Metal Fatigue (12 page)

And he looked so
young
...

"Officer Roads," Shelley was breathless, "this is Captain O'Dell."

The young man stepped forward and held out his right hand. Roads stood and shook it, aware that he was being studied in return. O'Dell's grip was strong, his smile wide and sincere. An irresistible warmth radiated from the RUSAMC captain, and even Roads felt himself respond.

"It's a great pleasure, Phil." O'Dell's accent was a broad mutation of the old mid-west, altered by time. "I can call you that, can't I?"

"Why not? Martin, wasn't it?"

"That's right." He turned back to Shelley. "Thanks, um, Shelley. I think I can manage from here."

The brunette's reluctance was obvious, but she left.

Barney gestured that they should sit, and O'Dell settled back with obvious relief.

"Coffee?"

O'Dell nodded. "Thanks, uh ... I'm sorry, but what was your name again?"

"Call me Barney. Everyone does."

"Why?" The RUSAMC captain's curiosity was both frank and disarming.

"My mother died giving birth to me," Barney replied with equal honesty. "Dad always said I looked like her, and I never fancied the name I was given. The idea that taking her surname would somehow bring me closer to her made sense when I was five. By the time I changed my mind, it'd stuck."

"Her name was Barney, too?"

"No. Barnace. Helen Barnace. I didn't even get it right." Barney smiled, then politely closed the subject. "What about you, Phil? Coffee?"

Roads noted that she had appropriated a brewing machine from one of the upper floors. Nothing but the best for their visitor, in a city where even instant coffee was a luxury. "Love one."

She poured three cups. O'Dell asked for two sugars and a generous portion of milk. Maybe that explained it, Roads thought to himself; it was possible to tell a lot by the way someone took their coffee. Roads himself preferred black and raw, as did Barney.

"I understand you've been sent to help us," he said, keen to get the real conversation under way.

O'Dell gestured dismissively. "As an observer only, and with access to the total datapool of the Reunited States Military Corps. I don't want to disrupt your usual procedures."

Roads indicated the door of the cubicle. "Judging by the impression you've already made, I'd say that's going to be unavoidable."

O'Dell's grin became wry. At least he wasn't naive. "My wife would kill me, if she knew. She didn't want me to leave Philadelphia in the first place. Our boy just turned three, you see, and ... Well, let's just say that I'm keen to get this over with as soon as possible — without treading on too many toes along the way. I hope you don't mind."

Roads stared at O'Dell for a moment — thinking,
a father
? — then was amazed to hear himself say that he didn't mind at all, that another viewpoint could only be helpful. Barney covered her amusement with a cough.

The three of them clustered around the computer terminal and examined the history of the Mole in between questions about the RUSA. O'Dell had read summarised reports of the Mole's activities and had seen the identikit pictures of his face, but neither Barney nor Roads had had much access to information about the Reunited States. As recently as six weeks ago, no-one in Kennedy had even suspected its existence.

"We've been growing for about fifty years," O'Dell explained. "Slowly at first, but building up momentum. At this point, we cover most of the old north-west States, some of what used to be Ontario, and the east coast as far as South Carolina. An appreciable percentage of the old United States, all told, and growing all the time. The General hopes to have the west coast Reassimilated as well by 2100."

Roads nodded. One thing he
had
heard was General Stedman's desire to fast-track the reunification of the old US. "Do you think this is possible? There's only four years to go."

"If anyone can do it, he can," O'Dell responded. "He's a very powerful man, and the most intelligent I've ever met. I don't think it's cynical or disloyal to say that he's deliberately appealing to all the right emotions. By reinforcing the old state lines, for instance, he's tapped into a very strong pool of tradition. In most of the small communities we come across, the leaders still remember the horrors of the War and the old ways that led to it — but the ordinary people, the children, people like me who weren't born until recently, we've only heard stories about the way it used to be. We don't feel the horror; we mourn for what was lost. The old United States is almost a legend now, and the chance to rebuild it, to become part of that legend, is very strong."

The echo of his own argument with DeKurzak made Roads wince. "But you're a military culture, right? The army runs everything, or so I've heard. Don't people feel threatened by that?"

