Before Tomorrowland (12 page)

“Yes, sir!”

They pulled into an unused freight dock on the edge of Hell’s Kitchen. Rotwang hated New York City. No: resented. So much filth. So much decay. So many stupid, stupid people. During his
early years with Plus Ultra, Rotwang had been part of a committee tasked with brainstorming urban renewal projects for major American cities, using the group’s forward-thinking innovations in
the areas of architecture, alternative energy, and sustainability to give metropolises like New York a viable utopian makeover. They submitted their plans through proxies to local governments, and
they were spurned.
Too ambitious
, they were told.
Too expensive
, they all said. Some on the committee became so disillusioned they quit. Their resignation bothered Rotwang as much as
the rejection, and it proved to Rotwang that the world was not only beyond saving, it didn’t want to be saved. New York may have been a hell of a town to some. For Rotwang, it was just the
noisiest, biggest corner of the hell he yearned to escape.

Fritz led them up the gangplank to a black car with suicide doors, and Rotwang got in next to Hagen. A young woman in a smart red dress sat cross-legged on the car’s opposite bench,
smoking. The clear air had been so good for fifteen minutes.

Duquesne climbed in and sat opposite Rotwang, next to the woman, and the car pulled away. The American pulled on one side of his mustache and said, “Bad shiner. How’d that
happen?” Rotwang smiled, enjoying Hagen’s awkward silence. The big man stared out his window and watched the city sweep past. “Thank you for your concern, Mr. Duquesne. I slipped
on a banana peel.”

“Hah!” laughed Duquesne. “That’s pretty good. How long since you’ve been in the States?”

“Several years,” replied Rotwang. “Well before we began our correspondence.” He was amused and confounded by the reality of this man, an aspiring Nazi, and American as
apple pie. “If I may ask, Mr. Duquesne…what drew you to the National Socialist Party?”

Duquesne gave a barking laugh and put his arm around the woman. “My wife joined the club, and I sort of got on board to support her. Turns out I liked it!” Rotwang smiled back. That
was neither his reason, nor his wife. If only they could keep lying to each other, they might get along very well. At least Duquesne had some wit, unlike the humorless stormtrooper babysitting
him.

“I would appreciate your respect regarding our nation and its purpose, Mr. Duquesne,” said Hagen, chewing out the words. “Your allegiance is not a joke to us.”

“How secure are you with Plus Ultra at present?” asked Rotwang, risking another change to a hopefully safer subject. “They must monitor your extracurricular
activities.”

Duquesne shook his head. “It’s sort of sad how far they are from noticing. Plus Ultra’s not what it was. Besides, they’re too busy with ‘the
reveal.’”

So he was an idealist. That made him relatable, if a little less interesting. Rotwang saw the hint of a disappointed child in the spy’s manly face. “What exactly is ‘the
reveal’?”

“It’s one of their over-dramatic project names. They’re going public. With everything. They told the rank and file just a few days ago.” Duquesne reached into his coat
pocket, pulled out an envelope, and tossed it into Rotwang’s lap. “Read it and weep.”

Rotwang opened the envelope with trepidation and removed the contents: a collection of photographs, each picture showing a page of a comic book. Rotwang sifted through the photos looking for one
thing in particular, and when he found it, his heart sank. By “everything,” Duquesne meant
everything
, including the biggest secret Rotwang had been keeping from the Nazis, the
secret Rotwang wanted to capture and keep for himself.

Hagen laughed. “Do you mean to tell me, Herr Duquesne, that you’ve been getting your Plus Ultra secrets from a children’s comic book?”

“It’s just a small part of a larger communications strategy,” said Duquesne. “Radio programs, magazines, books, a traveling exhibit. Orson even got Disney to make a
cartoon for them. It’s all set to roll out immediately, pending the results of the dress rehearsal.”

Rotwang put on his actor’s mask. “Commander Hagen is correct. I am certainly a man who believes that anything is possible, but most of the things described here are impossible.
Particle beam technology is a pipe dream. And parallel dimensions?! That’s just—”

“True. Absolutely true,” said Duquesne. “I’ve seen living proof. Ha! I work for her.”

“Her?” asked Hagen.

“Amelia Earhart. She’s one of them. The reports of her disappearance were all lies. Just a cover story to hide some adventure in this ‘other world.’ They’re doing
some contest this weekend to name it,” said Duquesne. “You didn’t know any of this, Doctor?”

“No,” said Rotwang. “There were rumors, of course. But I never believed them.”

“Unbelievable,” said Hagen softly. The square-minded soldier appeared to not just be stunned by these revelations, but defeated by them. “Herr Lohman must be told.”

“Why would I ever lie to you?” asked Rotwang, and winced, catching himself in a rookie mistake.

“I was talking about this Amelia Earhart business, not you,” said Hagen. “Herr Lohman must be told.” He looked away from Rotwang, whose heart was now all but beating out
of his chest.

“They’ll all know soon enough. Even those...people out there,” said Duquesne, pointing at a panhandler begging pedestrians for spare change. “Plus Ultra believes
they’re ready. No more visions of the
future
; no more
science fiction
to transition the masses. They think the world deserves the truth. Whether they’re worthy of it or
not.”

Rotwang dismissed that with a wave. “They’ll never go through with it. They’ll find some excuse. Either that, or bureaucracy will choke their idealism. As always.”

