Roads could contain his curiosity no longer. "How did it happen, if you don't mind me asking?"
"Nothing particularly dramatic. My brother slipped chopping wood when I was twelve." O'Dell put the hand into a pocket and glanced at the watch on his other wrist. "I have an appointment in a couple of minutes that'll last until later this afternoon. Perhaps we could meet afterward to discuss Operation Blindeye."
"Of course," said Roads, noting that O'Dell's watch was solar powered. On impulse, he added: "If I'm not here or in my office, I'll be down at the target range. You can join me there, if you like."
O'Dell nodded with a glint in his eye; he knew a friendly challenge when he heard one. "Four o'clock, say?"
"Done."
The RUSAMC captain stood. "Thanks for the coffee, Barney."
"Pleasure."
As he left the cubicle, the usual hubbub of the communal office ebbed for a split-second, then resumed slightly louder than before. Roads shook his head in amusement.
"So." Barney leaned against the desk and folded her arms. "What do you think?"
"He'll be fine. A little young, but okay, I think. He's obviously been around, and that will help."
The intercom on Barney's desk buzzed. It was Michael, Chappel's secretary, looking for Roads, with a call from David Goss at Kennedy City University waiting to be put through.
"No rest for the wicked," Barney whispered from out of the camera's field of view.
"In this town?" Roads edged toward the exit. "Not bloody likely."
"Before you go, Phil." She stood. "Am I invited to the old hand versus new blood showdown this afternoon?"
"If you like, but only you. I don't think he'd appreciate a crowd."
She nodded. "Yeah, and the Phil Roads fanclub would look pretty thin if he did, wouldn't it?"
"Sadly so." He tipped her a quick salute and made a dash for his office.
CHAPTER SEVEN
3:30 p.m.
Four o'clock came swiftly. While Chappel babysat DeKurzak elsewhere, Roads took charge of organising Blindeye. He didn't mind the extra work, but it meant that he had little time to follow up his vague thoughts of the previous night. Likewise, his promise to catch up with Roger Wiggs went forgotten until after twelve, by which time the homicide officer had finally gone off duty.
At half-past three, he checked out of his office and took the lift down to the basement. There he dismantled his pistol and cleaned it thoroughly. When he had finished, he signed for a box of plastic bullets and went to the range.
The long, underground chamber was empty. He chose one of the middle lanes, donned earmuffs and goggles, and fired a few practice rounds at an old-fashioned paper target. The familiar smell and grit of gunpowder quickly filled the air, sensations he had missed in the last six weeks, thanks to night shift. His aim was as good as ever, though. When he tired of static targets, he instructed the range simulators to begin.
The paper bullseyes withdrew into the ceiling and the lights dimmed. At the far end of the lane, a man appeared. He held a submachine gun in one hand and a torch in another. The torch came up, shining into Roads' eyes, dazzling him. Behind the glare, the submachine gun started to rise.
Roads snapped off a single shot. The torch went out and the man fell over. A diagnostic chart appeared on the screen by his side; the bullet had penetrated the hologram's forehead just above its right eye.
He grunted with satisfaction and cleared the simulator for another attempt. It was good to release some of the frustration that had built up in recent weeks, even if it was against an illusory opponent.
Three rounds later, he managed to put the bullet straight through the eye itself.
"Impressive," said O'Dell from behind him as the last hologram flickered and vanished. Roads cleared the screen and took off the earmuffs, assuming that the RUSAMC captain had been referring to the simulation, not the diagnosis of Roads' aim. O'Dell's uniform jacket was open, revealing a leather shoulder holster. He looked tired, less animated than before.
"A toy from the old days," said Roads. "Nothing special."
"But so much better for training than VR, which we use back home."
The two men faced each other in silence for a split second, Roads acutely conscious of O'Dell sizing him up, and aware that he was doing the same in return.
Barney stepped into the room at that moment, flustered. "Sorry I'm late, Phil. Have I missed anything?"
