Metal Fatigue (21 page)

"The Mayor might not see it that way."

"Then he's an idiot."

"And you're in trouble."

"I know." Roads tried to look nonchalant. "Listen, Margaret, I'm
already
in trouble. The Mayor wants my arse because Blindeye fucked up; somebody else wants my arse because I'm getting close to the Mole; if DeKurzak wants my arse too, then he'll just have to join the queue."

Chappel smiled. "You have a point."

"Yes, but what I don't have is time. I'll have to call you back later."

"Or I'll call you when word comes down from above."

"Fingers crossed I'll get in first."

He cut the line and reached into the drawer for the bottle of water. His palms were sweating profusely, and the urge for sugar was back.

"Marion? Can you do me a favour?"

"What would you like?"

"Two muesli bars and a sandwich from the cafeteria. I don't care what sort. And another cup of coffee, if there's any left."

"Coming right up."

"Thanks a million."

He called up another blank notepad and drew a second diagram, more complex than the previous one. The Mole was the focus of one side, Roads of the other. Beyond each of these were contributing parties: Cati and "???", the person or persons behind the contract for his life; RSD, the Mayoralty, the MSA and Keith Morrow.

He was just trying to decide where to put the RUSAMC when there was a knock at the door.

"Coming, Marion."

He cleared the screen and went to the door. His chest was less stiff than before, but still tender; he gave himself another three hours before a semblance of freedom returned.

He opened the door and performed a quick double-take, then waved his visitor inside.

"Hi, Martin. You're not the person I expected."

"I gathered." The RUSAMC captain — who, like everybody else in HQ that day, looked the worse for lack of sleep — put a heavily-loaded tray on the desk and distributed its contents: two mass-produced grain snacks, a sandwich and a cup of coffee for Roads, plus another sandwich and coffee for him. "Your secretary told me to bring you these, seeing I was on my way."

"Much appreciated." Roads opened one of the bars and took a bite. "You got my message?"

"I did, yes, but I was tied up in a teleconference with my superiors."

"Checking up on you, huh?"

"Not really. More the other way around." O'Dell frowned and changed the subject. "You're looking reasonably well, considering."

Roads gestured dismissively. "Just a couple of scratches."

"Oh? I heard you broke some ribs."

"You know how doctors exaggerate." He threw the spent wrapper into the bin. "I have some questions to ask you, Martin, and I'm a little short on time. If you don't mind, I'd like to get them over and done with."

"Shoot." O'Dell concealed his apprehension well. Roads wondered what the captain was expecting him to ask.

"First of all, exactly how far ahead of us is the Reunited States of America Military Corps?"

"Uh ... Can I plead ignorance?"

"If that means you can't tell me because of some security bullshit, then that's fair enough. Just let me speculate for a moment, then you can tell me whether I'm wrong or not."

O'Dell looked uncertain. "Sure, go ahead. But I can't promise anything, understand."

"Of course." Roads folded his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair. O'Dell had already demonstrated that the RUSAMC was more advanced than Kennedy Polis; the question was
how
advanced, exactly. "There's a rumour I remember hearing, shortly before the end of the War, and it keeps nagging at me now."

"What's that?"

"I was told that the entire War Room had packed up and moved to a shelter somewhere under the Appalachians to wait out the worst of the fighting. Certainly, no-one I know of ever heard of them after about 2050. I can't help wondering if there's some connection between that shelter and the Reunited States."

"Are you suggesting that we and the USA are one and the same? That the brass from the old days have emerged from the bunkers to reconquer the continent under a new flag?"

"I would have phrased it a little more subtly, but yes. That's what I'm wondering."

"It's a good theory, but you're wrong. Sorry. The brass never made it out."

Roads noted the carefully-worded sentence. "But somebody else eventually broke
in
, right?"

O'Dell smiled. "Maybe."

