Empire State

by Adam Christopher

  EMPIRE STATE

  "Adam Christopher's debut novel is a noir, Philip K Dickish science fiction superhero story. It's often fascinating, as captivating as a kaleidoscope… Just feel it in all its weird glory."

  CORY DOCTOROW, New York Times-bestselling author of Makers and Little Brother

  "Adam Christopher maintains a punchy, bestseller prose style that keeps the action rocketing along... Empire State is an excellent, involving read, and it fully deserves to be the start of a new universe."

  PAUL CORNELL, Doctor Who scriptwriter, and author of Stormwatch and Demon Knights

  "A daring, dreamlike, almost hallucinatory thriller, one that plays with the conventions of pulp fiction and superheroes like a cat with a ball of yarn."

  KURT BUSIEK, Eisner Award-winning writer of Astro City and Marvels

  "A double shot of jet-noir steampunk nitroglycerine – a startling, throat-grabbing novel that echoes Chandler, Auster and Mieville while blazing its own mind-bending trail and searing itself onto your memory."

  WILL HILL, author of Department 19

  "Destined to be a science fiction classic, Empire State is a breathtakingly original noir tale of intrigue, mystery, and quantum physics, deftly played out in storytelling so brilliant I’m finding it hard not to hate the author.”

  DIANA ROWLAND, author of My Life as a White Trash Zombie

  "Adam Christopher's Empire State is a fascinating debut novel that meshes noir sensibilities and science fiction together and keeps the reader guessing throughout.”

  MICHAEL STACKPOLE, New York Times-bestselling author of I, Jedi

  "From first to last page, Adam Christopher's Empire State careens along at a furious pace. Along the way, he beautifully meshes the best noir tropes with science fiction and wraps it up in a world (or two) that rivals some of the classics of speculative fiction.”

  JOHN HORNOR JACOBS, author of Southern Gods

  "Empire State doesn't screw around. Murders, mysteries and multiple realities are just the icing atop this pulp noir cake: the action starts on the opening page but it isn’t long before you fall in love with the characters and the unique world Adam Christopher has built for them.”

  CHUCK WENDIG, author of Double Dead

  "From the first explosive rat-a-tat-tat of bullets to the very last twist and turn, Empire State surely cannot be a début novel. The fantastical dreams of Verne and Wells mixed with the noir reality of Spillane or Chandler, this is a book that doesn't play by the rules – and is all the better for it."

  TONY LEE, New York Times-bestselling author and Doctor Who comic writer "

  ADAM CHRISTOPHER

  FOR SANDRA,

  without whom

  there is nothing

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  New York City is an amazing and fantastical place, and it doesn't need an author like me to make it any more so. However, the Empire State is Manhattan reflected through a clouded lens, and I have exercised artistic licence where the story demanded. I hope the reader will forgive any liberties taken, be they geographical, topographical, or temporal.

  PART ONE

  THE MEAN STREETS

  "Judge Crater, call your office," said the man with the microphone.

  Everybody laughed.

  ONE

  JEROME GUNNED THE ACCELERATOR, and turned sharp left. Rex slid on the bench seat, but grabbed the leather strap dangling over his door fast enough to stop him landing in the driver's lap. Jerome whistled, knuckles white as they gripped the wheel. Rex looked over his shoulder. He sure as hell hoped Jerome knew where he was going.

  "For cryin' out loud!" Rex winced as his head met the roof of the car, the thin felt of his hat providing little protection as Jerome pushed two wheels over the curb to dodge oncoming traffic.

  "Complain later, boss. Keep yer head down and hold on." Jerome's eyes didn't leave the road. Rex frowned and hunkered down in the seat, gripping the top edge with both hands as he turned to look out the back. Two crates of green bottles rattled in the back seat under Rex's nose as Jerome navigated the wet streets as fast as he dared.

  Rex squinted, trying to see through the smattering of rain on the car's tiny rear window, but the droplets of water seemed to pull the light of the city in, refracting it into a thousand glowing, multicoloured points. The car shuddered against the gutter as Jerome swerved around another obstacle, throwing up a huge steam-like spray of runoff, obscuring the view even more.

  "What's the deal?" Jerome asked.

  Rex relaxed his grip and turned back around. Jerome was leaning over the wheel, his keen, experienced eyes picking out the path ahead in the downtown traffic. It was late, but New Yorkers had a well-known disregard for the time of day. Jerome was doing a fine job threading the boat-sized Studebaker through the maze of cars, but surely their luck was going to run out. Somehow they'd managed to avoid the police, but they'd be spotted sooner rather than later. Evading one pursuer was possible; add two, three, four cop cars and the odds shortened, and not in their favour.

  "Looks clear," said Rex. "Think we lost 'em. Nice driving."

  Jerome allowed one thin hand to unwrap from the steering wheel to tip an invisible hat. His face cracked into a grin so wide all Rex could see was a row of teeth stretching up from the driver's chin to his ear.

  "How about that, huh? People movin' in, causin' trouble. How's an honest man supposed to make a living in this town, huh, Rex?"

  Rex sighed. "Tell me about it."