"Some." O'Dell shrugged. "But we aren't aggressive by nature, unless we're attacked. The Military Corps offers a wide variety of community services apart from defence, including education, internal peace-keeping, community maintenance and so on. It was army discipline that founded the Philadelphia Accord in the first place, and helped it survive the Dissolution. Now the Corps is the glue that keeps the States together."

"Or a tide of molasses rolling across the continent," said Barney, "drowning everything in its path."

"If only it were that easy. We could just lean back and enjoy the ride." O'Dell returned her smile easily. "But there are troublemakers everywhere we go. Like this Mole you've got. Any guesses what he's after?"

"Very little," Roads said, uncomfortably aware that in making that admission he was exposing his own inability to solve the case. O'Dell listened patiently as Roads outlined the break-ins, declining to comment at all — let alone judge — until they had brought him completely up to date.

"A month ago," Roads said, "when we first realised that the crimes were a series, not just isolated incidents, we began looking for motives. Since some of the stolen information was extremely sensitive, extortion immediately sprang to mind. But we've never once had a demand for money, or anything at all. Sabotage was next on our list, possibly connected with the anti-Reassimilationist movement. But again we've had no threats, no warnings, and nothing has gone wrong to suggest that the stolen data has been used this way."

"How about suspects?" O'Dell asked.

"Apart from me, you mean?" Roads shook his head. "We have no evidence pointing to anyone: no DNA, no fibres, no fingerprints, no descriptions, no hearsay."

"Nothing circumstantial?"

"Not a scrap," Barney said, "apart from the fact that the Mole must have a large amount of technical know-how in order to get away with what he does. Every theft occurs in a different place and at a different time. There's no pattern that might give us some idea of the thief's habits. There's no pattern to the differences, either — such as thefts taking place at later times the further they are from a central location, which might be where the Mole lives or works." She glanced briefly at Roads, then back to O'Dell. "We've tried every permutation of the stats, and come up with absolutely nothing."

"The Mole is almost too clever, isn't he?" the RUSAMC captain mused. "I mean, not only does he have an uncanny ability to evade detection and penetrate defended datapools, but he's done his best to shift suspicion away from him to a prominent member of the local security force. It's ingenious, don't you think? Using something as simple as a rubber mask, I suppose, to confuse the enemy."

Roads remembered the video footage Morrow had given him. "It's not a mask."

"No? You think he really does look like you?"

Roads shook his head. He had considered this, briefly, but dismissed the possibility as too remote. "I had plastic surgery in mind."

"Seems a bit extreme."

"It depends how serious he is."

"I guess." O'Dell looked uncomfortable. "I'm sorry. The thought of cosmetic alteration disturbs me. I had no idea the practice still existed in Kennedy."

"It doesn't," Barney was quick to reassure him. "Unnecessary biomodification has been illegal for as long as lean remember. That includes plastic surgery."

"Good." O'Dell took a sip of his coffee and Roads was reminded of the captain's injury. In a perverse way, he seemed to wear the deformity like a badge of honour.

O'Dell, noting Roads' glance, put the cup down and flexed his crippled hand. "The States have outlawed all forms of biomodification," he said. "To become superhuman is to lose one's humanity, and to be truly human is to suffer the imperfections of the form with dignity. I'm glad to see that the Mayoralty of Kennedy agrees with us, at least on this."

Barney nodded. "We had trouble with berserkers, too. One killed seventy-five people when I was a teenager. They had to destroy an entire block just to bring it down."

"I was a child when the last fell, but I've heard the stories." O'Dell's right hand caressed the stumps of his missing fingers. If he noted the sadness in Barney's eyes, he didn't comment on it. "I'd rather be crippled than allow the possibility of similar atrocities to occur in the future." He smiled self-deprecatingly. "Not that I'm handicapped by this, of course. I hardly notice it, most of the time."

Roads could contain his curiosity no longer. "How did it happen, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Nothing particularly dramatic. My brother slipped chopping wood when I was twelve." O'Dell put the hand into a pocket and glanced at the watch on his other wrist. "I have an appointment in a couple of minutes that'll last until later this afternoon. Perhaps we could meet afterward to discuss Operation Blindeye."

