“Enemy operatives,” said the first agent. “Don’t worry, detective, you will be fully exonerated. I need a phone.”
Sachs led the way back to his own desk, then stood smartly to one side as the agent lifted the black phone off it. He tried to see what the agent was dialing, but he lost track of the turns. It didn’t seem to be any kind of regular phone number.
“Enemy agents?” asked Sachs. He shook his head. “What, like… Communists? Spies?”
“Morrison,” said the agent into the receiver. “Cloud Club.”
Sachs raised an eyebrow. Wasn’t that an old nightclub at the top of the Chrysler Building? Perhaps it was a code.
“Morrison,” said the agent again, and then he nodded as he listened to something. “Nimrod is out?” A pause. “Understood.” he said.
Sachs clicked his tongue. Nimrod? The name mentioned by the black guy. So, who were they, really? Spies? Communists? Secret agents from the government? This was exciting. And the agent – Morrison? – had already said that no blame would fall on Sachs.
Sachs puffed his chest out a little. Here he was, in the middle of a spy thriller like the kind he was so fond of reading.
“Confirmed,” said Morrison. He replaced the receiver and lowered the phone back to the desk.
Sachs was on tenterhooks.
“The fugitives who escaped are the two most wanted criminals in the United States of America,” said Morrison.
Sachs couldn’t help but gulp.
“We need to put out an APB, and inform the FBI that there are felons loose in Manhattan. Armed and dangerous. They are spies who are acting against the government of the Western Hemisphere. Do you understand me, detective?”
Sachs nodded. He now understood that the statement Bradley had given him and Bryson – and the one taken by Mortimer and Zapf from the girl – were all part of a cover-up, a clever disinformation plan to confuse the police, to buy time to let someone else – an inside man – come and get them. Sachs’s brow knitted as he tried to untangle it all inside his own mind. “They’re really that dangerous?”
Morrison’s expression was firm. “And as of right now,” he said, “Rad Bradley and Jennifer Jones are both public enemy number one.”
FORTY-THREE
They kept coming, and coming. Wave after wave, the King’s hidden army now fully active, pouring from their hiding places around the city, following a single order: reclaim the Fissure, reclaim Kane.
Kane had another thing on his mind. It was likely that only Carson could solve the problem of the Empire State’s impending demise, and it was up to Kane to protect him, buy him time.
He knew that now, as he hovered in front of the colonnades of Grand Central. He was powerful – he was the Fissure now – but the power had its limits. He’d felt it already, a small tug at the base of his spine – hardly anything at first but getting stronger the more he worked, and occasionally giving a real wrench, sending a cascade of blue-hot pain right down the center of his back. It did that when he opened up the tank, letting the Fissure’s power leak out of the gaps he’d made in his suit at the wrists.
Keeping the robots at bay was hard work. They didn’t carry weapons – they didn’t need to. Their glowing eyes spat rays of energy, wide cones of heat and death crisscrossing in the air as they attempted to knock Kane out of the sky. It was hard work avoiding the rays, but at least it kept the robots occupied, the front ranks coming to a halt as they took aim at their target.
Kane had been lucky so far, but he knew his own energy was running out – the more he flew, the more energy he directed back at the robots, the weaker he got. He wasn’t even sure whether the King needed him alive or just his dead body to plug back into the machine in Harlem.
Kane dodged another series of blasts that came from three different directions, converging on where he had just been in a brilliant red haze of energy. He paused in the air, reorienting himself, and heard a thunder-like rumble from the distance ahead. He looked up, saw lightning flash on the horizon, and saw black shapes moving. The distance was huge, the shapes enormous: two office blocks collapsing like wet cake as the city began to crumble, unable to tolerate any longer the lack of energy from the Fissure.
The energy he was rapidly using up.
The robots gathered, regrouping. Park Avenue surrounded Grand Central on all sides, but around the periphery were the numbered avenues, moving out like spokes from a hub. The machines crowded every street.
