The Age Atomic (5 page)

 

NINE

 

Nimrod stepped into the elevator, surrounded by expensive walnut panels and men in suits. He glanced up, as he always did when he entered the main elevator of the Chrysler Building, and admired the silver mirrored Art Deco sunburst design on the ceiling. He looked at his own reflection, twisted by the design of the mirror, and took a deep breath, trying to remove the fear, uncertainty, and doubt from his face.

It had been only a short walk from the Empire State Building, where his own Department was hidden on the middle levels behind a company nameplate that said Tisiphone Realty – apparently nothing more than a upmarket, private real estate firm that handled the kinds of accounts that came from countries rich in oil, with clients who liked to vacuum up little parcels of the United States without much fanfare.
That the
other
department should be secreted in another famous New York landmark seemed appropriate, although their particular choice of office was unusual.

Atoms for Peace, founded by President Dwight D. Eisenhower. An olive branch offering of scientific cooperation and endeavor that stretched out across even the Iron Curtain. But in reality, a secret government department, an initiative to research technologies “acquired” from the Empire State, with the aim of building a defense against… well, Nimrod wasn't entirely clear on that point and neither, it seemed, was Eisenhower. Granting Atoms for Peace carte blanche had only turned the new organization into the blackest of secret government agencies.

That they were tasked with handling research related to the Fissure and beyond was what bothered Nimrod. The Fissure was, well, it was
his.
He knew more about it than anyone else, in this dimension anyway.

He didn't like Atoms for Peace, and he knew the feeling was mutual.

From the offices of Tisiphone Realty, Nimrod could see the Chrysler Building. He stood at the window often, watching. He wondered if the Director of Atoms for Peace, the remarkable Ms Evelyn McHale, did the same from the Cloud Club, the former cocktail lounge at the top of the Chrysler Building that Atoms for Peace had co-opted into their headquarters. He didn't really think she did; from what he'd heard, Ms McHale had something of a phobia when it came to the Empire State Building. Perhaps that was part of the problem she had with him, and the Department.

Nimrod glanced at the men around him. There were five agents – two standing behind, one posted on his left and one on his right, and one in front. They each wore a black suit; each had a narrow black tie against a starched white shirt. Each wore a hat, black, of course. They were not Secret Service, but they did a fairly good impression. They were certainly better dressed than his own agents, but then his own agents had to melt into the general populace. Atoms for Peace were different. Their agents rarely made public appearances.

Nimrod wondered what his escort was for, exactly. The agents certainly weren't for his protection (not inside their own headquarters) and they certainly weren't for
hers
. The agents who stood around him in the elevator – and Nimrod, too – were nothing but insects to her, as was every other human who inhabited the city, inhabited the whole country.

Nimrod stroked his mustache in thought and the elevator glided to a halt, a bell announcing their arrival.

The doors slid apart, revealing an elegant lobby swathed in maroon carpet, the walls heavy with more of the walnut paneling. The lead agent stepped forward, Nimrod following and finding himself ankle-deep in the carpet pile. He heard the other agents' feet swoosh as they walked behind him.

Opposite the elevator, across the lobby, was a large set of double doors, the bottom third of which were more of the beautiful walnut. The upper two thirds were frosted glass panels, acid-etched with sunburst rays and other geometric shapes. To a casual eye, they looked like just more of the Art Deco theme that filled the entire building. To Nimrod, the designs were a little off, a modern copy somehow altered.

Captain Nimrod glanced to the agent on his right, and saw the man was sweating inside his elegant suit. Nimrod smiled to himself. They were afraid. Nimrod was too – how could you not be, when you were about to have an audience with the ghost of a woman who had appeared as a glowing blue terror after the Fissure had almost been destroyed eighteen months ago, her phantom somehow expelled from the shadowlands between dimensions, granted with the appalling power to see and to interfere with the universe on a subatomic level.

Nimrod tapped his foot in the absurdly deep carpet as they waited. Finally, one of the double doors opened, and another man in a black suit nodded to the lead agent. He glanced at the party, and then looked Nimrod in the eye.

“The Director will see you now.”

