The bread tasted like penicillin and dust.
Jason Underwood sat alone at the metal table in the mess hall of the Icarus. The slice of sourdough in his hand had a spot of fuzzy blue mold the size of a quarter on the crust.
He didn't tear it off.
Fifty crewmen—mercenaries, engineers, and mechanics—watched him from the surrounding tables. Their bowls were filled with a gray, watery potato soup that smelled of despair. They weren't eating. They were waiting.
If the Captain threw the bread away, the mutiny would start before lunch.
Jason looked at the mold. He thought of the steak dinners at Delmonico's in 1907. He thought of the truffle pasta in 2024.
He took a bite.
He chewed slowly. The mold tasted bitter, metallic. He swallowed it without flinching.
He took another bite.
Around the room, the tension broke. Spoons clattered into bowls. The men began to eat. If the billionaire warlord was eating the garbage, they couldn't complain.
"It's getting bad, Boss," O'Malley said, sliding into the seat opposite him. The big Irishman looked gaunt. His tuxedo was gone, replaced by a grease-stained mechanic's jumpsuit and a shoulder holster.
"The boys are talking," O'Malley whispered, leaning in. "They say the gold in Atlantic City is a myth. They say we're flying a bomb into New Jersey just to die."
"Gold is an element, O'Malley," Jason said, wiping crumbs from his mouth. "It has an atomic weight of 196.9. It doesn't care if you believe in it."
"Philosophy doesn't fill bellies," O'Malley grunted. "We have twenty-four hours of fuel left for the reactor coolant pumps. If we don't find high-grade uranium or a few tons of refined petroleum, we drop out of the sky."
"We're not dropping," Jason said. "We're landing."
BZZZZT!
A red alarm light began to spin on the bulkhead. A klaxon wailed—a dying, strangled sound.
The deck lurched.
Jason's soup bowl slid off the table and shattered. The entire ship groaned, metal screaming against metal.
"Report!" Jason yelled, tapping his headset.
"Thruster Two is gone!" Howard Hughes screamed over the comms. " The bearings seized! The makeshift weld didn't hold! We're losing lift on the port side!"
Jason stood up, grabbing the table for balance. The floor was tilted at a twenty-degree angle.
"Compensate with the starboard vents!" Jason ordered. "Don't let us flip!"
"I'm trying!" Hughes shrieked. "But the aerodynamics are trash! We're heavy!"
Jason ran to the porthole.
They were punching through the cloud layer. The gray mist whipped past the glass like smoke.
Below them, the Jersey coastline appeared.
It wasn't the glittering playground Jason remembered from history books.
In 1920, Atlantic City was supposed to be the "World's Playground." Electric lights. Jazz. The Miss America Pageant.
The city below was dark.
Massive bonfires burned on the beach, casting long, dancing shadows against the boardwalk. The famous piers jutted into the black ocean like broken fingers. The neon signs were smashed. The Million Dollar Pier looked like a fortress.
"We can't land at the airfield," Sarah's voice cut in. "Look at the runway."
Jason squinted. The airfield was blocked. Cars, trucks, and piles of burning furniture were scattered across the tarmac.
"They barricaded it," Jason realized. "They're terrified of air raids."
"We have to hover," Jason decided. "Take us over the ocean. Low altitude. We'll drop a container onto the end of the Steel Pier."
"In this wind?" Hughes argued. "That's suicide."
"It's payday," Jason corrected. "Do it."
The Icarus leveled out, skimming five hundred feet above the waves. The ocean was black and angry.
The cargo bay doors opened with a hydraulic hiss. The wind howled into the hold, cold and smelling of salt.
A rusted shipping container hung from a heavy steel cable.
"Load up," Jason shouted to the assault team.
O'Malley, Sarah, and four mercenaries with Thompson submachine guns climbed into the container. Jason followed.
"Drop it!" Jason yelled into his headset.
The winch whined. The floor dropped out from under them.
They plummeted toward the dark water. The cable snapped taut, jerking them to a halt just ten feet above the wooden planks of the Steel Pier.
THUD.
The container slammed onto the pier. Wood splintered.
"Move!" Jason kicked the door open.
They spilled out onto the wet boardwalk, weapons raised.