O'Dell turned; the bright-eyed grin reappeared. "No, we haven't started yet."
"Good." She handed him a set of protective earmuffs. "I brought you these. Do you need ammunition?"
He shook his head. "No. I'll be fine, thanks."
"Okay. Well, I'm a terrible shot on a good day, so I'll just stay up here and watch. Have fun with your toys, boys." She climbed a short flight of stairs to an observation platform and took a seat.
O'Dell chose the lane to Roads' left. "I get the feeling I'm being tested," he said.
"In a way, you are. It's not often I get to try out against someone new."
"I should warn you, then." O'Dell casually unclipped his holster. "I graduated first in marksmanship from my regiment."
Roads smiled. "And what would you say if I told you that I was RSD champion for ten years running?"
"Well, I guess I'd be forced to ask why you used the word 'was' in that context."
"Fair enough: I retired from the contest undefeated."
"Good for you." O'Dell reached between the lanes and they shook hands. "May the best shot win."
They adopted two-handed stances and waited for the simulations to begin. O'Dell felled nine of the first ten targets; Roads dropped all ten. They reloaded. The next round was an even ten-all. The third went to O'Dell, ten-nine.
"A draw." O'Dell bowed to Barney's applause. "Fancy a rematch?"
"If you like. But first ... may I?" Roads indicated that he would like to see O'Dell's sidearm. The captain handed it over. The pistol was large but light-weight, and sported a laser-sight along the barrel which O'Dell had not activated. "I'm not familiar with the make."
"Hardly surprising." O'Dell folded his arms. "It's brand new."
"Really?" Roads had suspected as much, although he feigned surprise. That simple fact made the pistol even more remarkable. Kennedy's supply of weapons was severely limited, a fact he had come to take for granted. Once again, he realised how little he knew about the RUSAMC — and was doubly glad he had invited O'Dell down to the firing range: how better to learn more about a potential opponent than by engaging in ritual combat?
"I had no idea the States were so advanced," he said.
"Not many people in Kennedy do, I guess." O'Dell accepted the pistol back from Roads. "Designs and technology have been preserved since the War, but until recently there existed no inclination to use them. It wasn't until the States were founded that the reconstruction of the past began. Not all of the past, of course; we've drawn the line firmly at biomods, as you know, and genetic manipulation. We've used just enough old science to rebuild a society that can manufacture sophisticated products, like this pistol."
"And your watch," Roads added. "Both more significant than anything we've made in the last thirty years."
O'Dell shrugged noncommittally. "The only difference between us and Kennedy is that we have resources at our disposal and you don't. That's why it makes sense for you to join us."
"I can't argue with that." Roads selected a different simulation. "But I must confess that I have trouble seeing the difference between machines of metal, machines of flesh, and machines that are a mixture of both."
Two identical targets appeared at the end of their respective lanes, but neither of them turned to aim.
"The difference," explained O'Dell, "is not so much the machines themselves, but the way they're used."
"I agree with you so far. Go on."
"Biomodification is dangerous because it gives one person superiority over others. This superiority can lead to a sense of superiority
, which is something else entirely."
"So possessing a pistol with a laser sight is different, say, from having augmented vision — even though the end result of each modification might be the same?"
"Yes. We believe there's nothing that can be gained by biomodification that cannot be had by more orthodox means. For instance, a laser sight may act as a deterrent, whereas augmented vision can be used to invade privacy."
"It boils down to a question of intent, then. Not an intrinsic wrongness of biomodification."
"I suppose so, although it's widely held that biomodification offers greater potential for abuse than conventional technology."
Roads nodded. "Interesting." He gestured at the targets. "Shall we?"
The targets were simple: alternating red and white rings with a black centre. They both scored bullseyes on their first attempt. New targets appeared, ten percent smaller. Bullseyes again, although the diagnostics asserted that Roads' was slightly closer to the absolute centre than O'Dell's. As the targets decreased in size, their performance worsened, until, on the eighth target, O'Dell missed altogether.
