Adam Christopher - The Age Atomic

At the helicopter, the General dismissed the MPs and invited Nimrod into the cockpit. Nimrod supposed that, by now, the MPs would have reported the General’s activity to their superiors and all hell would be breaking loose in the office of someone important, but there was nothing on the radio except air traffic, and as the lights of Manhattan crept into view, they hadn’t yet been approached by any aircraft sent to apprehend them.

Nimrod didn’t speak, not daring to distract the General, knowing the officer was concentrating not only on the complex task of flying the helicopter but on fighting against her influence, an influence spreading inside him like a cancer.

But as they flew over Manhattan, towards the Empire State Building, Nimrod judged the time was right.

“Why did you release me, General? You were at the committee meeting. I’m a Communist spy according to the US Government, and what you are doing is most certainly treason. We’re both for the gas chamber now.”

“You still don’t see it, do you?” said the General, his voice bursting with static, the microphone on his headset too close to his lips. “She’s going to destroy us, destroy everything.”

Nimrod sighed. “And you think I can stop her?”

The General pulled the helicopter around into a tight turn, forcing Nimrod against him. Nimrod saw they were now coming in to approach one of the helipads on the Empire State Building.

“Who else is there? You’re the only one she fears. There has to be a reason for that.”

Nimrod looked at him and frowned. “And what about you? She will be watching. She may fear me, but you, well, you’ve interfered. You won’t be able to escape her.”

The General shook his head as he eased the chopper closer, preparing to set down.

“That’s all taken care of, don’t worry. Your job is to stop her. She’s going to destroy not just this world, but all of them. I think you know what I mean.”

Nimrod’s eyes went wide. “So that’s why she wants access to the Fissure-”

The General looked at him for the first time in the flight. “Yes. She’s getting ready to send an army through. That army will destroy everything. Everything . She’s got to be stopped.”

As soon as he spoke, the General winced, his shoulders hunched, and the helicopter wobbled as it hovered. Then he shook his head and nodded, and returned his attention to their destination. The helicopter bobbed in the wind, then slid sideways in the air and touched down on the helipad that protruded on the west side of the setback at the Empire State Building’s eighty-first floor.

Nimrod wondered how far they were going to get once inside the building. A handful of personnel were at the helipad, the usual staff and three of the department’s agents, two attempting to smoke in the stiff wind.

Nimrod released his harness and swung himself out of the helicopter. He turned to talk to the General, but the General was still sitting where he was, hands on the controls.

“General?” Nimrod had to yell over the noise of the rotors.

Hall flicked a switch and they began to wind down. Then he turned to Nimrod and shook his head. “Go, and do what needs to be done. My fate is elsewhere.”

Nimrod waited, but the General didn’t move. Arguing with the man was pointless, Nimrod knew that.

“As you like,” said Nimrod, but he said it quietly and he wasn’t sure if the General heard.

Turning on his heel, head instinctively bowed against the slowing blades of the helicopter seven feet above him, Nimrod jogged across the helipad, gesturing to the three waiting agents to join him inside.

The view was spectacular. Manhattan glowed in the night, a thousand million jewels in the damp air. And beyond, New Jersey on one side, Long Island the other, and seven million people between. The wind had died down, even up here, nearly nine hundred feet from the street below.

Nobody had stopped him. The helicopter was hardly discrete, and there were few people on top of the building; those who were there knew who he was, or at least recognized his rank.

Nobody had stopped him as he walked to the edge of the helipad and jumped the railing until he was standing on the edge of the setback, the lip of forever, arms outstretched, toes of his immaculate black shoes poking out over the edge. The stonework was clean, like new, too high for most birds to settle, although plenty would be flying overhead during the day. General Hall shuffled a little to his left, and raised his chin to the breeze.

Then he opened his eyes, and he could see forever. No, more than that, he could see beyond , to worlds unknown, to the Fissure, to the Empire State, to lands yet undiscovered.

And he could see her . He smiled and blinked, and watched as the glowing blue woman hovered in the air six feet out over the edge, nothing but endless air beneath her feet. So, she’d come, despite the fact that this was the Empire State Building, the place of her death and the place of her birth. It pained her to be here, he knew.

Their eyes met. He smiled; she didn’t.

“You’re too late,” he said. His heart soared, and his head felt like it was filled with helium. He felt like he could do anything in the world. He felt like he could fly.

The Ghost of Gotham said nothing, but floated backwards, slowly, her blue glow fading, her expression flat. But her eyes… oh, there was such light there, light that was blue and spun like diamonds. She knew. She knew .

General Hall closed his eyes, and held his breath, and jumped.

The Director watched him fall, and then she was gone.

The floor was cold and smooth. Rad could feel it against his cheek, against his hands. With his chest pressed to it, the cold had seeped into his skin like damp in an old house. When he opened his eyes, he saw that the floor was white, streaked with black veins. Marble. He closed his eyes again and wished he would die so the buzz-saw vibration in his head would leave him in peace. Even with his eyes closed, the darkness spun around him. Stretched out on the hard floor, he felt like he was tied to a gyroscope set on high, the ground rolling and bucking as it attempted to throw its unwanted occupant off.

Then the buzzing died a little, and Rad felt his chest tighten with adrenaline as he remembered what the feeling meant. He’d experienced it before, only that time he’d been wearing a mask to help alleviate the worst of the symptoms.

Rad opened his eyes, gritting his teeth against the nausea, and pulled his chin across the floor to look up.

They were in New York.

There were boots nearby, tall with black pants tucked into them. From somewhere above a voice came, annoyed, impatient.

“Hey, buddy, wake up!”

Rad blinked, but when his eyes reopened there were more of the black boots. He’d passed out, maybe only for a second, he couldn’t tell. He tried a breath. It was OK, but it made his head spin. Crossing into the Origin without a mask… damn, it hurt. He wasn’t going to be much use for anything for a while, that much he did know.

Carson. Dammit . Which also meant…

Rad turned his head, ignoring the way his cheek tugged on the cold floor. Next to him was another prone form, a long bundle of green winter coat topped with long brown hair. Special Agent Jennifer Jones, out for the count, her golden mask facing away. The men around them — the police — were in for quite a surprise if they hadn’t seen her already.

Two hands under his armpits and Rad was on his knees. He sagged between the officers as the world spun, his breathing rasped, his eyeballs two red-hot coals. He felt the tears stream down his face. He blinked to clear his vision.