"Of course," said Roads, noting that O'Dell's watch was solar powered. On impulse, he added: "If I'm not here or in my office, I'll be down at the target range. You can join me there, if you like."

O'Dell nodded with a glint in his eye; he knew a friendly challenge when he heard one. "Four o'clock, say?"

"Done."

The RUSAMC captain stood. "Thanks for the coffee, Barney."

"Pleasure."

As he left the cubicle, the usual hubbub of the communal office ebbed for a split-second, then resumed slightly louder than before. Roads shook his head in amusement.

"So." Barney leaned against the desk and folded her arms. "What do you think?"

"He'll be fine. A little young, but okay, I think. He's obviously been around, and that will help."

The intercom on Barney's desk buzzed. It was Michael, Chappel's secretary, looking for Roads, with a call from David Goss at Kennedy City University waiting to be put through.

"No rest for the wicked," Barney whispered from out of the camera's field of view.

"In this town?" Roads edged toward the exit. "Not bloody likely."

"Before you go, Phil." She stood. "Am I invited to the old hand versus new blood showdown this afternoon?"

"If you like, but only you. I don't think he'd appreciate a crowd."

She nodded. "Yeah, and the Phil Roads fanclub would look pretty thin if he did, wouldn't it?"

"Sadly so." He tipped her a quick salute and made a dash for his office.

3:30 p.m.

Four o'clock came swiftly. While Chappel babysat DeKurzak elsewhere, Roads took charge of organising Blindeye. He didn't mind the extra work, but it meant that he had little time to follow up his vague thoughts of the previous night. Likewise, his promise to catch up with Roger Wiggs went forgotten until after twelve, by which time the homicide officer had finally gone off duty.

At half-past three, he checked out of his office and took the lift down to the basement. There he dismantled his pistol and cleaned it thoroughly. When he had finished, he signed for a box of plastic bullets and went to the range.

The long, underground chamber was empty. He chose one of the middle lanes, donned earmuffs and goggles, and fired a few practice rounds at an old-fashioned paper target. The familiar smell and grit of gunpowder quickly filled the air, sensations he had missed in the last six weeks, thanks to night shift. His aim was as good as ever, though. When he tired of static targets, he instructed the range simulators to begin.

The paper bullseyes withdrew into the ceiling and the lights dimmed. At the far end of the lane, a man appeared. He held a submachine gun in one hand and a torch in another. The torch came up, shining into Roads' eyes, dazzling him. Behind the glare, the submachine gun started to rise.

Roads snapped off a single shot. The torch went out and the man fell over. A diagnostic chart appeared on the screen by his side; the bullet had penetrated the hologram's forehead just above its right eye.

He grunted with satisfaction and cleared the simulator for another attempt. It was good to release some of the frustration that had built up in recent weeks, even if it was against an illusory opponent.

Three rounds later, he managed to put the bullet straight through the eye itself.

"Impressive," said O'Dell from behind him as the last hologram flickered and vanished. Roads cleared the screen and took off the earmuffs, assuming that the RUSAMC captain had been referring to the simulation, not the diagnosis of Roads' aim. O'Dell's uniform jacket was open, revealing a leather shoulder holster. He looked tired, less animated than before.

"A toy from the old days," said Roads. "Nothing special."

"But so much better for training than VR, which we use back home."

The two men faced each other in silence for a split second, Roads acutely conscious of O'Dell sizing him up, and aware that he was doing the same in return.

Barney stepped into the room at that moment, flustered. "Sorry I'm late, Phil. Have I missed anything?"

O'Dell turned; the bright-eyed grin reappeared. "No, we haven't started yet."

"Good." She handed him a set of protective earmuffs. "I brought you these. Do you need ammunition?"

He shook his head. "No. I'll be fine, thanks."

"Okay. Well, I'm a terrible shot on a good day, so I'll just stay up here and watch. Have fun with your toys, boys." She climbed a short flight of stairs to an observation platform and took a seat.