Metal Fatigue

by Sean Williams

  The headquarters of the Regional Security Department lay in the green centre of the bullseye that was Kennedy Polis, a fifteen-minute drive from Old North Street. Along the way, Roads passed cyclists and pedestrians enjoying the first few minutes of the new day, while occasional flashes of light reflecting off Rosette cabs gliding along active tracks highlighted the movement of people on their way to or from work. He encountered only two other vehicles on the road: one RSD patrol car much like his own, and an Emergency Services clean-up squad heading back to the Works Depot. The latter, he assumed, finished patching yet another blot in the city's landscape; nothing major in itself, yet part of a series of similar band-aid fixes that amounted to a significant, and growing, problem.

  The city was, for the most part, built on level ground. As he neared the centre, however, he crested a gradual rise that enabled him to see above the buildings around him and into the distance. Not far away was the innermost and therefore smallest ring of the Rosette, one and a half kilometres across. The city's heart served as a nexus for the radial freeways, and as a convenient location for various administrative buildings such as Mayor's House, the MSA Academy and RSD HQ. A green belt containing Kennedy City University, and a now defunct zoo and arboretum, echoed the shape of A ring, separating the centre from the suburbs.

  Ahead and beyond the city lay a low range of ragged hills dotted with communication towers and scrub forests: the former acted as the city's northern line of defence, with spotters mounted on each tower to monitor and counter any inward movement from Outside; the latter had once comprised the city's obligatory carbon sink, but now provided wood and fibre for a variety of uses, plus medicinal and industrial compounds farmed from genetically modified tobacco, hemp and potato plantations. Between the hills and the edge of G ring were food and animal crops, tended the same way they had been for decades: with maximum efficiency. Little innovation had been added to the system since the Dissolution, and it still served the city well, complementing food factories elsewhere.

  To the west, visible as a dozen large tank-like shapes looming in the distance, were the two-hundred-metre-high air towers that provided a large proportion of Kennedy's general-use power and helped clean the tainted air and water released as a by-product of industrial activity. Apart from turbines taking advantage of the nearby river's kinetic energy, the city's only other means of mass-producing power was also to the west: the Kennedy Prototype Fusion Reactor, a low blister situated midway along the arc of air towers. The facility had originally been a research centre designed to test the feasibility of kick-starting a small-scale fusion reaction by employing single bubble sonoluminescence and the cavity effect — or, as Roads understood it, using sound to create bubbles in water that collapsed at temperatures and pressures greater than those found at the centre of the sun. A working model had been built in 2036, with the space industry very much in mind, and power production had begun in 2039, just one year before the first outbreaks of the War. By the time the Dissolution had set in, KPFR had been running at full capacity.

  Automatic gun emplacements atop the air towers protected the flatlands to the west, just as they did on the communication towers in the hills. To the south, the main defence was the river, wide enough to prove a deterrent to foot soldiers and blocked by locks along its length. On the far side were nothing but ruins; Patriot Bridge had once connected Kennedy proper with a few far-flung suburbs and an airport, but these had been isolated since the beginning of the Dissolution. On the near side were warehouses, docks and reclamation plants — the last performing essential treatment and recycling of water, glass, plastic, rubber, textiles, wood pulp, soil and paper. Most employed variants on "natural" techniques, using bioreactors and anaerobic digesters — mainly modified fungi or bacteria — to strip soil, water and solid waste of contaminants until they were fit to be re-used. Thirty percent of the city's population was employed in the reclamation industry, if not in the plants themselves then maintaining the air towers and sewerage works; the rest worked in civil services — like RSD, Power Central, the MSA and Emergency Services — or tended the farms.

  Sometimes, if Roads squinted hard enough from this angle, he could almost pretend that the War hadn't happened, that the intervening four decades had been nothing but a bad dream. Almost, though, and never for long.

