Nica of the New Yorks

by Sue Perry

  The erratic walk used muscles in alien combinations. By the time we were out of Central Park crater, I had cramps in my buttocks and both calves. Which helped with erratic movements but not with keeping quiet.

  We headed into Midtown. There, the rubble of concrete and asphalt was uneven but not loose, so I didn't slip much; we heard many clockwork dogs but encountered none; and only three of my cramps progressed to charley horses—so our trek was full of luck. Perhaps that depleted our future supply.

  South of Central Park crater, clusters of buildings stood intact yet brittle—like the marrow was sucked from them—and no longer plumb. I wished them the relief of final collapse. The damp air smelled like dead possum soaked in vinegar and building ruins added dusty mildew to the bouquet. I shoved my face into Kelly Joe's chest to stifle a gagging cough. He stroked my back, which calmed the spasm, then tapped my head to get my attention and showed me how he breathed through his mouth behind his shirt. We resumed our trek south, deeper into Party City.

  We passed sporadic heaps of tattered fabric. I looked too long at one—it was a pile of bones in decayed garments. The fabric was colorful and the bones were small. About the time the pattern–recognition part of my brain thought children, the analytic part of my brain noticed they had been clawing at, climbing over each other. The self–protective part of my brain focused on my erratic walk and a recurring noise, a rasping mechanical squeak.

  The squeak was explained when we got to Times Square, where stood a black translucent tent and a marvelous Rube Goldberg set–up which in other circumstances would have enchanted me.

  A conveyor belt ran along 46th Street, ending at the tent. On its eastern end, near Sixth Avenue, the conveyor belt emerged from a Connector. The conveyor belt carried a steady line of crates from the Connector—and whatever Frame was on the other end of the Connector—to the black tent. The crates must be heavy, because the conveyor belt sagged under each crate. At the other end of the conveyor belt, in front of the tent, was a shallow pit and when the crates reached the end of the conveyor belt they tipped off into the pit. Every time a crate fell off the conveyor belt, the belt flexed upward with that rasping squeak.

  When a crate fell into the pit, it broke open and spilled its contents. Books. Three mechanical arms plucked books from the pit and arrayed them on narrow trays that delivered books into the tent, one after another. Inside the tent was a massive metal box, the mutant spawn of a wringer washer and a pizza oven. The front had a hinged flap that dropped open with a shriek as each book arrived. Dense red air gusted from inside the box to cover the nearest book, then, with a groan, the gust changed direction and the swirling air sucked the book inside the metal box. The flap slammed shut and the tray advanced, bringing the next book closer.

  One at a time, books slid out the back of the metal box into a narrow channel under black netting like the allies used to catch books. From there, each book fluttered and wobbled its way into an enormous netted tent that stretched south along Broadway and teemed with flying books.

  This had to be Maelstrom's imprinting press and briefly I sustained hope that it faced imminent demise. The press wheezed and shuddered. Its metal was pocked with decay cankers; carbuncles of rust stiffened its joints. Every movement sounded painful. Each ingestion might be its last! This hope died when a flake of orange–crusted rust shook loose to expose bright new steel beneath. As I continued to watch, the ancient skin refreshed itself in other spots, also.

  We observed the operation for some time. I tried to memorize every detail of the press and conveyor system and thought about how simple my life had been four month–eternities prior, before Anya and Anwyl entered my office in Los Angeles.

  Kelly Joe made minimalist gestures—hand shaded eyes, hand cupped ear, head shook—which I took to mean that he didn't see or hear any beings nearby. Indeed, no one seemed to be tending or guarding the facility. Then his arm made a jerky ratcheting motion, imitating the three mechanical arms that fed books to the press.

  A crate of books failed to split apart when it fell from the conveyor belt. A mechanical arm grabbed the crate and broke it open against the side of the pit by tapping it like an egg shell against an omelet pan—except this egg weighed hundreds of pounds and spanned several feet. Kelly Joe squatted and, moving in slo'–mo', hefted a chunk of broken sidewalk. He flicked it to hit the ground on the other side of the conveyor belt. All three mechanical arms swiveled in that direction. When nothing else out of the ordinary happened, two of the arms resumed organizing books and cracking crates, while the third arm swung back and forth as though on guard.

