“What are we waiting for?”
Rad looked up. It was Jennifer who spoke, her voice loud and clear, not a wheeze or cough. There were maybe twenty people waiting in a semicircle, most smoking, all of them looking uncomfortable. Nervous. Grieves was on the phone. Rad nodded to him. “Agent?”
Grieves held up a hand and muttered something into the mouthpiece. He hung up. “Confirmed. He’s coming down.”
Rad looked at Grieves. “Who?”
The main doors opened, splitting in the middle and swinging apart with sudden force. Everyone in the office turned at the sound, but the man paused at the threshold, wry smile on his pale features, was not looking at them. He was looking at Rad.
“Private Detective Rad Bradley,” said Captain Nimrod.
Rad stood, taking a deep asthmatic breath. He felt that little thrill somewhere, of meeting someone who was the same as a man he’d left in another universe.
“Captain Nimrod. It’s a pleasure. May I introduce Special Agent Jennifer Jones, former employee of the Empire State.”
Nimrod flicked his smile to Jennifer, who inclined her head.
“Charmed, I’m sure,” he said quietly, his eyes moving over her metallic features.
“I’m sure pleased to see you, Captain.” Rad huffed another breath.
Nimrod clicked his fingers at Mr Grieves. “Agent, fetch a mask. Our friend here needs some help acclimatizing.”
Rad waved his thanks and pushed his shoulders back, blowing his cheeks out as he fought for air.
“As pleased as I am to see you again, detective, I fear you come as a herald of catastrophe.”
“Uh-huh,” Rad managed.
“Any particular reason, Captain?” asked Jennifer, her hands back on her hips. “Or do you just have a flare for the dramatic like our version?”
Nimrod’s mustache bristled. “Your version of what?”
“You.”
“Ah, yes,” said Nimrod. “The remarkable Captain Carson. No, my dear, I speak the truth. I assume if Carson found a way of sending you through to here, then it is either to ask for help or to offer it. As we have had no contact with the other side for some time, I assume it is the former. But as you have arrived at a particularly precipitous moment, your presence could not be more welcome.”
Rad nodded, and looked around. Where the hell was Grieves with the mask? His eyes were about to pop and his vision spun like he’d had a belly full of moonshine. “There’s an army in the Empire State. Robots, lots of them, built to defend against an invasion from here. I was hoping you were going to tell me that was a load of baloney.”
Nimrod’s eyes narrowed. “Robots?” he asked.
Rad nodded. “Robots,” he said, and then he fell over.
Rad awoke to the smell of rubber and charcoal and he breathed deeply, savoring it. In and out, in and out, his breathing light and effortless, the crushing weight on his chest gone. He felt about ready to save the world.
Opening his eyes, he saw Jennifer’s golden mask and Nimrod’s lined pale face staring at him. Nimrod frowned, then nodded, and sat back behind his desk.
Rad wondered how long he’d been out. He turned to Jennifer. “You filled him in?”
She nodded. “Robots, the big freeze, Kane’s dream. The works.”
Rad turned back to Nimrod. “Make any kind of sense to you?”
Nimrod steepled his hands. “I’m afraid it does. And we haven’t much time, detective. It seems Kane’s vision of the future will come true. Since your last little visit, a new organization has arrived. Created on the orders of the president of this country, they call themselves Atoms for Peace. They are a peaceful, independent foundation, aimed at scientific endeavor and cooperation between power blocs that are otherwise hostile. A noble sentiment, I’m sure you’ll agree. Atoms for Peace are headed by a miracle, a woman who has returned from the dead.”
“Excuse me?” said Jennifer.
Nimrod smiled. “Evelyn McHale, their director, was killed several years ago in… an accident. It made the papers — Life magazine, even — so when she returned, there was quite a furor, I can assure you.”
Rad and Jennifer looked at each other.
“Don’t tell me,” Rad said. “She has something to do with the Fissure?”
Nimrod nodded. “Top marks. She is linked to it, a part of it somehow.”
