Adam Christopher - The Age Atomic

The Director tilted her head at him and frowned. Perhaps it was madness, thought Nimrod. Perhaps that is what being brought back from the dead did to you.

“So I can be free,” she said. “The universes will be no longer, and I shall be free.”

“You would destroy everything, just to save yourself?”

“Enough!” The Director’s eyes flashed blue, and she turned away from Nimrod in the air. She floated to the edge of the platform and raised her arms out towards the far wall of the factory. “I control the Fissure. It is mine.”

Blue energy, smoke-like, ethereal, streamed out of Evelyn’s arms, towards the factory wall. Nimrod watched as a small spot appeared, black against the flat grey concrete, then increasing in size, the edge ragged and glowing blue. Within seconds, the blackness had swallowed half of the wall and was still growing, the blue energy pouring off Evelyn.

Then he felt it, the vibration, the pins-and-needles sensation behind his eyeballs, the same feeling he got when he was standing next to the Fissure down in Battery Park. The blackness on the factory wall seemed to flash blue, the edges still spreading as the Director of Atoms for Peace dissolved the barrier between the Origin and the Pocket.

A cold wind blew in from the blackness. It flashed again, and then Nimrod saw it: a street, buildings shrouded in darkness. As the factory wall vanished, he realized he was looking at a street in the New York night, empty and cold, frozen in winter.

No, not New York. The Empire State. Evelyn had moved the Fissure into the factory, ready for the invasion to commence.

Nimrod wanted to cry out, to scream in anguish and rage, but he was held firm in Evelyn’s grip. He ground his teeth.

“Stop,” he whispered. “You will destroy everything.”

She ignored him. The portal to the other universe opened, she lowered her arms, blue energy curling off and spinning towards the gateway like smoke on the wind.

“Elektro,” she said. “Activate.”

From directly below him, the main reactor ring spun into life, deep bass notes increasing in volume and pitch until they were howling like a tornado. With an almighty crunch, the robot army turned to face the interdimensional portal, the dark glass windows in their chests now spinning with bright red light. As Nimrod watched, they began to march, their synchronized steps vibrating the platform above the reactor as they walked slowly towards the Empire State.

Nimrod wanted to die. This was the end of all things, and he couldn’t guess why she was keeping him alive. She could see the future, and had spoken of it. Which meant it was going to happen. Her plan would work; the Empire State would die in a nuclear maelstrom, taking the rest of reality with it — not just one universe, one pocket dimension, but all of them.

The end of everything.

The inside of the Chrysler Building looked perfectly intact to Rad, though the lighting was low and yellowish, some kind of emergency back-up after the main power was knocked out by the airship crash. The interior was similar to that of the Empire State Building, but if anything even more ornate — all marble and glass, Art Deco motifs decorating the walls. Looking up, Rad stared at an image of the silver-crowned building itself that took up nearly the entire ceiling, and wondered why there was no equivalent structure in the Empire State. Not everything was reflected, it seemed.

“It’s quiet,” said Jennifer, wandering the lobby, looking up at the magnificently decorated ceiling.

Rad nodded. “Quiet as a grave.”

He turned his eyes to the floor. The marble was lighter than the walls, the blocks streaked with darker veins and laid out to make geometric patterns. In the dim light it was difficult to see if any of the markings were robot blood or not.

Byron stepped forward slowly, turning his head from side to side.

“What you got? You hear something?” asked Rad.

“There is an energy signature,” said Byron.

Jennifer stepped forward. “Energy?”

Byron gave a slow half-bow, reminding Rad of late-night conversations in an old house in another universe.

“The signature is unmistakable,” said Byron. “Unique.” He paused, then took a step forward. “There. The trail continues.”

Byron walked to the corner of the lobby, which lay in opaque shadow. “This way,” he said, and he vanished into the dark.

They’d been walking for what felt like hours. It was the unfamiliarity of the surroundings, the total lack of knowledge of where the corridors went, when they turned, what lurked behind each door. In Rad’s line of work it wasn’t an uncommon sensation.

Except now they were in the dark, traveling by the beam of a flashlight Grieves had found in the security guard’s desk in the lobby, being led by the ghost of Byron piloting Kane’s body in the Skyguard’s old suit.

It made Rad’s head spin, so he tried not to think about it. He also tried not to think about what they were going to do to stop the agents from Atoms for Peace, down here in the dark. They were just four people with a flashlight and a couple of guns, walking into the lion’s den.

“So,” he said, like he was trying to break the ice at a party. In front of him was Byron’s back; behind him Grieves and the others were so close he could feel Jennifer’s coat lapping at the backs of his legs. Underneath their feet the trail was unmistakable, now that he could see it gleam in the light. There was a surprising amount of oil. Too much.

Jennifer’s voice echoed in the corridor as they walked. “I’m fine,” she said. “Keep walking.”

“What are we going to do when we find him?”

“He needs help,” said Jennifer.

Grieves stopped and turned around, spotlighting her face with his light. The beam was split into a dozen more by the contours of her mask, golden light thrown around the corridor.

“He needs to be arrested, is what,” said Grieves. “From what you’ve said, he’s involved with all this.”

Jennifer stepped forward, bringing her golden face an inch from Mr Grieves.

“He’s injured, agent. And he was protecting the Empire State from an attack from this place. If anyone needs to be arrested, it’s your people.”

“Oh yeah?” said Grieves, rolling his shoulders. “For what, exactly?”

“For doing nothing! For letting this Atoms for Peace walk all over you. For letting them plan a war right under your nose.”

Rad sighed and pushed between the pair.

“Quit it,” he said. “We don’t know what we’re going to find down here.” He looked Grieves in the eye. “Carson sent me and Jennifer to New York to stop whatever it is that’s going on from destroying the universe. Universes. ” He turned to Jennifer. “And that might just mean your brother does have something to do with it. He wasn’t exactly altogether there in the Empire State, right?” Rad tapped his temple. “He was building his own army and keeping them doped up to keep them under control. That doesn’t sound too savory.”

Jennifer sighed behind her mask. “Let’s just find him,” she said quietly.

James Jones — formerly the Corsair, the real King of 125th Street — staggered down the corridor, reeling. He came to rest against the wall and leaned back, one hand pressed firmly to his side where it was soft and pliable. He grimaced, or at least he thought he did, the phantom memory of his flesh-and-blood face twisting in agony as he stopped for breath. It took him a moment to remember he didn’t need to breathe, not anymore.

There was a large hole in his side. He reached in, not looking, and felt something thin and slippery move. Somewhere, buried in his mind, he felt nausea and pain and he felt dizzy. But it was distant, abstract. He wondered how much of him was left inside, how far the processing had gone before his blind servant had released him from the machine. Not every part of the process was automated; his complete conversion needed someone else to finish the job.