Adam Christopher - The Age Atomic

Kane had been lucky so far, but he knew his own energy was running out — the more he flew, the more energy he directed back at the robots, the weaker he got. He wasn’t even sure whether the King needed him alive or just his dead body to plug back into the machine in Harlem.

Kane dodged another series of blasts that came from three different directions, converging on where he had just been in a brilliant red haze of energy. He paused in the air, reorienting himself, and heard a thunder-like rumble from the distance ahead. He looked up, saw lightning flash on the horizon, and saw black shapes moving. The distance was huge, the shapes enormous: two office blocks collapsing like wet cake as the city began to crumble, unable to tolerate any longer the lack of energy from the Fissure.

The energy he was rapidly using up.

The robots gathered, regrouping. Park Avenue surrounded Grand Central on all sides, but around the periphery were the numbered avenues, moving out like spokes from a hub. The machines crowded every street.

Kane couldn’t win. The sheer force of their numbers would overwhelm him and the robotic horde would breach Grand Central, taking him and Carson and the others back to Harlem. He hoped Carson’s plan, whatever it was, was going to work. And fast.

The robots surged forward, and Kane swept down. He brought his hand back, opening the gap in the Skyguard’s suit, and the Fissure flowed out of him like water. Tendrils of blue energy floated away from him like eddies in a stream, and then came the tugging sensation, strong now and surprising. Kane wobbled in the air as the pain clouded his senses, his vision splitting into a kaleidoscope view before it snapped back into tunnel vision, and blue fire spat from within him. The beam connected with the street, carving another great trench, causing the robots to back away. Kane moved the beam onwards, catching the front row of robots. The machines exploded almost instantly, silver arms and legs and heads flying through the air as the power of the Fissure cut through them.

Kane gritted his teeth against the pain, and touched down on the street in front of Grand Central. Time was almost up.

“Carson,” he said to the air. Something in his ear clicked.

“A little longer, Mr Fortuna. We are not ready yet.”

Kane shook his head. “I can’t keep this up. The power is running out.”

Carson clicked his tongue, the sound close and wet in Kane’s ear. “I need a little more time.”

“Can you get us away from here? The tremors are getting worse. The city is falling apart.”

“Yes, we can hear it. How far away is the event horizon?”

“Six or seven miles uptown maybe. But the structure is getting a might thin here too. A block on the corner of 43rd fell as I flew past. I didn’t even touch it.”

“Very well,” said Carson, and then there was a rustling noise. When he spoke next the tone was different, like he was facing away from the microphone. “Five minutes. Be ready to leave. Tunnel 17a. But wait for my signal.”

“OK, but Carson-”

“Hold them off, Kane. Listen for my signal.”

Kane nodded and clicked the radio off, forgetting Carson couldn’t see him. But his mind was racing. He looked down at the street.

The robot army was stationary now, the rows and rows of glowing red eyes dimmer, like they were considering a new plan of attack.

Kane searched the army, but he couldn’t see their leader, the real King of 125th Street. He hadn’t seen the silver machine man at all.

The thunder rumbled again. This time Kane could feel the bass vibration shake the street, making him stumble. The army tottered, a thousand silver soldiers banging into each other as the tremor increased in strength. Further down Park Lane, a huge building sagged at the waist and telescoped downwards, throwing up dust and debris that swept over the robots like fog.

Kane flew higher to see. How much of the city was left standing? But as he flew up, the unpleasant tug at his spine increased. He hissed in surprise and pain, and then he dropped.

It took four seconds for him to hit the street, and when he did he bounced twice, then rolled over, gasping for breath, struggling for purchase. The fall had hurt like hell, but the pain faded almost immediately. Kane moved, pushing himself up, and felt pins and needles all over and the tug at the base of his spine once more. He understood — the power of the Fissure had saved him from the fall and healed him, but that had just used more of its energy.

If the Fissure died within him, was that the end of the Empire State? Carson was going to put the Fissure back where it was, wasn’t he? Back in Battery Park, where it would burn bright and blue, reconnecting the Pocket universe to the Origin and restoring the energy balance. And the Empire State would be saved, and all would be well.

He had to buy Carson time. On his hands and knees, Kane shook his head.

“Looks like it’s just you and me, pal.”

Kane looked up. James Jones, the real King of 125th Street, stepped forward in front of his army, his metal feet loud on the tarmac. Kane went to stand but James pushed him back with his foot. Kane fell backwards and immediately rolled to the side, but he couldn’t stand. His body felt like it was made of lead. He craned his neck as James took a step forward and placed one foot on either side of Kane’s body. He flexed his fingers, and Kane was sure the square metal jaw was grinning.

“Dead or alive,” said James, “you’re coming with me.”

Carson tutted as he worked at the control console, his soldering iron moving with precise strokes, jeweler’s eyepiece rammed into his good eye. He tutted again, then raised the board at arm’s length and admired his handiwork.

“I fear for Mr Fortuna’s safety, sir.”

The Captain hrmmed. “ And what of our safety, Byron? What of the safety of the Empire State itself?”

“I can sense a change in the world,” said Byron’s voice, filling the airship cabin from nowhere.

“So can I, my old friend, so can I.”

“I can sense a change in Mr Fortuna.”

Carson looked up. “The Fissure?”

“The energy signature is weak.”

Carson frowned and returned to his work. A moment later he let the eyepiece drop into this lap.

“There,” he said, slapping the control console closed. He flicked a switch, and sat back in the pilot’s chair and stroked his beard.

“We are ready to leave?”

Carson nodded. “I’ve integrated the control systems of Ms Jones’s gun into the ship, while the weapon core itself is mounted on the nose. All we need now is to give it a little kick and we should be able to transfer across and assist our friends.” The Captain looked at the ceiling, head tilted, like he was listening to something. “It’s quiet.”

There was a click from somewhere close. The Captain turned in the pilot’s seat, but the flight deck was empty. “Byron?”

A shadow moved across Carson’s field of vision as Byron went to check.

“Anything?”

A pause, a beat. “Someone approaches,” said Byron.

“Kane!”

Kane stumbled across the threshold, one arm across his middle. His suit was intact but scuffed and dirty, covered in dust and long scratches. He collapsed at the Captain’s feet.

“Mr Fortuna, my dear chap?” Carson immediately lowered himself to the floor on the knee above his wooden leg.

Kane rolled onto his back and didn’t move again.

Carson looked up to the ceiling. “We leave at once.”

“Sir,” said Byron, and then: “Have you a plan to start the transfer? Kane is too weak. It would exhaust the Fissure completely. The energy flux is unstable as it is.”

Carson pushed himself to his feet. “I always have a plan, my friend.” Unstable on his wooden leg, he overbalanced and fell back into the pilot’s seat, then quickly spun it around and readied the controls. The sound of the engines filled the flight deck and he pulled back on the yoke. The Nimrod shook and the floor tilted as they took off, the tunnel flashing past the windows until they exited, and flew out into the night. Carson pulled back to gain altitude and turned the craft until the Empire State Building was ahead of them.