Metal Fatigue

by Sean Williams

  "Certainly."

  He killed the intercom and glanced at his watch; time was running away from him. If the origins of both the Mole and Cati had eluded him temporarily, then he hoped that their motives would not.

  Calling up a new notepad on the screen, he drew a series of circles linked by arrows in an attempt to organise his thoughts:

  (1)CATI → ROADS → MOLE

  Cati must have been following Roads during the preparation for Blindeye in order to know how to sidestep the trip-wires on the roof of the library; Roads had been after the Mole for six weeks. The progression was smooth and simple, but not entirely self-explanatory. The Mole had also been trailing Roads — at least to the extent of breaking into his house every now and again — so that meant another arrow. And Roads, with the information given to him by Katiya, was now chasing Cati, giving:

  (2)MOLE → ROADS → CATI

  (1)CATI → ROADS → MOLE

  The immediate temptation was to link each Cati/Mole pair with its own arrow, if only for the sake of symmetry. The simplicity, however, was deceptive. If the Mole and Cati were independent, then it was entirely possible that they were acting at odds with each other, with the question of motive unresolved. As far as he knew, Cati might be nothing more than an innocent bystander tangled in the web of the Mole's erratic exploits; or he was yet another player in the game of Catch the Mole. To suppose that both Cati and the Mole were after each other as well as Roads seemed ludicrous.

  What made more sense was:

  ROADS ↔ MOLE & CATI

  It not only simplified the equation, but made his task a little less daunting. Supposing that Cati and the Mole were on the same team — maybe a team fraught with its own internal problems — meant that he only had one mystery to solve instead of several. If he could track down one correct solution, then the others would quickly follow.

  His terminal flashed. It was Barney.

  "The stake-out's organised."

  "Good."

  "What would you like me to do now?"

  "That depends on how tired you are."

  She shrugged. "I'll cope. If you think we're close to something, I'll work until I drop."

  "I don't think it'll come to that, but thanks for the offer. I'm about to send you a file containing everything we know about the case, including some stuff I haven't told anyone about. Hunches, guesses, wild stabs in the dark — that sort of thing."

  "Understood. And?"

  "I want you to strip it bare, reduce it to as small a list of nouns as possible. Names, places, numbers, anything you think has an outside chance of being relevant."

  "You want to run a search through a datapool?"

  "Yes, but not just any datapool. I have something a little more dramatic in mind. A last-ditch effort."

  "Do you want to tell me what we're looking for?"

  "I would if I knew." He ran a hand across his ribs, fighting the urge to take another tablet. "Our problem is that we have too much unconnected information. We need to trim it back to a solid core of data from which we can extrapolate our way outward. As it is, I feel like I'm drowning — with werewolves, redskins and politicians pushing me under."

  "I know what you mean." She brushed away a strand of blonde hair that had fallen across her eyes. "I'll get onto it as soon as you send the file."

  "Thanks, Barney." Another icon flashed at him from the corner of the screen. "Gotta go. Call waiting."

  He waved and killed the line. A second face appeared in place of hers.

  "Hello, Phil," said Keith Morrow.

  "Shit. Give me a second." Roads closed the office door and locked it, then regretted moving from the chair. "Ouch — sorry. What the hell are you doing, calling me here?"

  Morrow tilted his head to one side, feigning hurt. "My, we're paranoid today, aren't we?"

  "Not without good reason. I'm in trouble enough without my shady connections putting in an unexpected appearance."

  "This line is secure. You can rest easy."

  Roads tugged a cigarette from his pocket. "I hoped you'd say that. What can I do for you, or is this just a social call?"

  Morrow leaned forward; a virtual light source cast deep shadows in his eye-sockets. "I've called to give you a warning, Phil. You may be in deeper trouble than you realise."

  Roads drew a deep, smoky breath. "In what way?"

  "You've stepped on someone's toes, Phil — heavily enough for them to want you dead."

  "Who?"

  "I can't tell you."

  "Why?"

  "I can't tell you that either."