“Not anymore. Something more powerful now rules the day within Plus Ultra.”

“What’s that?”

“Capitalism,” said Duquense, blowing smoke, trying to make the word sound filthy. “The moneymen are itchy for some yield. They have a whole business plan, from toys to tourism.
Airports. Hotels. Convention centers. A permanent world’s fair. Make people buy tickets to explore paradise and watch the smartest men in the world invent the future for them.”

“And women,” said the woman in red, speaking her first words.

“Of course, my dear,” he said, kissing her on the cheek. “Women, too.”

The car came to a stop outside the Empire State Building. “Here we are, Doctor,” said Duquesne. “Your radio tower. Now I have a plan—”

Rotwang simply nodded as he exited the car. He had to make a decision, and he had to make it fast. He worried that once Lohman heard Hagen’s report, he would lose more control over the
situation. He could run. He could disappear into the city and they would never find him. But if he did that, he would also be running away from his dream of transcendence. Spending the rest of his
crooked days waiting for death in the cold shadows of this misbegotten world was no life at all; he might as well submit to a Nazi firing squad. He had to remain useful to the Nazis until they were
no longer useful to him. He had to improvise. He’d been doing it all his life...

Duquesne broke his anxious reverie. “Penny for your thoughts, Doctor?” They were in the elevator now, rising fast toward the observation deck of the Empire State Building.

“No, thanks. They’re not for sale,” said Rotwang, his wits returning. “I was reflecting on the plan you were just describing. It seems very sound, although I have my
doubts that Commander Hagen can play his role. I believe ‘tense’ is his natural state.” Rotwang looked up at Hagen. “Perhaps you can get a massage when we’re back on
the boat.”

Hagen was not amused. It was a risky thing to antagonize the commander, but he reasoned it would be even riskier to suddenly deviate from their usual rapport of barely veiled hostility. Becoming
a born-again suck-up would only make him more suspect in Hagen’s eyes.

The elevator stopped, the doors opened, and they all stepped out onto the observation deck and got busy, pretending to be just like all the tourists who came to the top of the Empire State
Building. Hagen gawked at the view, then put a coin into a telescope and surveyed. Rotwang just milled about, enjoying the warmth of the sun. When the crowd was at its thickest, Duquesne’s
moll made her move. She approached the increasingly distracted security guard in her sharp red dress and played the role of flirty dumb tourist, full of questions about such a big, tall building
and full of interest in such a big, strapping man. She gradually engaged him in a close-contact conversation, acquiring the keys off his belt with a brush of her hand. She walked with the guard,
arm in arm, asking him about various landmarks around the city. While directing the officer’s attention toward the Chrysler Building, she slipped the keys into Duquesne’s pocket. All in
all, it was an impressive display from their previously silent partner. Duquesne gave the rest of the men the signal. He unlocked a service door, and Rotwang and Hagen joined him in the
stairwell.

Climbing the remaining few floors to the base of the antenna tower made Rotwang feel every part of fifty years and every sore spot from his tumble over the ocean floor. Mostly, though, his head
throbbed near the black eye. He entertained a brief fantasy involving the woman in red luring Hagen to the edge of the building somehow so Rotwang might accidentally bump him. It was a nice dream
to pass the painful time.

At the top at last, Duquesne kept a lookout while Rotwang dabbed a handkerchief to his brow and popped the latches on his suitcase. Inside was a collection of electronics snuggled up in
velvet.

“Guys wanna see my King Kong impression?” asked Duquesne. He then beat his chest and made ape sounds and laughed.

Hagen was baffled. “King Kong?!”

“Focus, Commander,” said Rotwag. He handed Hagen a transmitter. “Wire that to the tower base for me, please. Find a discreet place.”

Hagen did as he was told, disappearing behind the other side of the base for a moment. By the time Hagen came back, Rotwang had assembled the receiver: a black box the size of a Bible with a
green ovoid screen embedded in the center. He tested the signal. “That’s fine, Commander. Thank you.” He inputted a series of numbers into a keypad.

“Your device is like a cruder version of our MFDs,” said Duquesne, pulling out his thinner, sleeker personal data assistant.

“Crude?” scoffed Rotwang. “Can your little gadget wirelessly hack into the optical systems inside the head of a mechanical man without being detected?”

“I haven’t tried,” said Duquesne. “Does your little thingie play music?”

“My little thingie does not play music.”

“Then your little thingie is a crude thingie indeed.”

The screen filled with static. Rotwang adjusted a tumbler of number combinations. An image clarified, little by little, into something recognizable. “Gentlemen,” he said,
“remote viewing is online.”

Duquesne and Hagen leaned over him to watch. They saw the interior of a cab. The camera moved out onto the street, darting here and there, searching. It was difficult to follow what was
happening, but it did settle on a sign for a few seconds:
WELCOME
:
WORLD SCIENCE FICTION CONVENTION
. The view turned to the right, and they saw an alley, and above that, a
city skyline that included the Empire State Building.

“Wave to the camera,” said Rotwang. Hagen seemed both transfixed and confused by the flickering image.

“What are we seeing, Doctor?” asked Duquesne.

Rotwang stared into the video receiver and said, “The future, my boy. The future.”

L
EE SET
down his pen and looked at the sleeping lump in the other twin bed. He observed for a while, watching the folds of
blanket to catch his mom’s breathing. Once he saw it, he continued to write.