Adam Christopher - The Age Atomic

Or… maybe the King had killed Jennifer? No, that didn’t make any sense — why kill her and not him? And there had been plenty of opportunities to bump them both off since they’d arrived. Maybe Jennifer hadn’t found anything and had gotten tired of waiting and had left. Maybe that was the sensible option. She seemed to like doing her own thing.

“OK, fine, whatever, your majesty,” said Rad, throwing his hands up. “I’m gonna go get some help and we’re going to turn your little operation upside down.”

Rad turned on his heel, thinking his plan over, wondering whether he was making the right decision to leave Kane behind, helpless in the downstairs workshop. Lost in thought, his eyes fixed to the floor, he almost walked straight into the Corsair. Rad sucked a breath through clenched teeth and swept his hat off in surprise.

“What the hell?” he said. “Excuse me, I’m going to the police.”

Rad went to move forward, but the Corsair grabbed his arm holding the hat with lightning speed. Rad swore and pulled against the grip, but it was held firm.

“Hey!”

“It is not safe outside, Mr Bradley,” said the King. Rad looked up at him, the small man with the pointed beard now very tall and imposing on the stage. “The robots will have returned, and I’m afraid you would not make it very far.”

“Then turn your fancy green light on, your majesty.”

The King shook his head and tutted, almost with regret. “The lantern is still recharging. It will be nearly a full twenty-four hours before it can be lit again.”

Rad pulled again at the Corsair. The robot didn’t even rock on its feet, and Rad’s arm remained locked in place. A cold fear began to creep into Rad’s bones.

“I ain’t joking, your majesty,” he said, gritting his teeth and pulling, pulling, pulling at the robot. “Where are you keeping Jennifer? She locked up downstairs too?” Rad had an uneasy feeling. “You gave her the same story too, huh? Too dangerous to leave?”

The King shook his head. “It is for your own good, Mr Bradley. The robots will kill you for sure. You must remain here.”

The Corsair pulled Rad closer and shoved a handful of cotton wool in his face. Rad gasped as the unmistakable sickly sweet stench of chloroform assaulted his senses. He held his breath, but he knew that was no defense.

“Lock him up with Kane,” said the King, his voice a hundred thousand million miles away. Rad’s lungs were on fire. He released his breath, inhaled deeply, and the last thing he saw was the Corsair’s oddly familiar black metal face spinning in his vision.

Nimrod watched the floor indicator lights as the elevator carried him up the spine of the Empire State Building. There was no polished walnut here, no mirrors or brushed Art Deco steel. The elevator was a service one, spare and functional. It did the same job.

He had walked the few blocks from the Chrysler Building to his own, enjoying a clear, if cold, day. The agents from Atoms for Peace who trailed him from the Chrysler Building didn’t make much of an effort at disguising their movements as they followed him from one block to the next.

Nimrod frowned. Atoms for Peace putting agents on his trail did not surprise him, but it did worry him. It wasn’t personal. No, it was the position, the job they were watching. He was a threat. He was protector of New York City in many ways and custodian of the Fissure. His position meant, in theory, he was the custodian of her , because she was part of it, an unliving, unbreathing embodiment of the Fissure itself.

Nimrod chuckled. That was a fudge, of course, something similar to what the President had been told. She was a quantum copy of a woman who had died long ago, who had somehow been caught in the gap between the universes by physics so far beyond the comprehension of mortal men.

Atoms for Peace. Nimrod felt uneasy. Evelyn McHale had appeared only a few short months ago, and the whole operation was so new but wielded such power with a certain branch of the establishment in Washington, the kind of people who worried Nimrod, those who thought that America was under attack not from the Soviets or Castro or China, but from within , by intellectuals and artists and people who liked to ask questions.

Nimrod certainly included himself in that last group. The country was still reeling from the televised hearings led by that Senator McCarthy, and while Nimrod suspected the Senator’s influence was on the decline, there was no doubt that people were still afraid of the Red Menace.

The elevator indicator continued its slow curve to the right.

The Red Menace. Maybe he’d be labeled as a Communist. That would make it easy for Atoms for Peace to move in and disestablish his department. He wondered what their Director thought, if she was even still capable of comprehending the politics of the situation. To her it would be like understanding the politics of a termite colony.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe he could resign, pass the torch and they’d leave him alone.

Alone.

That was the real fear, wasn’t it? To be surplus to requirements, cast aside, to be alone .

Nimrod rolled his most recent conversation around in his mind. She had said they were preparing for war. War against the Empire State.

It was impossible, of course. Inconceivable.

And yet… the other side of the Fissure was closed. Something was happening in the Pocket universe. Clearly something bad. And, despite her vague suggestion that he would be involved, only Evelyn knew the truth. The future.

Nimrod had to know. He didn’t trust Evelyn — how could anyone? She wasn’t even human, not any more. And, as far as he was concerned, his own position was still pre-eminent: he was custodian of the Fissure, his department the overseers of the tether between the Origin and the Pocket. And, therefore, the first line of defense for both.

The elevator pinged and the doors rolled open. Nimrod exited, and quietly strolled through the lobby of his floor, past the little lounge and the agent stationed on duty who sat flipping through magazines, disguised as someone patiently waiting for an appointment. Nimrod knocked on the door of Tisiphone Realty, spoke the password, and was allowed entrance.

Nimrod paused, surveying the office before him. Agents and staffers were going about their usual business.

“Mr Grieves?”

At Nimrod’s call, the lead agent appeared from behind a pillar, drained his coffee, and marched towards his superior.

“Sir.”

Nimrod paused. Was this the right course of action? What was the threat, and where did it come from?

Was it from the Empire State? Or was it from the Chrysler Building?

Mr Grieves shifted his weight. “Sir?”

Nimrod brushed his mustache. The decision was made. “Call in all agents, Mr Grieves. This department is now on high alert. We must secure the Fissure at once.”

Mr Grieves nodded. He turned, then paused and turned back to Nimrod. “Have Atoms for Peace issued a warning, sir? What’s the threat?”

Nimrod sighed, and shook his head. “There was a warning, agent, yes. But I fear the threat comes from the Cloud Club itself.”

Grieves’s eyes went wide. Then he nodded and walked away, beginning to issue orders.

Nimrod watched his office spring to life, wondering again whether he was concerned about a threat to this world or the other, or for his own survival.

Doctor X had not been let out of the laboratory complex in as long as he could remember. He had free run of the main lab and his cell-like quarters, and everything in between, which included storage rooms, a kitchen, bathroom, communal toilet, and a large common room, the latter two of which were really only used by him and Laura. But the corridor that led from the main lab to his quarters ended at a large green door with an arched top. It was locked, of course. He’d never seen it open, but he was aware of its presence, its potential. It was there in the morning, closed, solid, unmoving. It was there in the evening, in the same state. He’d begun to find it reassuring, strangely — maybe it was the fact it was green, as green as the grass that he hadn’t seen for months. It was a doorway to another world.