The Age Atomic (3 page)

 

FOUR

 

Cold, cold like the grave.

Evelyn smiled, like she could remember what cold was. She knew it was cold because that's all everyone was talking about on the radio and on the television. Evelyn could read the waves of electromagnetic radiation as they bounced between the skyscrapers of Manhattan; she could see,
feel,
any and all energy. Eventually she'd worked out how to read the information encoded within some of it. Sometimes she regretted her ability, when the barrage of energy packets become a cacophony, a noise so loud she thought she would go insane. She could block it all out, if she really concentrated, but if there was one sensation that remained to her it was fatigue. Blocking out the noise cost energy, and she had precious little to spare to stop herself falling out of the world. So most of the time she swam through the noise as she ran to keep up with the world as it moved away from her.

People had asked her about it all, back at the beginning. She was fascinating and she was pitiful, but although they'd all felt sorry for her for a while, time passed and they got bored. And then she'd had to make them take notice, and take notice they did. She hadn't realized she had that ability, not at first, but it made sense. Any and all energy was available to her. She was energy herself, the quantum signature of a person burnt into the fabric of the universe. She could, she discovered, do almost anything, and finally people noticed. The United States soon had their own secret weapon, a sentient, intelligent, “living” nuclear deterrent: Evelyn McHale.

The people who knew what she was called her the Girl Who Fell. To others, including the inhabitants of New York who had accidentally seen her as she went about her business on behalf of the government of the United States – or when she wandered through the city on her own, trying to reconnect to the world – she had another name: the Ghost of Gotham.

Wandering, watching. As she was now.

Evelyn McHale floated six inches from the ground on the banks of the East River in the cold night, running with all her might to keep up with the world, trying to remember what winter felt like.

She listened to the lapping of the water and to the creak of boats moored on the docks nearby. She listened to the rats in the subway and the fish in the river and an argument five miles away, somewhere in Brooklyn. Evelyn couldn't remember the last time she'd been in Brooklyn, the last time she'd left Manhattan, the last time she'd done a lot of things. When she tried to remember her old life it just came back to
that day
, and she remembered that day well enough, although she wished she didn't.

Maybe it didn't matter. Time wasn't particularly relevant to her anymore. She existed outside of time, one step to the left of the world. But she could look back in, at the past, the present, the future. She remembered how time mattered a lot to the world around her and the people in it, which is why she kept count. She watched the world age, sensed the fatigue growing in the concrete and steel and glass and rock of the city.

She counted the decay of atoms in space, and she smiled.

She could do a lot of things since
that day.
 

Evelyn moved forward, floating a little higher into the air and gliding towards the water's edge. As she moved, the soft blue glow that constantly surrounded her grew in intensity as she forced the universe to do her bidding.

She remembered living in the city, one of millions who did just that. She remembered enjoying the crowds, the feeling that she was part of something. And she remembered it all being too much, and the decision that had to be made.

And now she was alone. Alone and falling, again, although this time not from a tall building but from time and space.

Evelyn floated forward, out into the middle of the river, hovering one hundred feet in the air. Her aura flared brilliant blue as she pushed at the world, and she turned, looking out across the city on both sides of the water.

So many people, going about their lives, some long, some short.

People were watching. She could feel them, feel their fear as they caught a glimpse of the Ghost of Gotham. Of course, her occasional excursions drove important people wild in Washington, but that didn't matter. She loved the city, and sometimes she had to go out and see it again.

People were watching in Brooklyn, and they were watching in Manhattan. Phones were ringing, and there was chatter on police radios. Someone had called the coastguard. A dozen people were scrambling for cameras, and four newspaper reporters were right now pulling coats over their pajamas as they raced to get the scoop.

She had to admit, she sometimes enjoyed the effect her presence had on others, on the living, the way her appearances in the city got attention. She listened as word spread, as heartbeats all over town kicked up a notch, as people told their neighbors to shut the hell up and as others began to pray.

Evelyn McHale, the Ghost of Gotham. If only they knew what she
really
was.

