Metal Fatigue

by Sean Williams

  Roads fired again, still to no avail. The Mole towered above him, poised to attack.

  Suddenly, a noise from above startled them both. Roads looked up past the Mole's shoulder, at the skylight. It had swung back to hit the ceiling.

  Roads kicked upward with both feet. The Mole staggered backward, becoming human again, and Roads stumbled to his feet, pointing the useless pistol at his dark half.

  "Thank Christ," Roads muttered, not taking his eyes off the Mole. "But you took your goddamn time ..."

  The babbling voices coalesced, began to make sense.

  "That's not us!" Barney was shouting. "It's not us!" He risked another glance upward — into the eyes of a man he had never seen before in his life.

  * * *

  "Phil!"

  Barney wanted to throw herself at the screen as Roads gaped up at the skylight. The entry alarm blared in her ears, Goss shouted instructions to the squad, the command centre filled with motion — but all she had eyes for was the screen in front of her.

  The angle did not reveal what it was that Roads saw. His eyes widened, seemed to bulge slightly in the indistinct picture. She saw his gun-hand start to come up.

  Before he could do anything, however, there was a flash of blinding, white light. The Mole vanished into it, disappearing as though he had never existed. Roads staggered backward with an arm over his eyes, his mouth open in an exclamation of pain and surprise.

  Then an invisible force struck him on the chest and threw him across the room. He fell to the ground under an avalanche of books and didn't move.

  Barney screamed her frustration at the screen.

  Then the view unexpectedly shifted to the roof. The shadow — forgotten momentarily — had moved, triggering the security systems. Trading stealth for speed, it ran unbelievably fast away from the skylight toward the camera, crossing trip-wires as it came. Still too indistinct to be seen clearly, except as a silhouette, it ducked behind a wall and vanished from view.

  Behind it, before the angle could change to another camera, the skylight exploded. Glass blew upward as though struck by an incomprehensible fist, followed by twisted pieces of metal flung free by the impact.

  Barney stared in amazement, struggling to see what had caused the explosion. She had a glimpse of something indistinct turning in the air above the library's roof. Among the shards of the skylight, five shining points of light arrayed in a wide-spaced pentagon hung in the air, falling slowly like a ghostly snowflake. The array rotated, collapsing in upon itself as it fell. What it was, Barney couldn't guess: not fragments of glass, flung from the explosion of the skylight, or fireballs; the array's motion was independent of the rest of the rubble in the air, and far too ordered to be random ...

  Floodlights on the roof abruptly blazed into life, and the array vanished from sight.

  Barney leapt to her feet and ran from the room, brushing past DeKurzak and O'Dell. Both stared at the screens with almost identical looks of astonishment on their faces.

  INTERLUDE

  1:15 a.m.

  He ran, not caring where he was going at first as long as it was away ...

  He leapt from the roof of the library onto a nearby building, past the bodies of the guards he had knocked unconscious. Behind him, floodlights came on and something shattered, but he didn't stop to investigate. He kept to shelter where he could, relied on speed when he couldn't. The police issued from their nests like ants, but none of them saw him. If they did, he was gone before they could react.

  Once he reached the wooded grounds, the going became easier. His long stride lengthened further, carrying him swiftly to the fence. Without worrying about triggering alarms this time, he climbed over it and sprinted for cover in the dark corners of the parklands.

  The night enfolded him; the sharp adrenalin peak faded slightly. He allowed himself to slow his relentless pace for a moment. Not to rest, but to take stock and to decide where to go.

  Only then did he realise that he was being followed.

  He cursed his indecision and wove deeper into the undergrowth. If he hadn't followed Roads, hadn't felt compelled to watch instead of act, none of this would have happened. He should have approached the police officer, one way or another — he should have found out by more direct means whether or not it was him the police had been looking for two nights before. If he had known for sure, he could have taken action; he could have fled the city with Sanctuary while he had the chance. But instead he had watched them set their trap, waited for it to spring, and moved in to see what it was they had caught.

