Ghosts of Manhattan (8 page)

The bathroom light was still on, throwing a sheet of electric yellow into the room, creating bizarre shadows that seemed to come to life as he crossed the drawing room toward the rear of the apartment. He passed the bedroom door, which hung open, revealing a bed that had been slept in and not made, the sheets thrown back and abandoned. This he ignored, continuing on until he reached another door, almost hidden in the shadows at the far end of the apartment. It was the same as all the others, outwardly at least-four panels, painted with white gloss-save for the fact that nowhere on its surface was there any sign of a handle.

The Ghost approached the door and gave a series of sharp knocks, each one carefully placed and timed to perfection. He paused for a moment. Then, as if in conspiratorial acknowledgement of his secret code, there was a pneumatic hiss from beyond the wooden frame, accompanied by the grinding of gears, and the door eased back from the frame and slid to one side with a metallic clang.

Light flooded the apartment. The Ghost had to shield his eyes for a moment to protect them from the glare. The room beyond the door was bathed in the brilliant radiance of an arc lamp, which curved across the entire extent of the ceiling. There were no windows, but the walls were plastered with drawings and schematics, blueprints and technical diagrams. At the far end was an old wooden writing desk, pushed up against the wall. Its once smooth surface was now covered with a series of pockmarks and scars, and it was piled high with all manner of bizarre paraphernalia, from empty ammo casings to filament wire, steam valves to canisters of propulsion fuel. Likewise, a vast array of equipment and components lined the walls, or was otherwise heaped against them: a rack of long-barreled guns; a plastic bucket of flechettes; two black trench coats; a spare pair of goggles.

He crossed the threshold, bathing himself in the bright light of the arc lamp. This was his workshop: the Ghost's true home.

He'd been an engineer during the war, as well as a pilot, and this was his haven, the place where he was able to create. That he created mostly weapons designed to incapacitate or kill others was a fact that did not sit well with him, but he reconciled this knowledge with the understanding that he wielded those weapons for the right reasons ... and that he always allowed the crooks to shoot first. Violence was the language of the enemy, and he had learned to speak it well.

The Ghost approached the desk and used his left arm to brush away the surface debris with a long, sweeping motion. Papers, batteries, and clockwork components scattered to the floor around his feet in a tinkling shower. Then, his eyes gleaming with the glassy patina of alcohol and enthusiasm, he searched the floor around the desk until he located the device he was looking for. It was almost identical to the flechette launcher he'd been carrying earlier: a long, thin barrel attached to a ratchet mechanism that clipped to his forearm, with a small pneumatic trigger that trailed on a rubber cable and a toploading canister for the ammunition. Unlike the other weapon, however, the barrel of this device had been finely engraved with a thinly traced pattern of roses and thorns. He weighed it in his hands for a moment. Then, popping the lid free of the canister, he tipped the weapon over so that the flechettes inside it spilled out over the desktop in a scatter of shimmering steel. He placed the weapon carefully back on the floor and lowered himself onto a stool, which he extracted from the chaotic mess beneath the desk.

Picking one of the small arrow-shaped blades from the heap, he turned it over in his fingers appraisingly. If they were going to prove effective against the moss golems, he'd have to rethink his approach. He grabbed a small blade from the nearby stack of tools and slipped it between the two metal plates that comprised the flechette. Being careful not to shred his fingers on the razor-sharp rim, he prized the two pieces of metal apart with the blade, just enough so that he could see inside. There was a tiny cavity in the head of the wedge. He smiled with grim satisfaction. He knew what he could do with that.

He dropped the flechette to the desk and stood, heading back into the darkness of the drawing room. When he returned a few moments later he was bearing the half-empty bottle of bourbon. He set it down beside the pile of ammunition and returned to his seat.

It was going to be a long night, and he had much work to do.

he holotube was buzzing. An incessant sound, like a fly caught in an overturned tumbler, trying futilely to escape. Gabriel rolled over and struggled to ignore it. His head was throbbing. He had no idea what time it was, but sunlight was pouring in through the half-open window, and he flinched as he peeled back his eyelids to regard the infernal device on the other side of the bed. His eyes lingered for a moment on the wall clock. Two in the afternoon. He'd only been in bed for a few hours, and he was still wearing his rumpled black suit. He covered his eyes with the crook of his arm and willed the trilling device to stop. Miraculously, it did.

Surprised, but happy in light of this new development, Gabriel rolled over once again and buried his face in the downy pillow. He drifted for a while in a state of delirious coziness, stretching his weary limbs and allowing his heavy eyelids to droop. Then the holotube began ringing again, loudly, and he knew he was in for another long day. At least, whatever was left of the day.

Lifting his head, he glanced at the holotube receiver. Then, with a weary sigh, he swung up and round, pulling himself into a sitting position on the edge of the bed and smoothing his hair with his hands, attempting, ineffectually, to disguise the fact that he had just been woken by the call. He leaned over to the bedside table and flicked the steel lever on the holotube receiver to the "Accept Call" position.

The machine whirred to life. A blue light gradually bloomed into being, accompanied by a sharp electric whine as the receiver unit warmed up to capacity. A moment later, a shimmering, monotone image appeared in the mirrored cavity, and Gabriel couldn't disguise the smile that appeared on his lips when he saw who was calling. Celeste. She was smirking, knowingly, and was dressed in a long, pale dress that traced her curves from her neckline all the way down to her ankles. She was smoking a cigarette.

"I figured you must have been asleep."

