Empire State

by Adam Christopher

  The Captain gestured to Byron, who walked over and refilled his sherry.

  "Yes, Mr Bradley."

  Rad rubbed his scalp, and realised he must have left his hat in the laboratory, dropped on the floor when the gun was pulled.

  "Don't tell me. Nimrod and his goons are from the other place?"

  "Yes. He said nothing when he called?"

  Rad shook his head. "I guess this is why he wanted to meet in person. It takes some explaining. But OK, so I killed Sam Saturn. Only it wasn't me me, it was the other me, from the Origin. And people can cross over, from one place to the other, like the not-me and like Nimrod's goons."

  "Indeed."

  "And this," Rad looked around, at the walls and the ceiling, and spread his arms wide to try and indicate the house and everything. "This is... it's just a 'Pocket.' It's not real."

  "Oh no, you misunderstand." Carson sipped from his refreshed glass. "There is no 'just' about it. This is real. The house, the city, you, me, Byron, Mr Fortuna, the ironclad in the harbour, the police blimps that fly above." He stopped and chuckled to himself. "The rain and the mist and the damned fog too, I'm sorry to say!"

  Rad didn't quite share the Captain's joviality.

  "Do you think there is anybody else here, apart from Sam's killer?"

  "Well," said Carson, slowly. "Transfer from one place to the other is not only possible, but I think also not always deliberate. I doubt Ms Saturn's killer came here on purpose. I would imagine there are a handful of refugees from the Origin here. But our tests showed that the Origin and the Pocket are somewhat incompatible environments, and any who can or could or have crossed, shall we say, would have a hard time of it without... supportive equipment."

  Rad nodded, then clicked his fingers ineffectually. "The masks Nimrod's goons were wearing?"

  "Most likely, yes." The Captain interlaced his fingers on his stomach and leaned back.

  The two sat quietly. After a while, Byron moved and Carson nodded, and his manservant left the room to perform whatever duties he normally performed in the small hours of the night. After another while, Rad's head jerked up, and he blinked, realising he had dropped off. The Captain was still, but awake, staring into the empty, cold black iron fireplace.

  Rad wet his lips and checked his watch. It was nearly daybreak, which meant, for him, bedtime. He wondered how to break his new nocturnal cycle. Maybe when all this was over, when the problem of the Pocket and the Origin didn't concern him.

  Huh. Who was he kidding? Now he knew, it would sit with him for the rest of his life. He shifted around in his armchair and listened to the Captain's slow, heavy breathing. Maybe he was asleep, with his eyes open?

  Had the old man been telling him the truth? It was too weird to make up, and there was no real reason to do so. Plus it tied with Nimrod's instructions and how he'd said how difficult it was to meet in person.

  Rad coughed and said, "What do we do?"

  Carson scratched at his moustache. He was wide awake.

  "Do?"

  "Ah... do, yes. About all this." Rad gestured around the room again, as if it was an inconvenient problem to be eliminated.

  "Oh, nothing we can do about that. How do you fight the world? More to the point, why would you? No, I think our – your – problem is more down to Earth. Pardon the expression."

  Carson moved to the edge of his seat. He drew his legs under him, and leaned forward. At a stretch, he tapped Rad's knee with his fingers.

  "Find the murderer, Mr Bradley. Solve your case. You are a detective, that's your job."

  "Find... me?"

  The Captain shook his head and clicked his tongue impatiently. "Don't think of it like that. For the purposes of your case, he is merely an impostor, a doppelganger. Find him, arrest him, whatever it is a private detective does."

  "OK," said Rad. "I guess that makes sense. Start with what is possible, right? And then..."

  "... Move to the impossible?"

  Rad laughed. "That's your department, I think." He paused, and sat back, chin in his hand. "It does occur to me we have other issues going on in the city, sir."

  Carson sat back as well. "Enlighten me, dear chap."

  "Well," said Rad. "How did he get here? And Nimrod wants my attention. The Skyguard too."

  "Yes, that had occurred to me."

  Rad tried for a theory. He had no idea how any of it worked, but it seemed that this week, anything went. "Or maybe the barrier is weakening, coming down, making things… easier? Is that a danger to us and to New York?"

  The Captain smiled and nodded, although he was now staring at the fireplace again. In the small light of the dark room, he looked old and sad.

  "That could explain some things. Although I fear it would not be for the good of the Empire State. The Pocket and Origin cannot co-exist, for they are the same place. One cannot overlap the other."

  Rad sighed. He found himself watching the black fireplace as well. "The Skyguard – Kane – talked about the end of the world. Could that be it?"

  "The wall falling," Carson whispered. "The Fissure closing… or opening wider? Perhaps. Perhaps."

  Despite himself, Rad yawned, long and hard. He rubbed his eyes. The study had windows with old heavy drapes, similar to those he'd seen in Kane's apartment. The curtains were not quite closed, and a sliver of pale dawn was shining in, lighting a small section of the baseboard. Rad watched it for a while, trying to remember what the sunshine was like on a hot summer's day. Then he realised the Empire State never had hot summer days. He wondered if the Origin did.