  I got Kelly Joe's message. The mechanical arms were strong and they were sentient. I watched them until I understood their range of motion, knew where they could—and couldn't—reach. Warty Sebaceous Cysts must have designed the mechanical arms because they were absurd. One had a paw that ended in a butterfly net, one had a hand with fat gloved cartoon fingers like Mickey Mouse's, one was a wire–frame hand with six digits—the sixth being an extra thumb—and digit tips decorated in hot pink lacquer paint.

  The mechanical arms, like the press, were rusting but sturdy with no sign of weak spots. I'd need explosives. Maybe I could steal the press, that might be easier than destroying it. But. There must be a reason that beings of genuinely great power hadn't tried that. Or maybe they had.

  The arms continued to feed books to the maw of the press and next I fantasized about simply finding an off switch. But then somebody could switch it back on. Maybe somebody at the other end of that Connector. Whoever was putting crates on the conveyor belt would come to investigate if crates piled up and jammed the belt.

  Why were there no guards? Maelstrom didn't seem concerned about protecting this treasure and his confidence was harmful to my own.

  Maybe my books could take out the press. Books freeing books. That was justice. But what if they ran out of text before they'd sliced the press to bits? And then there were the mechanical arms. Maybe those arms were the reason no guards were needed.

  Well, I could fret until cows stampeded, but the bottom line had to be this: the machine had been created, therefore it could be destroyed. Now that I'd seen the press, I could develop a better plan for its demolition. Admittedly, any plan would be better than my current go there, stop it.

  But why were there no guards? I'd been coasting on my belief that I would succeed because I had to succeed. What a ludicrous idea. But then those were the kinds of ideas one should expect from a fool like me.

  Kelly Joe touched a finger to my arm. I copied his slightest hint of skyward gaze. Overhead flew a squadron of books. They circled twice then continued south on Broadway, stirring commotion in the tent of newly enslaved books. The squadron was intimidating and thus reassuring. The press did need protection. I missed the protective weight of my own books on my back, as if my mere backpack of books could protect me from a squadron. As if that squadron was the only source of menace in this Frame.

  As if I knew enough about the press or explosives to make a plan.

  The skies filled with howls, close far near distant and, on average, closing in. My pulse rate doubled but Kelly Joe's movements remained slow, erratic, and spare. He led us to a building northwest of the intersection, a two–story steel box with plate glass windows overlooking the press. The plate glass windows had jagged breaks that zigzagged out from the corners: the building's foundation had shifted more than once. An open doorway led to a long flight of stairs. We maintained our erratic pace up to the second floor. At a landing the stairs changed direction and on that second flight of stairs, the outside noises were muffled then faint then gone.

  At the top of the stairs was a large empty room. Inside it, Kelly Joe resumed a normal walk and went to the window overlooking the press. The glass was double–paned and both panes were cracked, making the view disjointed like someone had carelessly glued ripped pieces of photos. Nonetheless, the window was a fantastic reconnaissance point with a view east along the conveyer belt
to the Connector, south along Broadway and the book cage tent, and below to the back of the imprinting press.

  "We'll make return trips to and from this room," Kelly Joe said.

  I almost felt hope: this room made a good base of operations and Kelly Joe intended to keep helping.

  65. THE BIPOLAR ROLLER COASTER

  Kelly Joe Traveled us home to Ma'Urth, where our reconnaissance room was a store that sold candy novelties. The room was packed with tourists but only a small girl in a pink jumpsuit noticed our gradual fade–in to the aisle by the window. She was a little bitty kid so no one paid attention when she squawked and pointed at us.

  Outside, the streets were crowded like normal but the vibe was anything but. Moods careened on a bipolar roller coaster. Maelstrom had initially celebrated his escape by cascading fear and anxiety through the Frames, but negative emotions deflate with time, so now he plumped the deflated with excitement, the better to drain them again later. Maybe he wouldn't have to win battles—he could destroy us by unbalancing us.

  Thinking like that meant I was on a downward plunge of the bipolar coaster. In fact, around me everyone seemed to be on different loops and the effect was a city that pulsed—not with its usual energy, but with the hysteria you hide when you don't want to spook the mugger whose finger is on the trigger.

