Adam Christopher - The Age Atomic

“Yes?”

“It’s Carson, sir,” said the agent in front.

Rad froze. “What about him?”

“He’s in a bad way. He said to get Captain Nimrod.”

Rad turned to Nimrod. Nimrod brushed his mustache with the back of a thick finger.

They stood in front of the portal: Rad and Jennifer and two of Evelyn’s robots and two of Nimrod’s agents. The two robots carried the metal body of James Jones between them, while Nimrod’s agents held a stretcher, on which lay Captain Carson. The old man breathed deeply but too slowly for Rad’s liking, and when he exhaled there was an asthmatic rattle.

“He’ll be better when you get across, trust me,” said Nimrod, his eyes on his other self. “The incompatibility sickness is making his condition worsen. Are you ready?”

Rad pulled his collar up and his hat down, and he looked at Jennifer. She nodded.

“And the sooner we get back, the sooner we can work on getting James help,” she said, looking down at her brother’s lifeless machine body.

Rad frowned. Inside he hoped she was right, but he also knew that getting James fixed, if that was even possible, depended largely on whether Carson would pull through. Carson and his New York counterpart were their best hope, but Rad wasn’t too sure about relying so much on Nimrod’s co-operation.

“OK,” he said, turning to Nimrod. “We’re ready.”

“Very good,” said Nimrod. “These robots will obey your every command. With luck, they will be able to overcome the programming of the robots on the other side, and those will in turn begin reprogramming their brethren — and so on, and so forth. The process will be exponential. When you are ready, simply give them the command, and they will go about their work.”

Rad shook his head. “There’s an awful lot of assuming going on there. You should come with us. We’ll need your expertise, not just with the robots but with James here too.”

“I have much to do here,” said Nimrod, “but I shall try to be quick. With the portal open, we can come and go as we please.”

Jennifer tapped Rad’s arm. “We need to go.”

Rad nodded. He shook Mr Grieves’s hand and reached out for Nimrod’s, but the Captain merely took a step backwards and bowed.

“Quickly, detective.”

Rad frowned. He turned to the robots and the two agents.

“Follow me,” he said, then he hunched his shoulders and walked into the Empire State, the others right behind.

They watched Rad and Jennifer for a moment, and then Mr Grieves coughed. Nimrod turned to him.

“Excuse me, sir,” said Mr Grieves. “We’re still federal fugitives, aren’t we? Even with Evelyn gone…”

“Yes,” said Nimrod, fire in his eyes. “There is something we need to do.” He turned to the two robots behind him. “Come with me.”

In Soma Street the hour was early, but there was something different. Rad paused, letting the others go ahead, as he looked at the sky. Morning would come soon, and it was still cold, colder than the coldest winter in the Empire State, but the deadly bite was missing, the chill that made Rad fear for his life. The Pocket and the Origin were reconnected, and now perhaps the Pocket was healing.

Rad turned around. The middle of Soma Street no longer existed. Instead, there stood a huge arch of shimmering blue, three or four stories tall and just as wide. Evelyn’s New York factory was right there, the silver army frozen in place just beyond the threshold. Rad guessed the portal would be permanent, which meant access to Soma Street would have to be restricted. Something to worry about another time.

Nimrod and Mr Grieves were nowhere to be seen. Rad sighed, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He liked Captain Carson, but there was something about his New York counterpart that made Rad nervous.

“Rad!”

The detective turned. Jennifer waved at him from farther down the street, the agents and robots trudging forward, carrying their charges.

“Coming,” said Rad. And then he pulled down his hat and jogged to catch up. Beneath his hat he smiled.

Home sweet home.

The men, near to thirty of them, sat around the circular table so large it occupied the entire room, a great ring of polished wood that circled two desks in a central arena. At these desks — themselves large, expensive, and tax-payer funded — sat two clerks, both female; one was checking through a vast stack of paper while the other prepped her stenotype for the second half of the meeting, due to commence in just a few minutes. Around the room, portraits of the great and good looked down upon the senate subcommittee: Abraham Lincoln, George Washington, and a dozen other presidents — some famous, effective; some less so.

The recess was nearly at its end, the committee members slowly returning to their seats, sipping from their fresh coffee and laughing about their poor games of golf that weekend, the episode of I Love Lucy from TV the previous night, and the chances of the New York Giants against the Cleveland Indians in the forthcoming World Series. The Giants were going to get their asses handed to them was the general consensus.

The double doors of the committee room opened and a man walked in, leading three others; behind them, two walking machines, hulking silver men nearly seven feet tall, their features a rough parody of human faces, their chests lit with spinning discs the same glowing red as their eyes.

The man in front wore a brown suit that was most definitely bottom rack, while the three behind wore matching black suits of a quality cut with black hats to match. All four were holding guns, and they strode into the room quietly and at speed, stepping through the gap in the circular table that allowed entry into the central space. In just a few seconds the three black-suited men spaced themselves out around the table, each covering enough of the committee members to ensure nobody did anything they might regret later. The two robots stood by the doors, still except for their eyes, which scanned the room back and forth, back and forth.

The clerks seated at the desk made to stand, but the man in the brown suit shook his head and motioned with his pistol for them to sit tight.

The committee members began to mutter, quietly at first but with gathering volume. Most seemed canny enough to keep still. All except the committee chair, a tall man wrapped in immaculate blue pinstripe, his hair snow white and perfectly parted. The Secretary of Defense.

“Who are you?” asked the Secretary. “What do you want?”

The man in the brown suit raised an eyebrow.

“You can call me Mr Grieves,” he said, before turning back to the clerks. He clicked his fingers at one of them. After a moment the young woman realized what he wanted and picked up the phone, offering it to him. Mr Grieves nodded at her. “Dial for me.”

The clerk put the receiver to her ear. “Um… what number?” she said, almost adding “sir” to the end of the question.

Mr Grieves smiled.

“The Oval Office. Get me the President.”

The phone rang twice. The man sitting in the chair behind the big desk ignored it, his attention instead on the gun pointed at him, unmoving.

The phone rang four more times. Nimrod glanced at the black-suited agent and the robot standing by the door, and then picked it up.

“Oval Office,” said Nimrod, a happy lilt in his voice. Behind the desk, Dwight D Eisenhower scowled at his former special aide, but he didn’t speak, his lips tight, his left eyelid twitching. Nimrod kept his eyes on him and kept the gun perfectly level.

“Ah, Mr Grieves,” he said into the phone. “I take it everything is in order? Yes? Good. What? Ah, the Secretary of Defense wishes to speak to the President? I’m afraid he will have to speak to me.”