  Jerome laughed and slapped the wheel. He began talking, but Rex tuned it out. His night was not going as planned and his partner's jabber was the last thing he needed. Rex closed his eyes and rubbed their lids, watching the purple-orange shapes float for a while. Then something flared red across his vision.

  "Jerome!"

  Rex grabbed the wheel and pulled it hard right. The driver returned his attention to the road just in time to see the side of another car slide past, right across their path. Jerome spun the wheel in the opposite direction as Rex let go, negotiating the Studebaker around the rear of the vehicle mostly by good luck. Rex grabbed for the leather strap again as the car slid on its rear wheels.

  There was a rat-a-tat-tat like a jazz drummer practicing a solo on a tin roof, and the rear windshield exploded, filling the car with the hot smell of cordite. Rex ducked instinctively behind the seat, and when he poked his head up to check the rear view again he saw the white car in hot pursuit, two men inside and one perched on the running board on the passenger side. The man raised his tommy gun just for a moment as the car bumped over a pothole, then brought it down again. Rex ducked as a second volley of slugs peppered the car, splitting the Studebaker's front windshield right in front of him, turning the pane of glass into an opaque spider's web. The car lurched as Jerome pumped the accelerator and brake in quick succession in the confusion. It was like suddenly driving into a blizzard.

  "Rex!"

  Rex twisted awkwardly in the seat. "Yeah, I got it." He lay almost flat on his back, and raised his right leg up over the dash. A few kicks and the crumbling windshield popped out, sliding over the hood with the sound of a tortured blackboard.

  "Shit," muttered Jerome as he bobbed his head down, squinting against the stiff, wet wind. They were in a four-lane street now, which was completely clear ahead in both directions. The white car took the opportunity and revved behind them, headlights sweeping through the cab of the Studebaker as they pulled out and around.

  Rex jerked his head right, in time to see the prow of the other car begin to pull up alongside. The gunner, fortunately, was on the other side, but Rex could see his head and the tommy gun being held aloft as he shifted to get an aim over the white car's roof.

  "Lose 'em, Jerome!"

  Jerome glanced right, then lef
t, grin transformed into a grimace of concentration.

  "I see it. Hold on."

  Jerome twisted the wheel and the car bucked left, the rear end swinging out and the left-side wheels lifting as the vehicle attempted a hairpin at high speed. The white car saw and pulled away, but too late, the rear of the Studebaker connecting with the driver's door just as it jerked away. There was a crunch and the Studebaker bounced roughly but, as the airborne wheels made contact with the road again, traction was regained and Jerome floored it, sending them down the narrower side street with perfect aim.

  "Ah, shit!" said Jerome again, this time raising an arm to protect his eyes. The car was flooded with blue and white light. Rex blinked away purple spots just in time to see the police cordon ahead, but it was too late. He reached for the wheel and pulled again, ignoring Jerome's protest, but there was nowhere to go. There were police cars on either side of the street, and a temporary wooden barrier ahead. Rex's rash action caused the automobile to skid around, turning it sideways but maintaining forward motion as Jerome slammed the brakes on. All around them, police and pedestrians alike scattered. There was shouting, a lot of it, then a crack as the wooden boom of the roadblock snapped against the passenger side. The impact was surprisingly solid, throwing Rex across the bench seat and finally tearing Jerome off the steering wheel.

  The Studebaker was large and heavy, and the road was slick. The police barrier hadn't stolen enough of their momentum. The last thing Rex saw before the car stuck on something and tumbled sideways onto its roof was fireworks over the squat, blunt shape of the half-completed Empire State Building a block ahead of them. He wondered what the occasion was as red, green and blue explosions lit the sky, silhouetting the construction cranes balanced high over the city. He wondered what the building would look like and how tall it would be when it was finished.

  Two more thoughts crossed Rex's mind before the car stopped and unconsciousness claimed him. Firstly, that he really needed a drink, and secondly, that his night had been going so well before McCabe showed up.

  Rex tipped his hat, straightened his tie, and rubbed a thumb over the lapel of his double-breasted jacket. It was his way of showing that he was relaxed and comfortable, that Martin Jeremy's last statement had made perfect sense and hadn't thrown him in the slightest. Behind him he heard Jerome crack a knuckle. His junior partner was slightly less careful with hiding his thoughts.

  This was how it worked. Rex was the businessman. Jerome was the muscle. Rex did the deals and listened to his customers. Jerome made the customers change their minds and accept Rex's terms. Times were tough. The Depression wasn't just biting into the pockets of ordinary New Yorkers, it was killing people. But in such trying times, Rex was doing just swell. Because in such trying times those ordinary New Yorkers drank, and drank, and drank. Hell, even the government was on Rex's side, with Prohibition just a way of charging more and more for his product. The bootlegging business was booming and Rex was reaping the rewards. Jerome too. He bought the kid a flash new car, a Studebaker the size of a bus. That kept Jerome happy, but also made sense as a business investment. Not only could they haul liquor in the car's capacious interior without tipping the police off, it was one of the fastest automobiles money could buy. Rex didn't drive, but with Jerome at the wheel getaways were easy.

