“I am James Jones, the King of 125th Street, and I am the second.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
They stood in the center of the Grand Central concourse, the four of them, as all around, from every door, every window, came the sound of the robots resuming their slow march on the building. Hundreds of perfect machine men, programmed for warfare, commanded by a man who had become like them.
The concourse was cavernous and Rad felt very small indeed. The sound of the chaos outside was an ocean of noise, echoing, reverberating around the hard marble surfaces of the giant room.
They were stuck. Rad sighed and rolled his shoulders.
“New York. Nimrod,” he said. “It’s the only way. Can you do it, Carson?”
The Captain hrmmed and glanced at Kane. “Mr Fortuna, how much functionality does the Skyguard’s suit have remaining?”
Kane looked down at himself, and raised his arms. The suit was really only the inner lining of the Skyguard’s original armor, a tight leathery jumpsuit with slots and catches where the rest of the suit was supposed to fit.
“It’s keeping me alive,” said Kane from behind the plain black faceplate. “The King — James — must have been using it dead, because it’s feeding off my energy now.”
Carson nodded. “And if you breached the suit… for example, near the wrist.” The Captain lifted one hand and flexed it, showing the heel of his palm to Kane.
Kane nodded. “If I breach the suit, then the energy of the Fissure would leak out…”
Carson smiled. “Indeed. A small gap, just so, and you could direct the energy.” The Captain glanced up at the constellations in the ceiling. “And more than that, if you concentrate, feel the power within you, understand how it flows… perhaps you could fly, without the rocket boosters.”
Rad watched the two of them with growing alarm.
“Mr Fortuna,” Carson said. “You are one with the Fissure now. If you concentrate, focus, you can control it. We need your help. Now.”
Kane nodded and took a step back, shaking his arms like he was about to do the clean and jerk. He held his head up and Rad could hear his breathing heavy behind the mask. As he watched, the familiar blue glow of the Fissure began creeping out around Kane’s body, forming a faint but clear aura. Rad glanced down, and saw Kane was floating an inch above the floor.
Carson clapped. “Capital, Mr Fortuna. We need you to hold the robots at bay, for just a short time. I have work to do. Do you understand?”
Kane nodded, and lifted a little further from the floor. Before Rad could say anything, Kane looked down, took a breath, and shot a full six feet in the air. He laughed.
“This is going to take some getting used to.”
Carson waved. “Off you go!”
Rad whistled. “You gotta teach me that trick someday, pal.”
Kane laughed as he bobbed in the air. “Sure thing. Teach you over breakfast tomorrow.” He gave a mock salute, and rose in the air in a graceful curve, so high he almost touched the star field on the ceiling. Then he dived down, and shot out through one of the great arched windows. The glass exploded, and the sound of the robots outside was suddenly so loud that Rad ducked instinctively. Light flashed outside the window: blue and white, the kind that made Rad’s eyes hurt. The power of the Fissure.
“You’ve turned Kane into a weapon?”
Carson nodded, his smile tight. “So long as the Fissure remains within him, yes.”
“And when it isn’t?”
“When it isn’t, he’ll be dead,” said the Captain flatly, before turning to Jennifer. “That silver gun, the one I saw Mr Bradley waving around with such panache but such little effect. If my plan is to succeed, I need to repair it.” He held out his hand.
Jennifer stepped closer to him, ignoring the hand. “Kane will kill my brother.”
The Captain tutted and rubbed his forehead like a particularly exasperated teacher.
“My dear young lady, your brother’s actions have put the city at risk. I fear there is little hope for him now — although believe me, I will do my best.”
“But-”
Carson put his hand on her shoulder. “Trust me, like I trust Kane. Now, if you so please?”
Jennifer and the Captain stood face to face, eye to eye, until Jennifer sighed. “It’s in the ship.”
“Splendid,” said the Captain. “Now, the pair of you, listen. I don’t know how long it will take, but I will need you close at hand.”
Rad sighed. “How long it will take for what?”
