Then he opened his eyes, and he could see forever. No, more than that, he could see beyond, to worlds unknown, to the Fissure, to the Empire State, to lands yet undiscovered.
And he could see her. He smiled and blinked, and watched as the glowing blue woman hovered in the air six feet out over the edge, nothing but endless air beneath her feet. So, she’d come, despite the fact that this was the Empire State Building, the place of her death and the place of her birth. It pained her to be here, he knew.
Their eyes met. He smiled; she didn’t.
“You’re too late,” he said. His heart soared, and his head felt like it was filled with helium. He felt like he could do anything in the world. He felt like he could fly.
The Ghost of Gotham said nothing, but floated backwards, slowly, her blue glow fading, her expression flat. But her eyes… oh, there was such light there, light that was blue and spun like diamonds. She knew. She knew.
General Hall closed his eyes, and held his breath, and jumped.
The Director watched him fall, and then she was gone.
FORTY-TWO
The floor was cold and smooth. Rad could feel it against his cheek, against his hands. With his chest pressed to it, the cold had seeped into his skin like damp in an old house. When he opened his eyes, he saw that the floor was white, streaked with black veins. Marble. He closed his eyes again and wished he would die so the buzz-saw vibration in his head would leave him in peace. Even with his eyes closed, the darkness spun around him. Stretched out on the hard floor, he felt like he was tied to a gyroscope set on high, the ground rolling and bucking as it attempted to throw its unwanted occupant off.
Then the buzzing died a little, and Rad felt his chest tighten with adrenaline as he remembered what the feeling meant. He’d experienced it before, only that time he’d been wearing a mask to help alleviate the worst of the symptoms.
Rad opened his eyes, gritting his teeth against the nausea, and pulled his chin across the floor to look up.
They were in New York.
There were boots nearby, tall with black pants tucked into them. From somewhere above a voice came, annoyed, impatient.
“Hey, buddy, wake up!”
Rad blinked, but when his eyes reopened there were more of the black boots. He’d passed out, maybe only for a second, he couldn’t tell. He tried a breath. It was OK, but it made his head spin. Crossing into the Origin without a mask… damn, it hurt. He wasn’t going to be much use for anything for a while, that much he did know.
Carson. Dammit. Which also meant…
Rad turned his head, ignoring the way his cheek tugged on the cold floor. Next to him was another prone form, a long bundle of green winter coat topped with long brown hair. Special Agent Jennifer Jones, out for the count, her golden mask facing away. The men around them — the police — were in for quite a surprise if they hadn’t seen her already.
Two hands under his armpits and Rad was on his knees. He sagged between the officers as the world spun, his breathing rasped, his eyeballs two red-hot coals. He felt the tears stream down his face. He blinked to clear his vision.
They were in Grand Central, back on the main concourse. It looked the same, although there were features not present in Carson’s version — a big, long kiosk not quite in the center of the space, and signs with arrows. Grand Central in New York City was clearly in full use.
The middle of the space seemed to be sectioned off by police tape reaching right to the wide sweeping stairs that rose up on either side of the concourse. Beyond the tape more cops corralled people — lots of people, in hats and coats, holding newspapers and briefcases and umbrellas; people talking to each other, talking to cops who shook their heads, people craning to look and see what the commotion was; men and woman and children holding hands.
Then Rad closed his eyes and let himself hang between the cops, the sensory overload threatening to pummel him into unconsciousness again.
He could guess what had happened. He and Jennifer had popped into existence right in the middle of the concourse, right in the middle of all the people who were now crowding around the police line.
That would have been quite a surprise for the good people of Manhattan.
“Hey, hey,” said a voice. Rad opened his eyes and found a scowling policeman clicking his fingers in his face. Rad flinched, each snap like being hit on the back of the head with a rubber mallet.
The officer backed away, and one of his colleagues leaned in for a pow-wow.
“Are they drunk?”
“Or worse.”
“Call said they’d just appeared out of thin air.”
“Call also said my mother is the Queen of England. Come on.”
Rad opened his eyes. The police reapplied their grip, and he was on his feet.
“And her.”
Rad struggled to stay alert. He watched as more cops tiptoed towards Jennifer, each of them with one hand on his gun. After shaking her gingerly, satisfied that she wasn’t going to leap up and knife them, they holstered their weapons and rolled her over.
“Jesus H Christ!” said the first officer. The second just shook his head, and put his hands on his hips. Then he shook his head again and waved over the scowling cop.
“What the hell?”
The scowling cop reached for Jennifer, but then Jennifer moved. In one quick motion she was on her feet, and she spun around, the long split tail of her winter coat spiraling out around her like a fancy ball gown. She turned, and looked left and right and all around, her golden metal face bright in the lights of Grand Central, her gloved hands out on each side, fingers splayed, ready for a fight.
The cops were fast too, forming a circle, a dozen guns pointed at her, a dozen voices commanding her to stand still, to give up, to lie down, to get down, to not move lady, to freeze right there. The circle moved, expanding outwards, the cops circling, not sure what they were dealing with.
Then Jennifer seemed to see Rad and she stopped turning and moved towards him, causing another round of shouting. The cops holding Rad up dragged him back a step, and then someone took the initiative and tackled Jennifer from behind. She fell with a cry, her metal face connecting with the hard floor with a surprisingly loud and bright sound, and then a cop put his knee in the small of her back and she was handcuffed and Rad passed out.
When Rad woke again he felt better, although his throat was as dry as sandpaper and his nostrils were filled with the scent of old urine and damp concrete. The surface below him was still hard but Rad could feel slats underneath the naked skin of his head. He was on a narrow wooden bench in a small room.
He swung himself over the edge, his head pounding but bearable, mostly. The buzzing behind his eyeballs flared with the sudden movement but quickly reduced to a constant pressure rather than a panic-inducing pain.
Rad looked around. He was in a cell, and he was on his own.
“Rad?”
Rad jerked around at the voice. There was a grill high in the wall behind him. He stood on the bench, which creaked beneath his weight, and looked through.
“Gah!” Rad pulled back and nearly fell off the bench, and then he gripped the edge of the window with his fingers and pulled himself back up. Jennifer’s golden face was six inches from his behind four thick grey metal bars.
“You’re OK,” she said, and there was relief in her voice even if her artificial face was unable to show emotion.
“We’re in New York,” said Rad.
“I noticed.”
Jennifer’s mask tilted a little, quizzical. “Are you feeling OK?”
“Apart from a sore head and a little difficulty breathing, just fine and dandy, thanks. But last I remember that damn fool Carson was shooting at me with the honking big ray gun of yours.”