Empire State (27 page)

  "His ship," wheezed Rad. "Carson has a ship, under his building. Like an airship, of some sort. Said it was called
Nimrod
."

  Nimrod steepled his fingers. "Ah."

  "Still no clue?"

  Nimrod shrugged, then rotated on his swivel chair to face the back wall of his office. He looked up at the photographs.

  "I was commander of the
Carson
, a hydrogen dirigible of experimental design, on an expedition to the Antarctic. Funded by the United States government, mostly scientific, partly military. I was recruited, you see, due to my not inconsiderable experience with Arctic exploration. It's in my blood. My father cut through the jungles of Africa in the nineteenth century, claiming lands and treasures for Queen Victoria. I followed in his footsteps, although I was no good in hot climes. The snows called me!"

  Rad looked at Nimrod's back, ready to start with the questions, but took a breath and found the effort required to ask what he wanted was just too much. "No kidding," he managed at last.

  "Of course," Nimrod continued, lost in his own personal nostalgia trip, "money was the issue, and funding seemed to come more easily from the United States. So we upped sticks and moved from London to New York in 1921. My family tree had some branches here already, including property in Manhattan, so it was not quite such a wrench as it may have been."

  "Uh-huh."

  Nimrod spun back around to face Rad, his face somewhere between delight and surprise. A beaming, open-mouthed smile, forehead creased and narrow eyes as wide as they could go, which was not very.

  "
Extra
ordinary," said Nimrod. "You really have no idea what I'm talking about, do you? London? England? Africa? No? The Arctic and Antarctic? Polar ice caps?" Nimrod shook his head, paused, then frowned. "Even New York City? Manhattan?"

  Rad shrugged, because it was easier than speaking. He saw Grieves finish his cigarette and laugh silently, shaking his head. Jones said nothing. Rad figured that he probably hadn't heard of any of these places either.

  Rad wasn't sure what to make of it. The Empire State was the Empire State. Polar ice caps? Sounded weird.

  And yet... something, something stirred in his mind. He thought again of Claudia. He had no memory of their wedding day, like he had no knowledge of what London was.

  "I'm in New York City, apparently," he managed. "You said so yourself."

  "Yes, yes, I did." Nimrod went back to stroking his moustache. "The name may be different, but I feel you will recognise New York. Manhattan, at any rate. The Empire State was born out of New York City, and takes its image, more or less."

  "You said 'we'. You and these two beauties?" Rad managed to nudge an arm in the direction of Grieves and Jones. Grieves straightened against the door, like he wasn't quite sure whether he was being insulted or not. He looked at Nimrod for support.

  Nimrod met his agent's eye, then turned back to Rad.

  "Alas, I am at the mercy of the State Department when it comes to staff. When I say we, I mean myself and my companion, Keats." Nimrod leaned back in his chair and tapped one of the photographs on the wall behind his head with a fingernail. Nimrod the younger and the blond man. Nimrod held his head up, pulling the loose skin of his neck tight, and sucked air through clenched teeth.

  "Keats was my batman and engineer on every voyage. On our last expedition, there was an… accident."

  Nimrod's eyes narrowed and he gulped. He kept his head up and was staring at the wall behind Rad. Rad didn't like where the story was going. The old man cleared his throat.

  "Keats was injured. Very badly. We brought him back home, and I even managed to fashion…
devices
, to help with his breathing and alleviate at least some of his discomfort. A 'life-support', you could say. When the position was offered here, they also offered to take care of Keats, to help him rehabilitate and even regain something of his former life."

  Nimrod coughed again and lowered his head. He glanced at the top of his desk and shuffled some papers. Rad kept quiet.

  Nimrod lifted a single sheet of paper and pretended to read it. He didn't look at Rad as he spoke.

  "We came by ship, but Keats died during the crossing. I had been reading his favourite book to him as we travelled, as it seemed to ease his pain. After he died… well…" Nimrod tapped his breast pocket, which Rad could now see was filled out by something flat and rectangular. A small book.

  Rad tried to nod, but the soup can just slapped his chest. "I understand."

  Nimrod put the paper down and smiled at the detective. Rad wasn't sure whether his eyes were wetter than they were usually.