"'Maybe.'" Roads nodded. By the rules of this game,
maybe
inferred
yes
. "So the Reunited States Military Corps has access to all the military secrets up to and including the end of the War."

O'Dell said nothing, but his smile didn't waver.

"One more question, then: among the old plans and projects, was there a reference to a practical form of invisibility? Some sort of advanced camouflage unit, perhaps? Anything at all along those lines?"

The smile flickered, fell. "That one I can answer, Phil. There wasn't anything like that in the old files. Not even a hint."

"You're absolutely sure?"

"Positive. I've studied them myself. But you didn't hear me admit that, okay?"

"Of course, but... Oh,
damn
." He hit the desktop with the palm of one hand, then winced as the impact rattled his rib cage. "I was really hoping there might have been."

"I can guess why." O'Dell took a mouthful of coffee. "You're thinking that we might be involved with the Mole, or vice versa, right?"

"Partly, yes. The other possibility is that a faction from up your way managed to get hold of the plans. The technology, the timber wolf — it all points to a northern source."

"Not a bad thought. I might have had it too, if I was in your shoes — and it's not as if we don't have dissident groups in the Reunited States. But you have to ask yourself why anybody would go to such lengths to invade Kennedy. This city may seem a big deal to those who live in it, but it's small fry in the context of the rest of the continent. Why should we bother reducing ourselves to stealing data from here when there are other places practically begging to let us in?"

"Because Kennedy is a symbol." Roads put his elbows on the desk and leaned forward. Again he received the impression that O'Dell was guiding him toward an answer. "It's all that remains of the old world."

"A world that almost killed itself."

"Yes, but a symbol nonetheless. We may have regressed as many years as we've survived, but we're still here. And that's what counts." He shrugged. "We'd make a good regional capital, if nothing else."

"And you will, if General Stedman has his way." O'Dell finished his coffee with a gulp. "But it takes more than sullen independence to attract the attention of a vibrant nation like ours."

"Point taken." Roads stood and went to lean on the window-sill. "We've not been a good neighbour over the years."

"True. The people around here — and there
are
people, some as close as fifty kilometres — generally keep their distance. I met some of them on the way through, heard the stories about the bad days: how four hundred thousand people starved on Kennedy's doorstep because the Mayor wouldn't open the Gate; how anyone trying to get in is caught and shot on sight; how repeated pleas for resources were ignored back in the 50s, resulting in the collapse of at least three struggling communities."

"All true, I'm afraid," Roads said. "The city could only produce enough to support so many people. If the Mayor had let even more people in than he did, or spread the resources around, the city would have died as well. The decision wasn't simple, but the equation was."

O'Dell nodded. "I understand. But how about this: did you know that Kennedy kidnapped people to use in labour gangs when it built the Wall? Or that birth control is so tight that illegally-born children are killed and used, along with criminals and other misfits, to fertilise the farms? Or that secret MSA death squads regularly raid neighbouring communities to steal resources and rape women?"

Roads kept his expression neutral. "No."

"Exactly. But your neighbours think you've done it anyway, and more besides. That's what comes of not only being isolated and insular, but surviving as well; people begin to ask questions, and the answers aren't always what you'd like." O'Dell raised his hands, palms forward. "Hey, I'm as guilty of that as anyone. All my life I've been told stories about a city that survived the War intact: a city full of berserkers who eat human flesh. I used to lie awake at night for hours when I was a kid, terrified of being trapped in there, unable to escape, with all sorts of demonic creatures hunting me down. So, when I first learned that such a city
does
exist, and that it
does
possess technology from the old days that nobody else has any more, well, what else was I supposed to think?"

Roads did smile at that. "It must come as a relief to learn that we're not so well off these days."

"I wouldn't say that. Your reactor facility is something I'd love to get my hands on, for instance. And the bacteria cultures lost during the fighting that we're not allowed to breed any more." Noting Roads' sharp look, O'Dell added: "Peacefully, of course. None of it's worth invading over."

"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.

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.