Authors: L. Woodswalker
“Uh, never mind, Mr. Mayor,” the Police Commissioner interrupted, tugging on the Mayor's sleeve. “These boys are on the force. Plainclothes.” He turned to the pursuers, grinning. “Boys, why don't you just come in and enjoy the show. It's my birthday celebration—I hear there'll be a nude dancing girl coming out of a cake.”
While they argued, Niko and Clara retreated back through the service passage, turning right at a pair of swinging doors and emerging in a dark green hallway containing a few utility carts.
A maid saw them, screamed and ran for help. Soon the pursuers came dashing up the hall, yelling. “You there! Hands up! We'll shoot!”
They emerged into the ballroom, not stopping to admire the opulence of crystal chandeliers and mirrors, or the ornate elegance of the ladies' ball gowns. They shoved past armies of liveried butlers and maids, while the lawmen came in hot pursuit. Clara upset a punch-bowl while Niko pulled a tablecloth down and caused a whole table full of shrimp, wine, and lobster bisque to cascade to the floor. Ladies screamed as their fine gowns were ruined. While the gun-men tried to push through the outraged crowd, Niko and Clara made it across to the elevator.
“Thirty third floor,” Niko said, leaning on the button. “Fastest elevator in New York, 220 volts AC with variable frequency drive. I should know—I set up the system myself.”
When they reached the top, he pulled an instrument from his pocket and cut the power. “Let's leave them trapped on the eleventh floor,” he said, chuckling. “Eleven is a very unlucky number.”
They ran for the stairwell. Clara pulled off her shoe and smashed the window, and the two of them began descending the fire escape.
Thirty three floors below, the butlers and hotel managers finally managed to restore order and the exclusive gala began. Waiters with white gloves wheeled a tremendous toroidal cake onto a stage. From its center rose a platform, upon which stood a bare-breasted woman resplendent in sequins, feathers, and little else.
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” she said. Behind her, a great silver disc descended like a theatrical backdrop, to immediately capture the eyes of everyone in the room. “Do you like what you see? I'm Shelia, herald of the Heavenly Angels!”
***
“We lost them. It's all right. We're safe now.” The two of them kept reassuring each other, while checking at every intersection and alleyway. They both kept their hands close to their induction guns.
At the same time, they had to keep distributing the leaflets. New York City was an awfully big place, and everyone had to be warned.
At about 4:00 p.m. they arrived at Wall Street. “There it is,” Niko said, “the financial center of the world. Let's leave a big bundle of leaflets.”
They strolled past the majestic New York Stock Exchange building and glanced at the grand neoclassical facade with its Greek columns and sculptured marble pediment. Busy men with briefcases streamed in and out of the building, going about their day of frantic stock trading and deciding the fate of America and the world.
“Let's leave them on the—” he broke off, feeling a sudden tingle of current: disturbed electrons, highly excited ions making his hair stand on end. “
Bože moi!”
“What's wrong?”
“Run!”
A second later he heard the telltale whine from the sky and a glowing Martian ship appeared as though shot from a cannon. Another vessel zipped down to join it. People screamed and covered their heads. “What's happening?” They dashed for cover behind wagons and cars. “It's the end of the world!”
Niko and Clara cowered behind a tree and watched as a blinding ray lanced out from the belly of the ship to strike the facade of the Stock Exchange. A crack appeared in one of the Greek columns.
Hands shaking, Niko set his induction gun to maximum and aimed it at the Martian ship.
Zzzzzt
... he could sense the electrons streaming out and bouncing off the sphere.
Nothing.
“Damn! It's not even scratching it!”
Clara whipped out her sonic umbrella and together they aimed at the second ship. They might as well have been using toy squirt guns for all the good it did. Ignoring their futile attack, the ship struck again, shattering another column. Stone fragments flew in every direction. People fled, screaming in terror.
One more strike from the Martian attack disc and the marble roof of the Stock Exchange crumbled. The ceiling fell in with a thunderous crash. Billowing clouds of dust filled the street.
The alien ships vanished as quickly as they had come.
Screams could be heard from those trapped under the rubble. Injured people staggered away, blood streaming down their faces. Sirens wailed; police wagons and ambulances converged on the shattered building. Bystanders rushed to try and rescue the victims, while others stood crying and wringing their hands.
Niko and Clara found themselves clinging together. He stood up, shaking uncontrollably. “Bastards,” he muttered, his fingers clawing an invisible foe. “Goat-sucking devils' sons. I'll rip them all apart. Come on, we've got to go help—”
“No. We've got to get away.” She dragged him off. Still clinging to each other, they pressed their way through crowds of people crying and milling about in shock.
“Are they going to blame me for
this
too? Even after they saw the ships?”
“Probably—they'll think those are
your
ships, if your enemies say so. People are stupid. They'll believe anything they're told.”
New York City roiled like an anthill disturbed by a stick. People milled about in tense knots, sharing their stories.
“I thought maybe one of the gas mains...”
“I thought it was the boiler factory!”
“My husband works in there,” cried a hysterical woman cradling a stew pot. “I was going to b-bring him dinner!”
The streets radiated anguish, tension—anger at the unknown culprits. “We'll find the bastards who did this,” a man shouted. “We'll take 'em apart!”
Niko and Clara hurried past, only to hear a woman's shout behind them. “There he is!” she cried, pointing. “That's him—Nikola Tesla! He's the one responsible!”
He had caught only a brief glimpse of her face, beneath a large flowery hat. Surely it couldn't be—
Katharine Johnson?
Others gathered around the shouting woman. “That's
him?
Let's get him!” People pried up cobblestones. “Devil! Madman! Murderer!”
“I'm innocent!” Niko raised his hands. “The Martians did it!”