Kane couldn’t win. The sheer force of their numbers would overwhelm him and the robotic horde would breach Grand Central, taking him and Carson and the others back to Harlem. He hoped Carson’s plan, whatever it was, was going to work. And fast.
The robots surged forward, and Kane swept down. He brought his hand back, opening the gap in the Skyguard’s suit, and the Fissure flowed out of him like water. Tendrils of blue energy floated away from him like eddies in a stream, and then came the tugging sensation, strong now and surprising. Kane wobbled in the air as the pain clouded his senses, his vision splitting into a kaleidoscope view before it snapped back into tunnel vision, and blue fire spat from within him. The beam connected with the street, carving another great trench, causing the robots to back away. Kane moved the beam onwards, catching the front row of robots. The machines exploded almost instantly, silver arms and legs and heads flying through the air as the power of the Fissure cut through them.
Kane gritted his teeth against the pain, and touched down on the street in front of Grand Central. Time was almost up.
“Carson,” he said to the air. Something in his ear clicked.
“A little longer, Mr Fortuna. We are not ready yet.”
Kane shook his head. “I can’t keep this up. The power is running out.”
Carson clicked his tongue, the sound close and wet in Kane’s ear. “I need a little more time.”
“Can you get us away from here? The tremors are getting worse. The city is falling apart.”
“Yes, we can hear it. How far away is the event horizon?”
“Six or seven miles uptown maybe. But the structure is getting a might thin here too. A block on the corner of 43rd fell as I flew past. I didn’t even touch it.”
“Very well,” said Carson, and then there was a rustling noise. When he spoke next the tone was different, like he was facing away from the microphone. “Five minutes. Be ready to leave. Tunnel 17a. But wait for my signal.”
“OK, but Carson–”
“Hold them off, Kane. Listen for my signal.”
Kane nodded and clicked the radio off, forgetting Carson couldn’t see him. But his mind was racing. He looked down at the street.
The robot army was stationary now, the rows and rows of glowing red eyes dimmer, like they were considering a new plan of attack.
Kane searched the army, but he couldn’t see their leader, the real King of 125th Street. He hadn’t seen the silver machine man at all.
The thunder rumbled again. This time Kane could feel the bass vibration shake the street, making him stumble. The army tottered, a thousand silver soldiers banging into each other as the tremor increased in strength. Further down Park Lane, a huge building sagged at the waist and telescoped downwards, throwing up dust and debris that swept over the robots like fog.
Kane flew higher to see. How much of the city was left standing? But as he flew up, the unpleasant tug at his spine increased. He hissed in surprise and pain, and then he dropped.
It took four seconds for him to hit the street, and when he did he bounced twice, then rolled over, gasping for breath, struggling for purchase. The fall had hurt like hell, but the pain faded almost immediately. Kane moved, pushing himself up, and felt pins and needles all over and the tug at the base of his spine once more. He understood – the power of the Fissure had saved him from the fall and healed him, but that had just used more of its energy.
If the Fissure died within him, was that the end of the Empire State? Carson was going to put the Fissure back where it w
as, wasn’t he? Back in Battery Park, where it would burn bright and blue, reconnecting the Pocket universe to the Origin and restoring the energy balance. And the Empire State would be saved, and all would be well.
He had to buy Carson time. On his hands and knees, Kane shook his head.
“Looks like it’s just you and me, pal.”
Kane looked up. James Jones, the real King of 125th Street, stepped forward in front of his army, his metal feet loud on the tarmac. Kane went to stand but James pushed him back with his foot. Kane fell backwards and immediately rolled to the side, but he couldn’t stand. His body felt like it was made of lead. He craned his neck as James took a step forward and placed one foot on either side of Kane’s body. He flexed his fingers, and Kane was sure the square metal jaw was grinning.
“Dead or alive,” said James, “you’re coming with me.”
FORTY-FOUR
Carson tutted as he worked at the control console, his soldering iron moving with precise strokes, jeweler’s eyepiece rammed into his good eye. He tutted again, then raised the board at arm’s length and admired his handiwork.
“I fear for Mr Fortuna’s safety, sir.”
