Metal Fatigue

by Sean Williams

  "Good." Roads returned to his seat, thinking over what O'Dell had told him. He too had heard rumours of atrocities in the bad days. Whether they were true or not would probably never be known, but he didn't have the confidence to deny them categorically. Such actions would have been typical of the time, when humanity's decline was at its lowest point. And even if Kennedy was guilty of such crimes, that didn't automatically make its neighbours saints.

  O'Dell leaned forward to put his sandwich wrapper in the bin. "Well, that's lunch," he said. "Was there anything else you wanted to ask me?"

  "Yes." Roads folded his hands across his lap and collected his thoughts. "For a favour, actually."

  "Go ahead. Anything I can give you, you're welcome to it."

  "All I want is information: everything you brought with you. Not just the old MIA records, but the rest as well." He looked at O'Dell closely. "You did bring more, didn't you?"

  "Sure, but I may not be able to give you everything."

  "Whatever you can spare, then. I'll take anything. In return, I'll give you a copy of my own private notes. You might find them useful."

  "I'm sure I will." O'Dell looked tired for a moment, as though Roads had touched upon his own problems. "My superiors are anxious to study your progress."

  "Really? Given what you've just told me, I'd have thought they'd be more interested in — "

  He stopped in mid-sentence and stared off into space.

  "Phil?"

  " — the killer." He blinked and returned to O'Dell. "Sorry, Martin. You know how it is: you get so involved in a case you forget what's going on around it. I just remembered something that might be important."

  "The assassin? I thought he and the Mole were completely separate."

  "Maybe." The price on his head suddenly seemed more than just a trifle to leave until later. "But I've got a funny feeling I might be seeing him in the future."

  O'Dell looked puzzled. "I don't understand."

  Roads glanced at his watch and then at the window; the sky was darkening. "Let's leave it there. I have work to do."

  "And I have another call home to make." O'Dell stood, and Roads showed him to the door.

  "The wife?"

  "No, work again. But I'll get that information transferred to you first."

  "Thanks, Martin. I appreciate your help."

  "My pleasure. That's what I'm here for, after all."

  As soon as O'Dell had left, Roads called up the notepad he had been working on and added two more circles: the killer and the RUSAMC, both in the no-man's-land between Roads and the Mole. If there was a connection between either one and any other party, then he needed more evidence to see it clearly.

  Reaching for the intercom, he dialled Roger Wiggs' office number. Instead of the red-haired officer, he was put through to a junior assistant, who told him that Wiggs was tied up elsewhere in the building.

  "He's certainly keeping busy," Roads commented, trying not to let frustration show in his voice. It had been several days since he and his offsider in homicide had last swapped data; he needed to know what Wiggs had found, if anything, before the killer came calling.

  "It's that new guy," explained the assistant. "DeKurzak. He's had us profiling all the same old anti-Reassimilation spokespersons, plus anyone in RSD and the Council over sixty years of age."

  "Looking for the Old Guard?"

  "Like you wouldn't believe." The assistant sighed wearily. "I'll say one thing about him, though: if the Old Guard does exist, he's the one who'll find it."

  "And if it doesn't exist?"

  "Then maybe he'll find it anyway, if you know what I mean." Wiggs' assistant chuckled to herself. "When Roger gets in, I'll tell him you called. Any message?"

  "No. Just tell him to be in touch."

  "Will do. And good luck at your end, too."

  "Thanks. We all need it."

  Roads settled back to study his flow-chart for any new inspiration. There were possibilities in abundance everywhere he looked, but few certainties. The more he looked at the few shreds of evidence he possessed, the less likely it seemed that they would ever coalesce.

  When he checked the mainframe half an hour later, a new icon had appeared, addressed to him: the RUSAMC data from O'Dell, still more to sift through. He sent his data in return, wondering why the RUSAMC captain had been so keen to get it — behind a suspiciously casual attitude — and why he had called his superiors back after already spending most of the day talking to them. What had Roads told him without realising?

  Gulping down what he swore would be his last painkiller, he opened O'Dell's file and began to skim through it.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  8:15 p.m.

  After barely an hour, Roads admitted defeat. The population of the Reunited States currently stood at fifteen million citizens, plus nearly double that again on a probationary basis, depending on the diplomatic status of the individual's home state. With so many people, and so much information generated as a result, any comprehensive datapool made that of Kennedy Polis seem minuscule in comparison.

  Still, he had learned some things. O'Dell's statement that the RUSA had been in existence for fifty years was a white lie. The Reunited States had evolved twenty-one years ago from a smaller nation unified under the Philadelphia Accord that O'Dell had mentioned — a treaty that had, at its peak, covered an area not much larger than old Pennsylvania.

  An abortive attempt during the Dissolution by the US Army to suppress a civilian rebellion in Philadelphia had served as the inspiration for the Accord. Roads could imagine why all too well.

  The civilian rebellion that had taken control of the city must have known they were in trouble the moment teleoperated drones from the invading force flew overhead, transmitting tactical data back to officers still kilometres away. Well before the first and final call to surrender was broadcast by a second wave of drones, they would have resigned themselves to a bloody fight to the death. The rebellion — led by little more than an expanded police force, according to the files — had had no chance against the biomodified combat troops of the enemy.

