The Age Atomic (26 page)

 

FORTY-SIX

 

The
Nimrod
bucked like a rodeo bronco, bouncing Carson on the pilot's seat and throwing both their stowaway and Byron to the floor. The ship slid sideways through the air, out of control, the tilt too steep, the speed too fast. Through the smashed front windows the lights of the city were bright, brighter than anything Carson could remember. The view, and the buzz-saw vibration that wanted to pop his eyeballs, told him what had happened. He had done it. The device, fashioned from Jennifer Jones's gun, had worked; the impact with the Empire State Building had provided the energy needed to kick-start the transfer of so large an object as the airship.

They were in New York.

Carson pulled at the yoke and the ship responded. It seemed his theory about the overlapping geographies of Manhattan and the Empire State was correct: not everything was exactly aligned. It had been a risk, but a calculated one: if the Empire State Building had been in the same place in both cities, the
Nimrod
would have simply continued the collision that started in one universe in the other, and their journey would have ended very quickly indeed.

Carson grinned and ground his teeth as he pulled on the yoke with all his weight, trying to get the ship back level. They were flying down the middle of a great canyon formed by the skyscrapers lining an avenue in the heart of the city, but the
Nimrod
was drifting right. Carson leaned to the left as he willed the craft to turn, but a second later the armored side of the craft clipped an office building, dragging a trench along the structure. The ship juddered, then pitched violently to the left as it ran out of building and the controls suddenly responded.

Ahead towered another skyscraper. Carson hadn't seen it before, but it was impressive and elaborate, even more decorative than the city's tallest skyscraper. The top of the building was steel and glass, seven narrowing arches of stylized sun rays tapering to a spire; at the base of the remarkable cap were protrusions, also metal: lions, shining in the night, leaping from the building, frozen in sculpture.

And they were heading straight for it. Carson pulled back yet again, and the ship responded, sailing higher despite the protesting engines. The building was narrow, the decorative upper stories forming a neat cone even easier to pass safely, Carson thought. He took a breath at last and found it was painful and raspy. Incompatibility sickness.

Two arms wrapped around his chest and pulled. Carson gasped, the rhythm of his careful breathing interrupted as the robot King of 125th Street used the pilot's seat to pull himself up. Carson felt something heavy and cold on his left cheek. He recoiled and turned to see the silver sculpted face nearly pressed against his as James stared out of the crumpled nose of the
Nimrod
.

The mechanical man hissed and pushed Carson aside, reaching for the yoke. His new robot form was strong and Carson was thrown bodily from the pilot's seat. As he fell he saw the yoke spin of its own volition as James, once more mesmerized by the view ahead of them, froze at the controls.

Carson pushed against the decking with both hands, but his chest burned, every breath hot flame against his throat, and he collapsed back onto the floor. He was old, aged beyond his years as he travelled the universes in his ship, looking for Byron. He tried to rise again, but the ship lurched and a warning bell sounded as James, released from his reverie, grabbed the yoke and pulled with one hand while hammering the console with the other. Carson rolled on the floor, coming to rest against the wall of the flight deck.

Booted feet stomped the metal decking by Carson's face: Byron, controlling the Skyguard's suit with Kane's body still inside, raced forward on the sloping, bouncing floor and launched himself at the stowaway. James pushed him off, releasing his hold on the yoke and causing the ship to tilt again, sending Byron tumbling against the opposite wall.

Byron regained his footing and threw himself at James, grabbing him around the neck. The robot rammed back an elbow and it connected, but Byron hardly seemed to register the blow. With a roar, metallic and terrible that could be heard above the engines, James turned and threw a left hook at Byron, who ducked and planted a fist in the robot's abdomen. There was a solid, echoing clang, but James seemed almost unaware of the attack. Byron threw more gut punches, left and right, left and right, but all this did was give James more time to prepare, pushing Byron back, moving his hands up to the Skyguard's altered helmet in an attempt to rip it off.