The Captain hrmmed. “And what of our safety, Byron? What of the safety of the Empire State itself?”
“I can sense a change in the world,” said Byron’s voice, filling the airship cabin from nowhere.
“So can I, my old friend, so can I.”
“I can sense a change in Mr Fortuna.”
Carson looked up. “The Fissure?”
“The energy signature is weak.”
Carson frowned and returned to his work. A moment later he let the eyepiece drop into this lap.
“There,” he said, slapping the control console closed. He flicked a switch, and sat back in the pilot’s chair and stroked his beard.
“We are ready to leave?”
Carson nodded. “I’ve integrated the control systems of Ms Jones’s gun into the ship, while the weapon core itself is mounted on the nose. All we need now is to give it a little kick and we should be able to transfer across and assist our friends.” The Captain looked at the ceiling, head tilted, like he was listening to something. “It’s quiet.”
There was a click from somewhere close. The Captain turned in the pilot’s seat, but the flight deck was empty. “Byron?”
A shadow moved across Carson’s field of vision as Byron went to check.
“Anything?”
A pause, a beat. “Someone approaches,” said Byron.
“Kane!”
Kane stumbled across the threshold, one arm across his middle. His suit was intact but scuffed and dirty, covered in dust and long scratches. He collapsed at the Captain’s feet.
“Mr Fortuna, my dear chap?” Carson immediately lowered himself to the floor on the knee above his wooden leg.
Kane rolled onto his back and didn’t move again.
Carson looked up to the ceiling. “We leave at once.”
“Sir,” said Byron, and then: “Have you a plan to start the transfer? Kane is too weak. It would exhaust the Fissure completely. The energy flux is unstable as it is.”
Carson pushed himself to his feet. “I always have a plan, my friend.” Unstable on his wooden leg, he overbalanced and fell back into the pilot’s seat, then quickly spun it around and readied the controls. The sound of the engines filled the flight deck and he pulled back on the yoke. The Nimrod shook and the floor tilted as they took off, the tunnel flashing past the windows until they exited, and flew out into the night. Carson pulled back to gain altitude and turned the craft until the Empire State Building was ahead of them.
“All for one, and so on, and so forth!” Carson cried out over the roar of the engines as he pushed the Nimrod forward.
“No!”
Carson glanced over his shoulder as someone rushed towards him from the lip of the bulkhead door. Tall, silver and sleek, man-shaped but big. A robot – James Jones, the machine king.
Carson cried out. As he did, Kane’s body jerked into life and stood, then rushed towards James, tackling the robot to the floor. The King of 125th Street screamed as the pair thrashed about.
“Sir, continue,” said Byron, his voice coming from Kane’s black mask. “Kane is safe, as is the Fissure. I have him.”
Carson turned back to the windows. “Good show,” he said. The engines thrummed as he accelerated towards the Empire State Building, but his attention was on the struggle behind him reflected in the airship’s forward windows.
James had got behind Byron, thick silver arms wrapped around him. Byron grabbed hold of the metal forearms across his chest and struggled to stand, pushing backwards and lifting the attacker’s feet from the floor. Advantage in his favor, Byron ripped one arm free from his neck and shot his elbow back, connecting with James’s abdomen. James toppled backwards and hit the rear wall of the flight deck. Byron spun around and marched forwards, grabbing the robot by the shoulders, but James jerked into life, pushing Byron away. Byron staggered and James came at him again, throwing two punches, a left and a right, at Byron’s face. Each blow connected silently, and Carson realized he was watching the fight in a kind of daze, the sounds of the scuffle hidden under the steady roar of the engines as they pushed the Nimrod towards its final destination.
Carson wanted to help, but he knew he couldn’t. His only aim now was to keep them flying on target, trusting Byron, in possession of Kane’s dying body, to hold the robot king off until transference was complete. Carson flicked a switch. The ship juddered and the nose rose in the air. In the reflection in the front window, Carson saw the tilting ship throw off James’s center of gravity. The silver man staggered backwards, arms windmilling, as Carson corrected the ship’s course with a sudden yank on the yoke. Byron, used to the motion of the craft, remained upright, braced with both hands against the wall behind him.