  From his perch above the marble room, he had seen Roads confronting himself. The glimpse he'd had was enough to convince him that he wanted no part of it. He did not understand, and did not want to be given the opportunity to understand. It was beyond him.

  Behind him, soft feet padded relentlessly, never gaining but never falling behind. He changed direction. The park-lands petered out as he passed the innermost ring of the city's transportation network. He headed rapidly southward, the alleys and roads becoming narrower and darker as he entered a little-used quarter of the city. Brick buildings built after the War pressed in on all sides; his path wound at random through the gaps between them. As his desperation increased, his path become more tortuous. Even he would have been unable to retrace his steps.

  But still the soft feet followed.

  He had to do something.

  He headed deeper into the darkness, toward the river and the maze of warehouses. The ways grew straighter and the distances between corners longer. At times he was able to glimpse the creature that followed him.

  It looked like a wolf — the same wolf he had watched pacing the street outside Roads' house the previous night. Its cold, grey eyes were glazed, like marbles, but he could tell that it was watching him closely regardless.

  Its gait was smooth and unhurried, as though it could overtake him whenever it wanted to. Why it didn't, he wasn't certain, but he knew he would rather die than lead it home, to Sanctuary, if that was what it wanted.

  The harbour was full of dead-ends and intersections. He ran along the streets, seeking something suitable for what he had in mind, passing an endless succession of inviting doorways and jagged-tooth windows. He paused only once to grab a solid iron bar from a pile of refuse. Hefting it over his shoulder, he adjusted his balance to compensate for the extra weight and ran on.

  A building of the sort he required eventually appeared: built before the War, an unstable mass of brick with a high, corrugated iron roof. He ducked inside and gripped the iron bar in both hands.

  The warehouse was empty; endless rows of wooden posts no wider than one of his forearms supported the distant roof. He sprinted along its length, waiting for the wolf to enter the building behind him. When it did, he swung the iron bar with all his strength at every wooden post as he passed.

  The posts were rotten with damp and age. They snapped easily — first one, then two, then half a dozen. He was halfway along the warehouse when the roof started to collapse, falling in a wave from the end at which he had entered. He snapped two more posts, then dropped the bar and ran.

  He left the building just in time. Behind him, the roof collapsed with a sound like thunder. One of the walls fell with it. A cloud of dust rose into the sky, obscuring the street and the stars above.

  He took shelter around a corner and waited.

  The clatter of bricks and iron ceased as the wreckage settled. But he didn't allow himself to relax.

  Something stirred under the rubble. A section of the roof shifted, and the dust swirled oddly as something emerged from beneath it.

  It wasn't the wolf.

  It was Roads. The other Roads.

  And as he watched, caught between flight and fight, it took a step forward — and vanished. Again.

  Something half-seen moved through the air towards him, casting no definite image in any spectrum.

  He turned and fled as fast as he could. The game was over. He ran for his life.
>
  The thing followed. It was like a mirage — flickering, inconstant and formless — and rapidly gaining.

  He reached the pier with a bare second to spare. Legs pounding, he ran as far as he dared across the wood and concrete structure. If he left it an instant too late, it would be upon him.

  Something swished at his neck — clutching for him, trying to drag him back —

  He turned aside and leapt.

  The water accepted his outstretched body with a heavy splash. He kicked powerfully, forced himself down and into the arms of the current. The river tugged him away from the pier, into deeper darkness.

  He held his breath as long as he could before risking the surface. With just his mouth above the water, he sucked at air, then submerged again. He swam with strong, even strokes, putting as much open river between himself and the pier as he could.

  When he finally stopped to look back, the pier was tiny in the distance. If his pursuer — whoever or whatever it was — was still watching, he could not see it.

  Nevertheless, he trod the cold water for an hour before daring to head back to the shore, and to the threatening embrace of the city he had once called Peace.

