Metal Fatigue (33 page)

An icon winked in his field of vision: someone was trying to get through to him on the old PolNet lines. He opened a communications port automatically, then wished he hadn't.

Keith Morrow's face smiled at him, superimposed over the crowd. "Phil. I have your pass."

Roads hesitated slightly, unsure how to respond. "Uh, thanks, Keith. How do I collect it?"

"Go to the memorial on the corner of First and Rankin. Someone will be waiting for you there."

The ghostly Head vanished and Roads hurried forward. Although he had expected the call, it still came as something of a surprise. Morrow obviously didn't know that Roads had learned of the connection between Cati and the Head and the suspicions that aroused.

Business would have to proceed as usual, at least until Roads was certain enough of his latest theory to risk a confrontation. He had no choice; the deadline was too close to turn down the chance of getting into Mayor's House.

The memorial was on the convoy's route. The crowd around it would hide anything. If he was walking into a trap, he might not know until it had been sprung.

He turned into a side street and wound his way through the less-crowded streets away from the procession. When he reached the road leading to the memorial, he followed it back toward the crowd.

From behind, the memorial seemed deserted. A granite statue of ex-US President and chairman of the NAMCP, Robert Mulcahey, who had approved the building of Kennedy Polis in 2010, stood ten metres high on a raised marble dais. Steps led to the base of the chair upon which the old President sat. The crowd had taken over the steps, seeking a better viewpoint.

Roads circled the memorial warily, keeping an eye out for any suspicious signs. The procession had only just reached the area; the crowd was busy waving at the marching soldiers. No-one seemed to notice him where he stood waiting.

A whistle from above and to his right attracted his attention. Someone was standing on the statue itself, on the ex-President's lap; someone tall, with skin that looked dark against the granite, and round sunglasses.

It was Raoul. The black man waved for Roads to come closer. He did so carefully, weaving through the spectators crowding the steps of the memorial. When he was near enough, Raoul threw down a rope.

Roads mentally tossed a coin. Leaning the bike against the base of the monument, he grabbed the rope and climbed up to join Raoul on his unusual perch.

"Welcome," said the Head's messenger, pulling the rope back up. "Take a seat."

"You have the pass?"

"Yes. What's your hurry?"

Roads forced himself to be patient. "No hurry."

"So let's watch the show."

Raoul sat with his legs crossed on the President's knees. Roads followed suit, keeping a respectable distance between them. A brisk wind blew past them, much stronger than it had been at ground level.

Below, the might of the RUSAMC rolled by. Row after row of troops tramped along the road toward Kennedy's centre.

"I wonder where they'll all sleep," said Roads.

"Anywhere they like, I'd say," Raoul responded. "Actually, only a handful will be staying. The rest will be out of the city before long."

"What makes you say that?"

"Well, they're only here to impress us, right? To show us how strong they are. Once the point has been made, they'll go back Outside to their camp."

"You seem pretty certain of that."

"It's what I'd do. Besides, I've seen their orders."

"You have?"

"More or less." Raoul winked. "De Head know everythin', mon."

"So it seems. His problem is that he keeps most of it to himself."

"Not if you're close." White teeth flashed from the black face. "You could have been close, if you'd wanted to."

Roads turned back to the convoy. "Perhaps."

"Perhaps nothing. The Head likes you. He doesn't want to see you get into trouble."

"What sort of trouble would that be, exactly?"

"That's up to you, my friend. If you look for it, it'll find you."

"Are you threatening me?"

"Quite the opposite. The Head asked me to give you a warning. He won't hurt you, but there's plenty who might."

Roads absorbed this in silence. That was the second time the Head had hinted at forces massed against him. A genuine warning? Or a threat, despite the messenger's protestations of innocence?

Seeing Raoul again brought back memories of their first meeting, in the cellar on Old North Street. The sight of another person with biomodifications in Kennedy had taken Roads completely off-guard. Fear that Raoul might recognise him — might even have been under his command and remembered what he had done — had left him frozen, unable to think. He had believed himself alone for so long that to learn otherwise had shocked him to the very core of his being. Only later had he realised that he should have suspected earlier.