Fear. She wanted to visit everyone in the city, nod and smile and say
yes, yes you should be afraid.
Fear was powerful, primal. Although the universe was getting further and further away from her, her connection getting fainter and fainter, fear was her ally, its own special kind of energy that she could use, that helped her keep up with the world.

A boat approached, and someone with a camera had arrived at the nearby dock, aiming his lens at the glowing blue woman floating over the river.

Evelyn sighed. She didn't need to breathe but she remembered how to sigh. She remembered sighing on
that
day. She remembered the effect that gravity had on her mass. She remembered the fall, the spin, watching the curve of the Earth, the vertigo, the fear, the hope, the blue of the sky and the grey of the ground and then the light, the light, the light. She remembered her hope that the Skyguard would save her evaporating as she remembered that there wasn't a Skyguard, that there hadn't been for years, that New York was unprotected. New York was protected now, of course. The whole country was. She'd taken up the job herself.

Evelyn sighed again, and then she was gone.

 

FIVE

 

It was blue and beautiful and dangerous, and Captain Nimrod never tired of looking at it. Perhaps it was his imagination, but standing in the light of the Fissure, he felt… invigorated? Not quite the right word.
Young
. That was it. In the light of the Fissure he felt young, and while he knew that was just his imagination, an impossibility according to the scientists employed by the Department to study the crack in space/time, that didn't stop Nimrod closing his eyes and enjoying the warm bath of energy that swirled in the air around him.

And it made sense, really it did. The Fissure emitted energies that he and his fellow scientists could barely comprehend, although he understood more than the others. Perhaps the energy from the Fissure
was
making him feel young as it bathed every cell in his body with deadly light, and one day he would simply drop dead, or perhaps do something unexpected like explode over his morning coffee.

Perhaps, perhaps. Nimrod opened his eyes and watched the Fissure in both fear and fascination.

Around the edge of the concrete disc in Battery Park, the usual complement of MPs stood. Nimrod wondered if they felt it too. Usually they guarded the Fissure while it was inside its armored egg-like shell. Opening the shell, exposing the moving,
living
space-time event was a special, rare event.

Nimrod stroked his mustache. Of course, there was someone else who knew as much about the Fissure as he did: one Captain Carson, native of the Empire State. And right now Nimrod wished his counterpart from the Pocket would make contact. But the Fissure roared and roiled and…

And there was nothing on the other side. It was a glitch, a temporary disturbance on the time-space conduit that linked New York City to the Empire State. That was all, had to be. An entire universe – even a small, city-sized one such as the Empire State – couldn't just vanish.

Could it?

Nimrod brushed his mustache again. He couldn't send any more agents through. It was futile; none had yet returned, not even one of his most trusted men, Mr Jones. Were they dead? Nimrod felt a tightness in his chest, knowing that he would be to blame if that were the case, having sent his own agents to their deaths across a portal between universes with nothing on the other side.

But the other methods of transdimensional travel weren't working either. The hall of mirrors back at the Department was just that, a hall lined with mirrors. Nimrod's team had even tried reversing the electrical charge that danced so delicately across the polished metal surfaces, enough potential energy there to fill your mouth with the taste of vinegar, but to no avail. Nimrod and the others had stood and watched their own reflections for weeks before Nimrod had taken to staring at the Fissure itself. It was prettier than his reflection, for a start.

But it was no different in Battery Park, staring into the void between this world and the next. The Fissure was active and stable and unchanged, but there was nothing on the other side. The connection with the Empire State had been lost.

“Sir,” said the MP. Nimrod turned away from the Fissure and instantly missed it.

The Fissure was addictive. Nimrod knew that, and the scowl vanished from his face. The MP looked nervous behind the black goggles they all wore. Nimrod made a note to get himself a pair for the next visit.

“Sir,” the MP said again, his voice low and discreet.

“Yes?” Nimrod wondered how long, exactly, he'd been standing in Battery Park. The Fissure played tricks with your mind, with time.

“
She
is asking for you.”

Nimrod blinked, then nodded. “Very well.”

