The Age Atomic (12 page)

 

TWENTY-FOUR

 

The room was a basement or cellar, much like any Rad had ever seen. He'd stood in quite a few, he reflected, as they were places associated with bad deeds, where last stands were stood, where bodies were hidden, where victims and suspects and the innocent alike hid when above them was danger and chaos and violence.

Rad blinked as his eyes adjusted to the brightness. The glow, blue and white and alive, was coming from what looked like a furnace or boiler. Set against the far wall, it was large and square, taller than Rad, with a fat black chimney that vanished into the ceiling. There were gauges and dials and controls, a couple of large wheels and several smaller ones. It was industrial, but nothing out of the ordinary.

Except for the light. The furnace had a door, convex and square, with a large sprung handle, horizontal across the front, that was almost the size of Rad's forearm. The door had a window, and through the window shone the light.

Rad felt ill, partly because of the effects of the unusual light – an effect he hadn't experienced in more than a year, a sensation long forgotten but suddenly, instantly familiar the second he was exposed to the source – and partly due to the realization that the King was telling the truth about the Fissure. And if that was the case, then chances were he was telling the truth about the rest of it. Where this left the mysterious disappearance of Special Agent Jennifer Jones – a woman the King now claimed never to have met – Rad wasn't sure, but he was sure the conversation was about to come around to that topic.

“What the hell have you done?” asked Rad, raising his arm in front of his face as he approached the furnace. The heat from the window was intense but just bearable – like sitting too close to an open fire – even though the door was closed. Rad didn't remember any heat from the Fissure when it had been
in situ
down in the Battery, but things were clearly different here. “I thought you said the Fissure was inside Kane.”

The King nodded. “He is the Fissure now, at least part of him. With Mr Fortuna in the machine out there,” he said, pointing in the direction of the workshop, “I can channel the power of the Fissure in here, allowing me all the energy I need for my work.”

Rad shook his head. “What about the city?” he said. He waved at the walls of the basement, indicating everything, the totality of the pocket dimension. “Without the Fissure we're all dead – the city needs the energy. The whole place is breaking up. You must know that.”

As if to emphasize Rad's point, the floor shook and the pipes on the furnace rattled. The tremors were certainly stronger here, in the north.

The King stuffed his hands into his pockets and smiled.

“We will survive,” he said.

“Robots, isn't it?” Rad took a step closer. “You're going to turn everyone into robots. Then it won't matter how cold it gets.”

“You misunderstand, Mr Bradley. There is a greater danger approaching the city. One that will destroy us, if we do not act.”

“Greater danger than freezing up or shaking to pieces?”

“Kane has a unique perspective. His connection to the Fissure allows him to… see things. The future, perhaps.”

Rad thought back to Kane's feverish dream. He also thought back to the green liquid he was being fed. “You sure your drugs aren't making him hallucinate?”

The King laughed, the sound explosive. “Kane has
seen
them coming. Don't you get it, detective? He can see the future, and the future is nothing but an army marching towards us. An army of machines, of atomic soldiers.”

Rad scratched his head. The King sounded delusional, paranoid – if it wasn't for the fact he'd heard Kane talking in his sleep. “A machine army? You mean robots, right?”

The King tapped Rad on the lapel. “Got it in one.” He was still smiling, like Kane's apocalyptic vision was nothing at all. Rad frowned.

“Robots from where?”

The King stepped up to the furnace, and almost pressed his face up to the glass of the door. It must have been terribly hot, but he didn't seem to notice. “Where do you think, detective?”

“New York?” Rad's eyes widened. The robots hidden in the warehouse, and the King's little enterprise suddenly made sense. “You mean to tell me a robot army is on the way here, and you're building your own to defend the city? Based on something Kane saw in a dream?”

The King was staring into the window of the furnace. He didn't answer.

Rad took a step forward. “Ah… hello?” The King didn't move. Rad sighed and weighed his options. He paced the small room, processing this new information. Finally he came to a decision. He walked up to the King and addressed his back. “You going to let us go?”