Carson allowed himself a grim smile, and increased the throttle. Impact in… ten…
“What are you doing?”
Carson refocused his gaze in the window, shifting from the blue and red lights of the Empire State Building to the ghostly reflected form of the real King of 125th Street behind him.
“What are you doing?” James screamed, his voice breaking in anger, his reflection leaping forwards towards Carson’s back.
Seven…
Byron intercepted, throwing his body in the way. The two crashed into the back of Carson’s chair, jolting the pilot. Carson hissed in pain as something blunt dug into the space between his shoulder blades.
Five…
Byron pushed James, and they stood, two brawlers, each wary of his opponent, each looking for an opening.
Four…
The Empire State Building was very close now. Carson flicked his eyes from the window to the control panel in front of him. He moved his hand over a row of buttons and paused, his thumb hovering over a single control. The ship bucked again and Carson gritted his teeth, feeling the ache in the hand that was still gripping the yoke as the machine, as though sensing what was about to happen, tried to free itself from his control.
Two…
James lunged again, not for Byron but for Carson, grabbing the top of the pilot’s seat even as Byron tackled him around the waist. Byron pushed, but the robot king was stronger. Carson slid on the seat as it was rocked by the struggle behind him, the fight dragging his thumb away from the button. He hissed in annoyance as he strained to reach it, but the button was suddenly too far away as James pulled the pilot’s chair around.
One…
The ship banked sharply. Through the windows, the horizontal lines of the Empire State Building’s façade flipped until they were almost vertical and began to slide diagonally out of view with alarming speed.
Zero…
Carson let go of the yoke and threw himself at the console and the row of buttons. “Transference!” he cried, like shouting the word would make it so.
The hurricane sound of the Nimrod’s engines swelled as t
hey encountered the resistance of the building in front of them. The nose of the ship connected with the Empire State Building, hitting the stonework between two huge windows. The windows shattered and the stonework cracked, and Carson found himself pushed hard against the controls as inertia took over, trying its best to keep Carson moving while the airship came to a complete and sudden stop.
The metal framework around the Nimrod’s front windows kinked suddenly. Carson was only dimly aware of this, watching events happening in slow motion, knowing that he had failed.
FORTY-FIVE
Nobody was taking a second look at her, for which Rad was thankful. The atmosphere in the office filled Rad with a sort of nervous excitement.
He heaved a breath and glanced at Jennifer Jones. She seemed fine, unaffected by the transition from one universe to the next. It was the mask, had to be, or whatever else her brother had done to her. He noticed that she hadn’t removed her heavy winter coat. She seemed more comfortable that way. Maybe she knew what was going on underneath, and that wasn’t something everyone needed to be a party to.
Rad coughed, suddenly feeling light-headed. New York was making him dizzy. He’d felt better at the police station, but that was because he’d been sitting still in the cell. The little jaunt from the precinct house to the Empire State Building, which was hardly any distance at all on foot, had taken it out of him. Mr Grieves had been in a hell of a hurry, and when Rad had finally had to stop, leaning against a lamppost as his almost non-existent stomach contents threatened to make an appearance, Grieves had paced back and forth, eager to keep going.
But there was something in the air at the office, too. Rad thought there hadn’t been much of a time dilation between the here and the there. Somebody had shifted some desks, and he didn’t remember the two rubber plants, but Grieves didn’t look much older. But then Rad suspected Grieves was one of those men who got to middle age and then seemed to freeze in place for thirty years. Lucky for some.
No, everyone was waiting for something. That was it. He and Jennifer were standing in the middle of the office. When they’d been led in, through a fancy lobby with couches and magazines, Grieves had paused, looked at the unoccupied furniture, and cursed before letting them through the main doors with a passcode spoken through a hatch. Rad had wondered what was so disturbing about an empty couch, but his vision was going grey at the edges and his legs were made of rubber, so the thought flitted away like music on the breeze.
The Age Atomic Page 24