  The worst thing about it, in retrospect, was that in a sense there really was no enemy. That only made the decision to fight, once it had been made, all the more bitter. Knowing that you were about to be killed by your own country-folk didn't make dying any easier. If anything, it made it worse.

  So when the invasion failed, that came as something of a miracle. Indeed, it seemed like a sign: if Philadelphia had been spared the fate of other recalcitrant cities, then it must have been for a reason. Certainly, the leaders of the rebellion used that as an excuse to justify the slaughter of the Army forces. And later still, when the Army was no more and the Dissolution was at its most terrible, that same excuse served to unite the region around the city. Shielded by a buffer of relative stability maintained by organisation and force, and backed up by an incident that quickly became legendary, Philadelphia remained intact through the middle of the twenty-first century — a feat only Kennedy Polis was able to emulate.

  Neighbouring regions gradually joined the Philadelphia Accord. Although conditions within the united region were unstable for the most part — except at its heart, where industry had been revived and factories operated at close to their optimal productivity — local governments and people so long isolated joined the movement gladly. The only true weapon against chaos was order, and anything capable of delivering that order was welcomed with open arms.

  When the member states voted overwhelmingly to replace the Philadelphia Accord with a new, national constitution based loosely on the old — and to change the name, prematurely perhaps, to the Reunited States of America — it therefore came as no surprise. And so civilisation began to rise again where savagery had reigned for over a decade: the ruins of New York, Boston and Pittsburgh were absorbed within twenty years; within thirty, it encompassed territories as far as Maine and Ontario to the north, Dakota to the west, and Carolina to the south.

  T
he history of the Reunited States rarely mentioned other nations it had encountered — and, presumably, absorbed — during its expansion. The files were clearly biased in favour of a peaceful interpretation of the rise of the RUSA. But Roads did piece together some information on that score, reading inferences where hard data was not available.

  The RUSA was fundamentally driven by machinery and might, so skirmishes had been frequent in the past. Expanding and holding territory was a priority, for conditions beyond the borders were constantly changing. Nomads, looters, small biomodified gangs — even a few surviving berserkers — had all at one time or another besieged the walls of the developing nation. And the RUSA Military Corps' response, unlike Kennedy's, was always to attack, not to hide.

  Where other states had arisen in the vacuum left by the old USA, some traded willingly and peacefully with the RUSA while others became rivals. All were absorbed eventually, by one means or another. Only in two cases that Roads could find was serious resistance being maintained. The first, to the north-west, was a coastal alliance based around Washington and California with trade routes reaching as far inland as Wyoming. The second, to the south-west, was a New Mexican Alliance making steady inroads to the deep south. Even in the post-War conditions of the Dissolution, it seemed that the old rivalries — between north and south, and east and west — were still strong.

  There was no indication anywhere in the files of how severe the conflicts had been, or if any was currently in progress. Obviously the data had been censored to protect the RUSAMC's military secrets. But Roads did notice one thing: that on a map of the old US, Kennedy lay almost exactly between the Reunited States of America and the New Mexican Alliance. Perhaps that was enough to explain why Stedman was so keen to Reassimilate it. As a military outpost, it would be in the perfect location. And the technological resources the city still possessed would be an added bonus.

  At that point, however, he gave up. Everything he had learned was fascinating, but it had little bearing on the case at hand. Any clues that might exist would be found in the details, and the file was simply too huge for any single person to scan alone.

  He therefore required help if he was to continue his current line of investigation. Besides, he wanted to move more than just his fingertips. The pain of sitting in one position was beginning to override the need to rest.

  He went down to the fourth floor, but found it deserted and dark apart from a couple of night-shifters, cocooned behind partitions, huddling in the protective warmth of their yellow desk lamps. RSD HQ was in limbo, caught between one day and the next. Most of the active staff were out on the streets, waiting for something to happen.

  Although General Stedman's imminent arrival had eclipsed RSD's regular routine, life went on regardless. The planned parade would attract a substantial proportion of the city's population the following day — including, perhaps, some who were more than simply curious. Both the Mole and the assassin were still out there, somewhere, and the coming Reassimilation wouldn't change that.

  Barney's partition was dark except for the stand-by glow of her terminal. He wished she had told him she was heading home, if only so he could have wished her a good night.

  He was about to leave when a faint noise attracted his attention to the floor behind the desk. He found her there, curled up on the carpet. Although he envied her ability to sleep in unlikely places, he understood that it was a talent born more of necessity than choice.

  Asleep she looked surprisingly child-like for a woman on the far side of thirty. Her eyes were tightly shut, her fists clenched; the smooth skin of her brow puckered into a frown. Moving quietly across the room, he knelt beside her and brushed her cheek with his fingertips.

  At his touch, her eyes startled open and she flinched away. Then, realising it was him, she flung herself forward and wrapped her arms around him.

  "Oh, Phil." Her voice was husky, muffled by his shoulder. "Am I glad to see you."