  "Then what can you tell me?"

  "That there's a price on your head. A big one. It went on the market fifteen minutes ago."

  Roads scratched absently at the stubble on his chin, trying to think who might want to kill him that wasn't able to do so themselves. Not the Mole, or Cati; he wasn't a match for either of them, and he was sure they knew it. It had to be someone else, someone who wanted to keep his or her hands relatively clean of Roads' death.

  Someone he was obviously getting close to, without knowing it.

  He smiled. "Thanks, Keith. That's the best news I've had all day."

  "I'm glad you think so." The Head leaned back. "Can I assume, then, that the information I gave you the other night has been of use?"

  "I think you can, yes. Is there anything you'd like to add?"

  "Nothing that appears to be relevant. Someone vandalised one of the old buildings at the harbour last night, but I can't see how that would connect with your investigation. We get a lot of that sort of thing down our way. An occupational hazard, if you will."

  Roads nodded, remembering the article he had read about the disturbance. The harbour — being a meeting place for all manner of criminals, from drug-addict to bounty-hunter — was often transformed into a battlefield for rival interests. Morrow's main role was as mediator, not instigator. The relative stability of Kennedy as a whole owed more than a little to the paths of communication the Head established and maintained in the underclass. This, Roads supposed, was why the Head would not reveal the identity of his would-be killer: thief's honour, or something similar.

  A thought struck him: "What about Barney?"

  "Your friend is safe. The contract is only for you."

  "Good. Let me know if anything else turns up, won't you?"

  "I will if I can." Morrow winked farewell. "Good luck."

  "Thanks."

  Roads extinguished the cigarette and reached for a pain-killer. It was all very well knowing he was close, but, without knowing what he was close to, it didn't really help. Was it DeKurzak's Old Guard, the Mayor's machinating RUSA, or someone else entirely? And how did they relate to the Mole/Cati dyad?

  The matter of the contract itself did not greatly concern him; it would probably be a while before someone took the offer, and he could look after himself when the time came. He hoped. It was just not knowing who was behind it that bothered him.

  He took Morrow's data fiche and added it to the official RSD file on the Mole, then sent the whole package to Barney. Barely had he completed that task when his terminal buzzed again.

  This time it was Margaret Chappel. She looked frustrated and tired, as though she hadn't slept since the night before Blindeye — which, he supposed, she probably hadn't.

  "How are you feeling, Phil?"

  "Still a little sore." He tossed the tablet idly in one hand. The pain was returning, but nowhere near as severe as it had been earlier. "Looks like I'll live."

  "Good. Any progress?"

  He hesitated, then told her about Morrow's warning.

  She shook her head, half-smiling. "And you take that as a positive sign?"

  "It's the best I've had so far."

  "Fair enough. Have you written a report?"

  "Not yet, no."

  "Then, without intending to seem callous, let me advise you not to waste your time. David's will be enough, if DeKurzak's corroborates it."

  He let the advic
e sink in for a moment before replying: "That bad, huh?"

  "Let's just say I'm doing the best I can to slow things down."

  "How long do you think?"

  "I may be able to stretch it until after Reassimilation, but I doubt it. It depends entirely on what sort of report DeKurzak submits."

  "In that case, maybe it won't be so bad after all."

  She looked surprised. "That's not what I expected you to say."

  "I saw him this afternoon. He said he'd tell the Mayor it's not my fault Blindeye went so wrong."

  "Well, well. That is interesting. I'll only believe it when I see it, though."

  "I think you're underestimating him, Margaret. He's in a difficult position, stuck between the RSD and MSA, but he's genuinely trying to do his job — a job he didn't really want in the first place."

  "Did he say that?" Chappel's eyebrows went up. "Don't let him fool you, Phil. He campaigned quite vigorously to get this assignment."

  Roads mulled this over. "That's not the impression I got. Anyway, bad luck happens to everyone. Even me. No-one will deny that I'm one of the best officers in RSD."

  "But what happens when he finds out why you're so good?"