  CHAPTER TEN

  10:00 a.m.

  Roads regained consciousness to a feeling of utter disorientation. He lay on a narrow bed in a room that stank of disinfectant and metal. A headache stretched from the back of his neck to his forehead, unremitting and intolerant of even the slightest movement; his chest throbbed beneath the dulling effects of pain-killers. For a moment he thought he had been operated on, which took him back to his last hospital stay at the age of thirty-one. Then he realised that he wasn't attached to drips or monitors. He must have been injured instead, knocked unconscious — although he couldn't recall the last time that had happened at all...

  He lay still for a minute before daring to open his eyes.

  When he did, he discovered that he was in a ward of the RSD medical unit. The white ceiling stared at him like a rolled-back eyeball. A painting of a racehorse on one wall looked sorely out of place; there hadn't been a horse in Kennedy for as long as he could remember.

  "Phil?"

  He turned his head and immediately regretted it. Pain throbbed behind his right eye, nearly blinding him. A blonde blur sat in a chair beside the bed, watching him. "Shit... Barney, is that you?"

  "Sure is, boss." She stood and came closer.

  He tugged an arm out from beneath the covers and tried to look at his watch, but it was gone, a standard plastic bracelet with his name and an LCD display of his body temperature in its place. His hand and forearm were covered with tiny cuts and scratches. Much to his relief, none of them appeared to be bleeding.

  "What time is it?"

  "Ten past ten. You've been out about eight hours."

  "Did I miss anything?"

  "Plenty. But first, how are you feeling?"

  "Like a building fell on me." He tried to sit, but the pain in his ribs was too excruciating. "What happened?"

  "You don't remember?"

  "I remember ..." He thought for a moment. "Blindeye, yes, and the Mole. After that, it's a bit hazy."

  "The Mole hit you." She frowned. "At least, we assume it was the Mole."

  "Whoever it was sure packed a punch." He extended a hand and she helped him sit upright. When he started to slide his legs out of the bed, however, she stepped back in alarm.

  "What do you think you're doing?"

  "Getting up, or trying to. What does it look like?"

  "You're hurt, Phil. You can't — "

  "Bullshit. I can do whatever I want." He got his legs free of the covers, and reached out to steady himself as he levered his torso upward. Grey specks danced in front of his eyes; he did his best to ignore them. "See?"

  "I'm getting a doctor."

  He grabbed her arm and yanked her back, the effort making his ribs sing. "Don't, Barney. I haven't needed a doctor in forty years and don't plan on needing one now."

  "Phil, I'm serious — "

  "And so am I. Give me a pain-killer and get me home. I'll heal before you know it."

  She looked doubtful. "I heard one of the doctors say you had a fractured skull and two broken ribs."

  "What would they know? Did they take an X-ray?"

  "I think so."

  His gut turned to ice. "Did you see it?" The question blurted out before he had time to think.

  "No, why?"

  "It ... doesn't matter." He took a deep breath to clear his head and flexed his feet, bracing himself for the big push. "Officer Daniels, as your senior in both rank and years, I order you to give me a hand."

  She didn't relent. "Fuck you, Phil. I'm not having you die on me halfway down the hallway."

  "Jesus Christ, Barney, I'm not — "

  The door swung open and a white-uniformed nurse entered the room. With one glance she took in what was happening and, much to Roads' astonishment, smiled.

  "Ah, you're up. Good." She moved closer and offered him a hand to get to his feet; puzzled, he accepted. "Director Chappel just called. She said to let you go whenever you felt like it."

  "She did? Good old Margaret." Roads fought waves of pain that threatened to undermine his balance. "See, Barney? I told you I was better."

  "What would the Mantis know?" She shook her head, washing her hands of the senior administration. "I give in."

  The nurse handed Barney a bag containing Roads' clothes and personal effects, and pressed a carton of tablets into her hand. "Two every two hours, for the pain. Would you like a wheelchair, Officer Roads?"