  "If I'm looking for my alter ego killer, then I need some sleep." Rad stood. "If you'll excuse me?"

  Carson waved a farewell without looking at Rad. Rad turned, and found Byron had re-entered the room. He was holding Rad's hat.

  "Thanks, Byron."

  The servant bowed but didn't speak. Rad took one look around the room and saw the Captain's eyes were closed. Perhaps he was sleeping now.

  TWENTY-SIX

  THE MORNING LIGHT WAS BRIGHT and hot against Rad's eyes, and it felt wonderful.

  It was early, but already a few people were about, making their way to work, a few pushing handcarts or carrying briefcases, some with a crisp morning edition of the Sentinel under one arm. Sans any bylines by one Kane Fortuna, Rad thought.

  He turned and looked back up the hill to Captain Carson's building. The regimented grey granite structure shone in the dawn light, the gardens in front glowing in the brightest colours Rad had ever seen. He laughed. The brightest colours he had ever seen since last week, at least. Existing as he had been almost entirely in the Empire State's night, he was used to the whole place rendered into a sick yellow monochrome under the streetlights, the only other colour the orange glow of the mist and fog bouncing the artificial light around.

  The main street, with its steadily increasing foot traffic, was some distance below Rad. The Captain's house was on the crest of the hill, and as he trotted down the sidewalk with its bright green grass shoulder, Rad looked at the view before him with a newfound sense of wonder.

  He couldn't see that far, but it was more than a usual city street. People were moving now as far as he could see, and more cars were passing. He could see directly down the street opposite for quite a distance, and while it was still crowded with tall buildings, they weren't the monster blocks of downtown, and allowed more of the mottled grey sky to stretch out before him.

  Rad stopped, halfway down the hill to the main street. If he went to the top of the hill behind him, the point just beyond the Captain's house where the street met the apex of the rise, he'd be able to see the water, the docks and naval yards. The ironclad too, and its cordon of official vessels protecting the quarantine.

  The sunshine filled Rad with energy, so he turned, judged the steepness of the street, and jogged up, mind already expanding with ideas he hadn't thought were possible and a sense of wonder about the city around him.

  Whatever he had been expecting, Rad was disappoi
nted. Sure, the view from the top of the hill was pretty good. He could see to downtown, the familiar spire of the Empire State Building dominating the landscape. On other sides, the lower, flat-topped buildings of Uptown. And in front of him, the street descended gently to the busy thoroughfares below, much as it did on the other side. Beyond, a great bulk of water the colour of steel. The morning air was hazy over it, but Rad could see the black rectangular silhouette of the mighty ironclad that he, Kane, Carson and Byron had stepped onto just a few nights before.

  Rad shook his head, amazed that they'd actually made it there and back. Then he thought of Kane, and the fear returned. What was his friend up to? What was the connection to... to everything? Then it occurred to him. Did Kane know about the Origin and the Pocket? If the Captain did, Kane must, surely. What else did he know?

  The ironclad was surrounded by a half-dozen smaller shapes, the naval patrol boats. The water was calm, but Rad could see the flow of the current if he squinted.

  What he wanted to see, though, he couldn't. Beyond the ironclad, the water vanished into a thick bank of cloud, the perpetual fog that surrounded the city.

  For the first time in his life, Rad wondered what was on the other side. He'd never thought about it, never considered there was anywhere else. There was the Empire State, and there was the land of the Enemy, obviously. The ironclads steamed off into the fog and never returned, but... but that was just how it worked. That was what happened.

  Rad had never thought about it, just like he had never thought about how he could be forty-four years old when the year was only Nineteen. How the city could have been built, founded before then. How he couldn't remember being married to Claudia, or remember why they were getting divorced.

  Living in the Pocket, as Carson had called it, did something to you. He didn't really understand what the Pocket was or what separated it from the Origin, and he didn't think Carson really knew either. But just being in the Pocket, subjected to... what, its rules? Rad laughed. Maybe the world itself had its own laws, just like up was up and down was down and Jerry always asked for the slate to be cleaned on a Friday night.

  The Pocket made you forget, stopped you thinking. Rad had heard people say that what the human brain couldn't understand, it just rejected. The entire population of the city lived and worked and played and just existed, happy that the war with the Enemy was being fought, happy that the Empire State looked after them, happy never to consider what was on the other side of the goddamn water because there was no other side. It was ridiculous and it made Rad laugh, but even as he did, he could feel it inside his skull. Pressure, a buzzing, almost a vibration. The Pocket fighting back.

  Rad rubbed his eyes and swept off his hat to work at his tense forehead. He stood and looked at the fog bank beyond the ironclad, emptying his mind of dissenting thoughts. He began rolling his fedora in his hands and the headache started to recede.

  Then he turned, and jerked back.

  Two men were standing behind him, close enough to touch. Rad looked from one to the other, at their trench coats, fedoras and gas masks, and swore. Something moved, black and fast, and Rad dropped his fedora and hit the ground. Night descended once more.

  i

  7th AUGUST, 1930

  "OH, MAX?"

