Adam Christopher - The Age Atomic

“Sweetheart, you’re killing me here.”

The doctor coughed, and lifted the cylinder from the trolley.

“Does it often talk?”

The doctor froze. He glanced back at the Director, but she was watching the Project. He hefted the cylinder against his chest and adjusted his glasses with one hand.

“No,” he said quickly. From the corner of his eye he saw Laura glance sideways at him.

Doctor X moved into the cage and lifted the cylinder, mating it with the port in the Project’s chest. He twisted it slightly and carefully pushed it in until the black rim of the cylinder was almost level with the top of the port. Reaching up, he pulled a three-pronged clamp connected to a sprung arm down, and adjusting the spread of the fingers, attached them to the slots on the cylinder’s rim. Clamp connected, he gripped the sprung arm and twisted, using the leverage to rotate the cylinder further. At half a turn, there was a click as the cylinder was aligned with the slots on the inside of the port, and the unit slid another inch into the Project’s chest. At once, the glass cap on the end of the cylinder brightened to a reddish glow. The doctor peered into the cap, and then turned to his assistant.

“Go ahead, Dr Richardson.”

She nodded, her hands moving over the controls.

“Reaction engaged,” she said. “Magnetic field stable. Ionization rate constant. Injection to commence in five, four…”

The doctor detached the clamp from the cylinder as Laura began the countdown, and then quickly moved out of the cage. As the countdown reached one, he swung the door closed and engaged the catch, then stepped back. He risked a glance at the Director watching him, a smile playing over her face.

“One.”

The reddish glow from the cylinder flared to a bright orange-red, the light moving in a clockwise spiral. The Project’s eyes rolled, but it remained silent, save for the quiet whining.

The doctor peered over Laura’s shoulder, reading the dials on the console. He nodded to himself.

“You have made much progress, doctor,” said the Director.

The doctor looked up and nodded again, removing his glasses.

“Yes, Director. The fusion reaction is stable, and the power output exceeds our estimates by a considerable margin. More than adequate for our needs, but-”

There was a whining sound, a low thrum like the engine of an aircraft slowing down. The lights in the laboratory flickered. In the cage, the Project twitched against the slab, banging its back into it loudly. The light in the chest cylinder flared again, then faded. Two seconds later it was out.

The Director glided closer to the cage.

“But there is still work to be done. Progress remains slow, doctor. The fusor must be fully functional if we are to go into production on schedule.”

“The test was successful,” he said, puffing out his chest a little. “I said the reaction was stable. I didn’t say it was sustainable.” He glanced down at the console. “How long this time, Dr Richardson?”

“Eighteen seconds.”

The doctor looked up at the Director, a wide smile on his face. Eighteen seconds was a vast improvement, twice as long as the previous test. He was pleased with his work; producing nuclear fusion in a portable, virtually hand-held reactor was quite a feat. Eighteen seconds of stability was incredible.

The Director was smiling too. The doctor’s expression faltered. He didn’t like it when she smiled.

By the time Doctor X drew breath, the Director had vanished into thin air.

He watched the space where Evelyn McHale had been just a moment ago, and then slowly removed his glasses and rubbed his forehead with shaking hands. His skin was hot, slick with a thin layer of sweat. He closed his eyes, squeezed the bridge of his nose, and finally sneezed. It was a nervous reaction. He sniffed loudly and dropped his glasses onto the console.

“Laura, detach the fusor and prepare for reset.”

“Yes, doctor.”

The doctor turned to the cage. The Project’s eyes were on him.

“Philo, my friend, we could do great things together, you and me.”

Doctor X blinked as the Project used his first name, and wondered if it had been speaking the truth all along.

“Quite a set up you’ve got here.”

Rad was lying. He exchanged a look with Jennifer, but their tour guide didn’t seem to notice the sarcasm in his voice.

The King’s 125th street “castle” was a theater, it was as simple as that. Leading them first through the main double doors, the King had turned quickly through a side passage, taking his guests through a series of narrow, twisting corridors filled with random doors and random intersections, and even random spiral staircases rising up in dark levels above. Most of the walls were brick, and most were painted thickly in a dirty white or equally dirty black.

The King laughed and kept marching forward. Rad stopped and wondered several things: what the hell he was doing here, what the hell this wacko with a beard and a blue velvet suit had to do with not just robots but anything at all, and where the hell was Kane Fortuna?

“You planning on standing there all day?”

Rad turned. Jennifer was right behind him, wry grin on her face, but he noticed that her finger was resting on the trigger of her gun.

“You expecting trouble?” he asked.

She adjusted her grip on the weapon. “Always.”

Rad huffed and nodded down the now-empty corridor. “He sure doesn’t look like a criminal mastermind.”

“Looks can be deceiving,” said Jennifer.

“You mean it’s an act?”

Jennifer waved her hand around. “Well, we are in a theater.”

The King appeared again at the end of the corridor. Even from this distance, his broad smile was easy to pick out.

“You’re dawdling! There’s still plenty to see, plenty! This way!”

Jennifer squeezed past Rad in the narrow corridor.

Rad sighed and stuffed his hands into his pockets. At least it was warm inside. In fact, it was getting warmer. Frowning, he pulled out a hand and placed it on the painted brickwork on his left. His fingertips prickled at the contact. The wall was not quite hot.

The King waved like a showman from the doorway at the end of the hall. As Jennifer approached, he bowed and gestured for her to step through. Halfway across the threshold, she shot Rad a look over her shoulder.

Rad raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“I think you’re going to want to see this.”

Jennifer turned back and stepped through the door.

The King had led them to the main stage. Rad paused in the doorway, and swept the hat off his head. He looked around, rubbing his scalp absently.

“You’ve been busy, your majesty.”

They’d entered from stage left. The performance space in front of them was a vast platform of polished wood, sweeping out towards the orchestra pit and a row of footlights, all but one blazing in the dark space. Beyond, lost in the gloom, the theater stalls stretched back and up before disappearing into the darkness. Above, the theater circle — Rad could see it still had seats, all red velvet and gold painted wood. Unlike the stalls.

The stalls had been emptied, torn out, replaced with what looked like a junkyard, metal scrap collecting against the edge of the orchestra pit like frozen waves. At first Rad thought the theater’s roof had collapsed, bringing with it rubble and tons of roofing lead. But as his eyes adjusted, Rad could see there was some kind of order, pieces stacked according to size or shape. Several clear paths — the theater’s original aisles — led straight out from the stage to the back of the room.

“I think we’re in the right place,” said Jennifer. Rad frowned and shook his head, rolling his hat in his hands.