  At first I didn't understand why Kelly Joe detoured us around the Upper East Side. He pushed the pace like he had to hurry yet insisted we walk back and forth, up and down, block after block; and he seemed surprisingly satisfied to find one more hinky construction site. Then we got back to my apartment, which was packed with allies: Anya, Anwyl, Jenn, Hernandez, and Zasu. Kelly Joe entered ahead of me and announced, "We've checked the East 80s and found two more altered buildings." He rattled off the addresses of two construction sites. One I'd noticed and one I hadn't. They added up to a good alibi for where we'd been since we left Marzipan.

  Anya's voice was the usual sunlight on tropical sand, even though her news was mostly funnel clouds. "This night, we shall not rest until we have destroyed all construction abominations of Warty Sebaceous Cysts on Manhattan Island. Come the morrow they will dispatch guards to protect their sites, but they will be too late. Jenn has images of the leader among these guards."

  Jenn was so proud her face was pink to the roots of her hair. "I showed Anya this, that's why we have our mission tonight." Jenn carried my laptop from person to person and played a news piece about N.Y.P.D. deployments that would protect construction sites against saboteurs.

  When the reporter interviewed the leader of the deployment, Sergeant Guy Bermudez, my eyeballs dissolved with Lilah's last scream.

  "Nica?" Jenn noticed my reaction to the interview.

  I shook my head—say nothing—and stared at the laptop screen. There was Scabman, now called Bermudez and surrounded by N.Y.P.D. uniforms; he headed a special tactical force to stop the construction site attacks. Mathead wasn't in the news piece but she was likely part of the tactical force. Scabman and Mathead had only recently disgraced themselves in the L.A.P.D. but now here they were, transplanted to N.Y.P.D. , apparently without a hitch. For other–Framely denizens, they knew an awful lot about how to play Neutral systems to their advantage.

  "We'll get you –" I told the screen, and at Hernandez' frown, I pretended I'd been talking to Jenn. "We'll get you back here to celebrate when you finish off those sites."

  Jenn enthused, "I can't wait to see those douchbag faces after tonight."

  Yeah. I could have warned her to stay away from Mathead and Scabman. But much as I like to hear myself talk, there was no point—she was climbing the manic slopes of the bipolar roller coaster, which meant she was prone to terrible impulsive decisions. Jenn wasn't the one to keep Jenn safe.

  Based on the reactions as Jenn migrated the laptop news story from person to person, everyone but Jenn recognized Scabman from past encounters and none of those were pleasant—but they were probably less awful than my latest interaction.

  Anwyl indicated the laptop screen, "Here stands a powerful minion of Warty Sebaceous –"

  "He's the one I told you about!" I stopped shouting. "He's the Lobotomist manager. Do you still need his real name before you can do anything about him?"

  Anya and Anwyl exchanged a look that made me notice how much I was shaking. Anya murmured, "Well learned, Nica. This is information of potential importance, should we catch him in a Frame where his appearance is similar and his form can be recognized."

  Anwyl continued, "This being's presence in the New Yorks confirms the significance of this turf. Our efforts this night may tip an early balance in our favor." He donned what appeared to be a black windbreaker, but was actually a wearable weapon cabinet with many hidden compartments, which he demonstrated as he continued. "Each of you has a crucial role to play. Protect yourselves and one another. No mission is more important than your breath and your life."

  At Anywl's gesture, Hernandez distributed similar windbreakers to the others. Anwyl instructed, "Nica has no need of this garment. She will pursue a separate mission tonight, a mission of rescue."

  The gadget nerd in me wanted one of those windbreakers, chock full of death–inducing tchotchkes. But yes, tonight Hari!–Ya and I would facilitate the escape of another Cobra person. Seems like I always did stuff separate from my team. I wavered between arrogance and despondence about this.

  Jenn sagged under the weight of her windbreaker and Anya swapped out weapons until Jenn could move freely again. Seeing them together warmed me from the inside out: how amazing to share Anya with Jenn. And vice versa. Suddenly, the bipolar roller coaster took me in a steep spiral and my love—my need—for them terrified me.

