Metal Fatigue

by Sean Williams

  "Alone?" DeKurzak raised his eyebrows in concern. "This is highly irregular — especially given your close relationship with Philip Roads. Let me assign someone to accompany you. Officer Dobran — ?"

  "That's okay." O'Dell's placid drawl intruded between them. "I'll keep an eye on her. The exercise will do me good, after sitting down for so long."

  DeKurzak glanced between them, almost suspiciously, then nodded. "Very well. You will, of course, report any irregularities to Officer Goss or myself — "

  "We will." O'Dell saluted dryly. "Come on, Barney. Let's go."

  When they reached the corridor outside the suite, Barney let go of the breath she had been holding.

  "Thanks, Martin."

  "Any time." He motioned for her to lead the way. "I'd avoid him for the rest of the night, too, if you can. He's a little uptight about security, for obvious reasons."

  She looked at him. "You agree with Phil, then? That something might happen?"

  "Of course. We're not stupid. This is the killer's last chance to make a real impression on the Reassimilation process, and it's our job to make sure he doesn't." Martin grinned lazily. "Which he won't. Although ... Are there really dead zones in here, or was that just an excuse to take a look around?"

  "They're real."

  "Someone's been sloppy, then." O'Dell shook his head, then added: "No offence meant to David Goss in the RSD command centre, of course. Which shall we look at first?"

  "The first floor, if you like. But you don't have to, you know."

  "I know. My excuse was real, too. All this talking gets to me. It's good to be doing something, for a change."

  "I agree — although I'm more than half-hoping we'll be wasting our time ..."

  * * *

  Roads watched through his implants as Barney and O'Dell left the command centre. Jealousy played no part in the frown that creased his forehead; rather, he was concerned that O'Dell's involvement in whatever was going on might compromise his reactions to any critical situation.

  Still, he told himself, Barney knew what she was doing. If he couldn't trust her, then who could he trust?

  Turning back to the laptop, he resumed working on the program he had installed in the security system of Mayor's House. Unlike the earlier image processing algorithm Barney had used to locate the 'glitch' in the Blindeye recordings, this was designed to keep track of one single image. No matter where General Stedman went within the building, the program would keep tabs on him. That way, if anything went wrong while Roads was distracted, he would be able to view the scene immediately rather than hunt through all the different cameras to find the optimum angle.

  At that moment, the General was sharing a toast in Mayor Packard's ample study with a handful of city leading lights — Margaret Chappel one of them, nodding politely in response to conversation. Roads watched for a while, but soon became bored. The General wasn't a heavy drinker, it seemed; the snifter in his hand remained entirely untouched until he eventually put it down on a nearby table.

  Roads activated the tracking program and, feeling superfluous, stood. There was very little he could do but wait. Unless Barney and O'Dell found something in the dead zones, the rest of the night lay in the hands of Cati's controller.

  Yet crouching in the shadows like a thief was beginning to wear at his patience. His shoulder and ribs still ached, and the numerous bruises across his body were beginning to nag. Leaving the laptop hidden in a split tree trunk, he went for a quick walk around the grounds to stretch his limbs.

  Apart from light reflecting from the front of Mayor's House, the lawn and surrounding tree-line were almost entirely unlit. The clouds had thickened with sunset, obscuring the stars. The rising moon was barely visible. Behind the building, where the Councillors and other permanent staff had their offices and quarters, the night was particularly black.

  With his feet scuffing over age-torn tarmac, he jogged across the open space to the regular carpark.

  Before he reached cover, two RSD officers stepped out of the gloom. Clad in black uniforms and night-specs, they looked inhuman, robotic.

  "Pass, sir," said one, holding out her hand. The other held an automatic weapon at the ready.

  Roads produced the forged card and handed it over. The officer — instructed to inspect ID regardless of who was holding it — studied the pass closely then returned it to him. Twice, now, Morrow's handiwork had survived official scrutiny; if the Head did intend to betray him, then it would clearly take a more subtle form than having him arrested by RSD.