“There's this too, sir.” The MP handed Nimrod a newspaper. It was fresh, the paper crisp and warm between his fingers. Nimrod cast an eye over the headline on the front page above a blurred black and white photo that showed nothing much except something white floating in the air against the background of what looked like Brooklyn at night.

The MP stood back and saluted, then turned and marched away. Nimrod frowned, folded the newspaper into quarters, and followed.

It was best not the keep the Ghost of Gotham waiting.

 

SIX

 

The air was still and as cold as a slap in the face as Rad pulled the collar of his trench coat up and the brim of his hat down. The streets were slick with a thin layer of dangerous black ice, the gutters and the corners of buildings piled with a dry, sand-like scattering of snow, the kind you only got when it had been cold a real long time.

And it had been cold a real long time.

Rad sniffed the air and immediately regretted it, the sudden sting of ice like a firecracker exploding in his nostrils. He exhaled into the collar of his coat and dragged his scarf up over his mouth and nose.

The Empire State was freezing up and here he was, venturing into unknown territory in the dead of night on the back of nothing but a weird phone call. Just like old times.

He'd parked his car a few blocks south, where there were at least some people and light, but as he'd walked it had got darker and darker, as if the city was fading away, dying as he went north. Come at night, the mystery caller had said, as it wasn't safe during the day. It sounded backward, but Rad had kept to the letter of the instructions. He hiked north on foot, through streets a little wider than he was used to, among buildings a little lower than he felt comfortable with.

Rad crossed the deserted street and paused.

He was being followed, but the person doing the following was hardly a professional. The attempt to match his own footsteps to Rad's was poor.

No problem. Rad thrust his hands into the pockets of his coat. In his left, his fingers curled around the short metal rod taken from the deceased – deactivated? – robot gangster, Cliff. In his right, his fingers curled around the handle of his gun.

Rad kept walking, slowly at first and then speeding up. He broke his step and heard the person behind him pause, so he stopped and turned on his heel, but the street was dark with plenty of shadows for people to hide in. Rad saw nothing, and the night was silent.

Rad mentally counted off the bullets in his gun as he recalled loading it that afternoon. He wondered how accurate it was and over what distance; it really was a small gun designed for point-blank defense, and he hadn't had much of a chance to test it.

If this was Harlem at night – the
safe
time to visit – then during the day it must be a virtual no-mans-land.

Rad pulled his collar higher and kept walking. He had somewhere to go, and someone to meet.

Kane Fortuna.

Rad shook his head and kept his eyes on the sidewalk. Kane had returned? Was the caller telling the truth? Rad dared to hope he would see his friend again: Kane Fortuna, the
Sentinel's
former star reporter, with a misguided career as the Skyguard cut short by a little trip through the Fissure. That was eighteen months ago, and despite searches on both sides of the dimensional divide in New York and the Empire State, his body had never been found.

Rad had assumed Kane was dead, that if you went into the Fissure on one side and didn't come out the other, then the universe had chewed you up and that was that. Maybe he'd been too quick to jump to that conclusion, but he really wasn't sure what else he was supposed to think.

Rad picked up the pace as he thought about his old friend. If Kane was alive and well, Rad was prepared to forgive him the naivety that had led him to be influenced by the wrong side. Rad knew Kane; they would talk, and Kane would listen, and they'd work everything out.

Maybe. Rad tightened his grip on the gun in his pocket, and turned a corner. Ahead, on the opposite side of the street, the neon sign of a tavern glowed, a rainbow halo thrown around it as the ice crystals hanging in the air reflected the light.

Rad needed a drink, and some time to think, and a chance to lose his tail.

Smiling beneath his scarf, he skipped up to the door, and went inside.

 

The tavern was the same as any that Rad had ever been in. Though, if he thought about it, the only establishment he'd ever been in was Jerry's, near his office, despite the fact that there was no Prohibition anymore and the sale and consumption of alcohol no longer attracted the death penalty. But Rad liked Jerry's and wasn't interested in trying anywhere else. Jerry was also rather accommodating when it came to the matter of his tab.

