Metal Fatigue (9 page)

"The who?"

"The Mole," Roads echoed. "There have been notices on the b-boards. You've never heard of him?"

The woman shook her head. "I don't really follow the news very much."

"Maybe you should." Roads quickly outlined the history of the serial thief as it had been presented to the public, all the while watching the woman's reaction. As she absorbed the information, her face remained appropriately serious, but a slight look of relief was evident in her eyes.

"I'll keep an eye out," she said when he had finished. "Thank you."

"And that makes it your turn, I think." Roads kept his voice firm. "Why did you want to know?"

She shrugged. "It's kind of stupid, really. I live with someone, you see, and he didn't come home last night. I thought ... I don't know what I thought. I was worried."

"Does he do this often?"

"No. He doesn't go out much at all these days, and when he does he's always home by dawn."

"Before curfew ends?"

The woman's eyes shifted. "No, after. He'd never break curfew, I'm sure of that."

"Where does he go, then?" Roads pressed.

"I don't know. He can look after himself, but I still worry." She paused, looked embarrassed. "When I saw the patrol cars on the street, I thought there might have been some sort of accident."

Barney broke in on Roads' automatic curiosity. "I'm sure he'll be okay," she said. "He'll come home when he's ready."

"I guess." The woman smiled weakly. "I'm sorry for wasting your time."

"That's okay." Roads smiled encouragingly in return; just like hers, and Barney's sympathy, he was sure it looked fake. "One more thing, though, um ...?"

"Katiya."

"Thanks, Katiya. I don't suppose you know what went on next door, do you?" He pointed at the building, number 114. "If you live nearby, you might hear things occasionally, or see things ...?"

She shook her head definitely. "I don't know anything about that."

"That's okay. Just thought I'd ask." Roads pulled out a card and gave it to her. "If ever you do see anything out of the ordinary, I'd appreciate you giving me a call."

"Maybe." She glanced at the card then tucked it into a pocket. "You don't mind if I keep watching, Officer Roads?"

"Of course not."

"Thanks." Katiya smiled half-heartedly and began to climb the stairs back up to the second floor, stopping only once to see if they were leaving.

"You shameless opportunist," said Barney when they were out of earshot.

"It's worth a try. You have to admit that." He grinned wearily. "Besides, I'll have Rashid send someone over in an hour or so, to pull her in if she's still there. Ten to one says she won't be."

"If she ever does call you, it'll be man trouble again for sure."

"And if it is, I'll threaten to book him with curfew violations. What else
can
I do?" He squinted as the daylight hit them. "Let's get you home."

Barney sagged against his shoulder. "Please, before something else happens."

They drove in silence. Barney and Roads both lived between B and C rings, within fifteen minutes' walk of RSD headquarters and not far from each other. Roads often dropped her home at the end of a shift, when they had access to a vehicle, rather than leave her to make her own way home from the office. He pulled the car to halt out the front of her building, certain that she had fallen asleep on the way.

"Hey, Barney," he whispered, nudging her shoulder.

"I'm awake." She opened her eyes, stirred sluggishly. "Do you want to come in? I'll make you breakfast, if you like."

He hesitated. The offer was tempting, but ... "I'd better not, Barney. I've got work waiting at the office. Besides, people might talk."

"I don't give a shit about talk."

"I know." He winked. "Another time, perhaps."

"Okay." She smiled. "Make sure you get some sleep."

"I will."

He waited until she had unlocked her door before driving away. Only then did he realise that she had left Morrow's data fiche sitting on the passenger seat. Thanking her to himself, he slipped the plastic card into his pocket and kept going.

1:00 p.m.

Roads' office was small. All it contained was a desk and terminal, two chairs and one filing cabinet. Sparse and spotlessly clean, except for a dirty ashtray in the bottom drawer of the desk, it gave the impression that its owner was rarely present — which was, in fact, quite true. When not on the road, he preferred to work from the office pool one floor down, where Barney had her desk, or from home. The city's optical fibre network was still intact, and allowed someone with the correct facilities to tele-commute; the fact that few people did any more was yet another indictment of the state of the city's hardware.