The King said nothing.

“You going to tell me where Jennifer Jones is?”

Nothing. The King was stationary, staring at the door of the furnace. Rad leaned over, looking at the King's face, and saw it was frozen, the man staring blankly into the blue light.

“Hey, anyone home?” Rad reached out to nudge the King's shoulder, but somehow he didn't want to risk it. The man wasn't even blinking.

A cry echoed from elsewhere, back down the corridor.

Kane.

Rad swore under his breath.

“Play your games, your majesty, whatever the hell you like. We're out of here.”

He turned to leave and felt a hand on his shoulder. He pulled against it, then cried out in pain as the King's fingers bit into his collarbone through the thin fabric of his shirt. Rad instinctively dropped, trying to ease the pressure and slide out from under the King's hand, but the King was faster. His other hand grabbed Rad's upper arm and pulled him around.

Rad's feet were yanked out from under him as the King – a man half his size and twice his age – threw Rad halfway across the basement. Rad hit a stack of packing crates, splitting the wood and spilling the straw from within, but he recovered quickly and rolled to one side, ignoring the pain in his back from where he'd landed on the gun tucked into his waistband. Pulling himself to his feet, he swung around, fists raised, years of experience automatically preparing him for a brawl.

“What in the hell?” Rad shook his head. The King walked towards him, slowly, calmly, his hands in the pockets of his blue velvet suit, like he'd never laid a finger on Rad.

“You cannot leave, Rad Bradley. Kane Fortuna is important. Kane Fortuna is the key.”

Rad flexed his fingers, his mind racing. He had the gun but shooting an old man – even one as remarkably strong as the King – seemed a little over the top. He realized he'd have to lead with his left, considering his right was still sore from its little meeting with Cliff's metal face.

Rad lunged, teeth gritted, eyes fixed on his target. In that second before his fist was thrown forward, he actually enjoyed the sensation. This took him back. It occurred to him that he didn't do as much punching as he used to, and rightly or wrongly, when he was younger that was the part of the job he enjoyed.

Rad's left fist connected with the King's cheek, and there was a crack. Rad felt two of his knuckles slide out of position with a nauseating tug before snapping back. The King rocked slightly on his feet, but was otherwise unaffected by Rad's attack. Rad cried out in pain, praying that his hand wasn't broken, and reeled back towards the door.

The King smiled, and Rad saw his punch had done something. At the corner of the King's mouth, the pale flesh of his face split, revealing something silver and bright beneath.

Rad backed away, shaking his fist. He moved the fingers, and they all still worked; he'd been lucky. He'd just put his fist into a metal face for the second time in a few days.

The robot King of 125th Street smiled, and stepped towards the detective.

“You have got to be kidding me,” said Rad. He reached behind his back and pulled out the gun, and when he pointed at the King the man stopped and looked at it. Then he laughed.

“You wouldn't shoot a defenseless old man, would you now?”

“No, I wouldn't,” said Rad. “But then you're not a man, are you? You're another machine, like Cliff. One of the ‘upgraded' models.” He raised the gun.

“Mr Bradley, please. Violence is not the answer.”

“Not always, but sometimes,” said Rad. He took a step backwards and his right heel touched the stairwell behind him. He was running out of room.

“Besides, robots are bulletproof. Or hadn't you heard?”

Rad gritted his teeth. He thought back to Cliff and the little metal tube. Was it a weakness? He'd felled that machine with a single punch, but, Rad knew, either his blow had been very lucky or the robot had been faulty or damaged in some way…

“You cannot leave, Mr Bradley,” said the King. “I need Kane's power. I have a city to protect, and I need you and Jennifer Jones for my army. I need you alive to begin the process, but I do not necessarily need you to be… intact.”

The King stepped forward and reached towards Rad, his fingers curled into claws and the serene smile still on his fake face.

Rad was out of options. He raised the gun, aimed along the barrel at the King's head, and fired once, twice, three times.