  "No, I'll be fine." He took a step and changed his mind. "Um, on second thoughts. Barney, could you — ?"

  She put an arm around him and helped support his weight as they slowly left the room. The end of the corridor looked kilometres away.

  Barney chuckled darkly to herself as the nurse attended to her patients elsewhere.

  "What?" he snapped.

  "Did I tell you how glad I am to see you alive?"

  "No. How glad are you?"

  "At the moment, you old shit, not very."

  * * *

  The medical unit was in an annexe of RSD HQ, reached by two elevators and an endless maze of corridors from the main operations building.

  Roads, although he felt his balance improve with every step, almost didn't make the distance to his office. The pain in his chest and head was incredible.

  Barney berated him every step of the way, beginning with a list of all the things that could have been wrong with him and ending with a repeated complaint that he was goddamn heavy.

  "This macho shit drives me crazy, Phil — from you of all people."

  "It isn't macho shit. Honest."

  "Then what is it?"

  "Nothing. I just need to keep moving, that's all."

  "Whatever; shit by any other name still stinks." She shifted his arm to a more comfortable position. "Do you know what concussion is? It's when your brain bounces around inside your skull, banging against bone and sloshing in its fluid like an ice-cube in a drink. It can result in a coma — even death. Did you know that, Phil?"

  "Yes, Barney."

  "Well, if you go into a coma, I'm just going to leave you here."

  "Fine, but push me out of the way so no-one steps on me first. Okay?"

  He grunted his way to the first elevator and let gravity do the work from there. His insides seemed to have successfully rearranged themselves by the time the carriage came to a halt.

  The next leg of the journey to his office was slightly easier. He didn't have to rely as much on Barney's support, although her arm stayed where it had been, ostensibly to guide him in the right direction or to catch him if he stumbled.

  "You smell nice, Barney."

  "I very much doubt it."

  "You're right." He sniffed. "You've been busy. Fill me in on what I missed."

  She grudgingly described the events as she had seen them: Roads' confrontation with the Mole; the flash of lig
ht and the thief's disappearance; the sudden flight of the Shadow on the roof; the destruction of the skylight.

  He winced. "Add that to the bill. What happened then?"

  "We arrived to pick up the pieces." Goss' team had appeared on the scene in time to be showered by broken glass. No-one had entered or left the building from that point onward without passing a dozen armed security guards. Roads' unconscious body had been examined, placed on a stretcher and removed. Meanwhile, a trail of alarms and infringements had traced a path from the library to the university fence, where it had ended. RSD had made a thorough search of the area, but found nothing. The Shadow had escaped, as had the Mole.

  "At least no data was stolen," he commented.

  "Thank God for small mercies."

  Barney had walked to the medical unit at four in the morning to check on Roads' condition, and managed to catch a couple of hours sleep in an unused bed not far up the hall. When she'd woken, she had discovered that the chain of command had deserted her; everyone involved in Blindeye had delegated their authority to underlings who were too cautious to make radical decisions in their superiors' absence. Chappel had locked herself in her office and was refusing to take calls. Occasionally she appeared on her own initiative to offer direction: Roads' release from the medical unit was obviously an example of one such time: to contribute to the ongoing transfer of data from KCU back to the city's separate datapools was another. Otherwise, in the wake of the previous night, RSD was temporarily on hold.

  "Good," he said. "That gives me a little more time."

  "For what?"

  "I want to run the tapes of Blindeye through an image processor; there must be something we missed, something the cameras picked up that we weren't looking for."

  "Such as?"

  He remembered the Mole's face — changing, becoming wolf-like before his very eyes — but refused to believe what he had seen. The power of invisibility he also denied. There had to be another explanation.

  Events had been set in motion over which he had no control. Depending on Margaret's efforts in the next few hours, he might still have a chance.