Empire State (6 page)

 

  Rad slumped back into his chair, paper in his lap. Below the headline was a mugshot, so badly reproduced he could barely make out the facial features. He didn't need to. He knew who it was. The whole city knew who it was.

  The unmasked face of the Skyguard. Deceased.

  He glanced down the column, past Kane's byline. The Skyguard had been executed at twenty-hundred hours, three or four hours at least before he'd rescued Rad from the masked goons. Not that that detail was particularly relevant. The Skyguard had been in prison for nineteen years anyway.

  "Huh."

  Kane reached over and took the paper away. "I was there tonight, Rad. The Skyguard is dead."

  Rad's fingers groped for his teacup. He knocked it at first, the hard porcelain of cup and saucer clattering together unpleasantly. "Someone needs to tell him that. He flies well for a dead guy."

  Kane grabbed his notes by the handful and began shoving them back into his bag. He kept his eyes off Rad and on the table.

  "So when are you going to get back on a case, Rad? The Empire State is a big city. There must be plenty that needs investigating."

  Rad eyed his reporter friend over the rim of his cup. "What? You saying I ran into a brick wall to give me a lip just so I'd have a nice story to tell? Is this what they call investigative journalism? Because you don't seem too interested for a reporter. Two guys in masks ask me for directions and the Skyguard – deceased – says he's following me. You saying it's all in my mind?" He tapped his temple.

  Kane sat still, trying to read Rad's face. His lip was continuing to swell, and Rad kept a hand close to his jaw and cheek, as if trying to protect them from further blows. Sweat stood out on his big bald head and glistened in his goatee.

  "You've had enough, Rad. Come on, let me get you home. You're gonna need to look after that pretty face of yours for a few days."

  Kane stood and swung the strap of his satchel over a shoulder before moving around the table and gently taking Rad's arm. Rad pushed him off and mumbled something, but Kane tried again, this time with a firmer grip. Rad slumped, defeated, and then pulled himself to his feet.

  "Must be someone else then." Rad's speech was slurring now, and Kane had to lean in to hear. He nodded and patted his friend's broad back.

  "Come on, big fella. Home time." He turned to the bar. "Thanks, Jerry."

  The red-jacketed barman nodded in return.

  "It's someone else, Kane. Someone else. Has to be," said Rad. Kane gently guided him to the steps that led from the office basement commandeered by the bootleggers to street level. Rad managed the first few no problem, but the sudden physical exertion after a few strong drinks now took its toll. But the stairway was narrow, fortunately, and Kane let Rad knock against the side. Kane slipped his head under his friend's arm and half-dragged him up the remaining steps. Just another night at Jerry's speakeasy.

  Luckily it wasn't far to Rad's office. Kane hadn't been able to believe Rad's luck when the illegal bar opened on a quiet backstreet so close to his building. Discreetly hidden in a area of the city that wasn't so much downtrodden as merely worn at the edges – dirty, just a little, but not enough to grab the attention of the police – the only real danger of detection was perhaps from a police surveillance blimp passing overhead, but that had been considered. The top of the stairs ended at a plain door which opened immediately into a sunken porch, separated from the street itself by railings and a concrete staircase set at ninety degrees. Jerry had installed an angled mirror in the overhang of the building above the concealed exit, so looking up, you could check both the street and the sky, safe in the knowledge that your departure would go undetected.

  Kane opened the door, stopped, and checked the mirror. A sea of dark buildings lit in the faded orange of the streetlights was reflected back at him. Looking past the mirror, Kane saw a cloudy glowing sky. It had stopped raining. There were no blimps tonight.

  Rad sucked in the cold outside air with a wet slurp, and pushed against Kane, not aggressively but instinctively, and straightened up.

  "You OK, buddy?" Kane slipped out from under Rad's arm and placed one hand on his friend's chest, one hand on his back. Rad was swaying and it was a steep drop back down into Jerry's den.

  Rad puffed again and nodded. Kane could see that while the cold air didn't really clear his head, like a shot of coffee it woke him up. Rad seemed to know it himself and nodded again at Kane. An awake drunk was at least easier to move than a comatose one.