Perversely, the only item in his office to which Roads felt even remotely attached was the terminal. Externally, it had been his since his first day in administration, although now — many years and several overhauls later — most of its boards and chips had been replaced with others scavenged from broken machines or those made by the city's small cottage electronics industry. It was a battered but determined survivor — just like him.

The first thing he did when he logged in was check the bulletin boards. Everyone in Kennedy was theoretically connected to the city's information and entertainment networks; in practice computer terminals were limited by supply to those who needed them most. Anyone who didn't have access to a terminal could borrow a neighbour's or friend's, or join a neighbourhood collective designed to share such scarce technological luxuries. Data-input and processing for the news services were performed by a small team of professionals or clerks in the Mayoralty. Roads couldn't remember a time when there had been so much to report — not in the last twenty years, anyway.

The headlines were mainly of Yhoman's assassination, both the act and its possible ramifications. Senior Councillor Norris had issued a statement to the effect that he would not allow terrorism to interfere with the planned Reassimilation. Known anti-RUSA activists had responded by decrying the violence, but warning that it reflected a genuine mood in the community. The imminent arrival of General Stedman and the RUSAMC dominated the rest of the bulletin's opening pages.

Neither story told him anything he didn't already know. There was no mention of Martin O'Dell, the RUSAMC captain assigned to the cases RSD was struggling with. Obviously that development was being kept quiet for the time being, possibly along with other sensitive details he was unaware of.

The Old North Street robbery warranted a brief column on the second page, below a feature article about a grey timber wolf that had been sighted several times on the streets of Kennedy. The species had been thought extinct in the area for many years, and the writer of the article was taking its reappearance as a positive omen. Roads, having glimpsed the animal a couple of times himself, wasn't so sure, but saved the article out of interest before settling in to work.

His report of the events of the previous twelve hours took an hour to write. In accordance with his agreement with Morrow, he made no mention of the meeting at the warehouse bar, nor of his guesses regarding the nature of the Old North Street operation. When he had finished, he mailed one copy of the file to Barney's home computer.

Then he shut down his terminal, rebooted, and loaded another program. He physically unplugged the leads at the back of the terminal and locked the door to his office. When he was sure that he would not be disturbed, he removed a web of contact electrodes from a drawer and placed them in position around the nape of his neck.

He closed his eyes, leaned back and concentrated. Slightly more than a minute later, he opened his eyes.

On the screen in front of him was a two-dimensional image of the unknown man he had chased from Old North Street — blurred and in vaguely unreal colour, but useful nonetheless.

The man was frozen in the act of turning to glance over his shoulder. He was wearing a large, grey overcoat and a wide-brimmed hat of the same colour. Dark glasses obscured most of his face, apart from a straight nose and a wide chin — not enough detail even to run a comparison against the mug shots in RSD's files. The only distinguishing feature was the man's size. He was
huge
.

Roads had never seen anyone that large in his life. If he had, he would have remembered.

There were four other tags in the file he had transferred. The first was the best. He printed two hard copies and added one of them to his report. The second he pocketed to await further consideration. Even if it was relevant, it wasn't terribly informative.

Then he inserted Morrow's data fiche into a card drive he had requisitioned from RSD supplies. The main menu listed twelve dates. Each described a break-in performed by the Mole: approximate times, the nature of the theft, and the results of any subsequent investigations. Similar to Kennedy's experience, the Mole had been given away by operating systems that automatically recorded when and which particular files had been accessed; in Morrow's case, however, the intrusions were noticed sooner, due to the Head's more frequent checks on his datapools.

There were no addresses on the disk, and no information as to the purpose of the individual establishments. Otherwise the information was complete. As Morrow had said, the thefts seemed to be of minor data, mainly inventories. That of the Old North Street residence was the only one explicitly identified; the Mole had obtained its address from another database three weeks before the actual break-in. This fact seemed significant, but Roads was too tired to think it through just then.

