Adam Christopher: The Age Atomic

But it was no different in Battery Park, staring into the void between this world and the next. The Fissure was active and stable and unchanged, but there was nothing on the other side. The connection with the Empire State had been lost.

“Sir,” said the MP. Nimrod turned away from the Fissure and instantly missed it.

The Fissure was addictive. Nimrod knew that, and the scowl vanished from his face. The MP looked nervous behind the black goggles they all wore. Nimrod made a note to get himself a pair for the next visit.

“Sir,” the MP said again, his voice low and discreet.

“Yes?” Nimrod wondered how long, exactly, he’d been standing in Battery Park. The Fissure played tricks with your mind, with time.

“ She is asking for you.”

Nimrod blinked, then nodded. “Very well.”

“There’s this too, sir.” The MP handed Nimrod a newspaper. It was fresh, the paper crisp and warm between his fingers. Nimrod cast an eye over the headline on the front page above a blurred black and white photo that showed nothing much except something white floating in the air against the background of what looked like Brooklyn at night.

The MP stood back and saluted, then turned and marched away. Nimrod frowned, folded the newspaper into quarters, and followed.

It was best not the keep the Ghost of Gotham waiting.

The air was still and as cold as a slap in the face as Rad pulled the collar of his trench coat up and the brim of his hat down. The streets were slick with a thin layer of dangerous black ice, the gutters and the corners of buildings piled with a dry, sand-like scattering of snow, the kind you only got when it had been cold a real long time.

And it had been cold a real long time.

Rad sniffed the air and immediately regretted it, the sudden sting of ice like a firecracker exploding in his nostrils. He exhaled into the collar of his coat and dragged his scarf up over his mouth and nose.

The Empire State was freezing up and here he was, venturing into unknown territory in the dead of night on the back of nothing but a weird phone call. Just like old times.

He’d parked his car a few blocks south, where there were at least some people and light, but as he’d walked it had got darker and darker, as if the city was fading away, dying as he went north. Come at night, the mystery caller had said, as it wasn’t safe during the day. It sounded backward, but Rad had kept to the letter of the instructions. He hiked north on foot, through streets a little wider than he was used to, among buildings a little lower than he felt comfortable with.

Rad crossed the deserted street and paused.

He was being followed, but the person doing the following was hardly a professional. The attempt to match his own footsteps to Rad’s was poor.

No problem. Rad thrust his hands into the pockets of his coat. In his left, his fingers curled around the short metal rod taken from the deceased — deactivated? — robot gangster, Cliff. In his right, his fingers curled around the handle of his gun.

Rad kept walking, slowly at first and then speeding up. He broke his step and heard the person behind him pause, so he stopped and turned on his heel, but the street was dark with plenty of shadows for people to hide in. Rad saw nothing, and the night was silent.

Rad mentally counted off the bullets in his gun as he recalled loading it that afternoon. He wondered how accurate it was and over what distance; it really was a small gun designed for point-blank defense, and he hadn’t had much of a chance to test it.

If this was Harlem at night — the safe time to visit — then during the day it must be a virtual no-mans-land.

Rad pulled his collar higher and kept walking. He had somewhere to go, and someone to meet.

Kane Fortuna.

Rad shook his head and kept his eyes on the sidewalk. Kane had returned? Was the caller telling the truth? Rad dared to hope he would see his friend again: Kane Fortuna, the Sentinel’s former star reporter, with a misguided career as the Skyguard cut short by a little trip through the Fissure. That was eighteen months ago, and despite searches on both sides of the dimensional divide in New York and the Empire State, his body had never been found.

Rad had assumed Kane was dead, that if you went into the Fissure on one side and didn’t come out the other, then the universe had chewed you up and that was that. Maybe he’d been too quick to jump to that conclusion, but he really wasn’t sure what else he was supposed to think.

Rad picked up the pace as he thought about his old friend. If Kane was alive and well, Rad was prepared to forgive him the naivety that had led him to be influenced by the wrong side. Rad knew Kane; they would talk, and Kane would listen, and they’d work everything out.

Maybe. Rad tightened his grip on the gun in his pocket, and turned a corner. Ahead, on the opposite side of the street, the neon sign of a tavern glowed, a rainbow halo thrown around it as the ice crystals hanging in the air reflected the light.

Rad needed a drink, and some time to think, and a chance to lose his tail.

Smiling beneath his scarf, he skipped up to the door, and went inside.

The tavern was the same as any that Rad had ever been in. Though, if he thought about it, the only establishment he’d ever been in was Jerry’s, near his office, despite the fact that there was no Prohibition anymore and the sale and consumption of alcohol no longer attracted the death penalty. But Rad liked Jerry’s and wasn’t interested in trying anywhere else. Jerry was also rather accommodating when it came to the matter of his tab.

The place was empty, save a barman in a blue shirt, his back to the room. Rad checked his watch, which showed it was eleven in the evening. Maybe the night was young in Harlem. If the daytime was dangerous, then maybe it was at night when it all came to life, like Harlem was operating on an opposing timetable to the rest of the Empire State. Maybe, thought Rad, he’d been a little early, which would explain the person following him and the lack of patrons in the tavern.

Rad slunk to the bar, took off his hat, and unwrapped his scarf as he perched on a stool. Rad waited a moment while the barman did a fine job of ignoring the only customer in the joint, then he tapped his fingers on the bar.

The barman turned to face him, wiping a glass with a towel. He was a young man, his features sharp, his eyes narrow and his hair so greasy it made Rad’s own shaved scalp crawl. He looked like he was chewing something, but whether it was gum or a bad attitude, Rad wasn’t sure.

“You open?” Rad said. It wasn’t the best icebreaker, but he was nervous, more nervous than he realized. He’d been followed through what had felt like a completely empty, alien world. He didn’t like it, and now he had a surly barman to contend with.

“Yeah, we’re open,” said the barman. Rad tried a smile and the barman returned the expression, although it didn’t look that friendly. He was still chewing something, and when he smiled the wet sound was loud and clear. The man’s teeth were filthy, and as the saliva squeaked around them Rad saw that it was dark, nearly black. “What can I get for ya?”

Rad frowned, wondering how hygienic this establishment was. He decided to go for something safe.

“Coffee. Lots of sugar.”

The barman’s smile widened and his nod this time was different, the nod of a man appreciating a fine choice. He even said the same as he straightened up and vanished through a door behind the bar.

Rad reached into his pocket to retrieve his wallet and his hand found the metal rod. He pulled it out and peered at it in the low light.

“Hey, where did you get that?”