The Age Atomic

EPILOGUE

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.”

Nimrod smiled at Eisenhower as he waited on the phone. There was a movement in his ear, muffled, as the phone was passed over.

Nimrod raised the gun, stretching his arm out straight, pointing the barrel directly at the center of Eisenhower’s expansive forehead.

“Ah, Mr Secretary? How charming to speak to you again.”

Nimrod pulled his thumb back, cocking the revolver.

“Now, listen very carefully. These are my terms.”