Metal Fatigue

by Sean Williams

  "If I was worried about that, would I be here now?" Barney returned his stare. "Tell me what you want, and I'll see what I can do."

  "A bike, first of all, if you can get hold of one; and a schedule for the next twenty-four hours. Security plans of Mayor's House would be good, but I don't want to push my luck."

  She leaned away. "You're going after Cati, aren't you?"

  "I have to. If we're right and he is the killer, then someone has to stop him."

  "Unarmed?" Her eyes were filled with concern. "Don't, Phil, please. I can talk DeKurzak into it."

  "He won't have the time to listen to you until tomorrow — and by then it'll be too late."

  "But Margaret — "

  "It has to be me. I'm sorry."

  She put her head on his shoulder. "You stupid sonofabitch."

  "Senile, actually. I'll be ninety-five next month."

  Barney pulled a face. "Don't put it that way. It sounds so — "

  "Old? That's exactly how I feel when I look at O'Dell and DeKurzak."

  "No. Serious." Her hands tightened. "But remind me to throw you a party, if you're still around."

  "Thanks," he said. "I think I'll need it."

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  12:30 p.m.

  The threat of rain had passed by the time Roads managed to escape HQ on a bicycle Barney had borrowed from the RSD pool. The streets and sidewalks of the inner suburbs were busy with people.

  General Stedman's convoy was still some hours away, but the reclamation and reprocessing factories had already shut down. Regardless of political persuasion — for, against, or even indifferent — everyone in Kennedy Polis seemed to be taking advantage of the first public holiday in over a year. Parties had begun in parks, Rosette stations, and little-used intersections. Bands played on roof gardens, sending snatches of melody aloft on the wind. The smell of freshly-cooked food drifted at random through the streets.

  There was always a sense of guilty pleasure in taking time off, however. The struggle to maintain viability had been so long and desperate during the Dissolution that an egalitarian lifestyle and obsessive work ethic had become indelible parts of the city's culture. Not working had connotations far worse than simple laziness: it hurt everyone in the long-run.

  A measure of anti-Reassimilation sentiment found its source in this guilt — as though a slight lapse in concentration on internal issues would result in the collapse of the fragile bubble that was Kennedy. Roads could understand that, and even felt a measure of it himself: old habits, forged when survival seemed most unlikely, were always the hardest to break. The fight for the city was won on many levels, not just by keeping possible threats Outside.

  A splash of red, white and blue caught Roads' eye, distracting him temporarily from his thoughts. One daring person had unearthed an old flag and raised it above a converted post office. The Stars and Stripes, for so long forbidden, was an unusual sight, and an evocative one.

  As he furiously pedalled along the streets, Roads wondered whether the flag was a gesture of celebration or of warning. Was the arrival of the RUSAMC a threat or an opportunity? Only time would tell.

  Of only one thing was he completely certain: that Cati's controller would strike again. Anyone so anti-Reassimilation as to kill in the past would not stop once Stedman was in the city. And what more tempting target could there possibly be? Certainly far more relevant than Councillors or aides who had supported the bill before it became reality.

  He steered the bike past a pile of recently fallen masonry that had spilled onto the road, and called up the PolNet systems. The menus reappeared superimposed upon the street ahead, like neon hallucinations more real than reality itself. He searched through them, found the access number he was after, and dialled.

  Morrow's bodiless head appeared in the depths of his vision, always a fixed distance ahead of him.

  "No image," said the Head, "and a simulated voice. This can only mean one thing."

  "That's right." Roads smiled despite himself. "I've succumbed to temptation."

  "Good for you, Phil. It was only a matter of time. Welcome back to the electronic fold, my boy, where you belong."

  "Not by choice, I'm afraid."

  "Shame." Morrow sniffed. "Please bear in mind that I'm here when you need me. If you take the fall, I'll be there to catch you. DeKurzak doesn't frighten me in the slightest."

  "How much do you know about that?"

  "Probably more than you."

  "I hope so. I was set up and I want to know why."