“To the ship,” the Captain called over his shoulder as he hobbled away. “Back to the Nimrod.”
Jennifer had been pacing for minutes, walking from one side of the cabin to the other, reaching out and touching the wall as she completed each length, her golden face inclined to the floor. Rad didn’t blame her. He had no idea what was going through her mind, but the situation was tight and her brother — the brother she had been so desperately searching for — was right in the middle of it all.
Rad stood by the door, his arms folded tightly. He breathed out, trying to relax, but his body was reacting to Jennifer’s barely contained frustration.
“Any luck?”
Captain Carson mumbled, bent over the control console, Jennifer’s weapon spread out in little bits in front of him.
“What was the plan, again?” Rad asked. “Because I sure as hell don’t remember you telling us.”
Carson said something unintelligible, and with a sigh and a roll of the eyes, Rad pushed himself off the wall.
“Look-”
The Nimrod rocked, and Jennifer came to a halt. The Captain hissed as a screwdriver rolled to the edge of the console.
Rad looked at the ceiling. “Another earth tremor?”
Carson nodded. Jennifer stomped to the main door and hit the control next to it. The door whined, but remained closed. Jennifer spun around.
“James is in danger.” She advanced on Carson. “Let me out, dammit. We have to talk to him, make him see reason.”
“I’m afraid he is beyond reason,” said Carson, turning back to his work. Rad noticed he had the eye patch flipped up. “I am delighted you chose this particular weapon to steal from the Empire State Building, however. Most opportune.”
Rad looked at Jennifer. “You really think you can talk to him? Get through to him, somehow?”
“Of course,” she said. “He’s still James, whatever you and the Captain might think.”
Rad rubbed his head. “See, thing is, he was planning to turn us both into robots. He even made a start on you and now he’s done it to himself.”
“Maybe that’s the only way to survive,” she said.
“Maybe I’ll take my chances.”
“You ever thought that it’s his fault?” said Jennifer. She jerked her thumb at Carson. “He invented the things in the first place.”
Rad shook his head. “Ancient history. Meanwhile, your brother has sent the works to come get us.”
“Our friendly detective is quite right,” said Carson, face still in his delicate repair work. “James needs the Fissure to continue his work. We all need it to survive, of course. The robots will not stop until they have Kane back.” Carson leaned closer to the console, and Rad heard a sharp click. “Aha!” said the Captain, sitting back to admire his handiwork.
“That’s it,” said Jennifer. She marched to the console, brushing the Captain’s tools off as she searched for the locking mechanism. The Captain made to stop her, but she pushed him clean off the pilot’s chair. He hit the floor awkwardly, his wooden leg unable to provide enough purchase to regain his footing.
“Hey!” Rad rushed forward to help the Captain, but Jennifer pushed him back. She found the switch releasing the lock, and the cabin’s door slid open. She quickly turned and made for the exit, but Rad grabbed her arm, swinging her back around to face him. She struggled, but Rad was stronger.
“You can’t go out there,” said Rad. “At least not until the Captain fills
us in on his plan.”
Jennifer screamed, and pulled at her arm. It came free from Rad’s grip but she fell to the floor. As she scrambled to her feet, Rad darted forward, but she kicked out. Rad stepped neatly to one side, avoiding her boot, and grabbed her arm again.
“Get the hell off me!”
Rad gritted his teeth and held firm, but Jennifer didn’t let up. The two struggled in the middle of the flight deck.
The Captain tutted. “Please, Mr Bradley, Ms Jones.”
Rad turned to look at the Captain and felt Jennifer yank herself away. Then all he could see was the barrel of Jennifer’s gun, now pointed right at him. He held up a hand.
“Captain, this is becoming a habit.”
“My dear friend, I really am sorry.”
“No!” Jennifer screamed, and lurched forward. Distracted, Rad tried to dive out of the way, but it was too late. Carson pulled the trigger, and the universe evaporated in a blaze of white and blue light, Jennifer’s cry still ringing in Rad’s ears.