“Liar! Maniac!” A stone whizzed past his head.
“Cossack!
Beheima!”
Clara picked up a clod of horse dung and threw it at their persecutors, who replied with rotten vegetables and more stones.
Within seconds a mob had formed: ordinary New Yorkers armed themselves with sharp objects, sticks of wood, and rubble from the destroyed Stock Exchange building. “Get 'im! Hang 'im from a lamppost!”
Niko grabbed Clara's arm. “Run!” A brick struck his thigh, but he dared not slow down. They turned up Nassau Street, passing mounted policemen who acted as if they saw nothing at all. Like a snowball, the mob kept gathering more mass to itself.
He turned and fired the induction gun. The bolt struck the nearest pursuers and they collapsed against those behind them. It only slowed the mob for a second, and then the rest took up the chase with renewed fury.
Clara opened her umbrella, set the sonic waves to the widest setting and let them have it. This weapon, too, merely slowed the crowd for a moment. “They're not acting normal,” she cried. “It doesn't even scare them—it just makes them madder!”
Niko pulled Clara into a garbage-strewn alley. “Quick—up the fire escape.” He made a cradle of his hands and boosted her up, then made a jump for the iron rungs. His legs dangled with the murderous mob just feet away, before he managed to vault himself onto the ladder. He turned, giving the closest ones a sting from his induction gun.
But it won't hold them off forever.
They dashed up the side of the red brick building, up one, two and three floors, past windows where terrified children gaped.
The mob soon caught up and boosted a few of their fellows onto the fire escape. They started climbing the flimsy metal stairs, screaming curses all the while. An old woman looked out the window and began crossing herself and praying to all the saints.
Niko fired an electric charge at the closest pursuer, who lost his grip on the railing and would have fallen if the others hadn't caught him.
“I'll turn down the voltage,” Niko decided, resetting his gun. “Just a sting. Make them sleepy...forget what they were doing.”
“Why?” Clara asked. “The bastards are trying to lynch you!”
“They'll fall off the fire escape and be killed. There's already been enough death today. Anyway...” he paused, out of breath. “...conserve voltage.”
Gasping, the fugitives reached the fifth floor, climbed onto the roof, and took cover behind a tall water tank. “Yeah. Running out of voltage,” Clara muttered, studying her weapon controls as they backed up against the opposite side of the roof. “Enough for maybe three or four charges.”
“That won't last long.”
“Let's jump across!”
A gap of barely three feet separated this building from the next, which only had four stories. Breathing heavily, Niko looked down at the view: miles and miles of brick buildings, both shabby and elegant, with sculpted facades and crenelations...a world that had been his home for half a lifetime...a world that had once adored him and flocked to see his wonders—and now it had turned against him. Hundreds of New Yorkers now filled the streets below, screaming and chanting “death to Tesla!”
Well, it's just what I deserve,
he reflected. He had not attacked the Stock Exchange himself, but he might just as well have.
All this death and destruction is my fault. I brought the invaders here.
“Let's go!” Clara pulled him up on the wall. He breathed a prayer to St. Sava and they took a running leap across, hand in hand, and tumbled onto another tenement roof. A housewife was gathering up her laundry from the rooftop clothesline. She screamed and fled, leaving the roof access door open.
The fugitives dashed down the dank, fish-smelling stairwell of the tenement and emerged out onto Maiden Lane, now shaded with dusk. “Think we lost them?”
“There he is!” came the shrill cry. “Thought he could get away!”
“Head for that alley,” Niko cried, and saw Clara stumble and fall. Her ankle had never had a chance to heal. He picked her up in his arms and ran, but the crowd had already fanned out to surround them. They reached the far end of the alley, and realized it was a dead-end.
No escape.
“Lemme down,” Clara cried, and they faced the crowd. Blue lightning crackled from their electric guns. But as soon the weapons repelled the attackers, more took their place. Niko checked the indicator and saw that his power was nearly gone. The crowd was losing its fear. Not much longer now...
He put an arm around Clara, holding her up. They stood with their backs against the wall. “I guess we're finished. I love you, Clara.” With all the noise, she probably didn't hear.
A man came forward, clutching a baseball bat. Niko fired the gun: nothing.
No more power.
“Robert,” Niko cried. “Robert Johnson!”
“Monster,” said Robert. “Madman!”
The woman next to him carried a metal garden stake. Yes, it was his dear friend Katharine Johnson.
He stared at their faces and saw no trace of his dear friends: lovers of fine art and poetry, genteel hosts with whom he had shared fine dinners and poetry.
Katharine loved me. I know she did.
And her gallant husband Robert...he had loved Niko as well, all of them in a pure and spiritual way.
He held out his hands. “Robert, Katharine, don't you know me? It's your dear friend Nikola!” Had the disaster unhinged their minds, or was it...
the Silver Chamber
which had turned them into raging murderers? “You know I would never do any of this! You know me better than—”
“Maniac!” Robert cried, raising the bat. “Always making fiendish devices—plotting to destroy the world! I want to be the first to bash your head in and rip your guts out—”
But before Robert could swing the bat, something white dive-bombed out of the sky, right into his face: a snow-white pigeon, fierce as an eagle, clawing at his eyes.
“Aagh!” Robert screamed. He dropped the bat and ran, flailing his arms at the maddened bird who attacked him in a frenzy of claws and feathers.
“It's Alouette!” cried Clara.
In the next instant, about 100 more pigeons came diving out of the sky and went for the people's faces. Screaming, Katharine took off her huge hat and flapped ineffectually at the birds. The mob yelled, tried to fend them off, but the flock kept increasing. A hundred—a thousand: they became a swirling tornado—screeching, flapping their wings and swarming the crowd.