Read Online Ghosts of Manhattan by George Mann - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: George Mann
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holotube terminal. It fizzed for a moment and went out. He was glad it was out of sight of the blinking lens that reflected his image down the receiver. "Tonight. That's it, then. I'll come tonight. I'll attend to things here and come over."
Celeste gave a wry smile. "Be sure not to hit any wayward vigilantes on your drive."
Gabriel shrugged. "I'll take the train."
She laughed. "You know where to find me." The link went dead, leaving him with nothing but a low burr.
"I certainly do," he said aloud, before reaching for the whisky bottle he'd abandoned earlier that morning, pulling the stopper free, and taking a long slug.
The train that ran from Long Island to Manhattan was a vast, gleaming masterpiece of modern engineering. Constructed around a shell of iron, it had a tip like a snub-nosed bullet capped with a carapace of shining white ceramic. The carriages snaked in a long procession, linked by joints of reinforced rubber, forming one continuous, open space within. Unlike the more traditional locomotives that still crisscrossed most of the country, the Long Island train had abandoned its reliance on steam and coal. Instead, the engineers had adopted a powerful pneumatic engine, created during the war for transporting missiles along the coast, but now relegated to shuffling people back and forth to the city. The result was a powerful, reliable, high-speed means of traveling to Manhattan Island, and Gabriel hated every moment of it.
It wasn't the speed of the thing, nor the discomfort; a first-class ticket commanded a particularly high standard of travel, and Gabriel could easily afford it. It was simply the fact that he was too enamored by the sense of control he felt when he sat behind the wheel of his own car to care for the relatively passive experience of being a passenger on the train. He couldn't abide the notion that he was placing his own destiny in the hands of other people; no matter how unreasonable he knew that notion to be. He felt affronted by it, as if it somehow eroded him, made him lesser in some tiny way. It was a hangover from the war, from the horrible things that had happened to him over there, in Europe. Those experiences had left him feeling impatient, unwilling to concede control. Perhaps that was why he had a tendency to sabotage his own happiness. Perhaps.
Like most of the lost generation, Gabriel Cross was damaged, irrevocably scarred. The difference was that he recognized the fact, and embraced it. It was this that had prevented him from going insane. But even that, he knew, was debatable.
Stifling a yawn, he disembarked onto the platform, stopping to button his overcoat against the brisk winter chill. Behind him the engine sighed majestically, as if weary after its long journey, and the platform suddenly swelled with jostling people as the carriage disgorged the remains of its charge.
He stood for a moment, watching the crowds of people as they swarmed toward the exit, one after another, just like a flock of birds. His hand dropped almost involuntarily into his pocket, fingers probing for the item he had secreted there earlier. He found it, and the cold, hard feel of it was reassuring. His service revolver. It was an old weapon, now, basic compared to the more advanced designs of recent years, but it had never let him down, and he carried it with him whenever he came to the city. Or rather, whenever he came to Joe's.
Turning up the collar of his coat, he set off, following the herd of travelers as they scrambled up the steps toward the cold Manhattan night.
The sky was clear when he emerged, his breath fogging in the frigid November air. It was dark, and the city was lit up like a showhall; electric lights burned in every tower, crisp and bright and stark against the black fabric of the sky. He checked his watch. Nine-thirty. He had time to walk.
He set off, carrying himself with an insouciant air that he didn't feel. Cars hissed by on the road, their engines crackling with heat and
Celeste gave a wry smile. "Be sure not to hit any wayward vigilantes on your drive."
Gabriel shrugged. "I'll take the train."
She laughed. "You know where to find me." The link went dead, leaving him with nothing but a low burr.
"I certainly do," he said aloud, before reaching for the whisky bottle he'd abandoned earlier that morning, pulling the stopper free, and taking a long slug.
The train that ran from Long Island to Manhattan was a vast, gleaming masterpiece of modern engineering. Constructed around a shell of iron, it had a tip like a snub-nosed bullet capped with a carapace of shining white ceramic. The carriages snaked in a long procession, linked by joints of reinforced rubber, forming one continuous, open space within. Unlike the more traditional locomotives that still crisscrossed most of the country, the Long Island train had abandoned its reliance on steam and coal. Instead, the engineers had adopted a powerful pneumatic engine, created during the war for transporting missiles along the coast, but now relegated to shuffling people back and forth to the city. The result was a powerful, reliable, high-speed means of traveling to Manhattan Island, and Gabriel hated every moment of it.
It wasn't the speed of the thing, nor the discomfort; a first-class ticket commanded a particularly high standard of travel, and Gabriel could easily afford it. It was simply the fact that he was too enamored by the sense of control he felt when he sat behind the wheel of his own car to care for the relatively passive experience of being a passenger on the train. He couldn't abide the notion that he was placing his own destiny in the hands of other people; no matter how unreasonable he knew that notion to be. He felt affronted by it, as if it somehow eroded him, made him lesser in some tiny way. It was a hangover from the war, from the horrible things that had happened to him over there, in Europe. Those experiences had left him feeling impatient, unwilling to concede control. Perhaps that was why he had a tendency to sabotage his own happiness. Perhaps.
Like most of the lost generation, Gabriel Cross was damaged, irrevocably scarred. The difference was that he recognized the fact, and embraced it. It was this that had prevented him from going insane. But even that, he knew, was debatable.
Stifling a yawn, he disembarked onto the platform, stopping to button his overcoat against the brisk winter chill. Behind him the engine sighed majestically, as if weary after its long journey, and the platform suddenly swelled with jostling people as the carriage disgorged the remains of its charge.
He stood for a moment, watching the crowds of people as they swarmed toward the exit, one after another, just like a flock of birds. His hand dropped almost involuntarily into his pocket, fingers probing for the item he had secreted there earlier. He found it, and the cold, hard feel of it was reassuring. His service revolver. It was an old weapon, now, basic compared to the more advanced designs of recent years, but it had never let him down, and he carried it with him whenever he came to the city. Or rather, whenever he came to Joe's.
Turning up the collar of his coat, he set off, following the herd of travelers as they scrambled up the steps toward the cold Manhattan night.
The sky was clear when he emerged, his breath fogging in the frigid November air. It was dark, and the city was lit up like a showhall; electric lights burned in every tower, crisp and bright and stark against the black fabric of the sky. He checked his watch. Nine-thirty. He had time to walk.
He set off, carrying himself with an insouciant air that he didn't feel. Cars hissed by on the road, their engines crackling with heat and
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