Empire State

by Adam Christopher

Rad sighed. More than anything, he was just pissed off. Life was what you made it. Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of your life. Other such smug platitudes wandered through his head as he eyed the wicked smile behind the barrel. The gun wavered, just a little, and Rad realised he was rocking back and forth on the office chair enough to make it tap-dance on the floorboards. But the rags held tight.

  "Don't try it, buster," said the original. "You and me gotta date with someone real important, see."

  Rad frowned. Did he really sound like that? He sure as hell didn't talk like that. Then again, perhaps the original didn't either. Maybe this was all new to him. For the second time in just a few days – give or take, considering his holiday in New York – Rad was in his own office being held at gunpoint. Maybe if the universe didn't end he'd think about looking into another line of work.

  "Who put you up to this?" asked Rad.

  "Shut your mouth, boy, or you're history."

  Rad chuckled. "Nice cliché. You ever thought about becoming a private dick?"

  The original's smile tightened. "Detective, huh?" He looked around the office, gun still pointing dead ahead. "Shitty office you got here."

  "Gee, thanks." Rad decided to try something. "They don't teach you any manners in New York City?"

  The man's smile vanished. In its place, his lips pursed together like he was sucking a lemon, the skin around his mouth pulled pale and ugly.

  "What do you know about New York City?"

  "Oh, it's a nice place. Might take me up an apartment there. You know, somewhere upmarket."

  The man raised an eyebrow. "Nice idea."

  Rad asked again, "Who put you up to this?"

  The man shook his head. "I gotta job to do, pal. Nothing personal."

  "You want to go home, right?"

  "What?"

  "Home," said Rad. He nodded his head sideways at the wall, not pointing, just pressing his point. Not here, but there.

  The man put on the sick smile again and raised the gun.

  "Oh, you betcha bottom dollar."

  "The name's Rad, by the way. Rad Bradley." Rad looked the man up and down. The gun was wavering again, just a little, maybe just enough.

  "Colour me impressed."

  "Aren't you going to introduce yourself?"

  "What?"

  "You deaf too?"

  "Rex," the man said. "Rex Braybury. Ain't that just hilarious?"

  Rad nodded. "Hilarious," he said, voice flat.

  Rex twisted his gun hand just enough to check his watch. His eyes flicked from his wrist to the wall behind Rad's desk, over Rad's head. Rad craned around as best he could, but saw nothing except his desk and the corner of the big window, blinds down.

  "Don't move, sucker."

  Rad faced front. "Whatever you say, boss."

  Then the telephone rang. Rad jumped in his chair and closed his eyes, convinced that Rex had pulled the trigger out of pure fright, and that he was now bleeding to death in his office. He opened his eyes after a second, realising that the gunshot he'd heard was only the sound of his heart thundering against his throat at the surprise.

  The phone kept ringing. Rex stood over Rad, gun hand jogging up and down as he shifted his weight from his right foot to his left then back again. He looked worried, very nervous, and glanced at the phone on the desk out of the corner of his eye, showing big scared whites to Rad.

  "You gonna answer that?"

  "Shut up!" The gun stabilised.

  "Might be the landlord. Sees us here, he'll want two rent checks."

  Rex snorted. "You're a real comedian."

  "Hilarious," Rad said again, voice still flat.

  The phone rang for a long, long time. Rad tried counting the rings but lost it as soon as Rex started pacing the floor, his footsteps unconsciously in sync with the telephone. When the phone wouldn't stop, Rex disappeared from Rad's sight, going behind the desk. Rad stared at his office door, wishing for a heroic rescue by... hell, by anyone, right about now. Behind him, Rad heard his captor rip the blinds up to the top of the window. Rad sniffed. With the light on and it being the dead of night outside, the window would be nothing but a mirror. Rex wouldn't be able to see a thing.

  The telephone stopped ringing. Rad heard Rex swear, and there was a buzzing, electric sound. A light came on, a light from behind Rad, casting his shadow on the front of the office. Rad saw his own silhouette, tied to the chair, and Rex's outline, complete with hat and gun, stumbling. And then two more shadows, at first long, as if cast from two people standing at the opposite side of a football stadium with the floodlights on them. Then smaller, resolving into two shapes, men in hats. There was something odd about the shapes of their faces – they were bulky, bulbous, angular, with a weird bobbing soup can in the front.

  Rad yelled and tipped his chair over, spinning himself around on the floor to face the window, just in time to see Grieves and Jones step out of an opaque white void where the solid glass had been and grab Rex by the arms. Grieves yanked on the gun; Rex struggled and the hand went skyward and the trigger was pulled. Rad blinked at the report, then saw a meaty fist belonging to Bullethead Jones fly forward and take Rex out under the jaw. Rex went rigid and flew back at least a foot, before hitting the floorboards cold. Grieves and Jones took two steps further into the office, backlit by the white rectangle that was Rad's office window. Then the light flickered and snapped off, and the window reappeared, black and mirror-like against the night outside.

  Black brogues stepped into Rad's floor-level line of vision, and hands sheathed in leather gloves gripped him by the elbows and pulled him, and his chair, upright. Grieves made to slap Rad on the cheek, but Rad pulled his head away.