  To the east, like a long, black scar cutting a chord through the outer limits of the city, was the Wall — an artificial barrier fifteen kilometres long and five metres high. Its triangular backbone had been built from a black carbon alloy during the early years of the Dissolution, before the materials industry the city had been famous for had been diverted into other areas. Solar powered, electrically live across its entire surface and topped with a formidable array of sophisticated defences, it acted as a definitive barrier against intrusion. With only one break — at the Gate, midway along its length — its sole purpose was to keep people out, and it performed its task well. The Gate had been fully opened just once in the previous twenty years, and then only for the RUSA envoy. In the bad days, the Wall had never been opened at all, and had been constantly patrolled by up to a thousand MSA guards. This unending vigilance, plus the Wall's stark, geometric lines, acted as more than just a physical boundary: it reinforced the truth, that the city was isolated by its own choice.

  Behind walls of stone, air, water and fire, Kennedy Polis sprawled like a vast stone starfish, languishing in its separation from the rest of the world. Not even radio could penetrate the barriers; all transmissions from the Outside were scrupulously ignored, having proved too often in the past to be fakes. Nothing short of actually arriving at the Gate and banging on it would result in it being opened — which is exactly what had happened, six weeks before ...

  Sunlight flashing in mirror-tinted glass brought Roads back to the present. RSD HQ, like all of the buildings in the centre of Kennedy, stood no more than ten storeys high and boasted lush roof gardens at its summit. Grey composite plastic wrap, manufactured from waste products by modified E. coli bacteria, kept its concrete from crumbling under the influence of the elements, and most of its lower-floor windows had been fitted with transparent solar panels. The environment within the building was maintained by passive measures in conjunction with air-conditioning, just as a large percentage of its daytime illumination came from light-wells rather than electricity. An absence of sharp corners and flat planes made it look half melted from the outside, although its interior was more conventional in design: pooled offices, open and flexible floor plans, and a generous illusion of space wherever possible.

  Roads pulled into the welcome darkness of the underground carpark and found a recharge bay for the patrol car. Crinkling his nose at the stench of ozone, he left the vehicle and tapped his PIN number into the elevator keypad. The heat of the day was already building, now that the overnight storm had passed, and he rolled his shirt sleeves up to the elbows as he waited for the cab to descend.

  PIN number ... He scowled at the keypad, remembering the days when the lock had been keyed by either retinae or hand-prints. The old systems had been replaced two decades ago, their original components either malfunctioning or required elsewhere.

  It sometimes seemed ironic that, after forty years of Dissolution, the greatest threat to the city's viability came not from the outside, but from within. Materials could only be recycled for so long without fresh input; streets and buildings were not built to last forever; metals had become scarce; complexity was being traded for longevity in a desperate bid to keep the city's computer networks running. It was only a matter of time before the situation became critical, and Kennedy was forced to do what it had resisted for so long.

  The doors to the elevator slid open and he stepped inside. The rear wall of the cab comprised a full-length mirror. He studied his reflection gloomily, trying to coax a semblance of life out of his clothes and hair. Even his moustache looked limp.

  A wave of giddiness accompanied his sudden ascent to the top of the building. When th
e doors opened again, he entered the floor that housed the senior administrative bloc, a region he preferred not to visit too often. His own office was on the fifth floor; not too far from the rowdiness of street level, but not too close to it, either. He had no aspiration to rise any higher, preferring quiet efficiency and anonymity to conspicuous success.

  Margaret Chappel's private secretary spotted him the moment he stepped out of the cab.

  "Officer Roads — "

  "Hello, Michael. Where's the coffee?"

  Michael handed Roads a cup. "If you'd like to go through, sir, they're waiting for you."

  Roads was tempted to ask who, exactly, they were, but let it pass. Instead, he followed obediently to the main office.

  Margaret Chappel was tall, thin and on the far side of fifty — an age she preferred to show rather than hide behind makeup. Roads had known her ever since he had joined RSD, and had both followed and supported her rise to the top. Their close friendship was well known, but he refused to confirm whether he had coined her unofficial nickname — 'the Mantis' — in order to enhance her already terrifying reputation on the lower floors. Just a glimpse of a scowl, accentuated by narrow cheekbones and grey hair worn habitually in a pony-tail, had been known to silence the most vehement protests.