  His hands caressed the solid warmth of her back and shoulders. The urgency of her clasp did not fade. "A bad dream, huh?"

  "I dreamt you were dead."

  "Not me. I've got a few years left in me yet."

  "But someone killed you!"

  "Did they?" He hoped the dream wasn't prophetic. "I promise to take better care of myself, then."

  She sniffed moistly and started to relax. Their embrace slowly loosened. "I'm sorry," she said, reaching into her pocket for a tissue. She rubbed her eyes, glanced around at the office. "What time is it?"

  "After eight. Why didn't you go home?"

  "I was waiting for you to finish."

  "You didn't have to, Barney. You've done your fair share of work for today."

  "I know, and yesterday too." She smiled fleetingly. "It's silly. All this werewolf business has me spooked. I wanted you to walk me home."

  "I will, if it'll make you feel better," he said automatically. "But who's going to guard the guard?"

  Her eyes were almost glowing in the dark as they stared into his. "Who says I want to be protected from him?"

  Against his conscious will, he pulled her closer. Her arms slid around his shoulders and squeezed back. He could feel her fingers digging in, clutching at him, and he responded in kind, raising one hand to stroke her hair and neck, to tilt her head back. His body remembered what to do all too well — even if his mind rebelled ...

  He couldn't let this happen. He didn't want her to be hurt when she finally learned the truth. And if he let his own feelings out, then the truth would inevitably follow.

  Hating himself, he turned what should have been a kiss into just another embrace between dear friends, and held her close.

  "Barney," he whispered into her ear after the longest minute of his life. "You're hurting my ribs."

  The pressure eased immediately. "Oh, Phil, I'm sorry. I completely forgot."

  "That's okay."

  Her eyes sparkled. "I promise to be more gentle in future."

  "I know you will." He kissed her on the forehead; a brief peck, the most he would allow himself. "But I have something important to do, first."

  The glow of the computer seemed dazzling as he climbed to his feet and took a seat behind the desk. He tapped at the keyboard for a second while she leaned over his shoulder, her breath warm in his ear.

  "You finished the list?" he asked.

  "Uh-huh. There." She pointed at a file with a fingertip. Her nails were short, but not chewed.

  "Good." He took the file and sent it to the search program he had set up; the semi-intelligent algorithm, a survivor of the pre-War days, would perform the task of a dozen people, sifting through megabytes of data and looking for meaningful connections. Then he tugged over the icon for the RUSAMC data O'Dell had given him, explaining what it was to Barney as he did.

  "You're going to run the search program through that?" she said, her eyebrows rising.

  "And the entire Kennedy datapool as well."

  "But that'll take — "

  "About six hours." He turned to look at her, and their eyes met from barely a centimetre's distance.

  "You really are desperate, aren't you?" she said.

  "Absolutely. But if the search pulls just one thing I need to know, then it'll have been worthwhile." He instructed the program to call either of them at their home terminals when it had finished, then set it running.

  He flicked off the screen, stood. "That's it. Let's get out of here."

  "My place?" Her eyes stared directly into his, daring him to say no.

  He hesitated. "If that's what you want."

  "Are you kidding?" She slipped into her coat and flicked her fringe back. "It's about bloody time, I'd say."

  * * *

  The night was clear and calm, and warm despite the lack of clouds. The moon shone through the haze of the streetlights. They walked side-by-side without speaking, very conscious of each other's physical presence. Roads was glad at first that they had been unable to take a car from the RSD pool, and therefore
had to walk — although that caused him to be reminded, with a twinge not unlike deja-vu, of a time almost seventy years earlier.

  The last occasion on which he had shared any form of intimacy had been on a night similar to this — except that the streets of Sydney had been crowded and better-lit. The people brushing by him had been brightly-coloured and noisy, their bodies awash with technology: micromachines had invaded the cosmetic industry on every level, providing variable tattoos, clothes that changed colour or played moving images, and even instant hair; headsets, laser-firing contact lenses or implants kept information flowing at a heady pace; the infra-red beams that had replaced wires a decade ago laced the crowd like an invisible web — shining neon-bright to anyone with the right eyes to see. The night had been alive, literally, with movement and celebration on so many levels that the reality of War brewing even then seemed like an incredible fantasy.

  Phil Roads had been twenty-five. Then — as it did now — a persistent itch between his shoulder-blades warned him that someone was watching him.

  The journey passed all too quickly, even without taking the Rosette. On the pavement outside the entrance to Barney's apartment, Roads stopped and took her by the shoulders. She knew what he was about to say before the words had formed in his mind.

  "You're not coming in, are you?"

  He shook his head. "I can't. I still have work to do."

  She sighed. "Look, Phil, be straight with me, okay?" He opened his mouth to cut her off, but she talked right over him, the words flowing in a sudden rush. "I can tell that you're unsure about this. I am too, if you want the truth. But I don't invite strange men into my house without a good reason, and I think I've reason enough after all the years we've worked together. If you don't think we should take our relationship any further, then just say so."

  He stared at her, stunned into silence by her bluntness. He had avoided romantic involvement by choice for five years after that distant night in Sydney, then out of necessity for the rest of his life. The habit had become ingrained.