Anachronisms like Keith Morrow. And hot dogs. And Sundays. He'd been working a seven-day week for so long he'd quite forgotten that weekends had ever existed.
He shaved, dressed in a casual jumpsuit and made breakfast. Taking a cup of coffee with him, he succumbed to a nagging sense of duty and checked the computer.
There were two messages waiting. One was from Barney, asking him to call. He tried her home, but she didn't answer. The other was a short, encrypted file from Chappel. He opened it and scanned its contents.
The Mole had struck again during the night. Shortly before one, the thief had availed himself of data from the Kennedy Prototype Fusion Reactor; he now knew the design tolerances of the facility, plus a few relatively irrelevant details concerning the facility's chief administrators. Officer Jamieson's preliminary report had already been filed: no new evidence and no eyewitness accounts.
The latter alone was noteworthy. KPFR was staffed twenty-four hours a day by in excess of three hundred people. Quite apart from an extensive array of anti-intrusion devices — including pressure-sensitive pads in major hallways and a video camera network that was constantly monitored — the open spaces themselves must have been difficult to navigate without being seen.
Difficult, but obviously not impossible. Not one alarm had been triggered, and no-one had seen the Mole enter or leave. That the Mole had actually entered the grounds, and not accessed the data from elsewhere, was beyond doubt; the address the stolen data had been routed to lay within the main complex building.
Roads could see DeKurzak's point: it smacked of collusion somewhere along the security chain. The possibility could hardly be ignored that someone had prepared the thief's path by deactivating certain alarms or turning off cameras at prearranged times, or by erasing information after the fact. But, if such collusion existed, who was the Mole's silent partner? Or partners: the KPFR break-in was just one of many, and the security of each target must have been compromised. For such a feat to be possible, the Mole had to be part of a massive conspiracy.
But to what end? What would such a large organisation possibly hope to gain from such activities? And how had it managed to keep its existence a secret for so long?
He shook his head. The MSA liaison officer was getting to him. Before long, he told himself, he'd be believing in the mythical Old Guard as well.
His computer winked urgently to announce incoming data. He toggled for video and took the call.
It was Barney. In the background, he made out the blurred buzz and bustle of HQ.
"Morning, boss." She waved cheerily. "Deep peace of the running wave, and all that."
"Say what?"
"Philistine. How's the leg?"
He shrugged. It had healed cleanly during the night. "I'll live."
"Good. The Mantis wants you in here as soon as possible."
"Bully for her. Tell her I died peacefully in my sleep."
"Come on, Phil." She chided him with a motherly pout. "What else have you got to do?"
She had him there. He sighed, resigning himself to the fact. "Anything I should prepare myself for?"
"Ah, let's see." She skimmed through the files on her desk. "You heard about last night?"
"Yes. Margaret sent me Jamieson's report."
"Okay ... How about Blindeye?"
"Yes again, but fill me in anyway."
"Well, the Mantis gave the word before I got here. We're going ahead. She's down at Data Processing supervising the transfer with a horde of Mayoralty nobs peering over her shoulder. You'll be glad to miss that, I'm sure. David Goss is getting things ready at the uni, at least as far as the security side of it goes. It looks like they've made you the night watchman."
"I thought they might." That meant he would have to find time for a work-out sometime during the day; a session of target practice wouldn't go astray either. It wasn't a matter of toning up, but a mental discipline he wanted to perform. If Blindeye worked, he would come face to face with his dark half within twenty-four hours.
"What about DeKurzak, Barney? Has he wandered in yet?"
"I haven't seen him, but Margaret told me to tell you that he'll be out of your hair for the day. Seems he's right into info management and all that shit, so he's down with her in DP."
"Any idea how he went at the Yhoman site?"
"No, but Roger's been in a foul mood all morning."
"That's a bad sign. I guess they didn't find anything, then."
"Safe bet."
"I'll try to catch up with him later, if I get the time." Roads scratched the back of his neck and yawned. "What else should I know?"