The two men grappled. Another alarm went off, then a third. Carson reached for the console, now a bank of red lights flashing and dials spinning. The steel and glass crown of the remarkable building filled the flight deck's entire view, the triangles of the Art Deco sunrise sharp and angry. The ship dipped, and a lion, all steel majesty and power, tore through the nose's remaining glass as the
Nimrod
hit the building at an angle.

The control room was turned upside down. Carson saw Byron and the robot King of 125th Street go flying as the floor became the ceiling. The last thing he saw was the wheel of the main hatch approaching his face at high velocity.

 

The noise was colossal, impossible. It stopped cars; it stopped people. The major telephone exchanges feeding New York City froze as the system was overloaded with calls, and the police and fire departments went into high alert, cars and appliances racing out into the streets without a clue where they should be heading.

Reporters rushed to 405 Lexington Avenue, or as far as they could get before being stopped by the traffic or stuck in the mass of people who stood and stared and watched as a giant craft, something crossed between an old-fashioned zeppelin and a vast armored crab, crashed into the crown of the Chrysler Building. Some on the street fearfully recalled the Chicago airship crash of 1919. Others cried out that airships were full of hydrogen and the thing would blow, raining burning metal and debris from its skeleton like the Hindenburg had.

The Chrysler Building – the most famous building in New York, prettier than the Empire State Building although not as tall – shook, the vibration throwing people to the sidewalk and making cars jump on their suspensions. Those still standing gasped. From the street, the airship looked small, dwarfed by the Art Deco crown of the landmark, but the building was immense and the altitude great; everyone knew the horror that was unfolding before them.

The crown of the building buckled around the impact, throwing a huge cloud of smoke and flame, brilliant against the night sky. People screamed and the drone of car horns from the stationary traffic died as car doors were thrown open, the vehicles' occupants desperate to escape.

And then they ran, everyone, running for their lives as the crown of the Chrysler Building shattered, steel, stone, and glass exploding like fireworks. The sunrise spire bent and then toppled, taking out a huge chunk of the building as it fell nearly directly downwards.

The first pieces of rubble hit the street, bouncing cars like toys, and people screamed and ran from the great billowing cloud of dust and smoke that enveloped the street like a sandstorm claiming a desert city.

The remains of the
Nimrod
continued to travel through the upper floors of the building, sheering the crown completely from the skyscraper. The crown flopped and folded like wet paper and fell on the opposite side, and the ship, powered by gravity, plowed into Grand Central Terminal in a second mushroom cloud of flame and smoke.

 

FORTY-SEVEN

 

Nimrod opened his eyes to the light, and found himself standing in a familiar room, huge and empty save for a desk and a chair. On his left and right were two rows of columns like a Greek temple, and beyond, a wall painted with a vast mural of New York.

He was in the Cloud Club. The old faithful service revolver in his hand was pointed at Evelyn McHale.

The Ghost of Gotham floated in front of her desk; a desk spotless and dust-free. Nimrod could see it faintly through her. She smiled, and Nimrod felt slightly embarrassed, as though he'd caught her in her slip.

“I don't mind, if that is what you are worried about,” she said.

Nimrod's mustache bristled. “I didn't used to be able to see through you. You used to be as substantial as the rest of us.”

The Director glided forward, towards the barrel of the gun.

“Yes,” she said, “I was. But it gets harder and harder. I'm being pulled down. It takes all my will and effort to stay tethered to this universe.”

“So why stay? You want New York – you want the Fissure – but if you can leave, then leave! You are not needed nor wanted here, and I dare say you have never seemed particularly enamored of your situation. Let yourself go.”

The Director shook her head, her eyes hidden slightly behind her spectral veil. “To leave is a fate worse than death.”

“Forgive me, my dear,” said Nimrod, “but I do believe that fate has already befallen you.”

“I cannot leave,” she said, her voice rising.

Nimrod adjusted his grip on the gun and raised an eyebrow. He wasn't entirely sure why he was pointing the gun at her – it was a habit, perhaps even an instinct, and as such it made him feel better, so he kept his gun arm raised, ignoring the growing ache in his arm.

“If I let go of this world,” said the Director, “I will fall through the fabric of reality. There will be nothing to stop me, nothing to break that fall.”