  "Thank you, sir." The guards waved him on, and stepped back into the shadows to reassume their position.

  "Wait." Roads walked with them. "How have things been out here?"

  The second officer answered. "Quiet."

  "No unusual disturbances? Noises from overhead, that sort of thing?"

  "None, sir." The officer swung the rifle onto his shoulder. "Not so much as a bird."

  "Good." Roads exhaled heavily through his nose: not quite relief, far too premature for that. "Don't feel foolish about reporting anything unusual."

  "Of course not, sir."

  Before they decided that he himself fell into that category, Roads turned and headed off into the darkness.

  Keeping closely to the shadows, he circled the rest of the way around the building without mishap, coming no closer than twenty metres to the RUSAMC envoy. A scurrying robot passed him briefly, swivelling its electronic eyes upward to look at him, but hurried away again without a sound. Obviously his image didn't constitute a threat as far as the Reunited States Military Corps was concerned. That was something, he supposed.

  Returning to where he had started, he unfolded the laptop from its hiding place and assumed his former position. The brief journey had confirmed that security was reasonably tight, and that his pass still seemed to be valid. It hadn't, however, helped shake the apprehension steadily building in his gut, the feeling that something was going to happen at any moment.

  If General Stedman shared that feeling — and Martin O'Dell had indicated that the RUSAMC also suspected that the killer would try to strike sometime soon — then he displayed none of it in public. For all the concern on his face, he might have been attending a friendly drink at a local club.

  Did they have such clubs in the States? Roads wondered whether he would ever be given the chance to find out. Even if Reassimilation went ahead, his own fate remained far from certain.

  Shortly before ten-fifteen, Roads glanced away as the General excused himself to go to the toilet. An instant later, a small alarm chimed on the laptop and the picture suddenly froze. Roads examined the screen. The picture had split down the middle into two halves, both filled with grey noise. Tapping at the keyboard failed to rectify the problem; the screen remained obstinately frozen. The program had crashed in mid-frame.

  Puzzled, he reset the laptop and ran the program again — with the same result. The program refused to run.

  He tried his implants. General Stedman appeared through them as clear as a bell, standing in the Mayor's chambers again. Whatever had crashed the program, therefore, had nothing to do with the data coming from Mayor's House. The problem had to be elsewhere.

  He reset the laptop a third time and probed the operating system. The first thing he checked for was evidence of deliberate interference, thinking that his intrusion might have been detected — by the RSD security team, the RUSAMC or even Cati's controller. But he found nothing to suggest that any of these was the case. His implants were fine. His surreptitious observation of Mayor's House only came to a halt when he tried to run the image processor program — and then only on General Stedman's image.

  Something to do with the program itself, then? Perhaps, he thought. It had run perfectly until ten-fifteen. At that time, some aspect of the feed from Mayor's House must have changed to make it crash. But what?

  Roads settled back onto his haunches to examine the program in more detail, while at the same time using his implants to keep
an eye on the General. Whatever had happened, it was almost certainly unimportant. A slight shift in baud rate, perhaps, or an unexpected switch to another secure machine-code.

  But it wasn't that simple. Both the program and the feed seemed sound. He tried resetting the laptop yet again, and received the same output: two regions of flickering snow divided by a black bar down the middle of the screen.

  Staring at it, Roads was struck by a possible explanation. The black bar hadn't been there before. It had to be significant. Maybe ...

  He returned to the program itself, reeled through modules and subroutines until he found the one he wanted, and made a single, tiny change. Then he rebooted the computer.

  This time the program ran perfectly — although its output made no sense at all.

  * * *

  On the way to the basement, Barney and O'Dell shared the elevator with another RUSAMC officer, a thick-set brunette with close-cropped hair.

  "To be frank, I'm glad it's over." She directed her words at O'Dell. "After the last few days, I'll be more than happy to get a decent night's sleep."