PART THREE
FEARFUL ENGINES
“I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.”
— Quote misattributed to J. Robert Oppenheimer, on witnessing the successful Trinity nuclear test, July 16th, 1945
“It worked.”
THIRTY-NINE
The room was large and hot, that much Nimrod could tell with the black bag still on his head. He was bound hand and foot in a wheelchair. Underneath the cloth the sweat poured off him.
They’d drugged him again, just before the last transport, just enough to keep him quiet and still. It had been a plane this time; they’d put him in a wheelchair and he’d banged the base of his skull against the back as they rolled him up a ramp and into the heart of the beast.
Military, of course. It all was. Standard procedure for moving important and dangerous prisoners. He hadn’t expected such rough treatment, but clearly the influence of Atoms for Peace stretched very far indeed. And now they had made their move, taking over the Department, making the inconvenient Captain Nimrod disappear. A new regime was required to control New York, to control the Fissure, and what lay beyond.
There were people in the room; Nimrod could hear their breathing, then a couple of coughs, and some paper shuffling. There were footsteps too, which stopped and started and then stopped again with precision. Military police. Through the bag Nimrod could smell wood and paper and the familiar musty tang of hot venetian blinds and dust. They were in a government building, in a big room. Throw in the plane trip and Nimrod suspected he’d been shipped to Washington, DC. Which meant…
The black bag was pulled off sharply, and Nimrod blinked in the light. He squinted and turned his head, his eyes adjusting enough to see the white helmets of the military police around him, and beyond, shuttered windows leaking in pale daylight. Nimrod’s face was damp with sweat but he suspected the men seated in front of him were not at their most comfortable either.
His wheelchair was in the center of the room, in front of a large raised semicircle of dark wood. There were twelve men seated behind the curved expanse; they sat high, their faces in shadow, as they looked down at their prisoner.
The shadows did not hide them completely. Of the round dozen, half were military, their buttons and badges gleaming despite the gloom, a variety of peaked caps arranged on the wood before them. The others were in suits, their faces flaring in the light as they leaned forwards or backwards to whisper to their neighbors. Nimrod recognized some, guessed others. Senators Mackenzie and MacNamara; some officious oaf he’d dealt with at the DoD once or twice too often; Wagner from the FBI; Grimwood from the CIA; two others he thought he knew. The rest were doing a better job of staying in the dark. Nimrod closed his eyes and barked a laugh, and when he opened his eyes again some of the people had shifted and the whispering had stopped.
“Do you find this amusing, Captain Nimrod?”
Nimrod focused on the man directly in front of him. He recognized the voice instantly: his old foe, the Secretary of Defense. Beside him was another military man, a general by the name of Hall, Nimrod thought. The General was rotating a pen between his fingers and the half of his face that was in the light looked nervous and twitchy.
“My dear Secretary,” said Nimrod, “there is much I find amusing in this world, but let me assure you that this situation has gone beyond the comedic and into the farcical. Now, if you would be so kind as to release me, I shall go directly to the White House and have a little chat with that President of yours.”
The Secretary seemed to tick something off a piece of paper in front of him. “You’re a funny man, Nimrod.”
Nimrod smiled tightly. “I think you’ll find I have the authority to do precisely as I please, which includes dissolving this committee and, I might add, expelling each of you from your posts.”
“That authority has been rescinded,” said the Secretary, “as has your rank.”
Nimrod kept his smile tight. Atoms for Peace had done a good job. They’d even got to the President, it seemed. Nimrod wondered if their Director was watching now.
The Secretary turned a page over in the dark. General Hall twitched again. Then the Secretary spoke.
“You are a Communist spy placed here by Soviet Russia in order to subvert departmental operations and gain control of the Fissure.”
Nimrod sniffed. “Is that really the best you can do? Even McCarthy was better than that.”
“You will be taken from this committee and held until a military tribunal is convened to pass sentence. That is all.”
“I want to speak to the President.”