  When he stepped into her office, she stood, smiled and gestured at a seat. Two other men occupied the room. One — a wide-faced red-head with freckled, pale skin — was Roger Wiggs, head of the specialist homicide team assigned to hunt the assassin; he looked about as fresh as Roads, despite being in more formal uniform. The other was an unknown, dressed in a black, casual suit that matched his hair and briefcase. His features were narrow, but not disproportioned; even seated it was clear he was the tallest person in the room. Had Roads been asked to guess an age, he would have started at thirty and worked his way up — but not too far.

  Margaret Chappel performed the brief introductions. "Phil, this is Antoni DeKurzak. He's acting as a special liaison between us and the Reunited States Military Corps, on behalf of the MSA and the Mayoralty."

  DeKurzak stood and shook hands with Roads. "My job is to keep the Reassimilation as smooth as possible," the liaison officer said, his voice mild and unassuming. "We don't want any mishaps along the way, do we?"

  "Naturally not." Roads collapsed into a chair and felt his bones creak. He wasn't in the mood for pleasantries. His reaction to meeting the MSA officer consisted of annoyance, mixed with surprise that his superiors hadn't sent someone more senior. "You'll have to excuse the blood and sweat, folks. One of our little 'mishaps' kept me busy all morning."

  Wiggs raised an eyebrow. "That makes two of us."

  "Oh? Who this time?"

  "Jessica Yhoman of the Mayor's office."

  Keen to pursue the distraction from his own misery, Roads encouraged the conversation. "How does this one fit in? She sounds pretty unremarkable."

  "Outwardly, yes. Privately, no. She is — was — Senior Councillor Norris' personal adviser. He might back down at the last minute, without her."

  "Really?" Norris was a mainstay of the Reassimilationist movement, not renowned for retreating from difficult situations. "It's a little late to change his mind, I would've thought."

  "Maybe." Wiggs glanced at DeKurzak. "It's never too late in politics."

  "If you say so." Roads took a sip of bitter coffee and pulled a face. "Agh. So she fits. The killer is sticking to his demographic. When did it happen?"

  "One-thirty this morning. Yhoman's de facto came home not long after and discovered the body. Her neck was broken, like the others; a swift, smooth, and very clean job." Roads heard a note of awe in the man's voice; one professional admiring the work of another, he supposed. Although he had worked with Wiggs long enough to call him a friend, he still found his fellow officer's fascination with homicide unnerving.

  Chappel pointedly cleared her throat. "Phil, I was telling Antoni about the lead you're pursuing, the latest break-in. It's not one of ours, is it?"

  "That's right," Roads said, turning to face her. "One of my contacts tipped me off that a cowboy outfit had been done over shortly after two this morning. We're going over the scene at the moment, looking for anything new. If we find anything, we'll let you know."

  "How do you rate your chances?" asked DeKurzak.

  Roads thought of the man he had chased from Old North Street, and decided not to mention it. This wasn't the time to air hunches. "Not good, I'll admit, judging from previous experience. But we're doing our best."

  "Do you believe that will be sufficient? It has been over a month, after all, and still these matters have not been dealt with."

  Roads felt the hackles on the back of his neck rise. "What exactly are you suggesting?"

  DeKurzak held up both hands placatingly. "I'm not questioning your capability, Officer Roads — or yours, Officer Wiggs. These are difficult cases that standard operating procedure has thus far failed to bring to light, and no-one is necessarily to blame. I am merely expressing the concerns of those above me that your methods might be at fault." DeKurzak looked from Wiggs to Roads to emphasise the point. "Perhaps SOP is no longer equal to the task."

  "That's easy for you to say," Roads snapped. "Got any suggestions?"

  "Phil." Chappel cast him a cautionary glance. "Let's look at what we have before we go any further."

