Metal Fatigue

by Sean Williams

  "I'm sorry, but I had to be sure you weren't staked-out as well."

  "I know, I know." She sat in a chair opposite him. "So, let's see if I've got this straight. The Mole killed the assassins, right?"

  "Danny Chong, at least. I assume the others as well."

  "Why?"

  He shifted uncomfortably in the chair. "I think he was defending me."

  "That doesn't make sense."

  "I know."

  "Did he survive the explosion?"

  Roads thought about it briefly. "He might have."

  "But you can't be certain?"

  "No. I tried to tag the scene as it happened, but I didn't quite make it in time."

  The reminder of his artificial eyes disturbed her. She had almost forgotten they were there. "That's how you took the picture of Cati, when you chased him from Old North Street?"

  "Exactly. The old concealed-camera trick went out years ago."

  "For you, maybe. Not for the rest of us mortals." She took away the plate and rinsed it, grateful for the chance to hide the flush she could feel creeping across her face. While at the sink, she poured them both a cup of coffee. "Let's go into the lounge."

  He lay down on the sofa and rested while she set up her laptop on a coffee table in front of him. He was looking stronger than he had half an hour earlier; his skin had lost some of its deathly pallor.

  "Just one more question," she said, sitting on the edge of the sofa with her back against his midriff. "Did you see Cati among the assassins?"

  "No. Should I have?"

  "I'd have bet money on it." She tapped at the keyboard.

  "Why? What did the search find?"

  "His name." She called up the file. "We didn't find it earlier because it's not really a name at all, or even a word. It's an abbreviation."

  A single line of text appeared on the screen: "Cybernetic Augmentation Technologies Inc."

  Roads leaned forward. "Of course. I knew I'd heard the word before." In response to Barney's look of inquiry, he explained: "CATI was a military off-shoot. They handled special projects, mainly developmental technology and so on. I don't remember them producing anything noteworthy, though. Did they modify Cati?"

  "They built him." The next page was a long list of complicated scientific jargon. "As far as I can tell, they force-bred him from tailored genetic material and brought him to physical maturity in under twelve months. The genetic tailoring amplified his size, strength, stamina and speed, reduced his brain size by five percent, improved his senses of smell and touch, and raised his metabolic rate.

  "Side-effects included abnormal skin-pigmentation, a slight lessening of intelligence, muteness and the inability to reproduce."

  "He's sterile?"

  "Worse than that. He's a metamale, Phil — a sexless drone based on the male form ... but not male." Again she thought of wasps, and shuddered.

  "Go on," Roads encouraged.

  She took a deep breath. "After his body matured, they modified it further. They reinforced his bones with carbon-fibre struts, and installed tylosine and acetylcholine dispensers to reduce his stress and boost his stamina. They took out his eyes and inner ears and replaced them with implants, installed a short-range microwave transmitter/receiver under his brain-stem so he could communicate by radio, and damaged the language-recognition centres in his cortex so he would have difficulty responding to normal speech. Then they conditioned him, took away what free will he might have retained, and linked him to a microwave command grid. He has a control code to ensure his obedience. Without it, he won't even respond to orders, but with it he will do literally anything."

  Barney vividly remembered the contents of the file, and the horror she had felt upon reading it. Even before the turn of the twenty-first century, neuropsychologists had been aware of the effects of transcranial magnetic stimulation (TMS): by applying rapid magnetic pulses through the cortex, it was possible to reset or influence brain cells, thereby making limbs twitch involuntarily or emotions appear from nowhere. But it wasn't until the CATI project that such stimulation had been used to actively direct cognitive flow: specifically, the so-called syncritical path that Keith Morrow's scientists had studied in order to build a copy of his personality.

  If the human brain was comprised of many parts acting more or less in sympathy, and was essentially a chaotic system, then by nudging one of those many parts in just the right way, it was possible to change the future outcome of the brain's overall activity with a fair degree of accuracy.

