Adam Christopher - The Age Atomic

“All for one, and so on, and so forth!” Carson cried out over the roar of the engines as he pushed the Nimrod forward.

“No!”

Carson glanced over his shoulder as someone rushed towards him from the lip of the bulkhead door. Tall, silver and sleek, man-shaped but big. A robot — James Jones, the machine king.

Carson cried out. As he did, Kane’s body jerked into life and stood, then rushed towards James, tackling the robot to the floor. The King of 125th Street screamed as the pair thrashed about.

“Sir, continue,” said Byron, his voice coming from Kane’s black mask. “Kane is safe, as is the Fissure. I have him.”

Carson turned back to the windows. “Good show,” he said. The engines thrummed as he accelerated towards the Empire State Building, but his attention was on the struggle behind him reflected in the airship’s forward windows.

James had got behind Byron, thick silver arms wrapped around him. Byron grabbed hold of the metal forearms across his chest and struggled to stand, pushing backwards and lifting the attacker’s feet from the floor. Advantage in his favor, Byron ripped one arm free from his neck and shot his elbow back, connecting with James’s abdomen. James toppled backwards and hit the rear wall of the flight deck. Byron spun around and marched forwards, grabbing the robot by the shoulders, but James jerked into life, pushing Byron away. Byron staggered and James came at him again, throwing two punches, a left and a right, at Byron’s face. Each blow connected silently, and Carson realized he was watching the fight in a kind of daze, the sounds of the scuffle hidden under the steady roar of the engines as they pushed the Nimrod towards its final destination.

Carson wanted to help, but he knew he couldn’t. His only aim now was to keep them flying on target, trusting Byron, in possession of Kane’s dying body, to hold the robot king off until transference was complete. Carson flicked a switch. The ship juddered and the nose rose in the air. In the reflection in the front window, Carson saw the tilting ship throw off James’s center of gravity. The silver man staggered backwards, arms windmilling, as Carson corrected the ship’s course with a sudden yank on the yoke. Byron, used to the motion of the craft, remained upright, braced with both hands against the wall behind him.

Carson allowed himself a grim smile, and increased the throttle. Impact in… ten…

“What are you doing?”

Carson refocused his gaze in the window, shifting from the blue and red lights of the Empire State Building to the ghostly reflected form of the real King of 125th Street behind him.

“ What are you doing?” James screamed, his voice breaking in anger, his reflection leaping forwards towards Carson’s back.

Seven…

Byron intercepted, throwing his body in the way. The two crashed into the back of Carson’s chair, jolting the pilot. Carson hissed in pain as something blunt dug into the space between his shoulder blades.

Five…

Byron pushed James, and they stood, two brawlers, each wary of his opponent, each looking for an opening.

Four…

The Empire State Building was very close now. Carson flicked his eyes from the window to the control panel in front of him. He moved his hand over a row of buttons and paused, his thumb hovering over a single control. The ship bucked again and Carson gritted his teeth, feeling the ache in the hand that was still gripping the yoke as the machine, as though sensing what was about to happen, tried to free itself from his control.

Two…

James lunged again, not for Byron but for Carson, grabbing the top of the pilot’s seat even as Byron tackled him around the waist. Byron pushed, but the robot king was stronger. Carson slid on the seat as it was rocked by the struggle behind him, the fight dragging his thumb away from the button. He hissed in annoyance as he strained to reach it, but the button was suddenly too far away as James pulled the pilot’s chair around.

One…

The ship banked sharply. Through the windows, the horizontal lines of the Empire State Building’s facade flipped until they were almost vertical and began to slide diagonally out of view with alarming speed.

Zero…

Carson let go of the yoke and threw himself at the console and the row of buttons. “Transference!” he cried, like shouting the word would make it so.

The hurricane sound of the Nimrod ’s engines swelled as they encountered the resistance of the building in front of them. The nose of the ship connected with the Empire State Building, hitting the stonework between two huge windows. The windows shattered and the stonework cracked, and Carson found himself pushed hard against the controls as inertia took over, trying its best to keep Carson moving while the airship came to a complete and sudden stop.

The metal framework around the Nimrod’s front windows kinked suddenly. Carson was only dimly aware of this, watching events happening in slow motion, knowing that he had failed.

Nobody was taking a second look at her, for which Rad was thankful. The atmosphere in the office filled Rad with a sort of nervous excitement.

He heaved a breath and glanced at Jennifer Jones. She seemed fine, unaffected by the transition from one universe to the next. It was the mask, had to be, or whatever else her brother had done to her. He noticed that she hadn’t removed her heavy winter coat. She seemed more comfortable that way. Maybe she knew what was going on underneath, and that wasn’t something everyone needed to be a party to.

Rad coughed, suddenly feeling light-headed. New York was making him dizzy. He’d felt better at the police station, but that was because he’d been sitting still in the cell. The little jaunt from the precinct house to the Empire State Building, which was hardly any distance at all on foot, had taken it out of him. Mr Grieves had been in a hell of a hurry, and when Rad had finally had to stop, leaning against a lamppost as his almost non-existent stomach contents threatened to make an appearance, Grieves had paced back and forth, eager to keep going.

But there was something in the air at the office, too. Rad thought there hadn’t been much of a time dilation between the here and the there. Somebody had shifted some desks, and he didn’t remember the two rubber plants, but Grieves didn’t look much older. But then Rad suspected Grieves was one of those men who got to middle age and then seemed to freeze in place for thirty years. Lucky for some.

No, everyone was waiting for something. That was it. He and Jennifer were standing in the middle of the office. When they’d been led in, through a fancy lobby with couches and magazines, Grieves had paused, looked at the unoccupied furniture, and cursed before letting them through the main doors with a passcode spoken through a hatch. Rad had wondered what was so disturbing about an empty couch, but his vision was going grey at the edges and his legs were made of rubber, so the thought flitted away like music on the breeze.

“What are we waiting for?”

Rad looked up. It was Jennifer who spoke, her voice loud and clear, not a wheeze or cough. There were maybe twenty people waiting in a semicircle, most smoking, all of them looking uncomfortable. Nervous. Grieves was on the phone. Rad nodded to him. “Agent?”

Grieves held up a hand and muttered something into the mouthpiece. He hung up. “Confirmed. He’s coming down.”

Rad looked at Grieves. “Who?”

The main doors opened, splitting in the middle and swinging apart with sudden force. Everyone in the office turned at the sound, but the man paused at the threshold, wry smile on his pale features, was not looking at them. He was looking at Rad.