The wind whipped Jason's hair into his eyes. The pier was silent. The amusement rides—the diving horse tank, the carousel—were dark and silent skeletons against the sky.
"Where is everyone?" Sarah whispered, gripping her pistol.
"Waiting," O'Malley said.
CLICK.
A spotlight hit them.
It wasn't an electric searchlight. It was a carbide lamp, hissing with burning gas. The beam was yellow and flickering.
Figures emerged from the shadows of the carousel.
They weren't soldiers. They weren't police.
They were fishermen. Dockworkers. Bootleggers in rough wool coats and flat caps.
But they looked wrong.
They wore red armbands. They carried fire axes, whaling harpoons, and double-barreled shotguns.
And their eyes were filled with a specific, terrified hatred.
"Hold fire!" Jason ordered his team.
A man stepped forward from the mob. He was tall, wearing a pinstripe suit that had seen better days. A scar ran from his ear to his jaw.
"No machines," the man rasped. He pointed a shotgun at Jason's headset. "We saw the fire in the sky. We saw the metal men in D.C. No wires here."
"Luddites," Sarah realized. "The crash turned them against the tech."
"I'm not here to wire your city," Jason shouted over the wind, raising his empty hands. "I'm here for the Federal Reserve!"
The leader laughed. It sounded like grinding gears.
"The Fed?" The man spat on the boardwalk. "The 'Knights' took the Treasury yesterday. If you want to die fighting them, be my guest. We'll strip your bodies for copper when you're done."
"Knights?" Jason asked. "Who are the Knights?"
"The Blue Cross," the man said. "The oil men."
Jason felt a chill that had nothing to do with the wind.
"Standard Oil," Jason whispered. "Junior."
"You let us pass," Jason yelled, "and I leave the vault door open. You get whatever we can't carry."
The leader looked at the mercenaries' submachine guns. Then he looked at the massive airship hovering above them in the clouds.
"Go," the leader said, lowering his shotgun. "But if you use a radio on my boardwalk, I'll cut your throat."
Jason nodded. "Deal."
He signaled the team forward.
They moved past the barricade of old slot machines and sandbags.
As they walked down the boardwalk toward the city center, the scene became grim.
Bodies hung from the ornate lampposts.
They swung in the wind, swaying rhythmically.
Jason looked up as he passed one.
It was a man in a telegraph operator's uniform. A radio headset had been shoved into his mouth. A sign was nailed to his chest.
THE WIRE IS A LIE. FLESH IS TRUTH.
"They're lynching tech users," O'Malley whispered, crossing himself. "Boss, we are walking into a city that wants to eat us."
"Keep moving," Jason said, staring straight ahead. "We're not here to make friends. We're here to make a withdrawal."
Ahead of them, the Federal Reserve Sub-Treasury loomed like a Greek temple made of gray stone.
But the flags flying from the roof weren't the Stars and Stripes.
They were blue. Deep, royal blue.
With a white lamp in the center, stylized to look like a cross.
"The Church of Standard Oil," Jason said. "Junior didn't just mobilize. He radicalized."
"Those aren't security guards," Sarah said, pointing to the sandbag emplacements on the Treasury steps.
Men in crisp blue uniforms stood watch. They held rifles with bayonets fixed. They stood perfectly still, but their eyes were alert. They weren't the mindless zombies of D.C. They were true believers.
"Zealots," Jason assessed. "Harder to kill than robots. They have morale."
"Front door is a kill box," O'Malley noted.
"Alleyway," Jason said. "The coal chute. It's always the coal chute in this damn timeline."
They slipped into the darkness of the alley. The smell of the ocean faded, replaced by the smell of wet garbage and coal dust.
Jason knelt by the iron grate. He looked at his hands. They were shaking. Not from fear. From hunger.
"One hour," Jason whispered to the team. "We get in. We freeze the door. We grab the gold. We get out."
"And if the Knights catch us?" one of the mercs asked.
Jason looked at the hanging body swinging in the distance.
"Then save the last bullet for yourself," Jason said. "Because I'm not letting them put a headset on me."
He pulled the grate open.
" into the hole," Jason ordered. "Let's go rob a bank."