  Absorbing Anya's lessons about the windbreaker, Jenn mimicked Anya's smallest movements, but she was still and always Jenn. When Jenn was ready to go, she readjusted nonexistent balls in an imaginary codpiece. At Anya's giggle, Jenn grinned at me and winked at Hernandez.

  As the others prepared for departure, Anwyl touched my cheek in that naked and alone way he had. "When you complete your mission, come directly here and await my return."

  "Your wish, my command."

  He flashed some teeth. "Mocking is most effective when tinged with truth."

  My smug turned sickly. I didn't know what that meant and suddenly this modest uncertainty was the worst feeling ever. Another twist on Maelstrom's roller coaster. Hernandez had a persistent frown that suggested he was in a shallow downdip, and Jenn was still climbing steeply.

  I drew Hernandez aside. "We need our mantras a lot now. Jenn seems especially susceptible, so– " What? Like Hernandez could force Jenn to do her mantra.

  Jenn finished converting her windbreaker into a fashion statement and linked elbows with Hernandez to pull him close. They squeezed through the door together as they exited.

  Anya overheard or guessed my concerns. "When moods change with such speed, Maelstrom's attention is near. We can safeguard Jenn this eve but you will be far away. Be vigilant in mind and body."

  I nodded because she waited for a reaction.

  She held my arms and my gaze. "You are strong and can withstand Maelstrom."

  I nodded with conviction. She left my apartment with Anwyl and Zasu, discussing strategy.

  Kelly Joe was the last to go out. His eyes had a scary sheen—if he was this excited about tonight's mission, it must be ultra dangerous. He slammed the door behind him, then re–opened it and leaned on the doorknob, looking down. The explanation strolled in from the hall: Dizzy. Kelly Joe frowned at the cat as she headed my way and he seemed about to speak, but then Anwyl called him and he was gone.

  "Hey Dizz, I'm headed out too." She rubbed against my legs repeatedly in an unusual show of affection. I stumbled against her more than once as I grabbed snacks and a jacket, but I appreciated her nearness. Now that my homies were gone, my apartment felt more empty than my refrigerator.

  "Where's Leon?" I wondered as Dizzy trailed me down the block. "It's been a while
since I've seen you alone, Dizz."

  An orange streak blasted through my legs and behind me. It was Leon, running like hellhounds were on his heels. I turned to see a second blur of fur as Dizzy shot away, just ahead of Leon. The cats disappeared around a corner.

  Weird.

  "Since when are there stray cats in New York?" Beside me, a woman in the latest autumn trench coat interrogated the universe.

  "Actually those aren't –"

  "Binky, calm down, they're gone." Binky had to be the Chihuahua dachshund thing that cowered between the woman's ankles. The woman performed a three–step cha–cha that freed her from Binky's tangled leash, and said, "I don't know who to call about stray cats, do you?"

  "Don't worry about those cats," I assured her. Binky's eyes strobed, watching for cats or worse. Rat dogs leave me cold, but compassion spiked now. Something about the dog's eyes. Maelstrom was getting to Binky, too.

  I resumed my trek to Expletive Deleted, where I would soon yearn for events that were simply weird.

  66. SEPARATE TO SURVIVE

  With my first step onto Brooklyn Bridge, he greeted me, "This is an ill night for Travel. I will do what I can to keep your steps safe. Hold for a time." I stopped. I waited. Finally, "Proceed—quickly, then pause three Frames hence."

  In Expletive Deleted, nothing went according to plan. Hari!–Ya was not waiting for me at the Bridge—at last I spotted her among marchers who filled the streets with angry chanting; many wore identical masks of a male model with bloody daggers protruding from the skull.

  Near the area where I was supposed to meet her, I found a woven bag holding a cloak and one of those masks. I pulled them on and ran to catch up as the march stormed north toward the Williamsburg Bridge. The marchers howled for Maelstrom to deliver them from inferiors. Their collective breath smelled like fertilizer.

  As I shoved my way forward, it was easy to find Hari!–Ya. The march had a festive, Rise–of–the–Third–Reich feel and all the marchers were really into it, with one exception. Her "hostile" gestures looked more like flinches. Like many of the marchers, she carried a placard with a cartoon depiction of a seeder getting lynched, but she waved hers like it smelled bad. I slammed into her from behind and shook her placard like I meant it.