  "Start asking questions, then, and I'll tell what I can."

  "Right, the assassination first. Who hired Danny Chong, and why?"

  "Pass." Morrow's face displayed sincere regret.

  "Okay. Where did Chong get the explosives, then? I haven't seen anything that powerful in twenty years."

  "From me, of course. You should have known."

  "I guessed, but needed to know for sure. That makes them imports. From the same place as the EPA44210s? The Reunited States?"

  "Perhaps. Do change the subject, dear boy."

  Roads pedalled steadily onward, glad that one guess had proved correct. "Back to DeKurzak. What can you tell me about him?"

  "He's an orphan, like your assistant. Both his parents were killed by a berserker in '57."

  "Interesting, Keith, but hardly relevant."

  "Perhaps not. He's certainly driven by something, and regarded as a golden boy by his allies. He worked his way up the MSA in record time while Packard was head. If he continues at this rate, he'll be running the entire city within a couple of decades."

  "Is that fast enough, do you think?"

  "Not for him, certainly. For me, I could wait forever."

  "What do you know about his analysis of Blindeye, and the Mole?"

  "Only what he's told the Mayor in his report. He wants you strung up as an example, just in case any more of the Old Guard think of trying anything silly." Morrow tut-tutted. "The boy is paranoid, but quite sincere, it would seem. And he makes a convincing case. The Mayor seems quite won over by his enthusiasm, even though the Mayor himself would be a possible suspect."

  "I know. O'Dell, too? Does he agree with DeKurzak?"

  "Doubtful. His report carefully avoids the matter, as though he is trying not to commit himself. His only recommendation is that he should take over the Mole case in place of you, and his reasoning there is inconclusive."

  "Did he mention my biomods?"

  "No."

  Roads paused while he took a corner, pondering DeKurzak's actions. The recent change in the MSA was at the core of them, he was sure. As the necessity to maintain external vigilance had gradually ebbed, so too had the number of people required to patrol the Wall. The active staff numbers of the MSA had therefore atrophied, with personnel drifting into other areas such as security and administration. Still, a position in the MSA automatically commanded respect and admiration, out of respect for the organisation's past. To be part of the MSA meant that one was actively involved in the defence of the city, unlike RSD, which defended the city from itself.

  Reassimilation, however, would nullify the reason for the existence of the MSA, and increase the need for internal policing. DeKurzak's actions made more sense when this was taken into account: by breaking up RSD and absorbing the pieces, he could give the MSA an entirely new portfolio, and thus a reason to exist.

  O'Dell's motives, however, were far from clear.

  The streets became less crowded the further Roads went from the city centre. Patriot Bridge appeared briefly from behind a building, then vanished again. He consulted a street map in the RSD datapool and realised that he was closer to his destination than he had thought.

  "One more question, Keith. I'm trying to track down an old CATI soldier. It looks like one made it to Kennedy during the Dissolution and is now being used by whoever wants to derail the Reassimilation. Do you know anything about him, or where he might be hiding?"

  "'It', you mean." Morrow
's face remained stonily blank. "I took the liberty of browsing through the files of your lovely assistant last night, and learned of your discovery that way. It seems obvious to me that the Mole is entirely unconnected with this CATI operative. You should return to your original search immediately. You'll be wasting your time, otherwise."

  Roads detected more than a faint warning in the Head's tone of voice, but ignored it. "I don't think so. There's a connection here somewhere. All I have to do is find it."

  "Perhaps. But you are treading a dangerous path that might, eventually, lead nowhere."

  "That's a chance I'll just have to take."

  "Very well." Morrow sighed. "Was there anything else?"

  "Just one more favour. A big one, this time. I need a security pass to Mayor's House for tonight. I don't think I'll be able to get in otherwise, and I can't afford to miss any of the action."

  Morrow pondered the request. "It'll be tricky, but I can do it. I'll call you later with a rendezvous."