Rad huffed through the respirator. “So the President of the United States of America hired a ghost to run some kind of a scientific institute?”
“Indeed he did. But Atoms for Peace are not what they seem. It is a front, a cover, for something dark and something terrible. The Director wants to control the Fissure, but to do that she must control my department. Atoms for Peace have built their own army, an army of machines. They are planning a war, one which I fear none shall survive. Mutually assured destruction.”
Rad shook his head. “What the hell for? What kind of a war is one you can’t win?”
“I would agree entirely,” said Nimrod, “but the Director is doing this for another reason, a reason I have not yet been able to fathom.”
There was a bang from somewhere outside the office, like a door slamming. Rad jumped at the sound, but Nimrod merely pursed his lips. Then the old man slid open the top drawer of his desk and took out a gun and placed it on the wooden surface in front of him.
Rad’s eyes moved over the weapon — it was a revolver, and an old one, maybe the same vintage as its owner. But it was clean and the black of it shone under the desk lamp. There was a little loop at the end of the handle, and a fabric cord was attached to it. Rad liked that; it made sense, because presumably you’d attach that to the holster or belt and you’d never drop your gun.
Nimrod’s hand rested on the desk near the gun, but he didn’t touch it. Rad and Jennifer exchanged a look.
“Time is up,” said Nimrod. He raised his head, the thin skin of his jowls pulled taut. This was the Nimrod Rad remembered.
No. Not Nimrod. Carson. Rad ran a finger around the rubber seal on the underside of his mask. His breathing was easy, and he wondered if he’d acclimatized yet.
“So if this Evelyn McHale is at the heart of it all, how do you stop a ghost?” asked Rad.
Another sound, louder now. Some people talking, men, raised voices. As Rad watched, Nimrod’s hand slid over the handle of the gun.
“Every agent I was able to contact is here, in this office,” said the Captain. “It’s not all of them, not even a large fraction. But it’s all I have. Atoms for Peace have been ordered to shut us down, and it seems they are now making their move.”
Another bang, then another. Gunshots. Gunshots inside the office.
“I really don’t like the sound of this,” said Rad. He pulled the mask off, up and over his head. His eyes felt dry and hot, but he felt OK.
Jennifer jumped to her feet as another gunshot rang out. Rad wanted to, but took a deep, experimental breath. Nimrod was holding the gun, pointing it at the closed office door.
“Take as many agents as are left,” he said. “I should be able to hold them off. They won’t shoot me… well, not straight away, anyway. I imagine there are a few people who wish to speak to me before the sentence is carried out.”
“Before the sentence is carried out?” asked Jennifer, her voice incredulous behind the frozen face.
Nimrod laughed, and this time it was loud, happy, the explosive bark Rad knew from the other version of Nimrod in the Empire State.
“Yes, my dear,” said Nimrod, chuckling to himself. “I’m afraid I’m as much a fugitive as the two of you. This may well be my last stand.” He held up a hand, stopping the objections of Rad and Jennifer. “I am not going to sacrifice myself just so you two can slip out the back. But I will be able to buy you enough time to get from here to the Cloud Club.”
“The Cloud Club?”
The sounds outside the office reached a crescendo, and looking over his shoulder through the frosted glass, Rad could see shadows moving quickly. Any s
econd now, and the place would be swarming with Atoms for Peace agents.
“It’s at the top of the Chrysler Building. Here.” Nimrod turned and tore a map off the noticeboard behind him. Rad recognized the outline of the Empire State — of Manhattan — but when he took it from Nimrod, a lot of the street and building names were different from what he knew.
Nimrod jabbed a finger at the map. “It’s not far. Stay under cover if you can, but don’t dawdle. Once this department falls, the Fissure is hers, and I doubt she’ll waste any time enacting her plan.”
“What do you suggest we do when we get to this Cloud Club?” asked Jennifer.
Nimrod tutted. “My dear young lady, you must stop the Director. Her army cannot be sent through. Stop her and stop them, at all costs.”
“But how?” asked Jennifer.
“We’ll think of something.” Rad looked at Nimrod “We need agents and guns.”
