Empire State

by Adam Christopher

  The Skyguard shook his head, and his helmet rattled. The drizzle had passed, but a thick fog had rolled in. Even out in the open streets it was hard to get a bearing, as all major landmarks – the Chrysler Building, the half-finished Empire State Building – were obscured. Several times he thought he'd seen something he knew and picked the right direction, but then a building loomed in the wrong place, and a street turned where it never had before. It was disconcerting and frightening.

  Bingo. Concussion. That was it. The Skyguard wobbled his head and listened to the rattle in the helmet again. Something was loose, and while he felt OK – sore, bruised perhaps, a headache like a jackhammer – he must have taken quite a punch. Concussion and shock, leading to confusion and fuzzy vision and getting lost in the city of his birth that he'd sworn to protect for the last ten years.

  The Skyguard leaned on a lamppost, and after a few seconds noticed a vibration. It was nothing, just traffic... except he hadn't seen or heard any of that either. No one was around, so he flipped the hinged mask on the front of his helmet back up again to get a breath of fresh air.

  With no power in his suit, his helmet had been muffling the sound of the outside world. He'd been walking around almost deaf without realising it, and as soon as the mask was up a roaring filled his ears. He let go of the lamppost, but by now the ground itself was shaking.

  There was a clunch as a searchlight was switched on, travelling for just a second over the ground before pinpointing the Skyguard. Startled, he instinctively turned to look up at the source, shielding his face. Behind him, his torn cloak billowed like a sail as the small lot was filled with what felt like a mini tornado.

  He couldn't see properly. He swung the visor back down, but the blaze of the searchlight just turned his vision almost completely opaque as it illuminated the condensation inside. Streaming behind him, his cloak tugged strongly on his neck, and he overbalanced and toppled backwards. As he impacted the ground, he used the momentum of his fall to help slide his helmet off. This was no time to worry about disguises.

  Something had flown into the lot. Something elliptical, a little larger than a city bus, but looking like an upside-down boat with curved hull stretching upwards with the cabin hanging from the underside, two searchlights mounted at the front. As the Skyguard moved his arm around to screen out the light, he could see a long, curved window in the front of the hull, lit a dull red from inside. There were two figures in the cabin, nothing more than black cut-outs.

  The PA barked, "Gardner Gray."

  The Skyguard felt the adrenaline punch a hole in his chest. He crawled backwards a little, almost instinctively, on his armoured elbows, but the heel of one boot got caught on the trailing edge of his cloak and his neck jerked backwards painfully.

  A hundred thoughts crowded his mind, chief among them was how they – anyone – could possibly have known his name.

  "Gardner Gray," the PA barked again. "Stand down!"

  The voice reverberated around the hard stone borders of the empty lot, amplified beyond the roar of the engines of the thing, and the rush of air that whirled around the Skyguard. Four large jet nozzles attached to the rear of the cabin and also higher up, on the sides of the boat hull above, were angled downwards, blasting hot air into the lot. It was some kind of airship, a dirigible or something. The Skyguard knew well what they looked like – German Zeppelin were frequent visitors to New York – but he'd never seen anything like this machine. It was small and agile, nothing like the giant hulks he was familiar with.

  Gardner Gray, the Skyguard, managed to scramble up, and detached the cloak from his neck, pulling the clasps that held it across the top of his shoulders. Freed from the awkward helmet and cloak, he bounced on the balls of his feet, ready for action, ready to fight for his life. The suit was unpowered and very heavy, but was otherwise undamaged, articulated joints moving smoothly and easily. He could put up a defence, for a time. He checked the available exits. There was just one, directly behind him.

  The craft dropped, coming to around ten feet from the ground. At close range, the searchlights had to pivot to their maximum angle to keep the spots on Gardner, but they were not very manoeuvrable and he sidestepped the beams easily. Keeping out of the main beams, Gardner got a better look at the mystery machine.

  It was an airship of sorts, certainly, but Gardner could only marvel at the design. It drifted to a halt at a slight angle, allowing Gardner to see the huge, six-foot-high letters stencilled in white on the lead-grey hull:

  Gardner gasped. Since when did the police fly airships – of any kind – around the city? Since when did the police know who he was?

  He smelled conspiracy, betrayal even. The Science Pirate. It had to be her. Ten years of crime-fighting partnership, ten years of happy marriage. Now this, sold out to the authorities.

  The Skyguard knew the law. Resisting arrest or trying to fight would, in the short term, just provide more dirt in the conspiracy or plot against him. But in the long term, if the Science Pirate had arranged something, organised some master plan to pitch the very city which the Skyguard had sworn to protect against him, then he had to fight from the outside.

  With more mechanical grinding, a door on the side of the airship's cabin slid open and two steel rope ladders were flung over the side. The cavalry was coming to take him down.

  The Skyguard lunged backwards, pushing off with his toes to get maximum speed and spinning in mid-air as he sprinted for the lot's exit. Behind him he could hear nothing but the roar of the engines and the wind. Ahead, the alleyway was an inky black void.