"Try again," offered Roads. His own shot had penetrated the third ring out.
When O'Dell's second attempt also missed, Roads suggested that the captain try a third time, this time using the laser sight as an aid.
"But doesn't that give me an unfair advantage?"
"Regardless." Roads waved at the target. "I insist."
O'Dell switched on the laser and aimed. The tiny red dot was almost invisible from the end of the lane, and the tremors of even a rock-steady hand were amplified enormously by the distance. Nevertheless, the shot went home — three rings out, like Roads'.
Two new targets appeared, smaller still.
"Before we go on." O'Dell leaned against the low wall separating the two lanes. He kept his voice low, obviously so Barney wouldn't overhear. "I happened to be scanning through some old MIA records before I came to Kennedy. There are a lot of people trying to trace their families back to the War, and we thought it would be interesting to see if any soldiers had died here during the Dissolution. The easiest way to do that is by cross-referencing with Kennedy's mortuary records."
"That makes sense."
"I thought so, too. It turns out, however, that the records we want are hard to obtain. All we could get were the results of a census taken two years ago."
Roads kept his smile steady to hide the sudden sinking in his stomach, and the cold feeling enveloping his arms and legs. "That's a pity."
"Yes, it is. There isn't much point scanning through the population of Kennedy to see if anyone has survived from that long ago, so the project has stalled." O'Dell's expression was bland, but his eyes were very much alive. "I have the MIA data with me, though, just in case."
Roads nodded slowly; he understood all too well what O'Dell was hinting at.
"I suggest we discuss this later," he said. "There might be something I can do to speed things up down at Births and Deaths."
"Thanks, Phil." O'Dell turned to face the target. "Now, where were we?"
Roads' shot just clipped the outer ring; O'Dell's thudded home on the second. The next target defeated Roads altogether; a slight tremor in his hands had betrayed him. He wondered if that had been the intention of O'Dell's little revelation. O'Dell's shot made it, although barely, onto the outer ring.
"What's your call, Phil?"
"It's not over yet, Martin." Roads cleared the targets and punched for another display. "Just one more, if you don't mind."
At the end of each lane appeared a single glowing point of light. "Try and hit it," said Roads. "You have three rounds."
O'Dell looked puzzled, but took aim anyway. Three shots rang out, and the diagnostics showed a trio of glowing red dots arrayed in an uneven triangle around the central point.
"Now, three more without the laser."
This time, O'Dell's aim was more dispersed, tending upward and to the left. He shrugged and holstered the pistol while Roads lined up and also fired three times.
Roads' aim was midway between O'Dell's two attempts; none of his shots landed closer than any of those aided by the laser-sight, but none further out than those aimed by O'Dell's naked eye. When the echoes of the last shot had faded, he turned to face the RUSAMC captain and extended his hand.
"I suggest we call it a draw," he said.
O'Dell looked surprised. "Why? I beat you."
"But that was with the laser-sight, don't forget."
"Well, given your unfair advantage — "
"Oh? Watch carefully." Roads turned back to the glowing target, raised, aimed and fired the pistol. Three shots split the air in rapid succession.
But only one dot — which was actually three combined — appeared on the diagnostic screen, centred precisely in the heart of the glowing target.
"Now that," said Roads, "is what I'd call unfair."
O'Dell just gaped in amazement.
Barney suddenly appeared, down from the stalls. "Who won?" she asked. "I didn't see the results of the last round."
Roads glanced at O'Dell. "It was a draw. Right, Martin?"
O'Dell met his eye, and nodded. "I'll go with that."
"Good." They shook hands.
"For now..."
* * *
Kennedy City University was a one-kilometre walk from RSD HQ. Roads and O'Dell, with a bodyguard of two, took their time on the way, stopping occasionally to study the city's landmarks. Barney had remained behind to complete her rostered workload.