 

The Cloud Club had been among the city's finest, most exclusive establishments. In the early days, Nimrod himself had received numerous invitations to attend functions there, but he was never comfortable in social engagements, and besides, he preferred to drink his scotch at ground level. Over the years, as he worked at the Empire State Building just a few blocks away, probing the mystery of the Fissure and what lay beyond, the fortunes of the Cloud Club declined as the Great Depression and then the Second World War took their toll. The top of the Chrysler Building had been closed for several years by the time Atoms for Peace were brought into existence.

The main clubroom had been left untouched: a cavernous space interrupted at intervals by dark square marble pillars, with ceilings two floors high. One wall was nearly entirely glass. The wall opposite was covered with a continuous mural depicting the cityscape in minute detail. Nimrod had no doubt that club patrons had spent many an hour studying the illustrated city while behind them, through the glass, the real thing winked in the night.

The room, once filled with tables, was occupied now by a single desk, standard government issue, at one end. Two Cloud Club armchairs sat in front of it.

Nimrod walked towards the desk, studying the mural behind it. This section was an enlargement, a stylized rendering of the Empire State Building that took up nearly the whole wall. Nimrod smiled and took a seat.

The room was empty, the agent who had opened the door having decided to wait with his colleagues in the lobby. Nimrod crossed his legs and let his eyes wander over the mural. He felt his back teeth begin to ache, and he held his breath.

“Captain Nimrod, so good of you to come.”

Nimrod's smile was tight, his teeth clenched against the pain spreading along his jawline. He knew the pain would subside shortly. It was always like this.

She stepped out of the corner of the room on Nimrod's left. There was no door there, just the two murals meeting in a slight shadow cast by the nearest marble column. One moment Nimrod was alone, the next he was not. No matter how many times he had an audience with the Director of Atoms for Peace, her sudden appearances unnerved him.

She glided forward an inch from the floor, glowing only slightly. Nimrod wondered if she was making an effort to fit in, though if so it was a token attempt. Her tweed suit was out of date, monochrome, like something from a film, as was the matching hat and lace veil. Nobody had dressed like that in years.

Nimrod's fear melted, replaced by sadness. He felt sorry for her. She wasn't alive, and yet here she was, doomed to an eternity of slavery to the Federal Government. It was no wonder she looked miserable behind her veil.

“Director, a pleasure as always,” said Nimrod, and it was a lie but he didn't think she noticed. He didn't think she ever did.

Evelyn glided closer to Nimrod, keeping her back to the Empire State Building mural. He found himself sitting up a little straighter, his heart beating a little faster. He couldn't imagine what it must be like to work with her. It was bad enough just being in the same building. Although he really didn't know where she spent most of her time.

Which reminded him…

“There have been reports of another sighting,” he said. Then he steepled his fingers and brought them to his lips. “The Ghost of Gotham, as I believe they call you. It is on the front page of both the
New York Courier
and
The Record
.”

Her mouth curled into a smile. Nimrod wasn't sure he liked it when she smiled.

“I didn't plan it to be quite so public,” she said. She turned in the air and floated over to the long wall. She reached out, her fingers trailing the line of the East River.

Nimrod frowned and stood, moving to join her at the wall. He drew breath to speak but she tapped the wall with her finger, making the mural go slightly out of focus around the contact point. Nimrod felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

Evelyn jerked away from the wall and looked at the Captain. Nimrod blinked and shrank back; her eyes were bright and clear with an impossible and terrifying depth and lit with something fierce and blue. A light with which he was intimately familiar. The light of the Fissure.

“Our department operates with the upmost secrecy,” she said, her lips in a sly grin and her blue eyes unblinking, “but sometimes I need to… go out. See things for myself. Reconnect.”

Nimrod pursed his lips. Conversations with Ms McHale were frustratingly vague.

“You called me here, Director,” he said. “And while I am happy to oblige, I do have a department of my own to run. If we could perhaps progress to the matter in hand, whatever that may be?”

Evelyn floated away from the mural, towards the windows opposite.

“Change is coming, Nimrod. Neither you nor I can stop this. A moment is approaching, one in which we will both have roles to play.”

Nimrod brushed his mustache with a thick index finger as he considered.

“I'm not sure I understand.”