The place was empty, save a barman in a blue shirt, his back to the room. Rad checked his watch, which showed it was eleven in the evening. Maybe the night was young in Harlem. If the daytime was dangerous, then maybe it was at night when it all came to life, like Harlem was operating on an opposing timetable to the rest of the Empire State. Maybe, thought Rad, he'd been a little early, which would explain the person following him and the lack of patrons in the tavern.

Rad slunk to the bar, took off his hat, and unwrapped his scarf as he perched on a stool. Rad waited a moment while the barman did a fine job of ignoring the only customer in the joint, then he tapped his fingers on the bar.

The barman turned to face him, wiping a glass with a towel. He was a young man, his features sharp, his eyes narrow and his hair so greasy it made Rad's own shaved scalp crawl. He looked like he was chewing something, but whether it was gum or a bad attitude, Rad wasn't sure.

“You open?” Rad said. It wasn't the best icebreaker, but he was nervous, more nervous than he realized. He'd been followed through what had felt like a completely empty, alien world. He didn't like it, and now he had a surly barman to contend with.

“Yeah, we're open,” said the barman. Rad tried a smile and the barman returned the expression, although it didn't look that friendly. He was still chewing something, and when he smiled the wet sound was loud and clear. The man's teeth were filthy, and as the saliva squeaked around them Rad saw that it was dark, nearly black. “What can I get for ya?”

Rad frowned, wondering how hygienic this establishment was. He decided to go for something safe.

“Coffee. Lots of sugar.”

The barman's smile widened and his nod this time was different, the nod of a man appreciating a fine choice. He even said the same as he straightened up and vanished through a door behind the bar.

Rad reached into his pocket to retrieve his wallet and his hand found the metal rod. He pulled it out and peered at it in the low light.

“Hey, where did you get that?”

The barman had returned, steaming cup of coffee in one hand. He was frozen in the doorway, his eyes wide, locked on the object in Rad's hand.

Rad held the thing up by one end but before he could say anything, the barman dumped the coffee on the bar, spilling nearly half of it, and reached across to push Rad's hand away. Rad snatched the rod close to his chest.

“Hey!”

“Put that damn thing away, Jesus,” said the barman. He kept his hands out, his eyes scanning the empty bar behind his single customer. He was breathing heavily and quickly.

“You know what it is?” asked Rad.

The barman leaned across the bar, his face an inch away from Rad's. Rad grimaced; the barman's breath was hot and smelled of acetone. As he leaned back, Rad saw the barman's eyes were bloodshot. The man was either sick or high on something.

“It doesn't matter what it is,” said the barman. “It belongs to him, to one of his machines.”

“Who?”

The barman was very still, his eyes on Rad's. Rad raised an eyebrow and the barman nodded.

“You don't want nothing to do with him,” he said.

Rad shook his head and slid off the stool. Enough was enough. As he moved, the barman jerked forward again and grabbed Rad's forearm tightly. Rad shook it off.

“Bud,” said the barman, “you wanna watch yourself. It's not safe.”

“So I've been told,” said Rad.

The barman flicked his head at the object in Rad's hand. “You're not from round here, are you?”

“Downtown,” said Rad.

The barman pursed his lips like he was going to whistle appreciatively. He leaned in to Rad, like a conspirator. Rad found himself getting closer to the man, his nose assaulted by the acidic smell of his breath.

“I heard things were rough,
downtown
.” The barman said it like it was another place altogether. As far as Rad had seen, that seemed to be exactly the case.

“That so?”

The barman nodded, his eyes glazing over, almost like Rad wasn't there. He chewed and swallowed and spoke.

“Yeah, man, I heard there were riots, and that they'd tried to storm the Empire State Building.” The barman tried to whistle but his lips did nothing but pass a narrow current of air through them. The tang of acetone was strong and Rad couldn't stop his nose crinkling.

