Empire State

by Adam Christopher

  Only... only standing and staring out of the window, if that's what the robot was doing, watching the city below was not part of the programming. What if it had gone wrong? What if the plan, after all these years, was going to fail? What if the very purpose of the City Commissioners, the Chairman, the Empire State itself, was to come to nothing?

  No, no. Panic, anxiety, guilt was driving the Chairman's thoughts, and he knew it. Everything had been planned. Everything was in order. This was it, the final moment.

  The Chairman of the City Commissioners took a deep breath, calming himself. He rolled his shoulders and shook his arms and walked around the robot until he was behind it. He turned away from it, and very gently leaned against its back. The robot was warm, hot even. He pushed against it, straightening both legs against the floor and pushing as hard as he could against the machine. But the robot didn't move, didn't even rock on its feet. It was like leaning against a stone pillar. The Chairman felt safe, at least, having the robot with him. Perhaps, if the police came too soon, before they were done, the robot would protect him.

  "Orders, sir," the robot intoned. Its voice was human, male, but it sounded far away, and was lightly dusted in static. The Chairman closed his eyes, wondering if the man inside the shell knew what had happened to him after he volunteered for the fleet.

  "Report," the Chairman whispered.

  THIRTY-THREE

  THE AIR WAS WARM, AND CLOSE, and there was a creeping dampness underneath Rad. The back of his head hurt like all hell, and when he moved to feel the damage, sensation suddenly returned to his whole body like he'd put his finger in a wall socket. The ground was hard, grooved somehow. His hand found wet wood underneath him, past the bump at the back of his head.

  Rad opened his eyes, and saw an orange-tinged sky, dark with lighter patches drifting on the wind. His view was obscured by something black and moving. He sat up.

  He was lying on a park bench in a small park, laid with grass, ringed with hedges, with a tall, spreading tree in the centre, its leafed branches swaying in the slight breeze. The sound was, Rad imagined, that kind of peaceful, almost melancholic rustling, a tiny sliver of natural, organic sound in the heart of the industrial city. Except he couldn't hear it over the buzzing in his head. He blinked, and moved his eyes. It felt like someone was trying to scoop them out with hot spoons.

  He closed his eyes, screwing them tight and drawing balled fists against them by primal instinct. Rad moaned, and curled his legs up to his chest. One roll to the right and he collided with the ground in front of the bench.

  Something snagged on the narrow edge of one of the wooden planks of the bench. It pulled Rad's left arm up awkwardly, and as his conscious mind fought against the wreath of pain that had suddenly enveloped it like boiling water around a coddled egg, his subconscious worked on getting his hand free. After a few minutes of waggling the appendage, without success, Rad finally realised what it was. One of the looped straps of his mask was caught over the edge of the bench. Rad stared at the mask as it strained on the end of the strap, using it as a focal point. He pulled himself to his knees, eyes narrowed on the glass goggles glinting in the orange night air, and sucked in wet air across clenched teeth, lips pulled back in a dog-like scowl. His head buzzed and his chest hurt and his teeth throbbed as the air was drawn over them.

  How long he could last, he wasn't sure. He'd been awake a minute and already his vision was spawning black clouds at the edges. The park bench swung sideways before him, but he couldn't be sure whether that was because the whole world was spinning as his inner ears gave up the ghost, or because he was heading back to the ground.

  He got the mask free, wrenching it from where it had been hooked and pushing it onto his face. Forgetting about the straps, he let momentum carry him backwards, mask held firmly with one hand. The path around the park was narrow, and Rad was a big man, but he was grateful his head hit the damp grass rather than the edge of the abutting flagstone.

  Rad lay on the grass, and breathed, and breathed, and breathed. After a minute, the buzzing began to fade. After two, it was gone, replaced by the sharper sting of the split on the back of his scalp. But that was just pain, good old regular pain, unpleasant but familiar. The buzzing was an alien sound, a foreign sensation, one that would drive you to panic if you didn't know what it was. Rad did. He'd had it in New York. He'd had it close to the Fissure. He was now incompatible with the Empire State, at least a little bit, at least for the moment.