Nimrod nodded and strode around his desk. He yanked the door open and marched into the main office, heedless of the chaos around him.
The sound of gunfire stopped, and Rad could see several of Nimrod’s agents turn from where they had hidden themselves behind overturned desks and cabinets.
Mr Grieves was nearest to them. Nimrod motioned to him, and Grieves waved the remaining agents to follow. Running at a crouch, despite Nimrod standing tall and bold in the center of the room, the agents filed past Rad and Jennifer. Rad counted five.
Five agents, with whatever ammunition they had left, to save the world. Rad didn’t like the odds.
Grieves came up behind Rad’s shoulder. “What’s the plan?”
“Cloud Club. Know the way?”
“Sure,” Grieves whispered. “We can get out the service elevator.”
Rad nodded. “Jennifer?”
“What’s he doing?”
Rad peered out through the crack in the door. Nimrod was standing in the middle of the Department. In front of him, twenty black-suited, black-hatted agents from Atoms for Peace stalked towards him, each aiming their compact automatic pistol at his head.
“Captain Nimrod,” said the agent in front. He had short blond hair under his hat, and an elegant face with strong cheekbones. “You are under arrest. New York City is now under the control of Atoms for Peace.”
“I see,” said Nimrod. “In which case, I believe the phrase ‘take me to your leader’ is most appropriate.”
The agent’s face broke into a smirk. “I don’t think you’re in any position to make demands.”
“Oh,” said Nimrod. “That wasn’t a demand. No. Now, this, this is a demand.”
In one swift movement Nimrod raised his antique firing piece, aiming it squarely at the blond agent’s forehead. The agent was so close the barrel nearly touched his skin.
Rad saw the agent’s face slacken, his eyes widen just a hair.
Nimrod pulled back the hammer of his revolver. In the dead silence of the office, the click the weapon made as the spring and catch engaged was surprisingly loud.
“I said, take me to your leader.”
Rad felt a tug at his elbow. He turned to see Mr Grieves holding out guns.
“Come on,” he said, and another agent hit a hidden switch on the bookcase at the back of the office. There was a click and the bookcase swung out to reveal a dimly lit corridor.
“Two agents front, two agents rear, our guests in the middle. Got it?”
The agents nodded, and Grieves pointed the way with his gun.
FORTY-SIX
The Nimrod bucked like a rodeo bronco, bouncing Carson on the pilot’s seat and throwing both their stowaway and Byron to the floor. The ship slid sideways through the air, out of control, the tilt too steep, the speed too fast. Through the smashed front windows the lights of the city were bright, brighter than anything Carson could remember. The view, and the buzz-saw vibration that wanted to pop his eyeballs, told him what had happened. He had done it. The device, fashioned from Jennifer Jones’s gun, had worked; the impact with the Empire State Building had provided the energy needed to kick-start the transfer of so large an object as the airship.
They were in New York.
Carson pulled at the yoke and the ship responded. It seemed his theory about the overlapping geographies of Manhattan and the Empire State was correct: not everything was exactly aligned. It had been a risk, but a calculated one: if the Empire State Building had been in the same place in both cities, the Nimrod would have simply continued the collision that started in one universe in the other, and their journey would have ended very quickly indeed.
Carson grinned and ground his teeth as he pulled on the yoke with all his weight, trying to get the ship back level. They were flying down the middle of a great canyon formed by the skyscrapers lining an avenue in the heart of the city, but the Nimrod was drifting right. Carson leaned to the left as he willed the craft to turn, but a second later the armored side of the craft clipped an office building, dragging a trench along the structure. The ship juddered, then pitched violently to the left as it ran out of building and the controls suddenly responded.
Ahead towered another skyscraper. Carson hadn’t seen it before, but it was impressive and elaborate, even more decorative than the city’s tallest skyscraper. The top of the building was steel and glass, seven narrowing arches of stylized sun rays tapering to a spire; at the base of the remarkable cap were protrusions, also metal: lions, shining in the night, leaping from the building, frozen in sculpture.