“I heard there was a
hijack,
” the barman said. “I heard the police tried to come down on a crowd in an aerostat, but the people, they stormed the ship and took it over and were flying it around the place.” He moved his hands in the air, clearly impressed.

Rad said nothing. The barman was right; since the cold had set in and Carson had abandoned his post, the city was full of disturbances.

There was a light in the barman's eyes. “I heard there were others, in the city. Y'know? From the
other side
. Infiltrators, all secret-like, on the down-low. Coming in and stirring things up, right? Trying to overthrow the Commissioner, get their own kind in.”

“The other side?” asked Rad.

“Yeah.” That fire again, fighting its way out of the barman's bloodshot eyes. “I heard they were called ‘Communists'. From New York.”

Rad frowned. “
Com-you-what-now
?”

“The
Reds…”
The barman almost whispered it, and let it hang in the air along with the stench of his breath.

The man was deranged, whatever the hell it was he was chewing pickling his brain. So he'd heard the news from downtown, about the riots and protests, but infiltrators from New York? The Fissure had closed.

Time to change to subject. Rad pulled the metal rod out again but kept it close to his chest. As soon as it came into view, the barman's eyes widened again and they darted around the empty bar.

“Jesus, mister, you gonna give me palpitations, I'm telling ya.”

Rad's eyebrow went up again. “You know someone called Geiger?”

The barman shook his head, quickly. “Never heard of no Geiger, but then I don't know his real name.”

The mystery man. Rad's caller, he had no doubt about it.

“Who?”

The chewing paused, and this time the barman ran his hand through his greasy hair.

“Either you're playin' me, or you're about to walk into the spider's parlor with a clue, mister.”

“I came here because I was asked to,” said Rad, raising the tube to his eye line. “Someone wants this back. Sounds like you know who.”

“Oh, mister, mister,” said the barman, backing away and holding his hands up like Rad was asking him to open the register and start counting bills. “You gotta turn around now. Go back downtown.”

“What's so bad about uptown? Who lives up there?”

“Mister, everyone knows. Maybe not
downtown
, but around here, nothing goes on that doesn't have something to do with the King.”

Rad sniffed and placed the rod on the bar. The barman's eyes were glued to it. Rad watched the barman as he slowly spun the rod on the damp wood top.

“Who's the King?”

“Come on, mister!”

Rad stopped moving the rod and waited until the barman dragged his eyes from it to Rad's.

“Who is the King?” said Rad with more force.

The barman shook his head and dragged the towel off his shoulder only to slap it back across the other. He folded his arms and nodded again. “You must know who he is, if you said he wants that back.”

“Can't say I caught his name.”

The barman shook his head again. “King isn't his name. King is what he
is
. The King of 125th Street.”

Rad smiled. “Seems a funny place to be king of.”

The barman didn't seem to like this. His eyes hardened and the thin smile vanished. “But that's where he told you to go, right?”

Rad held his breath for a moment, then let it out slowly. The creepy barman was right. The instructions had been simple: come to 125th Street, come at night. That was all Rad had got. He'd looked it up on a map back in his office but the map hadn't shown anything except a street like any other, running across the upper part of the city, west to east, at a bit of an angle.

“The King of 125th Street…” said Rad, mostly to himself, but his words elicited more vigorous nodding from the barman.

“Lives in a castle.”

Rad glanced up from the bar to the barman. “Lives in a… castle?”

“There's a light on the top sometimes, green one.”

“Huh,” said Rad. He was getting closer. Whoever this King was, he was involved with something fishy involving robot gangsters and a warehouse full of strange equipment and an army of tin soldiers. He could pay the King a little visit, find out more, and take the information to Jennifer Jones.

“But, mister, come on,” said the barman, pleading. “You gotta go home. Toss that thing in the river and forget you ever came to Harlem.”

Rad smiled and pocketed the rod. He lifted his hat from the bar and placed it on his head. The hat was still cold from being outdoors, and Rad could felt the moisture on the rim against his scalp. Rad patted the pocket of his trench coat, feeling the dead weight of the pistol in it. “Don't worry about me. I can take care of myself.”