by George Mann
He’d have to try to use its bulk against it, somehow.
He stood, bracing himself against the railing.
The Enforcer was only a few feet away now, coming up alongside the fire escape. He wasn’t taking any chances. He fired the ignition on his boosters, rising up slowly from the metal platform.
The Enforcer, thinking he was about to make good on another escape, launched itself at the gantry, flinging itself across the face of the building and crashing into the wrought-iron structure. It collapsed as the Enforcer struck it, smashing free from the side of the building and clattering noisily to the sidewalk below.
Momentarily in freefall, the Enforcer punched out, shattering a window and catching the edge of the stone frame to halt its descent. The window ledge gave way beneath its weight, but it had served its purpose, and the Enforcer had already buried its other fist in the wall. It slid a few feet in a shower of brick dust, before resuming its steady ascent.
The Ghost continued to rise slowly, keeping his back to the wall. If he could get it high enough, maybe there was a chance he could do some damage.
“Come on, keep up!” he called down to the pilot. “Can’t you see I’m getting away?” Blood flecked his lips as he spoke, and he wiped it away with the edge of his sleeve.
They were nearing the upper story now. He’d have to act soon, before they reached the roof. Up there, he’d have no chance of bringing it down.
The drop was around thirty feet. It had to be enough.
With a deep breath, the Ghost fell back against the wall, and then pushed himself away, dipping his head into a dive.
The Enforcer, seeing him hurtling down toward it, pulled one of its hands free and tried to swat him out of the sky. He twisted, narrowly avoiding the metal fist, and caught hold of the back of the Enforcer’s frame, swinging himself up and around, so that he was now the right way up again, and clutching onto its shoulders.
It thrashed, trying to shake him loose, its free hand grasping for him, reaching up and around its back, but its shoulder joints wouldn’t pivot far enough, and he was able to keep just out of its reach.
This was his chance, his one opportunity.
The Ghost flipped again, turning upside down and aiming his boosters at the wall. Still clinging onto the Enforcer’s frame, he gave the ignition cord a second tug, increasing the burn rate. He’d spend precious fuel this way, emptying the canisters, but he couldn’t see any other option.
Luckily, the Enforcer didn’t appear to comprehend what he was doing, still grappling for him with its free hand instead of trying to keep itself attached to the wall.
He felt a sudden jerk as the force of the boosters kicked out, searing his ankles and wrenching them both away from the building. The Enforcer bellowed as it lost its grip, its hand still opening and closing redundantly, trying desperately to cling on as they launched back into the air
The Ghost let go, releasing his grip on the Enforcer as it tumbled, the momentum sending him spiraling up into the sky, out of control. He fought to right himself, throwing his weight left and twisting, just as he dove at the wall of the opposing building. He struck a windowpane instead, bursting through into the darkened apartment beyond, striking the ceiling, setting the curtains aflame and, seconds later, crashing down into the dining table and sending a candelabra flying. Black smoke curled from his ankles, and the room filled with the stench of burned flesh.
Hurriedly, he clambered to his feet, wrenched the curtains from their rail and tossed them—still burning—out of the open window. They fluttered and billowed on the night breeze, trailing thick smoke, as they slowly drifted to the ground.
He peered after them. The Enforcer was lying in the road, its exoskeleton buckled, the pistons of one leg still firing spasmodically, causing the limb to twitch with a mechanical whirr. Inside, the pilot wasn’t moving.
He could hear sirens trilling in the distance. It was time for him to leave. A quick glance at the ruins of his boots told him the canisters had completely burned out. He’d have to take the more traditional route home.
He carefully removed his broken goggles, wiped the blood from his eyes and buttoned his coat. He’d lost his hat at some point during the fight, but it mattered little; like this, he was just Gabriel Cross, the rich playboy and former soldier. No one would give him a second look.
With a final glance at the devastation in the street below, the Ghost hobbled to the apartment door and let himself out into the hallway.
THREE
Gabriel had always adored the sea.