  "You have quarters?" Barney asked.

  The woman nodded, looking at her for the first time. "I'll be leaving for base camp in an hour."

  More out of politeness than any real curiosity, Barney pursued the conversation: "How many are staying behind?"

  "As few as possible. Maybe a couple of dozen."

  "That's all?" Barney glanced from O'Dell to the woman. The number seemed unreasonably small. "But what about security?"

  "Don't worry about the General," O'Dell said. "He'll be okay."

  "But I thought you said — "

  "Yes, we think the killer might try tonight. But if he does, he'll fail. I guarantee it."

  Barney wished she had his confidence, and said so. "What's all this for, then?"

  "To make you feel useful." The twinkle in O'Dell's eye told her that he was only half serious. Barney bit back an irritated retort with difficulty.

  The doors opened on the ground floor, and the woman indicated that she was getting out.

  "Have a good night," said the woman to O'Dell. "I'll see you in a couple of days."

  "That you will."

  When the doors had shut and they were alone again, Barney immediately confronted O'Dell.

  "Let's try that again, Martin: why are you here with me? And don't give me any bullshit this time. I hate being patronised as much as anyone."

  "Sorry. I suppose that's fair." O'Dell's smile faded. "It's nothing much. One, the exercise; two, to get away from the brass; and three, good old curiosity. If the killer does get in, I want to know how he did if. The only chink in the security of this building appears to be the dead zones. Unlikely though that seems, it's worth checking out. You never know, we might even catch him in the act."

  "Earning us both medals?"

  "Or broken necks." Perversely, that made O'Dell's smile return. "Either way, we'll have done something constructive."

  Barney nodded, accepting the explanation even though the chance of them achieving anything seemed remote: the dead zone on the first floor had consisted of an empty corner in an otherwise secure room; no chance of an illicit entry there. The second zone in the basement would just as likely be similar.

  The lift shuddered to a halt. Barney held the door open while O'Dell exited the cab. The basement consisted of a series of storerooms and wine cellars connected by a single corridor running along its entire length. From the distance came the smooth chugging of a compressor, pumping fresh air throughout the building. Ancient fluorescent lights behind wire grills every three metres illuminated the hallway.

  "No guards down here?" asked O'Dell, noting the absence of life.

  "No need," said Barney. "The lift's the only way in, and it's guarded from the lobby. And besides ..." She indicated the cameras at each end of the corridor.

  "Which way, then?" O'Dell asked.

  Barney pointed to their left. "Second to last storeroom on the right."

  "Okay. Let's get it over with."

  Together they walked along the hallway to the door. It was shut, but not locked. Barney turned the handle and swung it open.

  The storeroom was unoccupied, with rough plaster walls and a concrete floor. A metal rack full of boxes lined one wall, opposite which had been stacked three large crates. Dust filmed every horizontal surface despite the gentle breeze issuing from an air vent high on one wall.

  "Cosy," said O'Dell, crossing the room to examine the dead camera. "This seems fine," he said. "Must be an electrical fault."

  "I'll have a technician look at it tomorrow." Barney made a mental note to tell Goss when they returned to the command centre.

  O'Dell seemed in no hurry to leave, however. He browsed through the contents of the rack, turning over items and putting them back. "Spare parts," he mused. "Your reclamation facilities are quite impressive, you know."

  "They have to be, to keep us going," Barney said, fighting an impatience to return to the upper floors. "Without them, the city would have ground to a halt years ago."

  "Yes. We're far behind you in that respect." O'Dell glanced at her, then returned to his inspection of the room. "That's one lesson we've never had to learn."

  "Half your luck." Barney noted his words with interest. "You don't sound surprised that we might have something to teach you."

  "Should I be?"

  "No, of course not — but that's not the impression I get from a lot of your people. Sometimes I feel as though you're letting us into the States purely out of charity."