  The process didn't allow direct mind control, but it was still persuasive. And it was this that made Barney feel ill. The technique could have been employed to unscramble damaged psyches; instead it had been used to damage those already working perfectly, to alter the standing waves of children whose minds had yet to find their own, natural equilibria.

  TMS was, essentially, a mild dose of electro-convulsive therapy, and if applied over long periods could be just as dangerous. Symptoms of overuse included memory damage, hallucinations, altered states of consciousness and brain seizures. By repeatedly applying pressure to the parts of the cortex used to guide Cati's consciousness — to make it obey — there was a risk of fatigue stress on that part of his mind; flexure cycles, where force was applied in one direction then another, could cause his mind to snap at a crucial moment, depending on how "elastic" his mind was, or how strongly he resisted his orders.

  In other words, the more Cati fought the magnets in his head, the more dangerous the magnets became to his sanity — and therefore the more dangerous he became to those around him.

  Barney had needed time to think it through, and she paused to give Roads the same. It didn't take him half as long, perhaps because he was more used to the concept of biomodification than she was.

  "Physically superior, perfectly obedient, unintelligent without being stupid ..." Roads half-laughed, bitterly. "He sounds like the perfect combat soldier."

  "It's not funny, Phil. He's incredibly dangerous. Given the correct code he'll obey any order."

  "Yes, I can see that. And, if the code existed, I would be worried. But he must have been a last-minute development, right before the end of the War; he might even have been a prototype, an experimental model. The code would have been lost along with everything else, wouldn't it?" Noticing her expression, he grimaced. "You're going to tell me it wasn't, aren't you?"

  "CATI built sixty like him, all clones, all identical. With them, they formed C-Brigade. The existence of C-Brigade was a closely-guarded secret, which is why you never heard about it even though it was in operation for at least three years. In theory, it was designed for ground assaults, as a vanguard for 'normal' troops. In practice, it was used mainly on uprisings and for covert strikes.

  "Then, in 2046, a group of high-ranking generals rebelled. They programmed a handful of CATIs to kill the President and her Chiefs of Staff. The rebellion itself failed, but the assassination was a complete success. This prompted the VP's emergency government to order the recall and destruction of C-Brigade."

  "And ... ?"

  "The records suggest that all were killed."

  "But one of them survived."

  "It looks like it. Or saved on purpose." She couldn't keep an edge from her voice. The possibility that someone — something — like Cati was roaming the streets unchecked made her feel both frightened and angry. "And now someone's found the control code. Someone with access to the old RSD files."

  "Wait — you're going too fast. Why RSD? Wasn't this information pulled from O'Dell's datapool?"

  "Most of it was — the top-secret parts — but not all." She flicked to a new page. "I found this in the Mayoralty archives. It's all that remains of a file concerning the operation of the old CATI network. The rest was lost in the solar storm of '66."

  The page was an excerpt from an instruction manual, with Cybernetic Augmentation Technology Inc's logo in the top right-hand corner. She waited while Roads skimmed through the text until he reached the part t
hat had caught her eye:

  "For a list of control codes, including [CYPHER] and [PROTOCOL], see Appendix 7-2 ..."

  "When I checked the data from the States," she said, "their version was abbreviated. Only Kennedy had the file with the appendix."

  "You think there was a complete copy of the file somewhere else in Kennedy?"

  "I'm sure of it. It's the sort of thing RSD would have stored away in its own datapool."

  "But it's not there?"

  "Erased. I checked the access dates for that section. Someone took it six weeks ago."

  Roads brushed his singed moustache with the back of a finger. "Someone with access to RSD archives and the authority to erase historical data."

  "Obviously."

  He leaned back and stared at the ceiling. The ramifications of the discovery were only slowly sinking in. "He'd make the perfect assassin."

  "My thought exactly. That's why I bet myself Cati would be among the people who attacked you."