Evelyn turned in the air so they were facing each other. The smile was back.

“War is coming, Nimrod. You must be prepared. We all must.”

Nimrod felt the color drain from his face. “War? With whom?”

Evelyn laughed, the light of the Fissure sparking in her eyes and making Nimrod's jaw hurt. Her blue aura grew, and Nimrod stumbled backwards, each blink of his eyes casting a fiery negative image of McHale inside his lids.

“The Empire State, Captain. Soon we will be at war with the Empire State.”

Nimrod felt dizzy. He rubbed at his forehead and tried to blink away the afterimage of McHale's glow, but it was no use. He felt ill. Suddenly the world made no sense.

He stumbled forward and grabbed the top of the nearest armchair.

But at least it seemed the Empire State still existed on the other side of the Fissure. The disconnection was temporary.

“What–”

There was a knock at the door, and one of the black-suited agents entered. Nimrod tried to focus on him, on the faint red line on his forehead from where his hat had so recently sat, but his vision was obscured by the echo of Evelyn's aura.

“Director,” said the agent, “it is time for your briefing with the doctor.”

McHale floated towards her agent, and Nimrod saw the man shift slightly on his feet.

McHale nodded. “Please show Captain Nimrod back to the world.”

The agent held out his hand, gesturing towards the main doors. Nimrod turned back towards Evelyn, but she was gone. The pair were alone in the Cloud Club.

Nimrod frowned, and turned to the agent.

“Do you ever get used to that?”

The agent smiled but shook his head. He gestured to the door again. “This way, sir.”

 

TEN

 

Rad turned away from the window. He was standing in the lobby of a disused theater, and all he could see outside was the outline of a street and buildings, empty of cars and people – and robots, thank goodness – all bathed in a deep emerald light. He rubbed his eyes, and green spots danced in his vision.

“What's with the green light?” he asked.

Their rescuer, the driver of the remarkable car, was silent, standing between Rad and Jennifer. The giant fur coat was gone, revealing a chauffeur's uniform, complete with knee-high boots and jodhpurs. The only thing missing was a hat, but considering the driver's rounded metal face and two goggle eyes, even Rad thought that might look a little silly.

The driver was another robot – built to drive the car, it seemed, not for conversation.

“Talkative, isn't he?” said Jennifer. She looked the driver up and down, but the robot ignored her. Rad wondered if it had been switched off.

The car had brought them up to the theater, which sat in front of the tall building Rad and Jennifer had assumed was the King's Harlem fortress. The awning was in still in place over the entrance, but the signage above was old and mostly missing, only three letters – an “A”, and then after a gap two “L”s together – visible above the empty marquee.

The driver had led them inside to the theater's lobby, where they now stood. Ahead of them was the remains of a concession stand or ticket counter, and on the left and right shallow, elegant stairs wound their way up and around, vanishing into the darkness of the upper level.

“Anyone home?” Rad's voice echoed.

“Rad!”

Rad turned and saw Jennifer facing the stairs on the right. She pointed as a figure broke away from the shadows.

“Detective, detective,” said the man trotting to meet them. He grabbed Rad's hand with both of his own and pumped the detective's arm up and down with some vigor. “Why, you made it! Safe and sound, safe and sound. I'm so pleased to see you!”

Rad sniffed, and put on a smile, at least until he figured out what the hell was going on. The newcomer was perhaps in his early sixties, his grey hair cut so short that it stood on end, with a neat beard trimmed into a triangle so precise it looked lethal. He was wearing a suit of dark blue velvet, double-breasted, with a brown shirt underneath and an orange handkerchief in the pocket that matched the color of his tie.

The man was smiling from ear to ear. Rad scratched his chin.

“Ah, yeah, hi there,” he said. He nodded at Jennifer. “I don't think you've met my friend.”

The man's eyes lit up and his smile grew wider, stretching into an almost open-mouthed expression of delight. He placed one arm behind his back, executed a theatrical bow, and took one of Jennifer's hands in his own, gently drawing it to his lips.

“M'lady,” he said, breathlessly. “Charmed, I'm sure, Miss…?”

Jennifer pulled her hand carefully away from the man's grip.