  "You and I both know that's irrelevant. I do my best, like anybody else."

  "The Mayor might not see it that way."

  "Then he's an idiot."

  "And you're in trouble."

  "I know." Roads tried to look nonchalant. "Listen, Margaret, I'm already in trouble. The Mayor wants my arse because Blindeye fucked up; somebody else wants my arse because I'm getting close to the Mole; if DeKurzak wants my arse too, then he'll just have to join the queue."

  Chappel smiled. "You have a point."

  "Yes, but what I don't have is time. I'll have to call you back later."

  "Or I'll call you when word comes down from above."

  "Fingers crossed I'll get in first."

  He cut the line and reached into the drawer for the bottle of water. His palms were sweating profusely, and the urge for sugar was back.

  "Marion? Can you do me a favour?"

  "What would you like?"

  "Two muesli bars and a sandwich from the cafeteria. I don't care what sort. And another cup of coffee, if there's any left."

  "Coming right up."

  "Thanks a million."

  He called up another blank notepad and drew a second diagram, more complex than the previous one. The Mole was the focus of one side, Roads of the other. Beyond each of these were contributing parties: Cati and "???", the person or persons behind the contract for his life; RSD, the Mayoralty, the MSA and Keith Morrow.

  He was just trying to decide where to put the RUSAMC when there was a knock at the door.

  "Coming, Marion."

  He cleared the screen and went to the door. His chest was less stiff than before, but still tender; he gave himself another three hours before a semblance of freedom returned.

  He opened the door and performed a quick double-take, then waved his visitor inside.

  "Hi, Martin. You're not the person I expected."

  "I gathered." The RUSAMC captain — who, like everybody else in HQ that day, looked the worse for lack of sleep — put a heavily-loaded tray on the desk and distributed its contents: two mass-produced grain snacks, a sandwich and a cup of coffee for Roads, plus another sandwich and coffee for him. "Your secretary told me to bring you these, seeing I was on my way."

  "Much appreciated." Roads opened one of the bars and took a bite. "You got my message?"

  "I did, yes, but I was tied up in a teleconference with my superiors."

  "Checking up on you, huh?"

  "Not really. More the other way around." O'Dell frowned and changed the subject. "You're looking reasonably well, considering."

  Roads gestured dismissively. "Just a couple of scratches."

  "Oh? I heard you broke some ribs."

  "You know how doctors exaggerate." He threw the spent wrapper into the bin. "I have some questions to ask you, Martin, and I'm a little short on time. If you don't mind, I'd like to get them over and done with."

  "Shoot." O'Dell concealed his apprehension well. Roads wondered what the captain was expecting him to ask.

  "First of all, exactly how far ahead of us is the Reunited States of America Military Corps?"

  "Uh ... Can I plead ignorance?"

  "If that means you can't tell me because of some security bullshit, then that's fair enough. Just let me speculate for a moment, then you can tell me whether I'm wrong or not."

  O'Dell looked uncertain. "Sure, go ahead. But I can't promise anything, understand."

  "Of course." Roads folded his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair. O'Dell had already demonstrated that the RUSAMC was more advanced than Kennedy Polis; the question was how advanced, exactly. "There's a rumour I remember hearing, shortly before the end of the War, and it keeps nagging at me now."

  "What's that?"

  "I was told that the entire War Room had packed up and moved to a shelter somewhere under the Appalachians to wait out the worst of the fighting. Certainly, no-one I know of ever heard of them after about 2050. I can't help wondering if there's some connection between that shelter and the Reunited States."

  "Are you suggesting that we and the USA are one and the same? That the brass from the old days have emerged from the bunkers to reconquer the continent under a new flag?"

  "I would have phrased it a little more subtly, but yes. That's what I'm wondering."

  "It's a good theory, but you're wrong. Sorry. The brass never made it out."

  Roads noted the carefully-worded sentence. "But somebody else eventually broke in, right?"

  O'Dell smiled. "Maybe."