Morrow was a junkyard man, quite literally, but he collected more than just machines; he collected people as well. Roads had needed his help to survive in the past, and it made sense that others had come along since then — and not all of them would share Roads' law-abiding nature. Biomodifications before the War had proliferated outside the armed forces as technology had become cheaper. Raoul could have been anything from a tech-freak to a hired killer. Morrow had lost a valuable ally when Roads had joined RSD, and would regard Raoul's abilities just as highly. No wonder that he had been in charge of the Old North Street operation, or that Morrow had sent him to deal with Roads in person.

But why now?
Did
Morrow suspect that Roads had learned of a connection between him and Cati? Was Raoul — like the RUSA — a threat, or an opportunity to be exploited?

"Tell me something, Raoul. What do
you
think of the Reassimilation?"

"Me? I think it's a bad deal."

"In what way?"

"Well, just look at them." Raoul gestured at the troops below. "They come here offering us equality and a place in their government and all that shit, but that's not what they're
really
here for. They're a military state, and they want what all military states want:
power
. Over us, and the rest of the continent. We're just a small step along the road they're travelling, another hurdle to be crossed."

"You think they're going to take us over?"

"They won't need to. Not that we could resist if they tried. I mean, all these years we've been thinking that Outside was full of savages, and look what rolls in. I haven't seen stuff like this for years. Ever! Field-effects, for chrissake? No, they won't need to invade us; we'll just roll over and play dead."

The control caravan wasn't in view, but it was obvious that Raoul had already heard about it. No doubt from Morrow, via his own implants and the underworld equivalent of PolNet.

"They're going to kill us by economics," Raoul said.

"Economics?"

"It's simple." The black man took off his glasses and wiped his crystal eyes. "When we join the Reunited States, we'll become part of a vital industrial nation. We'll have to compete on equal terms with everyone else, which means we'll have to produce in order to survive. But what exactly do we produce here? Recycled shit, that's all. We'll be buried alive."

"We'll adjust — "

"Sure, eventually, but not before we're in debt. And once in debt we'll
always
be in debt. They'll make sure of it."

"So you think we shouldn't Reassimilate?"

Raoul shook his head. "That's the problem. We have to; in a manner of speaking, we already
have
, by letting them come this far. I just don't like to see it happening this way, that's all."

The summary reflected Roads' own feelings on the matter. Again he wondered what Raoul's occupation had been before the War. Not the same as his — Morrow had suggested as much when Roads had asked — but not simple thuggery either. His opinions were too considered.

"What about Keith?" Roads asked. "How does the Head feel about it?"

"Oh, he's cautiously ecstatic, as you can imagine. All the new gadgets to play with, all the new markets to invade. He'll be in computer heaven once the lines are open."

"Yes. That's what I thought." Roads pointed at the control van, which had just floated into view. "But what if he's outclassed? What if their computer technology beats his?"

"It won't. He's easily the most sophisticated artificial intelligence on the planet. Being stuck in Kennedy for forty years hasn't kept him from growing."

"The States won't approve of him. They hate biomodification as much as Kennedy does."

"He knows that. But he's not biomodified; he's
bio-transcended
, as he puts it. A whole new class entirely."

"But in their eyes — "

"Yes, yes. Let's just say he'll keep his head low and leave it at that. He's got more to gain from an alliance with the States than any of us."

Roads nodded. That much seemed to be true, even though it didn't jell with what he'd learned. Why would Morrow send Cati to kill anyone in favour of the Reassimilation he wanted to happen?

"And here's the man himself," said Raoul sharply. "The invader from the north ..."

The control van had reached level with the statue. General Stedman was visible from its upper entrance, waving every now and again. Whether word had spread or this section of the crowd was more genial than that by the Gate, there were no disturbances. Roads said nothing as the RUSAMC leader rumbled by on his unlikely vehicle, for all the world like Santa in a Christmas pageant.