  "About the Mole?" Roads took a deep breath, tried to dispel the exhaustion that was making him so irritable. DeKurzak was talking sense, as much as Roads didn't want to hear it. "Almost nothing. He doesn't leave genetic fingerprints or identifying marks of any kind. He follows no fixed m.o., except that he works at night. He only sets off alarms when he wants to. And the one description we have is anomalous."

  "He looks like you, in other words," said DeKurzak.

  "Unfortunately, yes."

  Chappel turned to the other officer. "What about you, Roger?"

  "The killer operates at night, also." The burly redhead shifted in his seat. "We do have a sample of genetic material, but it doesn't match any in city records. We have no physical description, nor any other clues to his identity. Only his motive seems certain: to frighten the Council into backing down from the Reassimilation."

  "Yes." DeKurzak steepled his fingers and pressed them to his lips. "I've read the reports, and they're not terribly encouraging." He shrugged. "One uncatchable criminal I could believe, perhaps, but two ...?"

  Chappel intervened before Roads could take offence. "We are treating each series of crimes separately partly out of practicality, partly because of the timing. Although the murderer and the assassin could be one and the same person, he'd have to be fast on his feet as well as practically invisible. Last night demonstrates that quite well. It therefore doesn't seem likely that one person working alone is behind both series of crimes."

  "But it isn't impossible," said the liaison officer. "That's the point I want to stress. We're not in a position to rule out anything."

  Roads shook his head. "We've been through this a dozen times before. You didn't interrupt our work to discuss profiles. Why don't you get to the point?"

  DeKurzak nodded. "Fair enough. My superiors are determined to present as united and positive a face as possible for the Reassimilation. General Stedman will be in Kennedy in three days, and they want the cases closed by then. To put it bluntly, that doesn't look likely — does it?"

  "I'm still confident," said Roads. "We are pursuing a number of possibilities — "

  "Operation Blindeye being one of them?"

  "Yes."

  "And you, Roger?"

  "We'll see what forensics find at the Yhoman site before we make any plans."

  "I see. I will reassure my superiors that everything that can be done is being done. In the meantime, I have been given the authority to become actively involved in both investigations. Please bear in mind that, in less than a week, Kennedy may no longer be an independent state. If the Reassimilation goes ahead as planned, it's likely that either or both
cases will be handed to the Reunited States Military Corps prior to then for further investigation."

  "What?" Wiggs' face flushed with anger. "You can't — "

  "They can," said Chappel, grim-faced. "The RSD charter allows the MSA to take any of our cases at any time if ordered to do so by the Mayor. The MSA can do whatever it likes with them from there. And after Reassimilation, who knows what will happen to local law enforcement?"

  "We need results fast, to prove that we can competently handle our own affairs." DeKurzak did his best to look sympathetic; Roads wondered how sincere the effort was. "If combining our resources will help, then I think it makes sense to try. To that end, an officer specialising in law enforcement from General Stedman's staff, Captain Martin O'Dell, will be arriving in Kennedy later this morning to provide his own viewpoint. As an outsider he may be able to see something that we're missing."

  "Great. That's just great," said Roads, draining the last of the coffee. "We need another army about as much as we need blindfolds and our hands tied."

  Chappel stared him down. "They're only trying to help."

  "Famous last words." As much as the city needed to open its doors, he rued the fact that it had been a military nation like the Reunited States that had made the first move. From what little information he had gathered about the RUSA, it seemed to be run entirely by its Military Corps. He had never heard mention of a President, or a similar non-military title. No wonder the MSA and General Stedman seemed to be getting along so well. Tarred from the same brush.

  Roads glanced at Wiggs, who looked as pained as he felt. "I'm sorry to be blunt," he said, "but is that all you wanted to see us about?"

  "I think so, for now," said Chappel.

  DeKurzak agreed. "I understand your reluctance, gentlemen, but I'm sure we can work it out. If you have any questions later, don't hesitate to contact me. Margaret has my number."

  "Good." Roads stood. "Then, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do."

  Wiggs also rose, slicking his hair out of his eyes.