  "I'm all right, jackass!" He tugged on his hands. "Get me loose."

  Jones was down on one knee, checking Rex's pulse. As Grieves bent over to untie Rad, he called back to his companion for an update.

  "He'll live, but he'll have a headache when he wakes up." Jones poked at Rex's lower jaw indelicately. "And a sore mouth for a month." Bullethead's voice matched his head exactly. Ugly and gravelly, like a retired boxer turned to drink.

  There was a coughing sound behind Rad's head, and it took him a moment to realise it was Grieves laughing inside his mask. The two agents really were thugs. Rad wondered how Nimrod could possibly put up with them. On the other hand, he could see how the two heavies would be useful in a corner.

  The rags loosened and Grieves stepped back. Rad pulled the last of the knot apart and brought his arms around so he could check his wrists. They hurt like heck, but were otherwise uninjured. He rubbed the circulation back into them.

  "I appreciate the entrance, gentlemen," said Rad. He looked at the office window. It was intact, completely unblemished. He shook his head and whistled. "And what an entrance it was."

  He stood and exercised his stiff knees, walking over to where Rex lay snoozing on the floor.

  "But what's the occasion? Nimrod said you guys couldn't make the party. Were you actually watching what was happening, from the Origin?"

  Grieves thrust his hands in the pockets of his trench coat and joined Rad to look down at Rex. "Something like that. Not see exactly, but detect. It's not like we sit there watching you like you're some kinda game show on TV. But Captain Nimrod has some tricks up his sleeve. He said you'd come into your office twice, and then you didn't answer the telephone. Looked like a problem. Then you, or rather, he, opened the blinds and let us in. 'Transition via projected reflection'." Grieves shrugged. "Mr Nimrod has some tricks, I told you."

  "OK. Appreciate it." Rad knelt next to Rex. It was weird, seeing himself lying there, and to begin with he didn't want to touch Rex. But maybe he was carrying something, anything that might be a clue as to who sent him. Rad began to pat the body down, checking pockets, grimacing as he did so. Was he really that big? Were his arms really that flabby? Rad held his breath as he went, and realised he was doing fine now without the mask. Good. He had reacclimatised.

  Rex's
pockets were empty save for a couple of spare buttons sewn onto a little fabric tag. The suit was thin and cheap, not like Rad's own tailored number. It was also fairly new. The hat was the real deal, however; there was only one store in the city that sold white fedoras. He slipped it off Rex's unconscious head and checked the size. It was a half size too big, although it had seemed to fit the crook perfectly. So, there were differences after all. The hat would do for now; Rad felt a little better already with it on.

  "Someone dolled him up to look like me," said Rad, standing up. "Seems a lot of effort if it was just to come here and shoot me in the head."

  "He'd need the get-up if he was going to meet one of your contacts, no?" Grieves stood over Rex, who sighed and began to move his head from side to side.

  "I guess," said Rad. "Fortunately that's a short list. Kane is the Skyguard, which just leaves Carson."

  "You been in touch with him since you got back?"

  Rad looked at Grieves, eyes wide. Carson was locked in his house on the other side of the city, and had Byron to protect him, but even so…

  "No, I wanted to work on Kane first. Goddammit." Rad watched as Rex stirred. "You think this sonovabitch was sent to, what, assassinate me and then Carson?"

  Bullethead Jones spoke from where he was standing by the office door. "They're taking out anyone who could throw a spanner in the works."

  He had the door open a crack, and was peering into the deserted corridor. Standard practice, Rad thought, although nobody ever came to his floor that wasn't a client. Or – looking down at Rex – someone trying to kill him.

  Grieves kicked Rex in the ribs gently, but enough to make a point. Rex opened his eyes and moaned and tried to rise, then seeing Rad and the masked agent above him, swore and settled back down on the floor.

  "If Carson knows as much about the Pocket, the Origin, and the Fissure as we do, he's gotta be the prime target," said Rad. "My not-so-friendly twin here said he was taking me to meet someone. Which means he's working for someone else. And that someone else has dolled him up as me, using him as a stooge to get in, see what Carson knows, then put him to bed."

  Rad stopped and shook his head. "But why send my master copy from the Origin here, with all the theatrics of tying me up, making threats? The Skyguard could waltz in here anytime and take me out. Last time we met, he tried to recruit me."

  "Maybe they need you alive," said Jones from the door. "Maybe the Skyguard is otherwise indisposed." He shrugged. "What am I, psychic?"

  Rex fidgeted on the floor. Grieves bent down to help him up. He offered no resistance, and peacefully allowed himself to be placed in the office chair which had so recently held his counterpart.

  "Look," Rex said, focussing on Rad. "I just wanna go home, back to New York. They said this would do it. I don't want to hurt no one no more. Not again." Rex shook his head and looked at the floor. "I just want to go home." His shoulders slumped. It was either a good act, or the man had broken.

  "Can you take him back to New York with you? Arrest him or something?" Rad asked.

  Grieves shook his mask, the soup can swinging comically. "Seems our friend here knows something. Our first priority is to protect the Pocket and prevent the Skyguard shutting off the Battery."