  "Yeah, I'm good, I'm good. Nice night."

  Kane's smile reappeared. "You betcha. Come on. Home time."

  Rad huffed the wet air and attempted the second set of stairs. Kane kept his arm across Rad's back.

  Rad stopped. "Listen." He looked up into the sky. Kane shuffled his feet.

  "What? I don't hear anything. It's late."

  "Wait, wait... there." Rad craned his head around to Kane. "The docks?"

  Kane paused, squinting as he concentrated. It was late, very late, late enough for the city – this part at least – to be quiet, near silent. The harbour wasn't far away at all, just a few blocks, but at this time of night even the dockyards were dead.

  The sound was faint, caught on a wind blowing in the wrong direction. A heartbeat, a ticking and chuffing and puffing. Faint, but unmistakeable.

  "Well now," said Kane.

  "An ironclad?"

  Kane nodded. "Sounds it." He looked at Rad's swollen face just inches away from his own. At this range, his breath was strong enough to sterilise an operating theatre.

  "Come on. Home."

  Rad waved both hands impatiently and rocked on his heels.

  "I want to see this. No, I'll be fine. The exercise and fresh air will do me good. Really. Let's go. Home, but docks first. It's not far."

  Rad spun and tottered up the stairs and across the street. Kane almost called out, but thought better of it. Behind him the door to Jerry's speakeasy was closed and dark, no hint of the illicit nightlife within. There were no blimps, no pedestrians, no traffic. But it paid to be careful. Agents of the State could be, would be, anywhere.

  Kane skipped up the stairs two at a time and ran after his friend.

 
 

 

 
 

THE DOCKLANDS OF THE Empire State were vast, a spread of wharfs, cranes, piers, warehouses and cargo yards stretching down one side of the island on which the city sat. They might have once been the commercial hub of the State, but Wartime had changed things. Surrounded by the Enemy, there was no longer any need for a trading port. But the city had a use for them still, and soon the whole zone had been turned into a great war machine, the naval foundries working day and night to produce the ironclads, the great fleet of warships that protected the city, taking the fight to the Enemy. Ironclads, like the one that was now anchored far out in the misty dark.

  Rad savoured the cold night air. He was feeling better, sobering up almost with each step from Jerry's. It was times like this he wished he was in better shape – while naturally a large man, the lack of work in the last few months had taken a toll on his fitness.

  They'd walked much further than he'd expected, as far south as you could go, in fact, close to the Battery, right into the heart of the naval zone. But Rad had been determined to get a good look and Kane hadn't really protested that much. But Rad knew that being out this late, in this area, was bound to arouse suspicion. There were lights on in the squat, functional naval buildings that surrounded them. They were being watched, no doubt about it.

  Rad looked out at the anchored ironclad. Its lights were on, and even though their glare made it hard to focus on the boat itself, its indistinct silhouette was a huge, brooding presence. He thought it would be very hard to keep the ironclad's return a secret. So far, lights blazing, it looked like they weren't bothering to try.

  Something uncomfortable wormed at the back of Rad's mind. The fact was that of the hundreds of metal warships that headed out to the war once or twice a year, not a single one had ever come back. Ever. The ships were constructed at a prodigious rate, and when enough were ready a fleet was assembled and a ticker-tape parade organised and they steamed off into the fog, out of sight, and out of mind. And then six months later the cheering crowds gathered again. And again. And again. But the ironclads never returned, and nobody ever talked about it, and the State pretended that the war was going well. And you didn't argue with the State.

  "Well now," said Rad. He felt sober, although he wasn't entirely sure where his feet were, so he leaned on the railing, just in case. "Don't tell me we're winning the war after all?"

  Kane touched the railing, then seemed to think better of it and took his hand away. The browned metal was cold, icy, but Rad enjoyed the sensation.

  "I kinda get the feeling that if this ship was supposed to come back, we would have heard about it," Kane said. "The Chairman of the City Commissioners would be on the steps of city hall gassing to the press. And nobody at the paper has mentioned this at all, and believe me, we'd be the first to know."