He supposed he’d probably been raised with a predisposition, having grown up on an island, but he loved how the fresh, briny smell of it seemed to pinch his nose, how the water sighed longingly as the waves broke over the shore, how the gulls clacked and squabbled over the small, silvery fish he didn’t know the name of.
As a younger man he’d often snuck out of the house during the summer to spend nights on the beach, skinny-dipping with Katherine, the closest he’d ever come to a childhood sweetheart. She’d been his girl next door—quite literally—although next door, in Gabriel’s world, was half a mile from his parent’s estate.
They’d make clandestine arrangements to meet in the sand dunes, throwing their clothes off with gay abandon and running pell-mell into the frothy water without a single care in the world.
He’d loved the tingle of the cool air on his flesh, the shock of the icy water, and the luxurious curve of Katherine’s back. She’d felt so soft beneath his fingers, so pure, and yet, when she bit his lip and played with the tip of his cock, she’d seemed so forward, so feminine, so vital.
He hadn’t thought of those days for years, not since he’d returned from the war to find her gone, moved out west with her family, leaving nothing so much as a forwarding address. He hadn’t tried particularly hard to find her, either, but then—what would a girl like that have wanted with a damaged soldier like him? He supposed she was probably tearing up the West Coast these days, a riotous novelist or painter, a notorious and outspoken flapper girl, making a name for herself amongst the usual pantheon of crashing bores who presided over high society.
The thought made him smile, but it was tinged with disconsolation.
Of course, here at the Chelsea Piers, things were a little different to the Long Island beach he remembered; the air reeked of oil and fish, the water was filthy, and the baritone honk of the ships’ horns set him constantly on edge.
It was early, and he wasn’t feeling his best. He’d downed two Bloody Marys with his eggs that morning, but even they’d failed to take the edge off. He was considering visiting a doctor to see about having his broken ribs strapped. He’d been meaning to have a word with Felix about that—seeing if he couldn’t figure out an arrangement with an understanding surgeon who wouldn’t ask too many questions. Although, the way things had been going lately, he’d be more likely to need an undertaker than a doctor.
He adjusted his sunglasses, wincing as he brushed the tender flesh around the orbit of his left eye. It was already black and swollen from where the Enforcer had cracked his goggles. He consoled himself with the fact he could still see out of it, and lit a cigarette, searching for distraction.
He was propped against the railing, facing out to sea. In the dock, the Centurion sat like a great leviathan, squat upon the water, casting him in its long, ominous shadow. Passengers bustled on the deck, crowding into the wedge of the ship’s prow and hanging over the side, waving down to those who had dutifully filed out here to meet them.
Disembarkation ramps were being pulled into place, buttressing the glossy flanks of the steel beast, while wooden cargo crates were already being unloaded from one of the holds, bearing dubious bounty, he presumed, from the East.
An exhibition was coming to town, to be held at the Metropolitan Museum of Art—the resulting plunder from a recent expedition to Egypt. The newspapers were bursting with claims of wondrous finds; how the evidence from the dead queen’s tomb would forever
change how the Ancient Egyptian religions were viewed. It was, apparently, the find of the century—although Gabriel took such grandstanding with a pinch of salt; the century, to his mind, had barely begun.
No doubt Arthur, up at the museum, would be lost in paroxysms of joy at the prospect of getting his hands on the new finds, but Gabriel wasn’t here for that. In fact, all of the flashbulbs going off around him were starting to become an annoyance, newspapermen snapping pictures of the crates, as if the wooden caskets themselves were objects of ancient beauty, deserving of celebration on the front pages.
Gabriel had come down to the docks for one thing, and one thing only: to be reunited with Miss Ginny Gray.
He’d missed her terribly in the months following her departure earlier that year. She’d written him once, a simple postcard, fronted by a sprawling monochrome photograph of Luxor. On the reverse she’d written simply “missing you”, and signed off with a kiss. It had been enough, an admission that everything was not finished between them, that she hoped to see him again upon her return. He’d clung onto that, and as the perpetual party had circled on around him, flowing like a melody through his life, he’d thought only of her, and not of the pretty but vacuous women who filled his house each weekend, rich with the musk of desperation, and the search for validation.