  Rad opened his eyes to see the tree branches waving above him. The breeze had picked up, bringing with it a warm, slippery drizzle. Rad watched it spot on his goggles, and listened to the rustling of the leaves. Beneath the mask he smiled as he drank in the rubbery, filtered air.

  He didn't know where he was, or why he hadn't come directly out of the other side of the Fissure, but he was home, of that he had no doubt. He let go of the mask with one hand and ran the other over his chest, sides, neck, wherever he could reach while lying on his back and not moving a whole lot. He was all there. Aside from the crack on his head and a developing headache, nothing was broken, damaged or missing. He'd survived passage through the Fissure. Lying under the tree, the night was quiet, warm and wet, with floating fog and the orange glow of the clouds above. This was the Empire State all right. Home sweet home.

  He coughed into the respirator and drew another forceful breath. How long had he been in New York? Just a few hours, he assumed. What did that equate to here? More time, or less? Given Nimrod's concern, he assumed it was likely to be more.

  Well, the city was still here, so the end of the world hadn't quite happened yet. Of course he might still be too late. Perhaps the Skyguard would take out the Battery in the next thirty seconds, and Rad's world would pop out of existence. Rad laughed at the thought, then regretted it, and closed his eyes as he focussed on his breathing for a while.

  A minute passed, maybe two. Rad opened his eyes. He was still here, as was the Empire State. Which meant there was still time to do the job he'd been sent back to do. He pulled the mask straps around his head and pulled the tags to secure the respirator. Hopefully he wouldn't need to wear it for very long, maybe an hour or so, until his body had reacclimatised to the Pocket.

  The Pocket. It sounded ridiculous. The Empire State was a city, a huge, sprawling industrial complex, full of people and architecture, and streets and buildings. An impossible city with no history. A city with no resources and an impossible economy. How much air was there in the Pocket? Where did the food come from? The power? Maybe it really was magic, a side effect of being tethered to – being a reflection of – the Origin – what the Origin had made or produced, so this was reflected through the Fissure.

  Rad gave up as his head began to pound again. The Pocket stopped you thinking, and perhaps for a good reason. Rad rolled his head and stood, flexing as many joints as he could while he got his bearings. He didn't recognise the park, but it was no more than a tiny walled lawn set up on a street corner. A short set of stairs would take him down to street level, and with the tree out of the way, he figured he'd be able to recognise some landmarks.

  The street was dead and washed in yellow light. Rad thought back to New York City. So much life and energy. In the Empire State there wasn't actually an official Wartime curfew, but people tended to stay indoors after dark. Rad's new nocturnal lifestyle was becoming a drag. He was a loner, and he enjoyed his own company, sure, but even he had to admit it had been good to see the hustle and bustle of New York.

  Looking around, none of the street names meant anything to him, but ahead, down a wide boulevard that curved away to the left, came a different sort of light. A white glow: fairly bright even in the yellow street glow, diffused by the low-lying mist. The Pastor's house? Could be. At least from there he knew where he was, which was a start.

  Stop the Skyguard, Nimrod had said. Well, OK. Stopping the Skyguard meant stopping Kane, and for that, a little help would be required from Captain Carson.

  B
ut perhaps Kane didn't know Rad was onto him. Perhaps he could be convinced, shown the error of his ways, told the truth about how the Pocket and the Origin were linked together. Perhaps he could solve things peacefully, sensibly.

  Two places were obvious starting points – Kane's apartment, and Jerry's speakeasy. And Rad really, really needed a drink.

  Footsore and with a thirst, Rad headed downtown.