  And then, at the other end a light clicked on, as powerful as the searchlights behind him, enveloping him in endless white. The light swayed a little, revealing the bottom of a second small airship as it dropped into view, its front searchlights swinging around as they locked onto their target.

  The Skyguard slid to a halt, nearly tripping. Escape route blocked, no rocket boots. He was trapped.

  He turned back, but they were on him already. Six officers, clad in helmets and heavy body armour, each carrying a nightstick that was too long and flared at the end like no weapon the NYPD ever carried. He raised one armoured forearm to protect his face, but the first blow nearly broke his ulna. The second hit ricocheted off the edge of his shoulder, the head of the nightstick rebounding to clip him on the back of the head. The Skyguard dropped like a stone to his knees and then onto his stomach. Lips sucking on the flagstones, he dragged in a difficult breath that tasted of water and dirt and machine oil and blood.

  "Gardner Gray, also known as the Skyguard."

  Gardner Gray – also known as the Skyguard – craned his neck upwards. The searchlight was on him and he couldn't see anything except the black shoulders of the police around him. The PA burst into life again with scarcely a crackle.

  "You are hereby ordered to stand down and surrender yourself to the City Commissioners. It has been hereby decreed that you are a felon and an outlaw and are due to face justice at the Chairman's leisure. So it has been proclaimed in the first year of the Empire State."

  Gardner Gray closed his eyes as the booted feet of the riot police, or whoever they were, closed in around him. He felt an armoured knee grind into the small of his back as his hands were yanked backwards and cuffed, and then gloved hands caught him under the arms and he was on his feet.

  He blinked. Pain zigzagged up the back of his skull with every heavy heartbeat. He saw the airship and the police, silhouettes in the light, swimming in front of him, before his knees gave way. Before he blacked out, his mind swam with images of New York and bewilderment that he could have got lost – in a city he knew like the back of his hand.

  But in the first year of the Empire State, Gardner Gray, also known as the Skyguard, felon and outlaw, wasn't in New York City anymore.

  PART FOUR

  SHAZAM!

  "The Empire State and even New York City are about due for some agitation on this subject."

  William Anderson, 1914<
br />
  THIRTY

  THE PASTOR OF LOST SOULS made the final adjustments, then stood back. The hood nodded, and he walked back to his desk.

  Rex fingered the lapels of the suit. It was hideous, chocolate brown with a heavy cream pinstripe, double-breasted. The shoes were OK, black shiny leather, and at least the white spats were a touch of class. The ensemble was finished with a fedora in white felt and, using the closed window as a mirror, Rex experimented with a few different angles until he thought he looked more or less passable. He opened the window again like he was told and turned, walking stiffly back to the Pastor's desk, limbs straight like he was soaking wet. The hooded man laughed.

  "You'll never make an actor, Rex."

  Rex frowned. He really wasn't sure about this. "I thought there wouldn't be any acting required?"

  "Of course there won't. You just need to look the part, enough to get in, get close. Once the target is eliminated and there is no danger of mistake, you can go back to how you were."

  "You're damn right I will." Rex sat, wincing as the uncomfortable suit fabric creased under his knees. He reached forward and picked up the photograph of Rad Bradley from the desk. It was remarkable. Dressed in a more-or-less approximation of the detective's favourite outfit, Rex was identical. He adjusted the hat a little to match the photograph. Bingo. Then Rex snapped his fingers.

  "Hey, I've seen this guy. I remember the hat. He was walking downtown."

  The Pastor ignored him. He reached down and slid a drawer on the right side of his desk open, reached inside, then dropped something small and heavy in front of Rex. The Pastor withdrew his hand, then reached forward with the other and pushed the snub-nosed pistol towards his guest. Rex looked at it for a moment, then covered it with a meaty hand and dropped it into a pocket of the ill-fitting suit jacket. Even sitting down, the weight of the gun pulled the jacket down on one side. Rex felt immensely stupid in this get-up, but he glanced at the photo again. It was perfect. Rad looked immensely stupid as well.

  Rex took the hat off. A white fedora? What was this guy thinking? He shook his head at the Pastor, who inclined his white hood to the left, as if inviting Rex to spill his thoughts.

  "You're kinda assumin' a lot here, preacher."

  "Am I?"

  Rex felt his face flush hotly, his hair-trigger temper set off.

  "What do you think I am, some kinda hatchet man? I'm a bootlegger, sir. I don't go in for murder usually. If I need someone knocked off, I hire a gun. Why get me to do it? Why wait all this time for me to arrive to take out this guy?" He flicked the photograph on the desk. It skidded across the top and spun towards the Pastor, landing the right way up for him to regard the portrait quite by chance. This coincidence seemed to galvanise Rex, who sat back with an alarming creak and folded his arms so tightly the seams of his jacket parted just a little.

  The Pastor's eyes, the only features visible through his hood, roved up and down, between Rex, squeezed into the chair in front of him, and the photograph of Rad Bradley on the desk. He clacked his tongue.