  "Thanks, Keith." That Morrow could deliver wasn't in doubt. Being an artificial intelligence, he had immediate access to more cognitive resources than any human. Had it not been for the War, he might have been running the entire country, not just a few shady operations in an isolated city.

  Roads turned another corner, and realised that he had made it at last. He glided slowly to a halt and balanced on two wheels and one leg in the middle of the street.

  "I have to go."

  "Already? Must our conversations always be so brief?"

  "I'm afraid so. You're a 'criminal element', remember?"

  Morrow didn't smile. "Ah, yes. I do keep forgetting."

  * * *

  Old North Street was empty as far as his eyes could see. One hundred and fourteen was still sealed with RSD Major Crime tape, and looked deserted. He had no doubt that, if he ventured down into the concealed cellar, he would find that empty as well.

  Opening the cyberlink to Barney, he softly called her name. Her reply was instantaneous.

  "Shit! Sorry, Phil. You startled me. Where are you?"

  "Old North Street. Any news from the lookout?"

  "None since I last called."

  "Good." He leaned the bike against the wall of number 113, inside which the stake-out was hidden. There was no response from within the building, but he knew the bike would be watched along with the building across the road. "How're things at your end?"

  "Slow. I'm down by the Wall, and the crowds are fairly quiet. The heat's making everyone docile, I guess."

  "That won't last. Any protests?"

  "One group tried to string an anti-Reassimilation banner across the road, but we got rid of them easily enough. There've been a couple of scuffles, nothing too exciting. Some of the lads are hoping for a minor revolution in our vicinity, to relieve the boredom, but I don't think that's likely."

  Roads lit a cigarette. "Anything from the bosses yet?"

  "The Mantis made a speech not long ago, to explain that we will be co-operating closely with the MSA and the States in future. No specifics, and she's been quiet since then. There's a bit of gossip going around, some of it concerning you, but I'm keeping on top of it."

  "That's my girl. You'll let me know when the fun starts, won't you?"

  "The parade? Sure. I finish my shift at seven, if you want to meet me somewhere then."

  "Maybe. We'll see how I go."

  "Call me."

  "I will."

  He cut the line. While he finished his cigarette, he ran through everything that Morrow had told him.

  The Head was obviously smuggling RUSA products into the city — hence the crates arriving at 114 Old North Street in the dead of the night and Morrow's possession of the batteries — although exactly how he had obtained them was still a mystery. That ruled out one possibility: that the explosives Danny Chong had used to blow up his house had been supplied by the people who had ordered his assassination — i.e. the RUSAMC itself, or a faction within it.

  So the RUSAMC hadn't tried to kill him. That was some relief, but it still left him short of an actual suspect.

  He had had a half-formed idea that the assassination attempt might have been a set-up: that Chong and co. had been deliberately killed in order to incriminate him. That made the Mole, as Chong's killer, the source of the contract. But he doubted it; it was too complex a plan, relying on too many variables. Why would the Mole go to so much trouble when it would be easier to kill Roads himself and be done with it?

  No. The Mole had nothing to do with Chong's mission. His assumption of the previous day had been wrong, therefore: he was close to catching Cati, not the Mole. That meant Cati's controller had been behind the attempt to assassinate Roads. He or she — or even they — must have used Chong to throw him off the scent, on the off-chance that the attempt to kill him would fail.

  DeKurzak still professed a belief in a member of the Old Guard being behind the killings, and had tied up much of homicide looking for evidence to support his case. O'Dell did not seem to have allied himself with DeKurzak in this instance, however, and that difference of opinion was worth noting. Not that it helped Roads terribly much. Whether Cati was investigated or not, Roads felt safe assuming that he was close to solving, if not actually dealing with, that half of the problem. All that remained was the thief.

  Suddenly, a new thought occurred to him: in six weeks of random thievery, the Mole had killed no-one. Then, during Blindeye, he had struck Roads a blow that might have killed an ordinary man. The following night he had killed fourteen people. What had changed in the thief's situation to warrant such violence? Or had the situation changed at all?