  Rad walked into Jerry's, then turned around and walked back out. Taking a breath, he slid the mask off, and shoved it under his trench coat. He sniffed the air experimentally. It was OK, easier in fact than using the mask. But almost immediately his head began to throb, and a buzz-saw vibration behind his eyes started up. Rad had no idea what was in the soup can on Nimrod's fancy masks, but it wasn't an ordinary respirator. Still, he felt could manage a few minutes. If Kane was in there, he'd pull him out quickly, get the mask back on, and then take him back to his office to talk. The mask would be a giveaway, but Rad hoped that Kane was still, at heart, the reasonable young man Rad had always thought he was.

  Rad held his breath as he headed to the bar, but his head thundered with each beat of his heart, forcing him to release the air and gasp for a moment as soon as his fingers hit the bar. Jerry, never far away, gave him a dirty look and reached into the pocket of his apron. He slapped his hand down on the counter in front of Rad, making the detective jump. When Jerry removed his hand, Rad saw a white slip of paper on the bar.

  "I said Friday, bub. You can't run out on me. Pay now, or you're barred. You and your friends."

  Rad focussed on the note. The dim light made the writing swim a little; Rad picked it up and drew it closer to his eyes, adjusting the focus by moving the paper back and forth like an old man.

  "You said Friday, Jerry."

  Jerry leaned over the bar, and twisted a finger into his own temple. "You got, what, a deficiency or something? You're late, pal. Late!"

  "Wait," said Rad, glancing behind the bar in case a calendar would magically appear behind the endless shelves of cups and saucers. "What day is it?"

  Jerry leaned back, too far, as if he'd got a whiff of something particularly nasty. "You playin' the game with me, Rad? I'm not interested. You got the money, I'll take the money. Problem solved."

  "Easy, Jerry, easy." Rad patted the sides of his trench coat until he found his wallet. It was fatter than it was normally, and then he remembered. Katherine Kopek's advance on Sam Saturn's missing person case. Shit. As ludicrous, as criminal as it was, he'd forgotten about the dead girl and her bereaved partner. He knew how the pieces fitted into the puzzle now, but his mind raced as he tried to think of a way to handle it with the mourning Katherine Kopek.

  "Jerry, what day is it?"

  "Boy, you really do need a rest," said Jerry, eyeing the notes Rad flipped out of his wallet.

  "I ain't playin', Jerry!" Several patrons looked over at the bar from their tables. Jerry closed his eyes and shook his head. This kind of scene was not needed in an illegal basement bar.

  "Just tell me," said Rad, waving the money under Jerry's nose. Jerry sighed and took the cash. There was too much, but as Jerry peeled off a few notes, Rad waved a hand. "Put me in credit."

  "Well, I'll let it pass this time. But Jesus, Rad, I gotta business to run. Anyway, it's Monday. Now go home and get some sleep. You're working too hard, boy."

  Monday. He'd left on Thursday. He'd been away half a week. Rad whistled, then coughed. His head was beginning to smart real bad and the buzzing behind his eyes was turning his vision black. He had to be quick.

  "OK, I apologise, Jerry. Call it overwork. So, you seen Kane recently?"

  Jerry shook his head, nice and slow. "He ain't been here. Thought you two ran off together."

  "You're a comedian. Thanks, Jerry."

  Rad pushed himself off the bar, stumbled slightly, then righted himself under the glare of a nearby table of drinkers. Rad touched a finger to his forehead in apology, then halfwalked, half-ran to the door. In the stairwell leading up to the street, he paused, leaning against the wall, then took the mask from inside his coat and pushed his face into it. He held it there for a moment, taking deep and difficult breaths, until the pain in his head and the pins and needles in his limbs subsided.

  Flipping the mask straps over his head, Rad headed for Kane's apartment.