  "He always had an affinity for the great Romantics. Always claimed he had been named after John Keats." Nimrod's eyes went far away again. His fingers found the book in his breast pocket and tapped against it again. "
Don Juan,
by Lord Byron. Have you read it?"

  Rad sat up and coughed. Nimrod leaned forward in concern, his glazed eyes clearing and his hand automatically adjusting his tie, as if he was suddenly aware that he had said too much. Rad recovered after a moment and ran a finger along the rim of the mask under his chin.

  "Can't say that I have." He cleared his throat. "Any chance of a drink? Can I take this mask off?"

  Grieves looked at Nimrod, and Nimrod nodded and waved at the door. The agent pointed at Jones, who shook his head without taking his eyes off Rad. Grieves left the office and closed the door behind him with a click. In the brief moment it had been open, Rad could hear footsteps, voices, and typewriters. Wherever Nimrod had his office, it was a busy workplace.

  "A capital idea, Mr Bradley," said Nimrod, clapping his hands again as he was fond of doing at regular intervals. Just like Carson. Rad actually found it easier to think of Nimrod as Carson, or maybe Carson's brother. The personality and manner were identical. Nimrod, captain of the
Carson
. Carson, captain of the
Nimrod
. After his personal journey back through difficult memories, he had appeared to regain his composure. Rad wondered how many times the agents had heard the story of Keats. They sure hadn't shown any interest on this occasion.

  Rad cleared his throat, looking forward to his drink. The air pulled through the mask was smelly but completely dry.

  "Its
image
, you say?" he asked.

  Nimrod nodded and said nothing.

  "An image of the city. New York City – this place – what? Reflected? Reflected through this Fissure thing. And the people in it. You, for example? Nimrod and Carson, two sides of the same coin."

  Another clap of the hands and the expansive smile. "We will make a private detective of you yet, Mr Bradley. An excellent deduction." He paused, and leaned in, voice low. "Or are you merely, how can I put it, 'playing' with me? You are accepting the facts somewhat easily. Have a care, Mr Bradley. This is no elaborate practical joke."

  Rad shook his head, exaggerating the otherwise natural movement so it would be clear with the rubber hanging off his face.

  "Hey, I've given up fighting." He waved a hand dismissively as he took a long breath. "Carson had a theory about doubles and the Empire State being some kind of Pocket. That runs with your tale. If my city is an image of your city, then this makes New York the Origin. That's the word Carson used."

  "Interesting nomenclature. Pocket is quite accurate. The only place you know of is the Empire State, because the Empire State exists in a pocket. There is nowhere else."

  Rad laughed. "Just the city and the fog. Explains why I could never figure out what was on the other side of the water."

  Nimrod
hrmmed
to himself, and there was a tap on the glass

of the office door. Grieves was a grey shadow behind the bubbles, hunched over a tray. Nimrod glanced at Jones, who sighed, nodded at his boss, and opened the door with complete disinterest. The tray wobbling in Grieves's thin arms held four cups and a tall, narrow pot. Steam rose from the spout, and Rad wished he could smell what it was. He was still smarting from using up his coffee ration prematurely.

  "Thank-you, Mr Grieves," said Nimrod, as his minion set the tray down on the most stable stack of papers on his desk. Nimrod busied himself with the cups, and inclined his head towards the detective. "Help him with the mask, would you? I think we can afford you maybe ten minutes of the freshest air New York City has to offer!"

  Rad gripped the arms of the old wooden chair. He didn't quite know what to expect as Grieves rolled his knuckles and approached. Rad saw Jones smile behind Grieves, then laugh into his fist. He didn't like the Bullethead. This wasn't going to be good.

  Grieves yanked the mask, the straps catching behind Rad's ears. Rad yelled, and instinctively raised his hands to them, then stopped. A wave of relief flooded over him as breathing suddenly became effortless and automatic. He smiled at Grieves, who just shrugged, then looked at Nimrod. Nimrod, at least, returned the smile, and pointed to the jug.

  The aroma, the sweet, sweet smell of coffee. Richer, deeper than he had ever experienced it. Rad could almost taste bitterness at the back of his throat as he took a deep breath, wide nostrils flaring even more. Even with a full coffee ration, it had never smelt like that.