"Just one little thing." She smiled coyly.
"And this is...?"
"The States rep, Captain Martin O'Dell, has arrived."
He groaned. "Oh great."
"No, Phil. He's okay. I think you'll like him, if you give him half a chance. Not what I was expecting at all."
"What does that mean?"
"No horns, pointed tail, cloven hoofs, or the like. He looks just like everyone around here, except ..." She leaned close to the screen, whispered conspiratorially: "Boy, is he cute!"
He couldn't help it; he laughed.
She leaned back in her chair and adopted a self-satisfied expression. "There, Phil. That didn't hurt, did it?"
"Not much, I'll admit. Are you really trying to make me jealous?"
"Maybe I am, maybe I'm not." She winked. "But he is cute, nonetheless."
"That does it. I'll be there in five minutes. Someone has to warn him of the terrible danger he's in."
She waved. "Mission accomplished. See you soon."
He cut the connection with a grin and went to get suitably dressed.
* * *
HQ was on the upswing of a busy day when he arrived. On top of the usual shift changeover, extra staff were on hand to assist with a few extra projects currently under preparation. One of them was Blindeye; another was the arrival of General Stedman and his entourage, scheduled for two days time. Roadblocks and security sweeps had to be organised. Mayor's House was already under surveillance to prevent the importation of assassins and potentially deadly weapons.
Roads entered by the ground-level foyer and was promptly brought to a halt by a pair of heavily-armed guards. They checked his hand-print in a portable scanner and waved him on, satisfied that he really was Senior Officer Phil Roads and not the Mole.
Security was tight, but that pleased him.
The fourth floor was a maze of partitions over which rose the combined chatter of fifty busy people. Roads negotiated his way to Barney's cubicle, nodding at faces he knew along the way. As much as he valued privacy, he enjoyed the communal environment of the fourth floor. It was vital and vigorously social. The lonely solitude of the higher levels was, by comparison, sterile.
He stuck his head into Barney's workspace, and immediately pulled it back out. She was deep in conversation with an attractive brunette from four desks down. He "knocked" for attention and waited until she called him in.
"Oh, hi." Barney waved at a chair. "Shelley and I were just discussing the new arrival."
Shelley looked embarrassed. "Have you met him yet, Officer Roads?"
"No. Is he as cute as I'm told?"
"He's — " Shelley rolled her eyes " — simply fabulous, in a weird kind of way."
"Weird how?"
"Well, he looks normal enough — better than normal — but his accent, and some of the things he says ..."
"I get the idea." Roads smiled reassuringly.
Barney tried to hide a grin. "Shell, do you know where he is right now?"
The brunette looked forlorn. "Last time I saw him, Angela Fabian was making him a coffee."
"Could you tell him that Phil is here?"
"With pleasure." The brunette left the cubicle and hurried off through the maze. Roads raised an eyebrow, but did not comment.
"He's been asking for you," said Barney. "He wants to go over a few things before Chappel takes him aw
ay."
"Fair enough." Roads shook his head. "Should I feel honoured?"
"If you like. He's really turned this place on its head, let me tell you."
"I can imagine. He's the first official Outsider in more than forty years."
"That he's here at all isn't public knowledge, yet. But you know exactly what I meant."
"All too well, I'm afraid."
Shelley returned with a sandy-haired young man firmly in tow. He looked freshly-tanned and superbly polished, somewhere in his late twenties or early thirties with a firm, athletic build. His uniform, a standard military khaki, was little different from those Roads was used to. O'Dell smiled cheerfully and with no small amount of bemusement upon entering the cubicle, as though overwhelmed by the hospitality he was being shown.
Roads, studying him, grudgingly admitted that he really was handsome, from his close-cropped hair down to the tips of his polished boots. His uniform on closer inspection was of a better cut and made of finer fabric than anything Kennedy had seen for years. The only flaw to his perfection lay in his left hand: the last two fingers were missing.
And he looked so young ...