"I was." Gabriel grinned. "And now I'm awake."

Celeste was silent for a moment. "You look a mess, Gabriel. Did you sleep in that suit?"

"I hardly slept at all." He looked around absently for his cigarette case, and then, patting his pockets, discovered that it was still inside his jacket. He slipped it out and withdrew a cigarette. "Have you realized quite how often you open a conversation by telling me how terrible I look?"

"Have you realized how often you look terrible?" was her swift retort. The singer leaned in closer to the transmitting terminal and the holographic image suddenly fractured, becoming nothing but a blur of light and motion before resolving once again, this time to reveal a stunning close-up of her face, a portrait of pure light. She was wearing a concerned expression. Her eyes darted about as she tried to get a better look at him. Gabriel couldn't help but smile; she was never more attractive to him than when she showed her true self, revealed her emotions through her oft-impenetrable mask of lipstick and rouge. He wondered if others saw it; knew they must. "Is that a bloody lip?"

Gabriel took a long draw on his cigarette. "I suppose you wouldn't believe me if I told you I'd been fighting for your honor?"

"No. I wouldn't."

He laughed. "To tell you the truth, it's all a bit hazy. I had a runin with that `Ghost' chap. You know, the one in all the papers."

Celeste offered him an incredulous look. "Now I know you're lying."

Gabriel gave his best impression of looking hurt. "Well, perhaps `run-in' is a little strong. I nearly hit him with my car. I was on my way to Joe's and the damn fool ran straight out in front of me. I had to slam the brakes on. Managed to give my face a good knocking on the steering wheel. Bashed my hand, too."

Celeste leaned back from the transmitter, revealing a little more of the soft flesh around her throat. It was adorned with a string of pearls. Gabriel had bought them for her a few weeks earlier. She blinked. "What did he do?"

"He leaned on the hood and stared directly at me, right at my face, and then he just carried on, as if nothing had happened. To tell you the truth, it was terrifying. Shook me up." He puffed on his cigarette. "He looked like he'd been in a fight."

Celeste glanced at something-or someone-just out of sight of the holotube transmitter. "So you drove home instead of coming to the club." She seemed distracted.

Gabriel nodded. "That's about the long and the short of it. Knocked back a couple of whiskies to numb the pain, and then called it a night."

Celeste watched him, silently.

"You know I would have been there if I'd felt up to it."

No response.

"Look, where are you? I can come back into town now. We could have lunch."

Celeste laughed. "It's two o'clock, Gabriel. I've had lunch. Besides, by the time you get here I'll be preparing for tonight's show."

Gabriel dropped the stub of his spent cigarette into the half-empty glass of water by the side of the holotube terminal. It fizzed for a moment and went out. He was glad it was out of sight of the blinking lens that reflected his image down the receiver. "Tonight. That's it, then. I'll come tonight. I'll attend to things here and come over."

Celeste gave a wry smile. "Be sure not to hit any wayward vigilantes on your drive."

Gabriel shrugged. "I'll take the train."

She laughed. "You know where to find me." The link went dead, leaving him with nothing but a low burr.

"I certainly do," he said aloud, before reaching for the whisky bottle he'd abandoned earlier that morning, pulling the stopper free, and taking a long slug.

The train that ran from Long Island to Manhattan was a vast, gleaming masterpiece of modern engineering. Constructed around a shell of iron, it had a tip like a snub-nosed bullet capped with a carapace of shining white ceramic. The carriages snaked in a long procession, linked by joints of reinforced rubber, forming one continuous, open space within. Unlike the more traditional locomotives that still crisscrossed most of the country, the Long Island train had abandoned its reliance on steam and coal. Instead, the engineers had adopted a powerful pneumatic engine, created during the war for transporting missiles along the coast, but now relegated to shuffling people back and forth to the city. The result was a powerful, reliable, high-speed means of traveling to Manhattan Island, and Gabriel hated every moment of it.

It wasn't the speed of the thing, nor the discomfort; a first-class ticket commanded a particularly high standard of travel, and Gabriel could easily afford it. It was simply the fact that he was too enamored by the sense of control he felt when he sat behind the wheel of his own car to care for the relatively passive experience of being a passenger on the train. He couldn't abide the notion that he was placing his own destiny in the hands of other people; no matter how unreasonable he knew that notion to be. He felt affronted by it, as if it somehow eroded him, made him lesser in some tiny way. It was a hangover from the war, from the horrible things that had happened to him over there, in Europe. Those experiences had left him feeling impatient, unwilling to concede control. Perhaps that was why he had a tendency to sabotage his own happiness. Perhaps.

Like most of the lost generation, Gabriel Cross was damaged, irrevocably scarred. The difference was that he recognized the fact, and embraced it. It was this that had prevented him from going insane. But even that, he knew, was debatable.

Stifling a yawn, he disembarked onto the platform, stopping to button his overcoat against the brisk winter chill. Behind him the engine sighed majestically, as if weary after its long journey, and the platform suddenly swelled with jostling people as the carriage disgorged the remains of its charge.

He stood for a moment, watching the crowds of people as they swarmed toward the exit, one after another, just like a flock of birds. His hand dropped almost involuntarily into his pocket, fingers probing for the item he had secreted there earlier. He found it, and the cold, hard feel of it was reassuring. His service revolver. It was an old weapon, now, basic compared to the more advanced designs of recent years, but it had never let him down, and he carried it with him whenever he came to the city. Or rather, whenever he came to Joe's.