  He looked at Rex. "Hey, buddy!"

  Rex looked up. His expression was slack, like the muscles of his face were just hanging off his skull. It was the kind of expression worn by someone who had gone beyond fear and into total abject surrender. It was pathetic. Rad felt sorry for him. Rex just wanted to go home. Rad thought back to his glimpse of New York City, and knew that being sucked into the Empire State would be quite a shock. Rad's mood turned black. Someone was manipulating Rex in the same way that someone was manipulating him. Both were victims, pawns in an indecipherable game.

  "Where's the Skyguard?" asked the agent.

  Rex blinked wetly. "The Skyguard?" He paused, and cleared his throat. He was trying very hard to give the right answer.

  Rad thought perhaps Grieves could lose the attitude... but then Rex had pulled a gun on him. And Rex was a hood: the opposite profession, in a way, to Rad's. And as with most tough guys, he seemed to be breaking when the odds were stacked against him. Self-preservation. All criminals were cowards at heart. Rad's sorrow was replaced by a feeling of anger.

  Rex fumbled for an answer, and when he spoke the words tumbled out too quickly. "He's dead, isn't he? Disappeared in the fight. The fight that started all this."

  Rad and Grieves exchanged a look.

  "So you know about the Skyguard and the Science Pirate, and how the Fissure was created?" Rad stroked his beard as he posed the question.

  Rex shook his head. "I don't know nothing about no 'fissure'. But I got the story of this place, how it's like New York, but it's not New York. He gave me the job to do, said when it was done we could go back home."

  "Who's 'we' and 'he', Rex?" asked Grieves. "The Skyguard and you?"

  "No, no." Rex licked his lips. "The guy in the white hood. Some kind of preacher. He's from New York too. He knows how it all works."

  Rad clicked his fingers and nodded, threads of evidence slowly stitching together. Grieves looked at him; Rad could see the thin man's eyes blinking in the deep glass goggles of his mask.

  "Mean something?" Grieves asked.

  "Sure does. There's a guy, wears a white hood. Runs some kind of underground cult. Calls it a church, but it's not the kind of Sunday service I've ever seen." Rad walked around to his desk and pulled his copy of The Seduction of the Innocent from the drawer. He tossed the hardback to Grieves, who stared at the cover for a while, but didn't open the book.

  Rad pointed at it in Grieves's hand. "That's his book. Pretty dull stuff. That copy belonged to Sam Saturn, the girl whose disappearance – and murder – I was... am... investigating."

  "And he's from New York?"

  Rad shrugged and inclined his head towards Rex. Grieves turned back to the man slumped in the chair and repeated the question. Rex nodded.

  Rad leaned over Rex's chair, placing his hands on each arm and peering at the man's face. It was weird – wrong even – to be looking at himself like this. Rad closed his eyes to clear the thoughts, which were unhelpful and illogical, then fixed Rex with a hard glare normally reserved for the most difficult parts of his investigations.

  "Why tie me up? Why not just shoot me? You expecting someone else to arrive?"

  Rex shook his head, his heavy cheeks flapping with a faintly wet sound. Rad grimaced.

  "No, no, I had to keep you busy, then when I got the call, head across town and pick up someone else, an old guy in a big house. Y'know, play the part. Then show him how I caught the killer and together we take you over to the Empire State Building. He said we'd go straight to the top, he'd cleared the way."

  Rad stood up and frowned. "To the City Commissioners?"

  Rex shrugged. "I don't know," he said, quickly. "I'm just doing what I'm told. I don't know what's up there."

  "You came here first?" Rad pulled on the lapel of Rex's jacket. The material was sharp against his fingertips, a poor imitation of his own suit.

  "Straight here. Do the thing, get the guy, then we go. That's it, I swear it."

  Rad turned away and paced the office space between where Rex was sitting in the chair and the front of his desk.

  Bullethead Jones closed the office door with a click and joined them. "We're wasting time here. Let's go."

  Grieves shook his head. "We call Nimrod."

  "Trust me," said Jones. "We gotta act." He jerked a thumb towards Rex. "We take the schmuck here to the Empire State Building, see what the jazz is. Sounds like our targets might all be there."

  Jones paused. Nobody said anything. Grieves seemed to be considering behind his mask, then Jones reached out and punched him lightly on the chest in impatience.

  He said, "Come on, we ain't got no time for any of this. Let's go."

  Rad nodded, mouth curled upside down. "We've got to find the Skyguard
somehow. Sounds like the Pastor might know a thing or two about him. Sounds like the whole gang is going to be there."

  Grieves ground a gloved fist into the open palm of his other hand. "OK," he said at last. "Let's go."

  He held out the pistol that belonged to Rex, offering it to Rad. Rad looked at it, but shook his head. He heard Jones sigh through his mask before the agent snatched it and slapped it to Rad's chest, then Jones drew his own weapon, the odd fat-barrelled revolver. He jogged Rex's shoulder.

  "Come on, let's move."

  The four of them left the office, Rad and Grieves in front, then Jones following Rex in the middle, gun in the centre of his back.

  THIRTY-FOUR