  Max stopped just short of the door, his hand reaching for the handle. Goddammit, now what? Like he didn't have enough to do. Like he wasn't already late for the next meeting, at which his plate would be piled even higher. He took a breath, and ran a finger around the front of his starched collar. He needed to talk to Dolores about their laundry. Maybe that was part of the problem. Oxygen starvation due to collars so stiff they may as well have been made of tin sheet.

  "Yes, Mr McKee?"

  McKee tapped his fountain pen on the blotter. Max cringed inwardly, counting the taps in his head. McKee's pens were expensive, and tapping did them no good at all.

  "Have you seen Joe this morning?"

  Max shook his head and clutched his open sheaf of papers close to his chest. He swallowed, causing his Adam's apple to bob up and down and catch on the top of the damn collar.

  "No, sir, I haven't seen him since yesterday evening."

  "Oh, no problem," said McKee. Finally he stopped tapping the pen, only to toss it onto the desk. Max winced. He didn't care if McKee saw it, which he was fairly sure he wouldn't.

  "He was supposed to call earlier this morning, but he didn't, and he's not answering at home," said McKee. "Can you send someone downtown to run a message for me?"

  Max nodded sharply. "Certainly, Mr McKee. In fact, he's due in chambers in..." He looked at his watch with a flourish. He wanted McKee to know he was now running late and that he had an awful lot to do before Joe arrived and it was all his fault. Not that McKee would realise, or if he did, he'd never show it.

  "... Right about now, actually." Max raised an eyebrow at McKee, who sat there with that blank expression on his face, mouth slightly open, eyes almost unfocussed. How men like him got into offices like this he really had no idea on Earth.

  Finally McKee seemed to snap out of it, nodded, and waved the clerk away. Max gulped again, but McKee was already looking at some papers. All Max could see was his superior's greased crown.

  "Thank you, sir. I'll make sure to tell Judge Crater to call his office."

  PART THREE

  NEW YORK, NEW YORK

  "I am just coming out of five years of night, and this orgy of violent lights gives me for the first time the impression of a new continent."

  Albert Camus, 1946

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  WARM RED LIGHT. Shapes swam, crescents and arches and semicircles. They darted around his vision, the movements jerky. The red light pulsed, each change a physical vibration. It felt like someone trying to pull his eyes out with icy fingers.

  Rad snapped them open, and lifted his neck, then let his head fall back with a yell.

  Those bastards were torturing him. Drilling into his head while he was awake. Psychopaths! Rad yelled again, raining abuse on his captors, but his tongue was numb and it was just a sound, an animal moan.

  He stopped, and the buzzing in his head died down, to be replaced by the characteristic pound of a killer headache. Rad bit into his numb tongue and rolled his head left and right, feeling a cold, sticky leather cushion underneath his skull.

  He looked at the ceiling. White, brown, red, bright, dark. Nothing. It was a ceiling in a room, nothing more. There were lights. There were also shadows and black shapes. Two people, occasionally leaning over his face, occasionally standing next to whatever it was he was lying on. Talking to each other, passing instruments of torture over his body. Rad shouted again, perhaps clearer this time, but then the buzzing started. His eyes felt like they would burst like rotten grapes.

  Then hands on his head. More than one, more than a pair. One set of fingertips were cold, and pressed into his scalp painfully. They pulled his head and held it, and the more Rad tried to shake them off, the harder they gripped. A second pair, warm and soft, moved over his face and then the back of his head. They tugged, lifting Rad's head from the surface. Then something else: cold and frightening, pressing, slicing into the thick skin of his scalp. Rad shouted again, but a big deep shadow blocked his vision. Abstract shapes appeared in the darkness, two windows of light, and something enclosed his chin and stuck to the sweat of his forehead.

  Rad gasped for air, and the buzzing stopped, and the headache faded. His tongue regained life, and he licked his lips. His eyes throbbed and his ears were filled with the sound of a sea that he had never seen. He took another breath. He tasted rubber and something else, something chemical, hot and spiced.

  He blinked, and looked at the two people standing over him, through the goggles of the mask he was now wearing. He raised his head, and found nothing to stop him. He tried his hands, flexing his fingers, then moved his arms. They felt heavy, but there was no pain, no impediment to the motion. His hands found his face, and moved across leather, rubb
er and plastic. There was something heavy pulling on the mask from the front. Rad couldn't see it, but he could feel it. Connected to the mask, over the mouth, was a short corrugated tube, leading to a large cylinder, the size and shape of a soup can.

  The two men standing over him were not masked. They wore blue pinstripe suits of an odd cut, and had short hair, shaved at the sides, longer on top. One was thickset with a bullet-shaped head and hardly any neck at all. The other was thinner, with a long face ending in a chin a mother could only call "disappointing". Both had very faint red and white marks on their faces, and the chinless wonder's hair, longer than his colleague's ugly crew cut, probably parted quite neatly most of the time, was askew and stood up a little in random bunches. Bullethead frowned; Chinless smiled. Rad wasn't sure which expression made him feel better.