  Rad was too wet for his liking by the time he got back to his office. Kane's apartment had been a negative. It had been open, but dark, and Rad had snooped only a little to confirm his friend wasn't in. The three-room apartment was so cluttered it was impossible to tell whether there was anything amiss or not, although the bed was neatly made. Leaving the room, Rad's foot crunched on something brittle. Looking down, he traced the few tiny crumbs of broken glass to an old dressing table, an elaborate affair in several different types of wood that wouldn't have looked out of place in the star dressing room of a fancy theatre. The dressing table had a plain wooden panel that tilted on arms. It used to hold a mirror, but it had been cleanly removed. There was no sign of broken glass anywhere, except the tiny, cuboidal fragments hidden in the carpet, but there was a fresh cut in the front of the dressing table, the newly revealed wood under the lacquered top bright and pale. Kane had taken the mirror out and dropped it, damaging the dressing table and chipping the edge, and breaking the glass. He'd cleaned up, but not perfectly.

  Happy with the small piece of detective work, but unhappy with what it suggested, Rad had headed home. The third stop would be to see Captain Carson, but once he had filled the old man in on his journey to New York, there would be no going back. They had to find the Skyguard and protect the Fissure. He needed Carson's help, and they'd either succeed, or fail.

  Rad's naked head was wet and itchy, the rain trickling off it making the stubble bristle. The straps of the mask were also starting to bite – even though they were buckled at maximum length, Rad's head was still a little large for it. And if it was going to be battle stations, all-for-one, do-or-die, he needed to clean up and get out of the mask. As he turned the key in his office door, he hoped that it had been sufficient time to acclimatise back to the Empire State, and that trekking around the city blocks from Jerry's to Kane's to his office hadn't impeded the process.

  The key turned loosely in the tumbler, but Rad wasn't sure if that was just the slight numbness in his fingers. He swung the door open, closed it behind him, and reached for the light switch without looking.

  The light came on, and Rad stopped. His hand was still inches away from the switch, fingers only just beginning their crawl up the wall to find it. Rad turned his head, far too slowly.

  There was a man standing there, in his office, in a white hat. Rad recognised him somehow – a large black man, his goatee beard surrounding a scowling mouth. The man's arm pistoned forward oddly, the butt of the gun in his clenched fist connecting with the side of Rad's head, behind the protective rubber seal of the mask.

  Rad moaned, hands at his ear, and toppled sideways to the floor. Before he passed out his last sight was an image of himself, in his brown suit and white hat, looking down at him, skin slicked with sweat, spittle clinging to the lips pulled back in a vicious grin.

  And then Rad surrendered to the rubbery darkness.

  "I said wake up, you sonovabitch."

  The slap was like a firecracker, a hot, dry sound in the small office. Rad's head snapped back and he opened his eyes. He looked at himself looking at him, and began to cough. He looked past his own self, standing there, and saw the mask discarded on the floor near the front door. Rad tried to gesture to it with a hand, but his wrist was jerked back by a tightly tied rag. Shaking his head to fight the buzzing, he tried to assess the situation.

  He was tied to his office chair, which had been pulled around to the front of the desk. His feet were not tied, but his legs felt as heavy as granite, and without his mask he didn't think he could hurt a fly, let alone fight... himself.

  The man was him, he was sure of it. The goatee was a little roug
her, the suit wasn't exactly the same as his own, and the way the man held himself didn't seem quite natural for Rad. But these were details only he could pick up. To anyone else, it was Rad Bradley, the private detective. Standing in front of him, holding a small snub-nosed pistol.

  Except it wasn't him. Or rather it was him, the original. The man wanted by Nimrod, Rex. Rad was the copy, the reflection, an after-image burnt into the fabric of the universe by the final battle between the Skyguard and the Science Pirate.

  Rad wasn't sure what he felt, looking at his original, the original, the source of the fingerprints on Sam Saturn's neck. The killer, standing there with the gun. He felt as alive and kicking and real as anyone, yet he knew that the man in the white hat had memories stretching back forty years or more. Rad wondered whether Rex could remember why he split from Claudia, or whether he was still married to Claudia, or whether he'd ever met Claudia in the first place.