  Rad clicked his tongue. "Which means nobody knew it was coming back. Not even the Commissioners." He laughed. "Now there's a nice surprise."

  "So what's it doing back?"

  "And what are they going to do with it now?"

  Kane stood straight and stretched his back. He glanced at the shadows moving passed the windows behind them. Rad followed his look; they shouldn't linger too long.

  Kane smiled. "Perhaps you can get your friend the Skyguard to take a look?"

  Rad huffed, low. "Very funny."

  "Sorry," said Kane. "The
new
Skyguard."

  Rad pointed to the ship with a fat finger and wagged it. His face split into a too-wide grin and he winced a little.

  "Quarantine!"

  Kane frowned. "Quarantine?"

  "Yep, quarantine. Look." He pointed again. "The ship is out near the harbour entrance, but it's anchored and it's lit. So it's got power still, it's not damaged or wrecked or out of control. It's stopped, and anchored, far enough out that nobody can get to it very easily.

  "But that's not all. Those big blue eyes of yours don't work in the dark? Hell, I've a belly full of moonshine, but even I can see it. There's other boats out there.
Unlit
boats, all around it. A perimeter, just enough to establish a line. See?"

  Kane frowned and squinted. The waterfront was brightly lit by the streetlights, which reflected off the promenade and into the water. The ironclad's lights, a bright chain of globes that cast odd shadows against the angled metal hull of the warship, reflected back into the water around it. Between the two belts of light, there was a black void. The night was cloudy and the water's dull and calm surface spoiled only when a sharp wave crested, which wasn't often.

  Kane raised his hand to his brow, blotting out the glare of the streetlights. Rad pointed again. There, gently moving against the absolute black of the water: shapes. Rectangles and triangles and squares, indistinct but solid. Several boats, standing off the ironclad, between it and the city. A defensive line.

  Quarantine.

  "You're pretty smart for a drunk guy."

  "Hey hey," said Rad, standing up again and swaying a little. "Drunk private detective, thank you
very
much."

  There was a noise from the building behind them. Kane looked over his shoulder, then took Rad's arm and pulled him slightly away, nodding towards the building. Rad turned with no subtlety at all, searching for the alarm and then saw more shapes moving in the windows. Someone was about to come and take a closer look. Rad nodded and let Kane guide him away, tripping slightly over his shoes.

  "Home time, Mr Fortuna. I think I need a drink."

  "You know there's a word for people like you, Rad. It's called 'functional alcoholic'."

  Rad laughed. "That's two words. Don't they teach you anything at fancy journalism school? And I meant tea, dear boy,
tea
." Rad stumbled a little. "And bed. Maybe in reverse order. Maybe tomorrow. I ain't got no plans. You?"

  Kane pursed his lips and Rad grinned. As they walked off, Rad watched reflections move on the wet street as they headed back up town. Kane's mouth moved without sound, and Rad recognised the way he was looking vaguely into the middle distance ahead of them.

  "I know that look," said Rad. Kane winked.

  "'Quarantine'," he said. "Yeah, I think I've got an idea for my next story."

  By the time Kane led Rad to his building, it had stopped being late and had started being early. Rad waved Kane off and watched as his friend paused, then turned on his heel and headed home with a wave over his shoulder. Rad nodded, then disappeared through the front door.

 

Across the street, two men in gas masks and fedoras and trench coats watched Kane walk away. They stood in the shadow of a building for a few minutes, and then left the Empire State.

 
 

 

 
 

THE RINGING IN RAD'S HEAD was loud enough to wake him and once he was awake it didn't stop. He rolled over, noticing that the room was bright and the insides of his eyelids were red. It was day. He had no idea when he'd got to bed, and no idea how long he'd slept for. The ringing continued.

  Rad jerked upright. It was the telephone in the office. He sighed, and rubbed his face, then winced as the left side smarted like all hell. His fat lip had bled in the night and gummed his bottom teeth up. He touched the side of his face again. It stung when he touched it, and was comfortably numb when he didn't. That would do.