  O'Dell squatted on his haunches by a stack of crates. "Don't let those impressions tarnish our intentions, Barney. I'm sure they're real, but they're not representative. We have differences of opinions, just like you do."

  "Under Stedman?"

  "Of course. Under Christ himself we'd still have dissent. That's what democracy is all about." O'Dell ran a hand across the middle crate of the stack of three he was leaning against, and nodded at recent wheel-marks and footprints on the dusty floor. "These look like some of ours," he said, pointedly changing the subject. "God only knows what they're doing down here, though."

  "I can check with R&R, if you like."

  "No, that's not necessary. As likely as not the Mayor decided to keep them for himself. Must contain something interesting, I guess." He rapped his knuckles on the wood.

  "Either way," said Barney, "there's nothing for us here."

  "Wait," said O'Dell. He knocked on the box again, lower this time. A third time, then a fourth, and Barney heard the pitch of each rap change.

  She was about to ask what he was doing when he knocked on the bottom crate. His knuckles provoked a hollow thud.

  He glanced up at Barney. "This one sounds empty. Give me a hand."

  Together they lifted off the top two crates and exposed the lid of the one on the bottom. The seal seemed intact until Barney worried at the edge of the lid. With a slight groan, the top lifted smoothly off.

  "Well I'll be damned," said O'Dell.

  The crate was empty — and obviously placed at the bottom of the stack to hide that fact.

  "What are you thinking?" asked O'Dell.

  "I'm wondering why anyone would bother to store an empty crate down here."

  Barney stepped back to examine the dust on the floor. The mess of footprints surrounding the crates was difficult to interpret. One faint trail, however, led from the stack to the wall opposite the door. The prints weren't of shoes, but what seemed to be bare feet.

  O'Dell rose, dusting his hands on his uniform pants. "How does this sound?" he said. "Someone arranges to have the crates diverted in transit, replaces the contents of this one, and has them delivered here. The dead zone allows whoever's inside to get out, rearrange the crates to cover their method, of entry, and ..."

  "And what? They can't leave the room without being seen." Barney's eyes followed the footprints to the far wall, then rose upward. The air vent stared back at her. A tremor — hal
f excitement, half fear — stirred in her stomach.

  O'Dell followed her gaze. "The ducts?"

  "It's the only possible way." Barney crossed the room in two steps, reached up to tug at the grill. It came away cleanly, with no shower of dust — obviously moved recently. Peering inside, she saw a dark metal tube barely a metre across and forty centimetres high.

  O'Dell looked uncertain. "I don't know. Could someone squeeze through there?"

  "If they had to, they could." She leaned the grill against the wall and stepped away. "If they were more flexible than most people."

  "Biomodified," O'Dell finished the thought.

  As though he had confirmed her guess rather than simply agreed with her, her uncertainty suddenly vanished. "Cati could be anywhere in here!"

  "Maybe." O'Dell raised a hand to pacify her. "We don't know for certain it was him, or if anything has happened at all."

  "But it's worth checking, surely?"

  "Of course. Hang on a second, and I'll let someone know." O'Dell stepped out of the storeroom, and put a finger to his ear. Speaking rapidly under his breath, he outlined the situation by intercom to one of his fellow officers.

  Barney prowled the room while she waited. Swinging a box off the rack and into position below the vent, she climbed onto it and peered along the duct. Without a light, she couldn't see very far, barely enough to ascertain that the first two metres were empty.

  "They're querying the delivery with the command centre," O'Dell said, stepping back into the room. "That shouldn't take long."

  "I hope not." Barney stepped down from the box.

  "When ... hang on." Again O'Dell's hand went to his ear. This time Barney made out the flesh-coloured throat-mike taped above the hollow of his neck.

  "Okay," he said when the brief conversation had finished. "It looks like a false alarm. The crate was emptied when it was delivered this evening; apparently the Mayor wanted to inspect some of the goods personally, before the speeches. The duct was cleaned yesterday morning as part of an overall air-conditioning service. The dead zone must be a coincidence."