Morrow's fiche also contained a ten-minute video file. Curious, Roads loaded a video editor and settled back to watch.

The video showed a man walking along a hallway. He was dressed in grey garments from neck to foot with only a narrow-brimmed hat obscuring his features. Even if the man had been wearing a balaclava Roads would have recognised him. It was himself.

But, as he had never been in that particular hallway at any point in his life, he had to assume that he was watching the Mole in action.

The thought sent an involuntary shiver down his spine. Apart from identikit pictures pieced together from fragmentary security footage, he had never seen a true image of his adversary. The Mole, in six weeks, had not been captured in full by an RSD camera.

Morrow's facilities were considerably better-equipped. The picture was colour, and came complete with sound.

The Mole took a left turn and encountered a locked door. The angle shifted as the video switched to another camera. Roads watched as the Mole manipulated the simple lock for a second or two, opened the door and continued deeper into the house. The entrance to an expansive study was protected by a mesh of invisible laser beams, revealed only by the presence of tiny photovoltaic detectors lining the frame. The occasional mote of dust twinkled as it passed through the beams. The Mole walked through the doorway without hesitating.

Roads waited for the sound of alarms, but none came. The beams had not been deflected.

"Shee-it."

The Mole walked behind an enormous mahogany desk, took a small painting off its hook and placed it gently on the floor. Behind it was — predictably enough — a combination lock. The Mole placed a palm upon the dial and went absolutely still.

The camera angle shifted to one hidden on the other side of the wall. After a moment, the lock clicked open. The camera angle shifted back to cover the study again. The Mole hadn't moved a muscle.

Roads replayed that scene, but remained just as dumbfounded the second time.

The thief came to life and pushed the wall open, revealing a hidden room on the other side. It contained a workshop similar to that on Old North Street, but smaller. The Mole sat in front of a terminal and began to tap at the keys, blindingly fast.

The video jumped, obviously edited in order to protect the guilty. When it continued, the thief had finished his work at the terminal, and deactivated it with a cursory flick of the switch.

The Mole left the room, locked the wall behind him and replaced the painting. Then he retraced his footsteps back through the laser beams and along the hallway.

The colours on the screen became lurid as the image switched to infra-red. The Mole vanished, except for five small spots of light in an elongated pentagon where his throat, nipples and hips had been. Someone had thoughtfully provided an outline of the man as he walked, otherwise Roads would have lost track of him immediately.

The spectrum shifted back through the visible, and beyond. The Mole appeared briefly as a flickering shadow in microwave, like a poorly-tuned television station, and then even the dots vanished. Back to visible again for one last glimpse of the thief, then the video image ceased.

Roads took a deep breath and dialled a number on his desk intercom.

Chappel uttered only one sentence throughout the whole video:

"How the hell does he
do
that?"

Roads said nothing, gestured instead that she should keep watching. When the recording had finished, he gave her the best answer he could.

"Well, the trick with the lock probably involves a magnetic glove of some sort. Not easy, but feasible."

She looked doubtful. "And the rest?"

"I don't know." He leaned back in his chair. "It's more than simple biomodification, which would be bad enough."

"So you don't think he's a berserker?" Chappel asked.

"No, he doesn't fit the mould; he's too methodical, less rampant. The Mole is something else — biomodified, yes, but armed with stuff I've never seen before. Either he has a means of making himself invisible that works on all frequencies of light outside the visible spectrum — "

"Which doesn't make sense. Or?"

"Or he's a ghost," said Roads.

"Unlikely."

He raised an eyebrow at her response. "Not impossible?"

"I'm getting so desperate I'll believe anything."

"That makes two of us."

She stood, walked across the room, and stared out the window at Roads' fifth-floor view. "How far can we trust Keith Morrow?" she asked. "Could he be involved in this somehow?"