The first shot tugged another chunk of artificial flesh off the King's face, but the second hit his left eye. The orb shattered in a shower of glassy splinters and the King staggered backwards, his head dipping so that Rad's third shot cut a strip off the robot's fake scalp.

It wasn't the result Rad had been hoping for, but it wasn't bad. As the King raised his head, thick black liquid oozing from the damaged eye, he snarled and lunged forward. Rad stepped back and nearly tripped on the stairs, but forced himself to take rough aim at the King's head. As he fell against the staircase, he fired five more times, hoping that at least one round would hit the mark.

The King pulled up as he was hit, the artificial flesh of his face shredded by the shots. There was a louder bang and his head was thrown back, then flopped forward.

Rad had hit the other eye. The robot was now blind.

The machine screeched, the sound inhuman and terrifying, enough to snap Rad back to reality. The robot lunged forward again but Rad pulled himself up the stairs and out of the way with ease. As the King fumbled on the bottom stairs, Rad braced himself against the railing and kicked out, sending the robot cartwheeling backwards. It hit the furnace door and shrieked again, like it had been burnt, and as it tried to pull itself back upright Rad saw its head was at a slight angle, like the neck was damaged. It moved forward, arms outstretched, but it was slow and awkward.

Rad saw the opportunity. He ducked back down the stairs and, pushing the King's shoulder, spun the robot around, easily avoiding the outstretched hands. With the King's back to him, Rad reached around and plucked the keys out of the robot's jacket pocket. Then he gave the King a shove. The robot screeched and overbalanced, falling to the floor.

Keys in one hand, gun in the other, Rad took the stairs two at a time. He slammed the reinforced door of the furnace room shut and locked it. Then he took off back down the corridor.

 

 

TWENTY-FIVE

 

The lobby outside the doors of Tisiphone Realty was empty except for a man sitting in one of the two couches, silent but for the rustle of the newspaper he was holding. There was a coffee table, on which was scattered a few copies of
Life
and
Time
, and by the window a water cooler – the kind that came with those ridiculous paper cone cups that you couldn't put down anywhere. The window itself looked out over West 34th Street. Today the sun was shining. It was a beautiful morning in New York City.

The man on the sofa recrossed his legs and flicked the center of the
New York Times
he wasn't reading. His shift was due to end in fifteen minutes, when he'd be replaced by another man in another suit. The first man would fold the newspaper nosily and deposit it on the table and check his watch, complain about being late for an appointment he'd forgotten downtown, and dart off towards the elevators while his replacement grabbed a cone of water and took in the view.

This scene would be repeated every four hours.

The agent scanned the article on page five of the newspaper for the tenth time. His name was Jan Holzer, and he was looking forward to getting back to his apartment in Queens and getting some coffee and some sleep. Jan drank coffee for the taste – ten years with the Secret Service had made him immune to the effects of caffeine – and a cup of joe (milky, a habit he'd picked up from his German-English parents, to the horror of his friends) was the perfect nightcap after a shift at the Empire State Building.

Jan flicked the paper again and collapsed it in half, then half again. He uncrossed his legs, crossed them again in the opposite direction, and checked his watch.

His replacement was late. This wasn't unusual in itself, nor any particular reason for concern. The security details had some leeway programmed into them, so agents could come a little early or a little late; a few minutes here and there didn't make much difference, and it added to the cover, if anyone happened to be watching.

Although this time Jan's replacement, Eddie Ellroy, was ten minutes late. This was, strictly speaking, against the rules, but Eddie was Eddie.

Jan sighed. He didn't like Eddie. Eddie always cracked a joke about Jan's German heritage and found it hilarious to call Jan “Einstein” because, as a security agent for a government scientific department, Jan was clearly working beneath his station and really should have been behind the door they guarded, working on the affairs of state with the other brainiacs.

Eddie Ellroy was a real jerk. And right now, he was a real
late
jerk.

The door of the Department opened. Jan tensed, ready for action, years of Secret Service training kicking in, preparing him for anything. Expect the unexpected. In Nimrod's world, the unexpected was very often the case.