The Secretary made another tick. “You have no such right.”
“I want to speak to Evelyn McHale.”
At this the chairman paused and the committee began to murmur, the sound like bees trapped in a jar. It was only General Hall and the Secretary who did not join the gossip. As Nimrod watched, Hall raised a hand to rub his forehead. Even in the bad light, from his position below the committee, Nimrod could see Hall’s hand shake.
The Secretary’s silhouette nodded.
“Take him away.”
The military police on either side of Nimrod snapped to attention, and a second later Nimrod’s world went black as the bag was replaced.
FORTY
The eyes under the bed, the something evil in the closet, the creaking floor downstairs. The darkness moved, becoming thick, alive, intelligent, something from somewhere else. And then the pressure on the chest, someone holding him down, someone pulling the covers off and
“No!”
The woman lying next to Fulton Hall shrieked as the general sat bolt upright in bed, his skin shining with a cold sweat, his fingers clutching the sheet to his chest. He ignored her, unaware even of her presence, as he breathed and breathed and breathed, his eyes searching the corners of the bedroom, his nostrils flaring like he’d just run the New York marathon.
The woman slid her bottom up against the headboard and reached out to grab her lover’s shoulders, but he flinched at the touch and she quickly drew her hands back, using them instead to pull the yanked sheet tight to her neck.
“What’s wrong? Did you have a nightmare?”
Hall heard her voice, somewhere in the back of his mind, but his attention was drawn to the closet, to the gap between the bottom of the door and the thick carpet. The gap was a black strip of nothing in the dark room, but when Hall blinked it flashed blue, light, the color of the sky on a hot summer’s day. The light at the end of things. The light that burned in her eyes.
Hall flinched again as Mary flicked on her bedside light, and he turned in the bed, face red, vein in his forehead pounding, ready to unleash his rage on his mistress. But as she shrank back the feeling evaporated, replaced by a creeping cold somewhere in Hall’s chest. The whole bedroom felt like an icebox.
“Fulton?” Mary’s voice was small, timid.
He let out a breath. “I’m fine. It was a bad dream, that’s all.”
&
nbsp; He turned away, drawn once more to the gap under the closet door. Mary said something but he didn’t hear it, but her light went out and she turned over, leaving Hall to contemplate the darkness. He listened to her breathing a while, listened to her as she lay perfectly awake, terrified in the middle of the night.
Terrified? Hall sniffed and lay back down. What did she have to fear? She’d been there, at the test. She’s seen her. She knew too, she had to.
Hall lay still, as still as he could, as he watched the closet. War, she’d said. War was coming. Well, that was his job. He was a soldier. War was his business.
But… but there was no pleasure to be had in war. Satisfaction, yes. Perhaps even ambition. But war was not a thing to be enjoyed, or savored. And the way she had said it, like she was appreciating a fine vintage wine. She was looking forward to it, the woman who didn’t even exist in the same world as the rest of them.
Hall blinked, his eyes dry. The gap under the closet door remained black this time.
She was going to destroy the world. He knew that now. Mankind didn’t matter to her. The test, out there in the harbor, it wasn’t for him, it was for her. She had to be sure the device would work, not for anyone’s benefit except her own.
What did she fear, if not the end of the world? Hall gulped a lungful of air that was too cold and Mary moved beside him, clearly listening, waiting for him to fall asleep.
Nimrod. She feared Nimrod, so much so that she’d had him removed, using her puppet, the Secretary of Defense. Nimrod was the final obstacle, that had to be it.
He knew what he had to do now. She’d said he would have a part to play, and play it he would. Only there was a chance, he knew, to defy her, to control his own destiny. She could be stopped. He couldn’t do it, but Nimrod could. He held the key.
She would be angry, of course. The wrath of a goddess. Hall pulled the sheets to his chin, his body folding into a fetal position beneath the covers as he watched the closet. If he could save the world, it wouldn’t matter. He could stop her. He could also… escape from her.
The Age Atomic es-2 Page 21