And they were heading straight for it. Carson pulled back yet again, and the ship responded, sailing higher despite the protesting engines. The building was narrow, the decorative upper stories forming a neat cone even easier to pass safely, Carson thought. He took a breath at last and found it was painful and raspy. Incompatibility sickness.
Two arms wrapped around his chest and pulled. Carson gasped, the rhythm of his careful breathing interrupted as the robot King of 125th Street used the pilot’s seat to pull himself up. Carson felt something heavy and cold on his left cheek. He recoiled and turned to see the silver sculpted face nearly pressed against his as James stared out of the crumpled nose of the Nimrod.
The mechanical man hissed and pushed Carson aside, reaching for the yoke. His new robot form was strong and Carson was thrown bodily from the pilot’s seat. As he fell he saw the yoke spin of its own volition as James, once more mesmerized by the view ahead of them, froze at the controls.
Carson pushed against the decking with both hands, but his chest burned, every breath hot flame against his throat, and he collapsed back onto the floor. He was old, aged beyond his years as he travelled the universes in his ship, looking for Byron. He tried to rise again, but the ship lurched and a warning bell sounded as James, released from his reverie, grabbed the yoke and pulled with one hand while hammering the console with the other. Carson rolled on the floor, coming to rest against the wall of the flight deck.
Booted feet stomped the metal decking by Carson’s face: Byron, controlling the Skyguard’s suit with Kane’s body still inside, raced forward on the sloping, bouncing floor and launched himself at the stowaway. James pushed him off, releasing his hold on the yoke and causing the ship to tilt again, sending Byron tumbling against the opposite wall.
Byron regained his footing and threw himself at James, grabbing him around the neck. The robot rammed back an elbow and it connected, but Byron hardly seemed to register the blow. With a roar, metallic and terrible that could be heard above the engines, James turned and threw a left hook at Byron, who ducked and planted a fist in the robot’s abdomen. There was a solid, echoing clang, but James seemed almost unaware of the attack. Byron threw more gut punches, left and right, left and right, but all this did was give James more time to prepare, pushing Byron back, moving his hands up to the Skyguard’s altered helmet in an attempt to rip it off.
The two men grappled. Another alarm went off, then a third. Carson reached for the console, now a bank of red lights flashing and dials spinning. The steel an
d glass crown of the remarkable building filled the flight deck’s entire view, the triangles of the Art Deco sunrise sharp and angry. The ship dipped, and a lion, all steel majesty and power, tore through the nose’s remaining glass as the Nimrod hit the building at an angle.
The control room was turned upside down. Carson saw Byron and the robot King of 125th Street go flying as the floor became the ceiling. The last thing he saw was the wheel of the main hatch approaching his face at high velocity.
The noise was colossal, impossible. It stopped cars; it stopped people. The major telephone exchanges feeding New York City froze as the system was overloaded with calls, and the police and fire departments went into high alert, cars and appliances racing out into the streets without a clue where they should be heading.
Reporters rushed to 405 Lexington Avenue, or as far as they could get before being stopped by the traffic or stuck in the mass of people who stood and stared and watched as a giant craft, something crossed between an old-fashioned zeppelin and a vast armored crab, crashed into the crown of the Chrysler Building. Some on the street fearfully recalled the Chicago airship crash of 1919. Others cried out that airships were full of hydrogen and the thing would blow, raining burning metal and debris from its skeleton like the Hindenburg had.
The Chrysler Building — the most famous building in New York, prettier than the Empire State Building although not as tall — shook, the vibration throwing people to the sidewalk and making cars jump on their suspensions. Those still standing gasped. From the street, the airship looked small, dwarfed by the Art Deco crown of the landmark, but the building was immense and the altitude great; everyone knew the horror that was unfolding before them.
The crown of the building buckled around the impact, throwing a huge cloud of smoke and flame, brilliant against the night sky. People screamed and the drone of car horns from the stationary traffic died as car doors were thrown open, the vehicles’ occupants desperate to escape.
The Age Atomic es-2 Page 25