He had no idea what to expect upon seeing her again; whether he might hope to rekindle the affection they had clearly felt for one another, or if she’d made altogether different plans in the intervening months. He knew only that he wanted to see her coquettish smile, to brush her hair from her eyes, and to hold her in his arms. Provided she didn’t hug him too hard, of course—his ribs might not be able to withstand it.
He glanced up at the ship, searching the deck, but could see no sign of her amongst the press of passengers waiting to be released from their floating prison.
Vessels such as this had a tendency to spark an inexplicable sense of dread in Gabriel, particularly standing there, in its shadow, gazing up at the size of the thing. He couldn’t put his finger on why, exactly; something to do with the sheer scale of it, he thought, and the notion that a machine that size had no business defying the natural order of things, ploughing its way across the surface of the ocean. That watery domain belonged to the whales and sharks and other terrible creatures that plumbed its otherwise unassailable depths. Skinny-dipping on a Long Island beach was one thing; propelling an enormous iron leviathan across the globe was quite another.
Ginny, of course, would have taken such considerations in her stride, much as she seemed to face most things in life. To her, long weeks holed up in a tiny cabin would have seemed like an adventure, a challenge to be faced head-on, and an opportunity to experience something new. Indeed, that was how she had faced the news of Gabriel’s double life, when it had all eventually come out. More than anything, she had wanted to be a part of it, to show him that the two halves of his existence didn’t have to be quite so separate, after all.
Gabriel dropped the butt of his cigarette and crushed it underfoot, blowing the last of the smoke from the corner of his mouth. The passengers had begun to file down one of the ramps now, jostling to be the first to hit dry land. Ginny, he knew, would take her time. She preferred to make an entrance.
He watched the others hit the dock and spread, like an oil slick comprised of fur coats and hats, sharp suits and briefcases. Behind them, men in overalls were lifting further crates down with a crane arm, lowering them tentatively to the dock, from where, he presumed, they would be loaded onto trucks to be hauled uptown to the museum. He wondered which of them contained the remains of the queen herself, and how she’d have felt about being dragged here, all the way to the New World, only to be placed on display in a cabinet before the glassy eyes of a thousand or more New Yorkers.
Gabriel hung back, avoiding the crowd. He was growing anxious. He’d expected to catch at least a glimpse of her by now, a slight wave from the deck, a wicked half-smile. Yet, there was nothing, not even a hint of her. He glanced redundantly at his watch, and then sighed, catching himself. It wasn’t as if he could have got the time wrong—the ship was right there, in the dock, in front of him.
He fished another cigarette from his pocket and pulled the ignition tab. The flood of nicotine in his lungs was a reminder of his cracked ribs, and he coughed, wincing in pain. Frustrated, he tossed the cigarette on the ground and began pacing instead.
The crowd was thinning now, with only a handful of stragglers still dragging their cases down the ramp.
It struck him then that she wasn’t coming. Her brief telegram, relayed through Henry, had informed him she was planning to return to New York, that she’d bought a ticket for the Centurion and he should meet her at the docks when it arrived. That, though, had been weeks ago. There’d been plenty of opportunity for her to change her mind and decide to extend her trip. Surely, though, she would have written ahead?
He watched the last of the passengers file off the ramp, an elderly lady in a wicker wheelchair, pushed along by a smartly dressed manservant. There was no one to meet her, and they disappeared a moment later beneath the stone arches, the wheels of the chair creaking loudly as they crossed the concrete.
Moments later, the dockworkers assembled around the disembarkation ramp and started to wheel it away.
Gabriel hurried over. “Hey there! Excuse me, but I’m still waiting for someone,” he said, gesturing to the ramp.