  "'Maybe.'" Roads nodded. By the rules of this game, maybe inferred yes. "So the Reunited States Military Corps has access to all the military secrets up to and including the end of the War."

  O'Dell said nothing, but his smile didn't waver.

  "One more question, then: among the old plans and projects, was there a reference to a practical form of invisibility? Some sort of advanced camouflage unit, perhaps? Anything at all along those lines?"

  The smile flickered, fell. "That one I can answer, Phil. There wasn't anything like that in the old files. Not even a hint."

  "You're absolutely sure?"

  "Positive. I've studied them myself. But you didn't hear me admit that, okay?"

  "Of course, but... Oh, damn." He hit the desktop with the palm of one hand, then winced as the impact rattled his rib cage. "I was really hoping there might have been."

  "I can guess why." O'Dell took a mouthful of coffee. "You're thinking that we might be involved with the Mole, or vice versa, right?"

  "Partly, yes. The other possibility is that a faction from up your way managed to get hold of the plans. The technology, the timber wolf — it all points to a northern source."

  "Not a bad thought. I might have had it too, if I was in your shoes — and it's not as if we don't have dissident groups in the Reunited States. But you have to ask yourself why anybody would go to such lengths to invade Kennedy. This city may seem a big deal to those who live in it, but it's small fry in the context of the rest of the continent. Why should we bother reducing ourselves to stealing data from here when there are other places practically begging to let us in?"

  "Because Kennedy is a symbol." Roads put his elbows on the desk and leaned forward. Again he received the impression that O'Dell was guiding him toward an answer. "It's all that remains of the old world."

  "A world that almost killed itself."

  "Yes, but a symbol nonetheless. We may have regressed as many years as we've survived, but we're still here. And that's what counts." He shrugged. "We'd make a good regional capital, if nothing else."

  "And you will, if General Stedman has his way." O'Dell finished his coffee with a gulp. "But it takes more than sullen independence to attract the attention of a vibrant nation like ours."

  "Point taken." Roa
ds stood and went to lean on the window-sill. "We've not been a good neighbour over the years."

  "True. The people around here — and there are people, some as close as fifty kilometres — generally keep their distance. I met some of them on the way through, heard the stories about the bad days: how four hundred thousand people starved on Kennedy's doorstep because the Mayor wouldn't open the Gate; how anyone trying to get in is caught and shot on sight; how repeated pleas for resources were ignored back in the 50s, resulting in the collapse of at least three struggling communities."

  "All true, I'm afraid," Roads said. "The city could only produce enough to support so many people. If the Mayor had let even more people in than he did, or spread the resources around, the city would have died as well. The decision wasn't simple, but the equation was."

  O'Dell nodded. "I understand. But how about this: did you know that Kennedy kidnapped people to use in labour gangs when it built the Wall? Or that birth control is so tight that illegally-born children are killed and used, along with criminals and other misfits, to fertilise the farms? Or that secret MSA death squads regularly raid neighbouring communities to steal resources and rape women?"

  Roads kept his expression neutral. "No."

  "Exactly. But your neighbours think you've done it anyway, and more besides. That's what comes of not only being isolated and insular, but surviving as well; people begin to ask questions, and the answers aren't always what you'd like." O'Dell raised his hands, palms forward. "Hey, I'm as guilty of that as anyone. All my life I've been told stories about a city that survived the War intact: a city full of berserkers who eat human flesh. I used to lie awake at night for hours when I was a kid, terrified of being trapped in there, unable to escape, with all sorts of demonic creatures hunting me down. So, when I first learned that such a city does exist, and that it does possess technology from the old days that nobody else has any more, well, what else was I supposed to think?"

  Roads did smile at that. "It must come as a relief to learn that we're not so well off these days."

  "I wouldn't say that. Your reactor facility is something I'd love to get my hands on, for instance. And the bacteria cultures lost during the fighting that we're not allowed to breed any more." Noting Roads' sharp look, O'Dell added: "Peacefully, of course. None of it's worth invading over."