“And?”

“An eternity of nothing but falling, of never-ending existence trapped inside… nothing. Nothing at all. Do you understand?”

Nimrod sighed, and lowered his gun. “A fate worse than death.”

“Indeed,” said the Director, inclining her head. “My grip is slipping, and the energy it takes to keep moving just to stay in this space and time is too much and is growing more and more with each passing moment.”

Nimrod glanced to the great windows of the Cloud Club. It was dark outside. Perhaps it was just the light from inside the room, and the blue glow of the Director herself blotting everything out, but he couldn't see the familiar red and white sparkle of the city.

“I don't understand. You don't want to leave, but you can't stay forever. What has this to do with usurping my authority? You want the Fissure, but why? Surely you, of all people, don't need it.”

“Haven't you heard me? I can't leave. To move between here and the Empire State, and the worlds beyond, I would first have to let go here, and if I do that then the tide will catch me, ripping me away from reality. I'm trapped here, for as long as my grip will hold.”

Nimrod sighed, and looked around the Cloud Club. It was a magnificent room, even if the Director's acquisition of it as an office didn't make any sense.

“I used to come here,” she said, following his gaze. She turned away from her prisoner and floated slowly around the room, tracing the mural with her fingers, leaving a sparkling blue trail of dust that hung in the air.

“It was a beautiful place, full of life, and music, and dancing. Oh, the dancing!” she breathed, and spun on her toes a foot from the floor, her face alight with a smile as she remembered her old life.

“That life is no longer yours,” said Nimrod.

The Director's smile dropped. Nimrod blinked and she was in front of him again, blue fire in her eyes. Nimrod recognized the light well, the light of the space between the universes. He backed away quickly, and raised the gun again.

“That day,” said Evelyn, spitting the words out like poison. “Do you know how I regret what happened that day? That day that trapped me, here, now, in a world I don't know and don't belong in.”

Nimrod ground his teeth together and aimed for the Director's forehead. She drifted forward slowly, and Nimrod moved as well, keeping the distance even. Evelyn's eyes shone a terrible blue.

“I wanted him to save me, like he had saved so many. But no, the Skyguard was gone. He'd died a long, long time ago. They all had – the Skyguard, the Science Pirate. And before them the New Yorker, the Scienceers. All of them. They betrayed and abandoned all of us. They abandoned me!”

She stopped moving as Nimrod felt his back hit the plate-glass window. Evelyn's expression was a grimace of pain and sadness.

Nimrod gulped. “I can help you. Tell me what you need me to do, and I will help you.”

She shook her head, her sadness lifting from her.

“You need do nothing except what you already are. Events will conspire. I can see the past, the present, the future. Time passes for me, I can see it, and measure it, but linear time has no meaning. What has happened has already been. Events will run their course. There is no alternative.”

She pointed past Nimrod, to the window. Nimrod turned, her words casting a chill into his heart.

Nimrod looked down on New York, then blinked, trying to comprehend what he was seeing. The aerial view was just that – they were too high, the city too far away. Manhattan spread out below him, the Empire State Building small, toy-like. Nearby was a broken skyscraper, smoke pouring from its shattered crown.

“Impossible,” he said, his breath fogging the glass in front of his face as he recognized the damaged structure. “The Cloud Club is
inside
the Chrysler Building.”

“The Cloud Club is my domain,” said Evelyn, shaking her head. “The Chrysler Building has been hit by your counterpart's airship. The original Cloud Club has been destroyed, and the building has been damaged down to its foundations.”

Nimrod gasped. “Where are we?”

“The Cloud Club is
my
domain,” she said. “It is wherever and whenever I need it to be.”

Nimrod watched the city below, now understanding the dust and faded glamor of the room he had visited before he had been black-bagged and dragged to Washington.

Evelyn met Nimrod's eye in the reflection. “But our fate lies elsewhere.”

Nimrod swung around from the window, brandishing the gun. He braced himself, with no clue what would happen when he pulled the trigger.

Evelyn smiled, and Nimrod took aim, and everything went blue and bright.