  Rad smiled, licked his lips, and leaned in towards the desk. A second later, his head cracked its edge, and he toppled from the chair onto the cheap carpet of Nimrod's office, white foam bubbling at the corner of his mouth.

• • • •

Rough hands with short fingers gripped Rad under the armpits and hefted him back into the chair. Cold hands with long fingers slapped his cheeks lightly.

  Rad opened his eyes, looked around with a narrow gaze, then widened his eyes in shock. He managed to get his hands to his chest; Nimrod barked something at his agents. Rad's eyes closed and he felt his head pushed backward. A shadow passed over his reddening vision, and when he brought his head to the upright position, he was looking at the world through the steamy goggles of the mask. Each hard-won breath was a battle, tainted with rubber and a chemical odour that stuck in the back of his throat. Each was a blessed relief, easing the buzzing in his head and the knife-hot pricking behind his eyes and the stabbing pain in his chest.

  Nimrod looked relaxed, at ease, sitting back in his reclining office chair, fine porcelain saucer in one hand, fine porcelain cup in the other. He was holding the cup just in front of his mouth, nostrils flaring – as Rad's had done as he enjoyed the rich aroma.

  Rad sighed, coughed, then took a laboured breath. "No coffee?"

  Nimrod shook his head, but he was smiling as he sipped his own drink. Rad closed his eyes and focussed on not coughing.

  "What happened?" he asked at last.

  Nimrod sniffed loudly and set the cup and saucer down on the desk. His chair snapped back into the upright position with a clatter of old springs.

  "This environment takes some getting used to." Nimrod almost sneered as he looked Rad up and down. "For some it takes longer than others." The sneer broke into the grey-yellow toothed smile.

  "What exactly did you want to...
(breath)
... tell me in person anyway?"

  "Nothing that couldn't be relayed via the telephone, but I always like to meet my agents for a face-to-face interview, and I thought it was important you saw me
in vivo
so you could be sure I was who I said I was."

  Rad nodded. It was a fair point. While his week had been odd, to say the least, he was pretty certain that he never would have believed any of it unless he'd been dragged through the Fissure himself to meet Captain Carson's alter ego. He wondered whether the offer of a drink was just a ruse, another demonstration that he was telling the truth about the "incompatibility", as Nimrod had put it, of the Pocket and the Origin.

  "When I went to visit Carson," Rad huffed, "I went looking for answers. For days I've just had hints here and there of something big happening, with me smack in the middle of it all." He paused for breath and raised a hand, indicating to the others that he was not finished. "With Kane not only acting up, but not being around most of the time, Carson was the obvious choice. And I was right, he knows about the Pocket and the Origin."

  Nimrod nodded. "He would, yes."

  Rad shuffled in his chair with impatience. "That's just it. How would he know? He said he had 'probed' the Origin through the Fissure, but he seemed to make some pretty good guesses. How is the Empire State related to this... place, whatever you called it."

  "New York City."

  "Right." Rad nodded and sat back. It wasn't that he hadn't ever heard the name before, it felt like he'd known it well, in childhood, and hadn't heard it for thirty or forty years. Which was impossible, because it was the year Nineteen and he was a forty-four year-old man with no childhood.

  Grieves turned his back to Rad and moved around Nimrod's desk. Nimrod looked up, and leaned his ear towards Grieves as his henchman whispered something quickly. Rad couldn't hear behind the wheezing of his mask, but Nimrod's eyebrows moved around on his forehead as he took the information in. Grieves stood back, and Nimrod nodded, chewing his lip. For the second time, Grieves left the office and closed the door with an almost inaudible
snick.

  "Time is short, Mr Bradley," said Nimrod. "One of the... side effects, you could say, of the Fissure. Time does not necessarily run in parallel between the two cities. We must get you back to the Empire State."

  Rad shook his head vigorously and summoned the strength to stand. He slid his lead-like legs towards the big desk, and practically fell onto his clenched fists. Nimrod jerked back instinctively as the respirator hanging from Rad's face swung towards him with the movement.