Adam Christopher - The Age Atomic

“It’s just a nickname,” said Rad.

Another drag. “Short for something?”

Rad nodded. “Bradley.”

A final suck of tobacco. “So let me get this straight,” said the first cop, pausing to grin sideways at his companion. “You’re telling me your name is Bradley Bradley?”

Rad sighed and stilled his restless fingers. “So now you see why I might chose to go by something a little shorter.”

The first cop seemed to hold his breath. Then one eyebrow slowly went up and he nodded.

“That so?” he said, with the air of someone who didn’t believe a word Rad was saying. Which, as far as Rad could tell, was the case.

Rad smiled sweetly. “Yes, that is so, officer.”

The other cop adjusted his tie and took a deep breath. At this, his colleague sat back, pushing his wooden chair on the hard floor and making it squeak. He reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out the pack of cigarettes. Rad eyed them, enjoying the smell of the smoke but not knowing whether he really used to have a habit or whether he’d never smoked in his life. Being from the Empire State, it was a little hard to tell.

“Your name is Bradley Bradley,” said the other cop, “and you’re a private detective in a city called the Empire State, which exists inside a Pocket dimension connected to New York by a gateway-”

Rad nodded. “The Fissure.”

The other cop smiled. “The Fissure, right. And this Empire State is being overrun with robots, and you and your friend were sent here by another version of a man from New York who you think is in charge here, to figure out whether there’s another army of robots being built to fight the first lot, because a friend of yours saw them in a dream, along with some broad with blue eyes.”

Rad’s eyebrow went up. He wasn’t sure whether that deserved an answer, but he said “Correct” anyway.

The first cop lit another cigarette, and Rad’s nostrils twitched at the curl of smoke as the cop waved the match out like his life depended on it.

“And then everyone will be ready for when the little green men arrive in their flying saucers?”

Rad sighed. “Look,” he said, slowly, carefully. “I’m not crazy. I need to speak to Captain Nimrod.”

“Oh, I don’t think you’re crazy,” said the other cop. His smoking friend nodded behind his cloud. “Not crazy, no. A wino, though. How much have you had to drink today, buddy?”

Rad sighed in disbelief and sat back heavily in his chair. “Drinking?”

“You and your girlfriend were found in a heap in the middle of Grand Central Station, and before that, people said you was screaming. Caused a fuss. Someone said you was screaming about a gun; someone else thought you had a gun. We had to shut down the whole damn terminal because of you, and now you’re telling me that the Martians are coming.”

Rad closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Nimrod. There’s a government agent by the name of Nimrod. He knows me. He’ll sort it out.”

The first cop gasped in mock surprise. Then he nudged his colleague with his cigarette arm.

“Hey, Johnny, get this down, will ya?”

He leaned forward on his elbows across the table from Rad, and he took a drag on his cigarette. When he spoke his voice was a low, conspiratorial whisper.

“So, tell me, this Nimrod. He FBI? Or CIA? Or maybe — oh, he’s not KGB, is he? That would be bad. But, no, you don’t look like a Communist. Oh, I know!” the cop leaned back, triumphant. “He’s P-I-T-A! Just like you are, buddy.”

Rad shook his head and wondered whether he should ask for a cigarette.

Jennifer’s cell was empty, and had been for a while. Rad sat on the bench, his fingers straying over his scalp. He missed his hat, presumably being held with his trench coat, scarf, and belt in a box somewhere nearby. His shoes were slip-on, so at least he’d been allowed to keep them. And it was warm in the cell, and the ground wasn’t shaking.

Rad wondered how long it would take for the collapsing structure of the Pocket to start damaging the Origin. Maybe it would take a long time, given the difference in size between the two dimensions. Or perhaps it would happen all at once, catastrophically, both dimensions vanishing down an eternal plughole.

If the robot war didn’t destroy both dimensions first, of course.

A series of footfalls sounded outside his cell, then kept going. Rad stood, and a moment later Jennifer was returned to the cell next door. Rad was on the bench, his face to the grill, almost immediately.

“What happened?”

Jennifer stood in her cell, stretching out what must have been a leg made stiff by sitting in the uncomfortable chair in the interrogation room. She glanced at Rad, and then continued to rub the top of her thigh.

“Nothing much. They asked a lot of questions, and I answered all of them. They didn’t seem that interested, just noted it all down.”

“Huh,” said Rad. “You were lucky. I got the wise guys. They didn’t believe a word I said.”

“Why are they holding us here, anyway?”

“Well,” said Rad, and then he paused. Jennifer had a point. The questioning was a lot of bother for two people who were supposedly just drunks causing a scene.

“They haven’t said anything about charges.”

“No,” said Rad. “They haven’t. They’re holding us for something, though.”

“For what?”

Nimrod? Rad didn’t dare hope. “They took down everything you said?”

Jennifer nodded.

“And you told them about being an agent in the Empire State, and about the robots and all that jazz?”

“And all that jazz, yes. The never-ending winter and the falling buildings and all.”

“And they didn’t say anything?”

“Only to ask more questions. Maybe they were distracted by this.” Jennifer tapped a knuckle against a golden cheek.

Rad tugged at his bottom lip. “If only we could convince them to get hold of Nimrod. He’d get us out.”

On cue, there was a sound at Rad’s door. Rad heard Jennifer hopping up onto her bed to see into his cell as he stepped down from his bench and faced the door.

The cell was opened by a uniformed officer, not one Rad had seen before. He held the door open for a man in a brown suit and hat. The newcomer was built like a football quarterback with a thick, almost non-existent neck.

The man glanced at the policemen, then at Rad. “So, you coming or what?”

Rad smiled. “Agent Grieves, are you a sight for sore eyes.”

Mr Grieves raised an eyebrow, a tiny smile flickering over his small mouth before vanishing without a trace.

“Yeah, swell to see you.” He glanced at the cop again, then cleared his throat. He waved at Rad. “Now hurry up. We ain’t got all day.”

Detective Steven Sachs took the second-to-last cigarette from the pack, then stared at the solitary remaining smoke before squeezing the pack in his fist.

“Shit,” he muttered, his fingers automatically fumbling for the box of matches in his jacket pocket. Box retrieved, he lit his cigarette and then waved the match out with his characteristic flourish.

Bryson pushed his chair out from his desk and turned it around to face his partner. He leaned back, placed his hands behind his head, and sniffed loudly. “One of those days, right?”

Sachs nodded, not looking up from the paperwork on his desk. “You got that right.”

“Lot of paper for those two drunks?”

Sachs sucked his cigarette and shook his head. “They’re being transferred. Look at this.” He held up one of the sheets of paper. It was onionskin, a carbon copy, and when Bryson took it it nearly tore. Sachs watched as Bryson’s eyes flicked over it before settling on the symbol at the top of the paper.