As though consciously echoing the metaphor, a long line of supply trucks followed the control caravan, all loaded down with food and equipment: the first shipment of outside goods to Kennedy Polis. Roads thought about Raoul's gloomy prediction. The first shipment was free, but who would pay for the second?

He watched as the last of the trucks rolled by. The final vehicle was a ground-effect jeep. Two metres above it, a banner snapped and flicked in a nonexistent wind. There was no pole.

A hologram, obviously, but it looked convincing enough. The blue and black RUSAMC emblem was as crisp as reality, with every detail sharply delineated. Roads had seen the design several times before, but had never studied it in detail. He did so now, using his implants to enhance the image.

The motto was unclear, and seemed to be in French not Latin, suggesting possible Canadian ties. An animal crouched among symbolic heraldry, clutching a knife in its mouth. Something about the animal rang a bell, and he zoomed closer still. The image at the heart of the RUSAMC's coat of arms appeared crystal clear in his field of vision. Roads remembered a grey shape loping across a dark lawn, lean muscles rippling in moonlight.

The animal on the RUSAMC coat of arms was a timber wolf...

"Here's your pass," said Raoul, handing him a sliver of black plastic. "It'll get you through a side way: Exit Fourteen. Once you're in, it's up to you what you do."

Roads accepted the pass and slipped it into a pocket. "Thanks. Tell Keith I owe him."

"That you do." Raoul rose to his feet and dusted his pants. "Just be careful, man. Someone wants your arse."

"I know. Everyone keeps telling me."

The black man slid down the shins of the statue and vanished into the crowd.

4:00 p.m.

The air in the ventilation shaft had become scaldingly hot, but he did not notice. Midway between sleep and wakefulness, he waited patiently for something to happen. What, exactly, he wasn't sure. Until his orders changed, he was incapable of moving.

Outside his metal womb, he could hear birds, the whistle of the wind and a crowd of people gathering. The mingled voices reminded him of his life before Sanctuary: whenever crowds had gathered, it had always been to drive him away, or to kill him. Anger was part of this crowd's faint tone, but he could hear laughter among the arguments, and children, and singing.

The people seemed to be waiting, just like him.

Time passed quickly. As the city focused its attention on a place a kilometre or so from him, he allowed himself to relax. No-one would be looking for him. He would be safe for a while — safe to rest, safe to sleep.

He closed his eyes and curled tighter around himself.

The dream, when it began, was unexpected — even welcome, in that it was familiar. It was one he'd had on several occasions before:

He was dodging into a gutted building with bullets cracking like whiplashes at his naked back. As he stumbled up the stairs, he warded off the blows of an old woman wielding a broomstick. Although his hands were large enough to snap her like a twig, he did not.

It had begun with a confrontation, as it always did. Perhaps he had walked into a village and been driven out ahead of the witch-hunt. Or he had been discovered in the wasteland by a band of fellow-wanderers and forced to retreat. He might even have been startled from hasty dream-sleep in some ruined shelter by a hand on his shoulder or a knife thrust in his face. His assailants were always strangers, and their brutality robbed them of any individuality they might have possessed. They mobbed him, tore at him, hunted him like an animal — when all he wanted to do was leave them alone, let them get on with their lives as they had before his arrival.

But it was too late: the truth of his nature had come to light, and a near-primal anger had erupted, a tide of hatred directed solely at him, against which he was unable to defend himself. All he could do — all he was
permitted
to do — was flee for his life.

The unreasoning wave of violence carried him on its crest for what felt like hours, until he despaired of ever awakening — until it seemed that it was his destiny to be persecuted, to run just ahead of the pack, never dying and never killing, forever.

Yet, although the dream began as a nightmare, it did not normally end that way. As he fled, unable to fight the ones he was supposed to protect, he heard a woman calling to him. Her voice was soft and gentle, almost inaudible above the baying of the pack, but insistent. She called him by his real name — the name he and his brothers had once shared. She told him to come to her, to be with her, to love her and to protect her.