  On the one hand, the Mole had tried to kill him. Then, after weeks of eluding him, spying on him, doing everything he could to confound the man he had impersonated — he had actually saved his life. Why the inconsistency?

  An answer came instantly, more from intuition than thought: just as Morrow wanted him to catch the Mole, so too did the Mole want Roads to catch Cati.

  But that didn't make sense. Two nights ago, he had known nothing about the killer, apart from a photo or two; hardly enough to make him suspect anything specific. Not until the search through the datapool had found the old CATI file did he guess the truth, and even then he had kept it quiet for several hours. Whoever had decided that Roads knew the truth had made a very' large assumption — or had access to his data.

  The cigarette had died some time ago. Throwing the butt illegally into a gutter, he crossed the road and mounted the steps of 116 Old North Street. He straightened his clothing in the reflection cast by a shadowed window; despite the fact that he rarely wore full uniform, plain-clothes felt awkward. He still had his ID, however — the subtle distinction between "holidays" and suspension having allowed him to keep that, if not his gun.

  Two other things DeKurzak's attack had left him with were time and freedom to pursue the case fully. He knew he would need both if he was to succeed.

  General Stedman would be in Kennedy Polis within a handful of hours, and Cati would try to kill him. Roads felt safe assuming this, although he lacked the evidence to prove it. The only way to stop the killer was to neutralise the person controlling him, so that's exactly what Roads planned to do.

  The Mole would have to wait, if he only would.

  * * *

  Katiya answered on the second knock. The door to the second-floor apartment swung open with a rattle of locks and chains, and her eye appeared in the crack. When she saw who it was, she opened the door wider and let him in.

  She looked as though she had just woken from a deep sleep. Her hair was tangled; her eyes were bagged. She wore a cotton nightshirt that barely reached the tops of her knees. A silver pendant shaped like a miniature ingot hung from a chain about her neck — the only item of jewellery Roads had seen her wear.

  She guided him into the lounge and collapsed onto an old sofa, rubbing her eyes. The room was threadbare: the sofa and one companion chair, a small table; no ornaments, no
carpet. Damp had stained the ceiling black in places and made the paint peel from the walls. The air smelled of closed spaces, of claustrophobia.

  "I'm sorry to disturb you," he said, standing awkwardly in the middle of the room.

  "I don't mind." She curled her legs beneath her, resting her head on the sofa's massive armrest. Childlike, she watched him. She seemed less nervous on her own ground.

  He sat down in the other chair. "I only came to talk."

  "Have you found Cati?"

  "No. Has he contacted you?"

  "No." She shook her head, eyes liquid. Silence claimed them again. He waited for her to speak — for he sensed that she wanted to — but she didn't. After a minute or two, he broke the silence again:

  "I'm sorry. Can I have a cup of water?"

  She went to another room without a word, and returned with a small glass. Roads placed it on the arm of the chair without drinking from it. She watched with interest as he removed his contact lenses and dropped them into the water. They drifted to the bottom of the glass like curious jellyfish, and stared vacantly back at her.

  "I know all about the way Cati is," he said, raising his naked eyes. "But that's not why I'm here."

  She nodded, understanding the gesture for what it was: an exchange of secrets, and therefore of trust.

  He continued: "I simply want to know more about him — where he came from, how you met, what he does, and so on. I need to understand him before I can help him."

  She nodded again, and her eyes wandered. They drifted aimlessly across the walls, the floorboards, ceiling — everywhere but at him — as she retreated into her memories. When she spoke, her voice was soft.

  "I first met him ten years ago, by accident. I was ... working ... for a man called Jules. Had been since I turned thirteen. He kept me in money, as long as I did my bit. He looked after me, in his way."

  Roads remembered the scars under her armpits. She had probably been a prostitute, enslaved by addiction to her pimp. Some sort of tailored drug, perhaps, brewed in the dark quarters of the city; maybe even one that had heightened her sexual response, inducing a volition in the act which would have made the degradation acceptable at the time — but even more abhorrent, later.