The nearest dockworker shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir, but all the passengers have disembarked. We got word from above.” He inclined his head, indicating the ship. “You sure you didn’t miss them? It sure was busy down here.”
Gabriel nodded. “Yeah, I’m sure I didn’t miss her. Thanks.” He stood aside to allow them to roll the ramp back toward the storage hangar. Behind them, others continued to unload the cargo, shouting directions to one another as they sorted the crates into neat stacks.
It was surprising how quickly the dock seemed empty again, as the passengers all filed off, melting away into the city as if they’d never been gone.
He wondered what had happened to Ginny. Something had gone wrong and she’d missed the boat, or else she’d had a last-minute change of heart about coming back to New York. Whatever the case, she hadn’t been onboard. He was certain he hadn’t missed her.
Battling a creeping sense of disappointment, Gabriel quit the dock. It was still early, and he knew a great place nearby to get more coffee and eggs.
FOUR
It wasn’t so much the sweltering heat, she decided, but the dreadful taste of the water that was causing her to feel so unwell. Every time she took a mouthful of the tepid stuff she had to fight the urge to gag. Even here, in the hotel bar, which was supposed to cater to tourists. She pushed the awful thing away from her, sliding it across the table. She would order a gin and tonic when the waiter returned. She’d been told that alcohol didn’t mix well with the heat, but what else was she to do? She’d been here for three days now, and if she didn’t drink something soon, she was going to be as desiccated as the mummies she’d seen in the museum earlier that day.
Ginny mopped her forehead with her handkerchief, and tried to focus on her book. She planned to take in the Luxor Temple the next morning, rising in the early hours to journey out into the starlit desert, and so was anxious to read up on what to look for. She’d hired a guide, of course, but she didn’t know whether to believe half of the stuff they told her, and she was anxious not to miss anything important.
The words swam on the page before her, all muddled, as if lost behind a shimmering heat haze. With a sigh, she leaned back in her chair, fanning herself with the pages. Had she made a terrible mistake, coming out here alone? It had seemed such a romantic notion, taking a steamship across the ocean to a distant land, steeping herself in its history and mythology. A real adventure, and a chance to get away from everything that had happened back in New York.
She’d been running from that for a while now, and was beginni
ng to think that running wasn’t going to be the answer. The creature she’d seen at the fairground still haunted her dreams, and some mornings she woke thinking she must be going mad. To even conceive that such things could exist in the world—the very notion appalled her. She needed time to let it sink in, for her view of the world to shift to accommodate what had happened. This trip was supposed to be that opportunity.
Now she was here, though, she found herself longing to see Gabriel, to be with someone who understood. She might have asked him along, she supposed, although she suspected he wouldn’t have come. She doubted anything could tear him away from that city, not now. Not even a woman.
She waved her hand to discourage a fly that had been buzzing around her head for the last few minutes. The bar was busier today than she’d seen it, populated by an array of people of all nationalities and creeds. She’d heard Germans talking in the lobby, met an Englishwoman in the restroom, and overheard the swarthy-looking chap at the next table ordering a drink in French.
The bar itself was luxurious and stately, reflecting the inordinate cost of staying here. The walls were comprised of glistening white arches, open to the elements, each of them adorned with a complex fretwork of interlaced patterns. The roof out here on the terrace was domed, and low hanging fans turned rhythmically, the sound of them leaving her feeling dozy and tired. They barely seemed to stir the hot, still air, and she found herself longing for the cool breeze of Manhattan, blowing in off the water and gusting along the broad canyons of skyscrapers, apartments, and shops.
She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to shut out the dizziness, allowing the darkness to swarm in.
The next thing she knew, she was in the arms of the swarthy Frenchman, who was dribbling cool water on her lips and gently mopping her brow with a serviette. She tried to stand, confused and embarrassed, but he shushed her quiet and carefully propped her back in her chair.
“There,” he said. “I fear the heat may have got to you.” He was crouched beside her chair, and he reached for a glass from his own, adjacent table, holding it out to her. “Drink this.”