  "I didn't see him there. I don't think I'd be here now if he had been." Roads rubbed at the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. "And if he wasn't there, then he and the Mole must be working separately — unless whoever I'm getting close to didn't want to use Cati, for some reason. Maybe he thought the assassination would fail, and didn't want to waste both valuable assets on one operation ..."

  "Maybe." She turned back to the screen. "But there's one thing I haven't told you."

  "More bad news?"

  "I'm afraid so. The CATI company was founded by a Dr Marcus Schonberg in 2024, two years after his previous company, Boston CyberKinetic, folded."

  "So?"

  "BCK was the company that designed the berserkers. Cati is a later and improved version of the same model."

  "Christ." Roads' glassy eyes zoomed in on her face. "Without the control code, we'll never catch him."

  "I know." Again the memory of Kennedy's last berserker sprang to mind. She had never forgotten Roads' description of the berserker's naked blood-lust, its apparent invincibility. And Cati was a superior model. "He scares the crap out of me, Phil. Promise me you won't go after him alone."

  "If you want an invite, I'll have to ask first — "

  "Don't joke about it. I'm serious."

  "Okay." His face looked haggard in the dim light of the screen. "It's Roger's case, and therefore Roger's problem. I'll just stand back and watch, if that makes you feel better."

  "Thanks. I'm not sure I believe you, but it's better than nothing."

  His hand emerged from beneath the sheet and stroked her back. "Did you find anything else?"

  "Only one thing worth looking at now: a reference to 'EPA44210'."

  He blinked. "You did? Where?"

  "In O'Dell's file, on an invoice of goods that General Stedman will be bringing to town tomorrow."

  "What are they?"

  "Batteries; very powerful, very compact batteries."

  "Manufactured by the Reunited States ..." Roads looked puzzled. "Why would they be in one of Morrow's hideaways?"

  "More importantly, why would the Mole want them?"

  "Well, that's easy enough to explain. His cloak of invisibility, or whatever it is, must require heaps of power. Any mobile source will do, I suppose, but the EPAs would be better than anything we've got." He looked thoughtful for a moment. "And it also explains why he waited so long before taking them: he didn't move on Old North Street until his power supply was running out." His hand moved up her back, to her neck. "At least that's one mystery explained."

  "One of many, unfortunately." Barney grabbed his hand and squeezed it. "I'm tired. Let's hit the sack."

  "Are you sure? Don't you have anything you want to ask me first?"

  "Plenty, but we can talk about it in bed."

  "'We'?"

  "Of course. I've only got one mattress." Her eyes grew warm. "And you don't really think I'd let you out of my sight again, do you?"

  He shook his head. "At least let me see what else you found, first."

  She sighed. Suddenly she didn't want his explanation. It made things too complicated, too fraught with contradictions. He was Phil Roads, not some sort of berserker to be feared or reviled, like Cati.

  "Please, Barney."

  "All right." Turning reluctantly back to the terminal, she retrieved the last of the three word-matches.

  It was an old army record: facial and profile photos compressed from 3-D, plus a few biographical notes, a brief list of commendations and a genetic fingerprint.

  The name on the top was: Major Philip Geoffrey Roads, Third Mobile Battalion.

  The last two lines in the file read:

  »Missing In Action, presumed dead.«

  »Dishonourable Discharge effected posthumously.«

  "Hello soldier," said Roads softly, eyes fixed on his frozen image.

  "Another long story, right?"

  "Very long. But you need to hear it. I want you to understand — "

  "Okay." She turned off the terminal and helped him to his feet. "But make it quick. We don't have all night."

  * * *

  At shortly past four in the morning, Barney woke from an unusually peaceful sleep to find Roads beside her, clad only in the sheet. Unused to sharing her bed with anyone, she lay still for a while, listening to him breathing; his every sound, no matter how faint, was amplified by the darkness until it almost seemed to echo.

  When she finally tired of the situation, pleasantly novel though it was, she rolled to fit her body to his and put an arm across his chest.