  "Martin, Martin," said Rex with a smile, placing a hand on the barkeep's shoulder with just enough pressure to show the conversation had taken a very serious turn. "You gotta understand, buddy. Me and Jerome here are just trying to make a living. Understand?"

  Martin Jeremy was thin and bald. Standing in the dead backstreet behind his speakeasy the streetlight shone off his pate, damp with a light evening drizzle and a healthy dash of cold sweat.

  Rex licked his lips and watched the barkeep. Something was up, something more than he had let on. He squeezed the man's shoulder a little harder. Martin flinched, but said nothing.

  Huh. The usual form of quiet intimidation wasn't working. And Rex hated the next part. Beating on an old man was not something he enjoyed at all. Which was why he got Jerome to do it.

  "Rex, my friend, we have done some good business in the past," said Martin at last. His voice wavered but with age, not fear. He proudly held his head up, thin jowls swinging under his chin as he spoke. Rex raised an eyebrow.

  "I think you misunderstand, Mr Jeremy. Changing suppliers is not an option. My business supplies the whole of Midtown. Ain't nobody else in this neighbourhood gonna sell you the goods. So, what'd'ya say we just shake on it and you pay me an extra hundred dollars now for, ah, renegotiation of terms, and we won't mention it again." Rex turned to his partner. "Jerome, unload the car."

  The teen nodded and headed off towards the side street where the Studebaker was parked.

  When Rex turned back to the barkeep, he just caught the end of a smile on the man's face that he didn't much like at all. He frowned as the barkeep took a step backwards, and he made to take a step closer himself, maintaining the distance of intimidation and control, as he liked to think of it, but stopped short as three men peeled out from around the speakeasy's loading door.

  "Well now, that ain't very nice," said the first man. "These two giving you trouble, Mr Jeremy?" He was tall and wide, not fat but built, like a football quarterback. His companions were a small, wiry teenager and another man who towered over both of them. The man who spoke raised an arm up to adjust a cufflink; a diamond the size of a pea glinted in the streetlight. "After all, ya can't trust a nigger."

  "McCabe, you sonovabitch," whispered Rex. It was suddenly too hot and the air too thin. Rex gulped, but stayed still, hoping the poor light hid his fear.

  McCabe. The sonovabitch. Head of a family business running liquor and a dozen other rackets. One of the most powerful of New York's underworld. Richest too. Rex had done a few jobs for him, years ago, before branching out on his own. While McCabe had seemed happy to let him go, Rex knew that one day it would come back to bite him. You didn't make friends in this business, only enemies.

  McCabe sat at the centre of a web that spread far and wide over the five boroughs, but Rex had thought he was safe. Midtown and downtown Manhattan hadn't interested McCabe much in the past, the gangster apparently happy to let other mobs control the city. Rex had always thought that was odd, given the concentration of speakeasies in the area and the rich pickings they represented. It had only to be a matter of time, he was sure, before McCabe made his move, but in the meantime there was moonshine to sell and barkeeps to squeeze. He'd forgotten about McCabe, but clearly McCabe hadn't forgotten about Rex. The time had come to add Midtown to his empire, and two black guys pushing liquor was the obvious place to start.

  "Oh, language please, Rex. Didn't they teach you to speak nice down on the plantation?" McCabe laughed and his heavy sniggered; the teenager – the driver, thought Rex – was expressionless. He probably had no clue what McCabe was talking about, and he sure didn't want to show it.

  Rex held his hands up.

  "McCabe, I apologise, I really do. So how about we have a drink and talk things over? I'm sure we can come to an arrangement."

  McCabe smiled. Rex dropped his hands.

  "I'm sure we can, Rex, I'm sure we can. And it starts with the disappearance of two amateurs causing trouble. How about that, huh?"

  Rex ran his tongue along his bottom teeth. He tensed his calves, ready to make his move. Jerome hadn't returned from the car, which either meant McCabe had more men around the side of the building or that he'd seen or sensed trouble and was waiting at the wheel. He hoped it was the latter.

  "Not your style, McCabe. How about you just buy me out and I retire to somewhere nice in New Jersey, huh?"

  McCabe laughed and the heavy sniggered again. Rex thought that perhaps the heavy understood as little as the driver and was just matching his employer's mood because he was paid to. Behind the trio, Martin Jeremy slipped through the loading door and back into his speakeasy. Wise man, thought Rex. Trouble was brewing.

>   "Billy, fetch the car," McCabe called over his shoulder. The teen nodded and turned, heading down the back street. McCabe smiled at Rex again, then looked up at his muscular companion.

  "You wanna grab some dinner after, George?"

  The heavy nodded and balled his fists. "Sounds nice, Mr McCabe. I feel like steak."

  McCabe clicked his fingers. "Oh, yeah, me too. We should head down to that grill on Fourth."

  "Sounds great."

  The pair took a step forward.

  "Aw, you guys are sweet," said Rex, taking a step backwards. "When's the big day?"

  White light swept into the alley as a car turned in, engine purring as it coasted towards them in low gear.