Adam Christopher - The Age Atomic

“What do you suggest we do when we get to this Cloud Club?” asked Jennifer.

Nimrod tutted. “My dear young lady, you must stop the Director. Her army cannot be sent through. Stop her and stop them, at all costs.”

“But how?” asked Jennifer.

“We’ll think of something.” Rad looked at Nimrod “We need agents and guns.”

Nimrod nodded and strode around his desk. He yanked the door open and marched into the main office, heedless of the chaos around him.

The sound of gunfire stopped, and Rad could see several of Nimrod’s agents turn from where they had hidden themselves behind overturned desks and cabinets.

Mr Grieves was nearest to them. Nimrod motioned to him, and Grieves waved the remaining agents to follow. Running at a crouch, despite Nimrod standing tall and bold in the center of the room, the agents filed past Rad and Jennifer. Rad counted five.

Five agents, with whatever ammunition they had left, to save the world. Rad didn’t like the odds.

Grieves came up behind Rad’s shoulder. “What’s the plan?”

“Cloud Club. Know the way?”

“Sure,” Grieves whispered. “We can get out the service elevator.”

Rad nodded. “Jennifer?”

“What’s he doing?”

Rad peered out through the crack in the door. Nimrod was standing in the middle of the Department. In front of him, twenty black-suited, black-hatted agents from Atoms for Peace stalked towards him, each aiming their compact automatic pistol at his head.

“Captain Nimrod,” said the agent in front. He had short blond hair under his hat, and an elegant face with strong cheekbones. “You are under arrest. New York City is now under the control of Atoms for Peace.”

“I see,” said Nimrod. “In which case, I believe the phrase ‘take me to your leader’ is most appropriate.”

The agent’s face broke into a smirk. “I don’t think you’re in any position to make demands.”

“Oh,” said Nimrod. “That wasn’t a demand. No. Now, this, this is a demand.”

In one swift movement Nimrod raised his antique firing piece, aiming it squarely at the blond agent’s forehead. The agent was so close the barrel nearly touched his skin.

Rad saw the agent’s face slacken, his eyes widen just a hair.

Nimrod pulled back the hammer of his revolver. In the dead silence of the office, the click the weapon made as the spring and catch engaged was surprisingly loud.

“I said, take me to your leader.”

Rad felt a tug at his elbow. He turned to see Mr Grieves holding out guns.

“Come on,” he said, and another agent hit a hidden switch on the bookcase at the back of the office. There was a click and the bookcase swung out to reveal a dimly lit corridor.

“Two agents front, two agents rear, our guests in the middle. Got it?”

The agents nodded, and Grieves pointed the way with his gun.

The Nimrod bucked like a rodeo bronco, bouncing Carson on the pilot’s seat and throwing both their stowaway and Byron to the floor. The ship slid sideways through the air, out of control, the tilt too steep, the speed too fast. Through the smashed front windows the lights of the city were bright, brighter than anything Carson could remember. The view, and the buzz-saw vibration that wanted to pop his eyeballs, told him what had happened. He had done it. The device, fashioned from Jennifer Jones’s gun, had worked; the impact with the Empire State Building had provided the energy needed to kick-start the transfer of so large an object as the airship.

They were in New York.

Carson pulled at the yoke and the ship responded. It seemed his theory about the overlapping geographies of Manhattan and the Empire State was correct: not everything was exactly aligned. It had been a risk, but a calculated one: if the Empire State Building had been in the same place in both cities, the Nimrod would have simply continued the collision that started in one universe in the other, and their journey would have ended very quickly indeed.

Carson grinned and ground his teeth as he pulled on the yoke with all his weight, trying to get the ship back level. They were flying down the middle of a great canyon formed by the skyscrapers lining an avenue in the heart of the city, but the Nimrod was drifting right. Carson leaned to the left as he willed the craft to turn, but a second later the armored side of the craft clipped an office building, dragging a trench along the structure. The ship juddered, then pitched violently to the left as it ran out of building and the controls suddenly responded.

Ahead towered another skyscraper. Carson hadn’t seen it before, but it was impressive and elaborate, even more decorative than the city’s tallest skyscraper. The top of the building was steel and glass, seven narrowing arches of stylized sun rays tapering to a spire; at the base of the remarkable cap were protrusions, also metal: lions, shining in the night, leaping from the building, frozen in sculpture.

And they were heading straight for it. Carson pulled back yet again, and the ship responded, sailing higher despite the protesting engines. The building was narrow, the decorative upper stories forming a neat cone even easier to pass safely, Carson thought. He took a breath at last and found it was painful and raspy. Incompatibility sickness.

Two arms wrapped around his chest and pulled. Carson gasped, the rhythm of his careful breathing interrupted as the robot King of 125th Street used the pilot’s seat to pull himself up. Carson felt something heavy and cold on his left cheek. He recoiled and turned to see the silver sculpted face nearly pressed against his as James stared out of the crumpled nose of the Nimrod .

The mechanical man hissed and pushed Carson aside, reaching for the yoke. His new robot form was strong and Carson was thrown bodily from the pilot’s seat. As he fell he saw the yoke spin of its own volition as James, once more mesmerized by the view ahead of them, froze at the controls.

Carson pushed against the decking with both hands, but his chest burned, every breath hot flame against his throat, and he collapsed back onto the floor. He was old, aged beyond his years as he travelled the universes in his ship, looking for Byron. He tried to rise again, but the ship lurched and a warning bell sounded as James, released from his reverie, grabbed the yoke and pulled with one hand while hammering the console with the other. Carson rolled on the floor, coming to rest against the wall of the flight deck.

Booted feet stomped the metal decking by Carson’s face: Byron, controlling the Skyguard’s suit with Kane’s body still inside, raced forward on the sloping, bouncing floor and launched himself at the stowaway. James pushed him off, releasing his hold on the yoke and causing the ship to tilt again, sending Byron tumbling against the opposite wall.

Byron regained his footing and threw himself at James, grabbing him around the neck. The robot rammed back an elbow and it connected, but Byron hardly seemed to register the blow. With a roar, metallic and terrible that could be heard above the engines, James turned and threw a left hook at Byron, who ducked and planted a fist in the robot’s abdomen. There was a solid, echoing clang, but James seemed almost unaware of the attack. Byron threw more gut punches, left and right, left and right, but all this did was give James more time to prepare, pushing Byron back, moving his hands up to the Skyguard’s altered helmet in an attempt to rip it off.

The two men grappled. Another alarm went off, then a third. Carson reached for the console, now a bank of red lights flashing and dials spinning. The steel and glass crown of the remarkable building filled the flight deck’s entire view, the triangles of the Art Deco sunrise sharp and angry. The ship dipped, and a lion, all steel majesty and power, tore through the nose’s remaining glass as the Nimrod hit the building at an angle.