Before leaving RSD HQ, O'Dell had changed out of his uniform and into more casual attire. Again, Roads was impressed by the fine cut of the fabric; not only were the materials natural cotton and wool, but the dyes used were more vibrant than the familiar, dull hues Kennedy produced. This essential difference negated the reason for changing in the first place. O'Dell's clothing, to a keen observer, marked him as different; he didn't need a RUSAMC badge to betray his origins on the Outside.
The few people they encountered, however, appeared to take no notice. Most were heading home from work, walking briskly to the nearest Rosette junctions as the day began to cool. In the centre of Kennedy, all employees in some way worked for the city; if not directly for the Mayoralty, then in a hospital, perhaps, or a Rations and Resources department. Although in theory the city guaranteed equal treatment for all of its citizens, in general such employees looked better-off than their counterparts in more menial fields. Roads had noted this inequality before, and that day was no exception. Similarly, the suburbs surrounding the route from the city centre to the Wall were home mainly to MSA staff, who lived near the Gate supposedly to demonstrate their constant devotion to duty. The fact that those same suburbs had always been more affluent than any other in the city was officially irrelevant.
Not everything Roads saw aroused the cynic in him, though. At one point, a group of school children crossed their path, forcing them off the sidewalk and onto the road. As the gaggle of tiny bodies swarmed past, with their teacher struggling to keep them under control, one young boy pulled a face at Roads. He waved back, and was rewarded with a cheeky grin. Instead of being annoyed, he smiled. It was just what he had needed.
A growing lack of resources was bad enough. Worse still was the fact that so many people like Barney, who had lost parents during the Dissolution, were now losing their children to another cause: teenage crime was on the rise, and youth suicide had tripled in the last ten years — the last a fact carefully glossed over by isolationist statisticians. Kennedy's second generation of citizens was losing the will that had kept the city alive for so long — and without that will, there was nothing left to fight for.
If all went well, though, by the time these children were teenagers they would be completely free of the prison that had confined their parents. No matter how bad the present looked — no matter that the children wore ill-fitting clothes and had to learn from books rather than the more sophisticated aids taken for granted in their grandpa
rents' day — at least there was still hope for the future.
When the children had become just an echo of laughter far behind them, Roads and O'Dell resumed their conversation. In the presence of their bodyguard neither man had raised the matter of the mortuary records, although Roads would have liked to, if only to clear the air. He hated hiding, hated being forced to deny reality. The fact that someone might have discovered the truth came almost as a relief.
And therein lay the real reason for sharing target practice with O'Dell: not so much to learn about the RUSA, but to find out how much they knew about him.
"By concentrating the city's data in one location," Roads explained as they walked, "we hope to force the Mole to come to us, rather than the other way around. That's the essence of Blindeye."
"Logical enough," O'Dell replied, "but will he come?"
"If he wants to steal data, he will." Roads pointed in the direction of LaMont Hospital, a squat, white building to their right. "Say, for instance, he targets medical records tonight. He'll go through his usual routine of sneaking in and trying to lift data, except that this time he'll face an automatic message telling him that all the records have been transferred to the KCU library. There's no way he'll be able to take anything himself, because there'll be nothing to take and the land-lines to KCU will be down. So he'll come."
"Knowing it's a trap? He's not a fool."
"No, but we're hoping he'll try anyway. It's a challenge, if you like."
"So, he comes to KCU, sneaks in, and ... ?"
"I'll be hidden inside, waiting for the word. We've put everything we've got into this, Martin, every surveillance system we can get our hands on. Should he still slip by, I'll be there for when the data-retrieval system starts operating."
"Just you?"
"Just me. And three dozen officers elsewhere on campus, keeping a low profile unless I need help. We don't want to scare him away too soon."
"Obviously not."
They reached the northern edge of the grounds of the university in good time. An iron fence separated KCU from the rest of the city, with entrance gained by a number of gates that would be locked after nightfall. The library, where the trap waited to be sprung, was a mock-Victorian edifice three storeys high in the very heart of the picturesque grounds. From that point, it was almost possible to imagine that Kennedy Polis and the rest of the outside world didn't exist.
Metal Fatigue Page 10