“Special Agent Jennifer Jones,” she said. The man's eyes widened.

“Oh, splendid, splendid,” he said. Rad didn't like the way he wouldn't take his eyes off Jennifer. He cleared his throat.

“Would you be the, ah, King of 125th Street?”

The man turned and clicked his heels together. “I have the pleasure of holding such high office, Detective Bradley.” He clasped his hands behind his back and looked between Rad and Jennifer, his face split with a grin. “I'm so glad you could make it. Really, I am.”

Jennifer shook her head. “We're here on official business, sir.”

The man's smile didn't falter. He looked Jennifer up and down and then winked at Rad without trying to hide it. Rad raised an eyebrow.

“I was only expecting one, of course,” said the King. He clicked his tongue and glanced back at Jennifer. “But I'm not one to complain about such pleasant company.”

“Ah, yeah,” said Rad. “Pardon me for saying, sir, but you don't look like much of a king.”

The King laughed. “Well, it takes all sorts, my man…” He looked down and seemed to study the carpet. Rad sighed and exchanged a look with Jennifer, but she seemed as bewildered as he was.

Rad said, “Hey, buddy?” In the pocket of his coat he could feel the rod from the warehouse. “Your majesty?”

At this, the King clapped his hands and threw his head back in a booming laugh. When he looked at Rad again his eyes were streaming tears, which glinted green in the light from outside.

“Look,” said Rad, “you wanted me to come here because you wanted something back, something that I picked up downtown. But more important, you said Kane Fortuna was here. So where is he?”

The King slapped his knee. “My, you do like to get right to business, don't you detective?”

Rad ignored him. “Let's cut to the chase. You take me to Kane and I might give you the component back. But I think Special Agent Jones here might have something to say about that. See, I don't think she likes whatever racket it is you're running, and I'm not sure I do either. But hey, there's a lot in this city I'm not sure I like, and this little ice age we got going on is one of them. So let's get moving before the ice outside gets any thicker and we all need to start sipping antifreeze like your friend at the bar down the street.”

The King had started laughing as Rad spoke, a mild case of the giggles turning into a full belly laugh. The detective shook his head in frustration. It figured. The man was a lunatic. What other kind of person would call himself the King of 125th Street and lock himself into a disused theater?

Jennifer stepped up to the King, who was leaning over, recovering from his fit of mirth.

“Look, sir,” she said. The King looked up at her and waved her to continue as he took deep breaths, coughing as his laughter threatened to return.

Jennifer glanced at Rad, then looked back at the King.

“There's something going on in the city. I have a lot of questions I need to ask you. I'd appreciate your cooperation and I'd prefer it if we could do this in a civil manner, but we can do this in a more formal capacity downtown if required.”

The King of 125th Street finally stood. He sniffed and stuffed his hands into his pockets, then looked Jennifer up and down again before turning back to Rad.

“Come,” said the King, patting Rad on the forearm. “Let me give you the grand tour, so you can see how we run this joint.” He glanced over his shoulder at Jennifer. “Feel free to tag along, sweetheart. You sure do brighten the room.”

He laughed and headed towards the right-hand set of doors that led into the theater.

Jennifer sidled up to Rad. “He's psychotic.”

“The man thinks he's a king,” said Rad. He removed his hat and rubbed his scalp, then glanced at the driver. The machine was still standing, immobile, silent. “The king of what?”

“King of the robots?”

Rad drew breath to answer, but the King reappeared through the doors.

“Hey, friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your feet and walk this way!” He vanished back into the theater.

Jennifer looked at Rad and Rad gestured for her to lead the way. She sighed, gripped her silver gun, and headed for the doors.

Rad watched her back, and then as she went out of sight, turned to the driver. “Why do I get the feeling this is going to be a long night?”

The driver said nothing. Rad huffed, and followed Jennifer.

 

Alone in the lobby, the driver turned its head towards the double doors that were still swinging from Rad's exit. Something flashed behind the driver's round glass eyes, and there was a sound from behind the grating that formed the robot's mouth. It was quiet, and low: the sound of chuckling.

The driver watched the doors for a second or two, then jerked into life, heading towards the nearest staircase and jogging up them two at a time.

There were things to be done.