"Officer Roads," Shelley was breathless, "this is Captain O'Dell."
The young man stepped forward and held out his right hand. Roads stood and shook it, aware that he was being studied in return. O'Dell's grip was strong, his smile wide and sincere. An irresistible warmth radiated from the RUSAMC captain, and even Roads felt himself respond.
"It's a great pleasure, Phil." O'Dell's accent was a broad mutation of the old mid-west, altered by time. "I can call you that, can't I?"
"Why not? Martin, wasn't it?"
"That's right." He turned back to Shelley. "Thanks, um, Shelley. I think I can manage from here."
The brunette's reluctance was obvious, but she left.
Barney gestured that they should sit, and O'Dell settled back with obvious relief.
"Coffee?"
O'Dell nodded. "Thanks, uh ... I'm sorry, but what was your name again?"
"Call me Barney. Everyone does."
"Why?" The RUSAMC captain's curiosity was both frank and disarming.
"My mother died giving birth to me," Barney replied with equal honesty. "Dad always said I looked like her, and I never fancied the name I was given. The idea that taking her surname would somehow bring me closer to her made sense when I was five. By the time I changed my mind, it'd stuck."
"Her name was Barney, too?"
"No. Barnace. Helen Barnace. I didn't even get it right." Barney smiled, then politely closed the subject. "What about you, Phil? Coffee?"
Roads noted that she had appropriated a brewing machine from one of the upper floors. Nothing but the best for their visitor, in a city where even instant coffee was a luxury. "Love one."
She poured three cups. O'Dell asked for two sugars and a generous portion of milk. Maybe that explained it, Roads thought to himself; it was possible to tell a lot by the way someone took their coffee. Roads himself preferred black and raw, as did Barney.
"I understand you've been sent to help us," he said, keen to get the real conversation under way.
O'Dell gestured dismissively. "As an observer only, and with access to the total datapool of the Reunited States Military Corps. I don't want to disrupt your usual procedures."
Roads indicated the door of the cubicle. "Judging by the impression you've already made, I'd say that's going to be unavoidable."
O'Dell's grin became wry. At least he wasn't naive. "My wife would kill me, if she knew. She didn't want me to leave Philadelphia in the first place. Our boy just turned three, you see, and ... Well, let's just say that I'm keen to get this over with as soon as possible — without treading on too many toes along the way. I hope you don't mind."
Roads stared at O'Dell for a moment — thinking, a father? — then was amazed to hear himself say that he didn't mind at all, that another viewpoint could only be helpful. Barney covered her amusement with a cough.
The three of them clustered around the computer terminal and examined the history of the Mole in between questions about the RUSA. O'Dell had read summarised reports of the Mole's activities and had seen the identikit pictures of his face, but neither Barney nor Roads had had much access to information about the Reunited States. As recently as six weeks ago, no-one in Kennedy had even suspected its existence.
"We've been growing for about fifty years," O'Dell explained. "Slowly at first, but building up momentum. At this point, we cover most of the old north-west States, some of what used to be Ontario, and the east coast as far as South Carolina. An appreciable percentage of the old United States, all told, and growing all the time. The General hopes to have the west coast Reassimilated as well by 2100."
Roads nodded. One thing he had heard was General Stedman's desire to fast-track the reunification of the old US. "Do you think this is possible? There's only four years to go."
"If anyone can do it, he can," O'Dell responded. "He's a very powerful man, and the most intelligent I've ever met. I don't think it's cynical or disloyal to say that he's deliberately appealing to all the right emotions. By reinforcing the old state lines, for instance, he's tapped into a very strong pool of tradition. In most of the small communities we come across, the leaders still remember the horrors of the War and the old ways that led to it — but the ordinary people, the children, people like me who weren't born until recently, we've only heard stories about the way it used to be. We don't feel the horror; we mourn for what was lost. The old United States is almost a legend now, and the chance to rebuild it, to become part of that legend, is very strong."