  "The likeness is remarkable," he said quietly, paused, then added: "But you are the same person. Still, remarkable."

  Rex huffed. "I still don't get it. You want me to do it because we look the same? Like I said, I don't usually get my hands dirty."

  "Ah, Rex," the Pastor began. "Perhaps a gun is not your style. But strangulation is? Bare hands are more satisfying. You really know you've got the job done when you can feel the bones grinding under your fingers."

  Rex blanched. Goddamn. The Pastor knew. Rex feigned ignorance, barking a "What?" that was too loud, too quick, redolent of guilt.

  "You killed Sam Saturn," said the Pastor. He shrugged as he spoke, as if he was disregarding a minor misdemeanour. "That very act brought you here, because you and she, and she and Rad, are connected to this place."

  The Pastor stuck his elbows out at ninety degrees, holding his forearms horizontal in front of him. He interlocked the fingers of each hand to emphasise his explanation, and made a show of a one-man tug o' war.

  "You killed Saturn. You must kill Bradley. It is not so much my decision as a preordained event. It is inevitable. You must kill him. As the death of Saturn pulled you here, so the death of Bradley will pull you back. It is your path to New York City. Home. And my path too."

  Rex sighed and felt hot pinpricks on his forehead. He rubbed his fingers on his scalp, and found it slick with greasy sweat. The Pastor was a nut, a loon in a white hood living in a white house, he was sure of that. But something in what he said made sense. Little else did about the whole situation, although Rex had long since given up on the idea that he'd wake up, or snap out of it, finding himself back home in his own bed, the Empire State a fading dream. Then he thought of the girl's body breaking in his hands, so easily, and the blood, and the smell of the blood, and the buzzing in his head.

  No, it was real. The Empire State was real. And what he wanted now, more than anything, was to escape, to go home. If the Pastor knew what he was talking about – and why wouldn't he? He'd been here longer than Rex, he knew how it worked, he knew about the girl, knew how to get home – then all it would take is one simple job and they'd be back in Manhattan. And this Rad, he wasn't real anyway, he was just some stooge, a lookalike, a pale shadow of himself. Rex wasn't anyone's schmuck. Give him a job, he'd do it. He reached into the pocket with the gun, and ran his fingers over its machined surface. The metal wasn't cold as he'd expected. It was warm, smooth.

  "Do you understand me, Rex?"

  Rex nodded.

  "Do you want to go home, Rex?"

  Rex nodded again.

  "Then play your part. Eliminating the detective is but the first step. Relax, I'll have some coffee brought up while I tell you the rest."

  Rex nodded a third time. He wanted to say something else, but wasn't sure what, so closed his mouth as the Pastor headed for the open door. Rex turned and watched, noticing one of the Pastor's zealots sitting on the stairs, a surprisingly elegant woman in porcelain makeup and a royal blue dress, apparently having heard the entire discussion. But the woman just smiled at Rex before turning her attention to the Pastor as he approached. The two shared a brief, whispered conversation, then the Pastor turned and walked back towards the desk. The woman at the stairs looked again at Rex. She smiled, then delicately and carefully headed downstairs on very high heels.

  The Pastor sat.

  "To business."

  Dawn was just a handful of hours away by the time the Pastor left the brownstone with Rex trailing close behind. The pair stopped at the base of the stairs that led back up to the front door. Almost the whole street was illuminated by the white lights inside the house, and Rex didn't like to dawdle in what was practically a spotlight. He fidgeted, and shifted his weight from one foot to another, and the Pastor asked again whether the instructions were clear.

  "I got it, dammit," Rex snapped. Then he sighed and apologised, but not without looking over his shoulder towards the darker part of the street, which he could barely see outside of the glow of the Pastor's house. His new employer tilted his head at the outburst, the hood hanging in a straight edge towards the man's shoulder.

  "I am trusting you, Rex," the Pastor whispered. "I do hope you can fulfil your appointed task."

  Rex held a hand up. The Pastor nodded and rested a hand on his shoulder.

  "Go."

  Rex nodded and departed at a trot, relieved to be out of the Pastor's company and out of the light. The damn city was strangely quiet, but he wasn't going to take any chances, so he hit the shadows as soon as he could.

  The Pastor stood and arched his shoulders like a weightlifter stretching out before the snatch and grab. Straightening the hem of his jacket, he slid out of the light and headed down the street in the opposite direction from Rex.

  He stopped around the corner, in a shadow cast by a raised set of stairs leading into one of the many anonymous dead buildings.

  He stood in the dark for a while, w
atching the street. There was nobody there and as he stared ahead, the yellow streetlight opposite seemed to flicker and blur. The Pastor tried to blink it away, but it just got worse. After thirty more seconds his vision split almost completely into two overlapping images, the yellow streetlight beginning to slide and spin in his mind.

  The Pastor sucked in a breath, bringing his hands to his face. When he pulled them away, the white hood came with them, which he folded neatly like a large handkerchief and placed in his inside jacket pocket.