Atoms for Peace issued a warning, sir? What’s the threat?”

  Nimrod sighed, and shook his head. “There was a warning, agent, yes. But I fear the threat comes from the Cloud Club itself.”

  Grieves’s eyes went wide. Then he nodded and walked away, beginning to issue orders.

  Nimrod watched his office spring to life, wondering again whether he was concerned about a threat to this world or the other, or for his own survival.

  EIGHTEEN

  Doctor X had not been let out of the laboratory complex in as long as he could remember. He had free run of the main lab and his cell-like quarters, and everything in between, which included storage rooms, a kitchen, bathroom, communal toilet, and a large common room, the latter two of which were really only used by him and Laura. But the corridor that led from the main lab to his quarters ended at a large green door with an arched top. It was locked, of course. He’d never seen it open, but he was aware of its presence, its potential. It was there in the morning, closed, solid, unmoving. It was there in the evening, in the same state. He’d begun to find it reassuring, strangely — maybe it was the fact it was green, as green as the grass that he hadn’t seen for months. It was a doorway to another world.

  He’d asked Laura about other places; she came from somewhere called California. But the distance, the scale she had described, made his mind spin, made the buzz saw vibration behind his eyes return. He had acclimated to the Origin universe, but occasionally the world around him liked to remind the good doctor that he was a visitor here.

  In fact, he was a prisoner — and a dangerous man, according to the President. Doctor X had even met him once, when he came to open the facility. The ceremony had been secret; only the President and a dozen uniformed men even knew that there was more to Atoms for Peace than just a speech given to the United Nations General Assembly. The President, introduced to Doctor X as Dwight D. Eisenhower, had been one of those uniformed men too, once. That explained it, in a way; it explained Atoms for Peace, the way the President had looked at the equipment, the way he held himself when the Director glided around, explaining their set-up, the reason why he had employed the extraordinary for his secret purpose. He’d kept a distance like Doctor X was electric, like he was dangerous.

  But it wasn’t him that was dangerous. It was the machine, the Project, the thing in the cage that they needed to be worried about. He hoped they knew that, all of them. The Project was a wonderful and deadly thing.

  “Well now, look who’s back!” said the voice from the cage. “So, you live to fight another day, eh, bud?”

  Doctor X ignored the Project as he walked into the laboratory. It was late, and Laura had already left. Just today she’d made a minor alteration that allowed the latest test fusor reactor to run for nearly three minutes before the overload shut it down. A dramatic improvement, even if three minutes was of as much use as eighteen seconds. If he was honest with himself, it was Laura doing the heavy lifting now.

  Then she was in the laboratory, her blue glow mingling with the light from the bench lamps in a way that made Doctor X feel ill.

  “Are you going to kill me?” he asked, not quite meaning to but wanting to fill the silence with something. His usefulness was up, he knew. He was a prisoner and he was expendable, and the bulk of the work had been done. But he regretted asking it, and when the Director didn’t reply he finally did look up into her face. She was smiling sadly behind the veil.

  “You have much work to do, doctor,” she said. “The fusor reactor must be stable according to the original calculations. Atoms for Peace must have a never-ending power source. We cannot proceed without the power. When the prototype reactor is complete, we can go into full production.”

  Doctor X closed his eyes and took off his glasses. “I’ve told you-”

  The Director was suddenly standing — hovering — beside him. He tried not to flinch, but he did anyway. She didn’t seem to notice.

  “Do not delay, Dr Farnsworth. We must prepare ourselves for war.”

  Doctor X blanched. She never used his name; she refused to acknowledge that he existed in this universe. For her to use it now filled him with a cold fear, as cold as the waters of the East River. Then she disappeared from the workshop; Doctor X barely noticed.

  “She’s going to kill you,” said the Project. “Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but some day. Some day.”

  It was right. The Director was going to have him killed, and Atoms for Peace would install the young Dr Laura Richardson as their Chief Scientist. It was just a matter of time.

  “You and me, buddy, we’d make such a team.”

  If he fixed the fusor, got it working as required, providing power for the terrible machine army Evelyn was building, then he was unnecessary. Perhaps more important, with the fusor operational, war would come: the Director would have her army; the results would be terrible to behold.

  But if he could delay fixing the fusor…

  Doctor X removed his glasses with a shaking hand.

  If he delayed the work, deliberately, then his life would be prolonged and war would be postponed, if not averted altogether. Doctor X could save himself and the lives of countless others.

  “The things we could do. Oh, the things we could do.”

  But she would find out, and he would be killed, and the work would continue.

  But maybe there another option, an alternative, one that would not only keep him alive… maybe it would set him free? If the fusor was operational — if the Project was operational…

  Doctor X shook his head and slipped his glasses back on. He pulled the stool out from under the bench and sat heavily on it.

  “Just you and me against the world, pal.”

  Doctor X glanced at the cage. The Project was locked into the frame, but the bright red eyes were on him, unmoving.

  The Project wasn’t just running through a set of recorded phrases. It was… alive, in a way. The Project was aware of its surroundings, was aware of the situation. Its offers of assistance… perhaps they were genuine.

  And with a fully operational fusor installed, the Project would be unstoppable, the first — if the Director had her way — of a whole army, a wonderful, terrible robot army.


  Doctor X cleared his throat. He was alone in the laboratory — it was nearly three in the morning now. How long had he been sitting at the bench? The artificial lights blazed high above, removing any sense of time.

  Alone, except for the Project.

  He looked at the workbench. Then he asked, “How much do you know about the fusor reactor?”

  The Project laughed. “Oh, Philo, my friend. I thought you’d never ask. That thing, I can feel it working when you put it inside me. It’s a real buzz.”

  Doctor X took his glasses off. “You can… feel it?”

  “Sure. I can also feel what’s wrong. But don’t feel too bad. It’s an easy mistake — anyone could have made it. But don’t sweat it. You and me, we can make it work. No problem.”

  Doctor X said nothing. Was it that easy? Was the solution sitting inside the isolation cage, just a few feet away? He replaced his glasses. “Can you help me?”

  As soon as he said the words they felt inadequate, incomplete. He needed to explain himself, explain the situation, explain what he thought was going to happen.

  Then he laughed. He was tired, exhausted. The Project was a machine, like the many others that filled the laboratory. The silence grew in his ears like the roaring of the ocean. He closed his eyes.

  “Yes,” said the Project.

  Doctor X gulped a breath and held it. When he stood, he felt dizzy, his heart racing, and when he opened his eyes the world was fuzzy at the edges. He moved to the cage, lightheaded, like he wasn’t in control of his own body. His eyes were dry and he blinked and blinked and rubbed them, and when he opened them again he saw the clamps holding the Project to its frame were unlocked, open.

  The Project was free. Doctor X took a step back, looking at his own hands; he didn’t remember releasing the locks on the frame. Now this was it, really it. Because now the Project was going to kill him. But it was better this way. He’d be dead and the fusor reactor would be unfinished and there would be no war.