  He was instantly awake, grunting a half-intelligible inquiry.

  "You brute," she whispered into his ear.

  "Me, Barney? What have I done now?"

  "Nothing. I fell asleep and you didn't wake me up."

  "That's right; you were tired. So?"

  "Did you finish the story?"

  "More or less. The best bits, anyway."

  "Oh." She tried to remember, but was still too sleep-fogged to recall more than the odd detail: something about Philadelphia, and blood. She was uncertain exactly how much of it was real, and how much the product of her dream. Or whether she really wanted to think about it just then.

  Raising her hand in front of his face, she asked him: "How many fingers am I holding up?"

  He made no sound as his eyes shifted automatically, found the correct spectrum. "Two."

  "Now?"

  "Four."

  Mischievously: "Now?"

  "Ah ... Does that count as a finger?"

  "Not really, I suppose."

  "None, then. Can I go back to sleep now?"

  "Definitely not, but I'll let you close your eyes."

  "I'd rather not."

  "If you don't, I'll be forced to turn on the lights."

  Giving in, he rolled to embrace her. Her hand stayed exactly where it was, for a while longer.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  8:00 a.m.

  A call came at eight that morning. Barney took it while Roads listened in from the neighbouring room, where the terminal's lens would not pick up his image. Even though he was unable to see the screen, he instantly recognised the voice.

  It was Margaret Chappel. Barney was in charge of a crowd-control squad during the parade later that day, and although the two of them discussed it briefly, Roads could tell it wasn't the real reason for Chappel's call. Sure enough, she soon turned the subject to the ruin of his building, and the operation that was still searching through it.

  A total of fourteen bodies had been found: three out the front, nine inside, two at the back. Roads was still missing, which wasn't news to him or Barney — or, it seemed, to Chappel herself.

  "If Phil's there with you," she said, "I need to talk to him urgently." When Barney hesitated, she continued: "I can assure you that this conversation is strictly off the record; it isn't being monitored or recorded, and there's no-one in my office but me. I'm calling as a friend, like last night, not as head of RSD. Just tell him to call me as soon as pos
sible, if you see him."

  "I'm not sure — "

  "It's okay, Barney." He stepped into the room and came forward to face the terminal. "I have to appear eventually, I suppose. Hello, Margaret."

  "Phil, your little vanishing act had even me worried."

  "Really? I never knew you cared."

  "If I didn't, I wouldn't be calling now." Her face hardened. "What happened?"

  He quickly brought her up to date on everything that had occurred between his leaving Barney's house the previous night and the explosion.

  "So the Mole killed them ..." She frowned. "That's a different story to the one going around HQ."

  "Which is?"

  She shook her head, dismissing the question. "There's a meeting in my office in two hours. I suggest you be here."

  "How bad is it?"

  "Let's just say it would have been worse if you'd died last night."

  "I see." He understood perfectly; there was only one thing better than a scapegoat, and that was a dead scapegoat. "I'll be there. Thanks for the warning."

  Chappel raised a hand. "One thing more before I go."

  "Yes?"

  "I strongly advise that you wear your contact lenses. Barney has obviously taken the news well, but I can't guarantee that the others will."

  "Point taken. See you in two."

  Chappel killed the line, and Roads turned back to Barney.

  She was staring at him oddly. "She knew?"

  "From day one. Her father was expelled from the city under the Humanity Laws when she was a child, and she's never forgotten. She helped me get a job when I arrived in '58."

  "Anyone else?"

  "Martin O'Dell guessed. He ran a comparison between old Missing In Action files and the most recent Kennedy census; my name came up on both lists. And Keith Morrow knows, of course."

  "Why didn't you tell me long ago? You should've trusted me."

  "I know, but ..." He turned away. Even now, he retreated from telling her the real reason. The instinct for secrecy that had kept him safe through the last four decades was hard to break. "Look, tell me how you felt when you first found out."

  "Shocked, mainly, and a little as if you'd betrayed me."