The echo of his own argument with DeKurzak made Roads wince. "But you're a military culture, right? The army runs everything, or so I've heard. Don't people feel threatened by that?"
"Some." O'Dell shrugged. "But we aren't aggressive by nature, unless we're attacked. The Military Corps offers a wide variety of community services apart from defence, including education, internal peace-keeping, community maintenance and so on. It was army discipline that founded the Philadelphia Accord in the first place, and helped it survive the Dissolution. Now the Corps is the glue that keeps the States together."
"Or a tide of molasses rolling across the continent," said Barney, "drowning everything in its path."
"If only it were that easy. We could just lean back and enjoy the ride." O'Dell returned her smile easily. "But there are troublemakers everywhere we go. Like this Mole you've got. Any guesses what he's after?"
"Very little," Roads said, uncomfortably aware that in making that admission he was exposing his own inability to solve the case. O'Dell listened patiently as Roads outlined the break-ins, declining to comment at all — let alone judge — until they had brought him completely up to date.
"A month ago," Roads said, "when we first realised that the crimes were a series, not just isolated incidents, we began looking for motives. Since some of the stolen information was extremely sensitive, extortion immediately sprang to mind. But we've never once had a demand for money, or anything at all. Sabotage was next on our list, possibly connected with the anti-Reassimilationist movement. But again we've had no threats, no warnings, and nothing has gone wrong to suggest that the stolen data has been used this way."
"How about suspects?" O'Dell asked.
"Apart from me, you mean?" Roads shook his head. "We have no evidence pointing to anyone: no DNA, no fibres, no fingerprints, no descriptions, no hearsay."
"Nothing circumstantial?"
"Not a scrap," Barney said, "apart from the fact that the Mole must have a large amount of technical know-how in order to get away with what he does. Every theft occurs in a different place and at a different time. There's no pattern that might give us some idea of the thief's habits. There's no pattern to the differences, either — such as thefts taking place at later times the further they are from a central location, which might be where the Mole lives or works." She glanced briefly at Roads, then back to
O'Dell. "We've tried every permutation of the stats, and come up with absolutely nothing."
"The Mole is almost too clever, isn't he?" the RUSAMC captain mused. "I mean, not only does he have an uncanny ability to evade detection and penetrate defended datapools, but he's done his best to shift suspicion away from him to a prominent member of the local security force. It's ingenious, don't you think? Using something as simple as a rubber mask, I suppose, to confuse the enemy."
Roads remembered the video footage Morrow had given him. "It's not a mask."
"No? You think he really does look like you?"
Roads shook his head. He had considered this, briefly, but dismissed the possibility as too remote. "I had plastic surgery in mind."
"Seems a bit extreme."
"It depends how serious he is."
"I guess." O'Dell looked uncomfortable. "I'm sorry. The thought of cosmetic alteration disturbs me. I had no idea the practice still existed in Kennedy."
"It doesn't," Barney was quick to reassure him. "Unnecessary biomodification has been illegal for as long as lean remember. That includes plastic surgery."
"Good." O'Dell took a sip of his coffee and Roads was reminded of the captain's injury. In a perverse way, he seemed to wear the deformity like a badge of honour.
O'Dell, noting Roads' glance, put the cup down and flexed his crippled hand. "The States have outlawed all forms of biomodification," he said. "To become superhuman is to lose one's humanity, and to be truly human is to suffer the imperfections of the form with dignity. I'm glad to see that the Mayoralty of Kennedy agrees with us, at least on this."
Barney nodded. "We had trouble with berserkers, too. One killed seventy-five people when I was a teenager. They had to destroy an entire block just to bring it down."
"I was a child when the last fell, but I've heard the stories." O'Dell's right hand caressed the stumps of his missing fingers. If he noted the sadness in Barney's eyes, he didn't comment on it. "I'd rather be crippled than allow the possibility of similar atrocities to occur in the future." He smiled self-deprecatingly. "Not that I'm handicapped by this, of course. I hardly notice it, most of the time."
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