A young man in a grey suit emerged from the Department, his hair slick, his shoes shined. He let the door swing closed behind him and, without a glance at Jan, took off down the corridor.

Jan clicked his tongue. Things were in a real state in there, he imagined, since the whole Department had suddenly gone on alert. But as a security agent it paid to keep out of such things, keep his mind clear, focus on the job at hand. Departmental alert or not, his job didn't change.

The elevator pinged, out of sight, and the lobby was silent again. Jan got back to reading the front page of the newspaper for the one-hundredth time.

A moment later the elevator sounded again. Finally. Jan braced himself for the one-way delivery of jokes at his expense, and stood to get another cup of water. All part of the act.

“The traffic today is the pits!”

Jan turned at the voice, cone of water halfway to his mouth. Eddie Ellroy was still absent. Standing in the lobby was a woman, dressed in expensive furs and high heels, a hat that was really a little too large for her balanced on top of a haircut Jan hadn't seen outside the pages of
Life
magazine. The woman smiled, the movement of her chin making the veil in front of her face move.

Jan drained his cup and crushed the paper cone in his fist. “Excuse me?” he said, outwardly polite, inwardly wondering who the hell she was and where the hell Ellroy had got to. Jerk.

The woman sat on the edge of the sofa and began shuffling through the magazines on the coffee table. Selecting an issue of
Time
, she sat back and studied the cover intently.

Jan reached for the inside pocket of his jacket, sliding the fingers of his right hand between the buttons of his suit. In a hair under two seconds he could have his gun out and trained on the intruder. There was no reason for anyone who wasn't involved with Nimrod's Department to be on this floor, and his replacement security detail had failed to show, all of which was totally wrong. There was a telephone on the wall; all Jan had to do was keep the gun on the woman and call for more security.

“You're a little premature there, Mr Holzer,” said the woman. She lowered the magazine just a little and peered over it at the agent. Holzer gulped, his hand moving further into his jacket, his fingertips caressing his concealed automatic. Time to drop the act.

“This is a restricted area, ma'am. I'm going to have to call security. They'll want to ask you a few questions.”

The woman slapped the magazine down on the table and sighed, rolling her eyes as she reached for the handbag on the floor. Jan watched her and took a step forward, the gun that was once inside his jacket now out. He took another step and pointed the weapon at her.

The woman glanced up as she rifled through her bag, and shook her head with a smile. “Relax, agent. I'm standing in for Ellroy today.”

Jan raised the gun.

“Here we go,” said the woman. She pulled a folded card from her bag and offered it to Jan. Jan took it, keeping the gun aimed at her forehead, and flipped it open. He read the ID aloud. “Special Agent Irena Dubrovna?”

“Got it in one, agent.” It took Jan a second to realize she was holding her hand out, waiting for him to return the card. He did so, and he lowered his gun, but he didn't replace it inside his jacket.

“I don't know you,” said Jan.

Irena shrugged. “I don't know Ellroy either, but I've heard he's a real jerk. Anyway, get. I'm here.”

Jan frowned. Irena looked right, he had to admit, dressed well enough to pass as a potential client for the real estate company Nimrod's Department pretended to be. Her manner was casual, but their very public exchange had blown any kind of cover. Not that anyone was watching. Jan rolled his shoulders and glanced around. The door to the Department was closed, and the corridors were silent.

Jan sniffed and nodded, slipping his gun out of sight. Irena ignored him, her attention back on the magazine.

Feeling uncomfortable, but looking forward to coffee and sleep, Agent Jan Holzer left.

 

Irena waited a moment, and then rested the magazine on her lap. After watching the Department door for a minute more, she stood and walked to the windows. She looked out across the city, towards the Chrysler Building, on the beautiful morning.

She reached up, sliding a gloved hand beneath her veil, and touched the earpiece buried deep in her right ear. It was new technology, advanced, but one of the advantages of her cover was that her hat was big enough to carry both the radio's battery and transmitter.

“Alpha One, in position.”

She listened, nodded, and then helped herself to a cup of water.