METAL FATIGUE

CHAPTER ONE

Saturday, 15 September

1:25 a.m.

From the outside, it looked like an empty warehouse: its doors had rusted shut; its windows were broken and boarded up; its roof was slowly caving in.

Kennedy Polis had many such buildings. Once, six decades past, swift, solar-powered ferries had shunted back and forth along the river, bringing with them trade goods from nearby towns. The warehouses had been full, then, and business brisk. Kennedy had shone like a jewel in the North American Model City Project's crown. Completely free of petrochemical fuels, self-sufficient except for a few basic raw materials and equipped with the latest reclamation technologies, it had symbolised the new, cleaner lifestyle promised by politicians for decades - a harbinger of the NAMCP's utopian dream.

The War, however, had killed the dream, and the Dissolution that had followed had killed most of the dreamers. Now the warehouses stood empty, rotting slowly in the moist air drifting off the river. Some had become temporary homes for refugees, others were taken over by the Mayoralty; the remainder simply awaited the reopening of the city's self-imposed walls, if such ever happened.

The years rested heavily upon Kennedy, and upon its warehouses in particular. But it had not died.

Not yet.

This warehouse was located on a deserted cul-de-sac not far from the perpetual slosh and tumble of the river. A white, electric vehicle slid to a halt by a rusted phone booth at the end of the street. The letters "RSD" were painted in bold black down each side of the car and on its trunk.

The younger of the two people inside the car, a woman in her mid-thirties with shoulder-length blonde hair and strong laughter-lines, peered sceptically through the rain-spattered windscreen.

"You're sure this is the right place, Phil?"

The man beside her nodded. With a slightly receding hairline, a thick moustache and a body that was past its peak without being infirm, he looked to be only a few years older than his companion; perhaps in his mid-forties. He was in fact much older. It showed sometimes in his voice.

"This is it, Barney. Trust me." He smiled, teasing. "You wanted to come, remember?"

"Only because you promised to buy me a drink." She pouted mournfully, and he knew she was ribbing him in return. Barney Daniels and Phil Roads had been close friends for most of her life, especially since her father's death, and knew each other's games well.

"Best bar in Kennedy, you said," she continued, nodding disdainfully through the window at the derelict warehouse, no different from the scores of others within spitting distance. "Doesn't look like much to me."

"Nevertheless." He locked the dash with his thumb-print and keyed the car's security system. Thirty seconds. "Coming?"

"Do I have a choice?"

They stepped out of the car and into the street, pulling coats closer to protect their bodies. The rain was heavy and thick, falling in a warm sheet from the dark sky, a solid mass only slightly less dense than the nearby river. Their clothing consisted of the standard casual uniforms of the city's Regional Security Department: grey synthetic fabric, recycled aluminium buttons and thick greatcoats. Roads' genuine leather boots were a rarity in Kennedy, and allowed him to walk through puddles with greater comfort than Barney.

"This way." He led her down a narrow flight of stairs between two buildings. Paint peelings from the crumbling brick walls littered the asphalt path. A left turn took them to a steel door, which slid aside on smooth-oiled runners as they approached. The passageway on the other side was gloomily lit, but at least relatively clean and dry.

As they passed through the entrance, Roads noted the tingling, skin-crawling sensation of security scanners, electromagnetic fingers that reached through their clothes to search for the telltale shapes of concealed weapons. Barney, beside him, was far too young to remember the technology that had been available, if not commonplace, before the War, and nervously rubbed the suddenly erect hair of her forearms.

Roads didn't break his stride; the security-sweep was just the first of many technological traps designed to unsettle the unwary or the ignorant, and he didn't want to stop each time to bring her up to date. Besides, she was canny enough. If he looked like he knew what he was doing, she would follow his example.

He only hoped he did know. It had been so long since he had last come this way . . .

The door at the far end of the corridor remained closed. A panel slid aside in the wall to the right of the door and a gender-neutral voice spoke:

"Please disarm. Your weapons will be returned to you when you leave."

"Phil?" Barney's voice betrayed her nervousness.

"It's okay." He opened his coat and removed his belt. The pistol - loaded with plastic bullets, lead being another rarity - and its holster vanished behind the panel; hers followed after a slight hesitation.

The door slid open.

They stepped through into a muffled riot of noise. Somewhere nearby, removed by only a wall or two, a very large, very noisy party was taking place. Roads smelled smoke and liquor in large quantities, and a general miasma of damp flesh.

Two large bouncers awaited them behind a low counter. "Names?" asked one without looking up from a neon-bright video screen. His left eye was covered with what looked like a simple leather patch. Roads didn't doubt that it hid more than an empty socket.

"Phil Roads." He pressed palm to scanner and waited for confirmation. "I still have access here, I believe."

"That is correct, sir," said the bouncer, his manner formal once the ID was approved. He waved Barney forward, and she likewise subjected her handprint to the machine's scrutiny.

It beeped a negative: as far as its files were concerned, she did not exist. That wasn't necessarily a problem; at least she wasn't a known threat.

"Ms Daniels is my guest," explained Roads. "We're here to see the Head. He's expecting us."

"I'll notify him of your presence." The bouncer listened to an earplug's whisper for a moment, then said: "He'll meet you shortly. This way."

Barney hesitated again, and Roads patted her on the shoulder, nudging her forward.

"After you."

"Will I regret it?" she asked.

"Probably."

She grimaced. "If you insist, then."

He smiled in return, and followed her inside.

#

The bar was full of half-seen, vaguely demonic shapes that twisted and writhed in the smoke of a hundred lit cigarettes, thrown into sharp relief by irregular strobes. Music blared from towering wall speakers as Roads and Barney headed in the general direction indicated by the bouncer. An expansive, horseshoe-shaped counter draped with bodies lay across their path. Short but solid, Roads used his weight plus the occasional elbow to clear a way through the crowd. Barney followed close at his heels.

The cubicle awaiting them was the only empty space in the entire venue, one of ten similar cubicles raised half a metre above floor level. Containing nothing more than a table and two leather-bound chairs, it was tucked into an anonymous corner opposite the entrance. A yellow lamp provided its sole illumination.

Roads shrugged out of his damp overcoat and slid awkwardly into the cramped enclosure, noting with relief that it was acoustically shielded. Behind them, the bellow of the crowd diminished to an irritating rather than painful mumble. Barney settled into the seat across the table from him, looking bedraggled and slightly stunned.

"Drinks?" asked a woman via the booth's intercom.

"Water, thanks." He glanced at Barney. Drinking on duty was forbidden, but she looked like she needed it. "And a Scotch."

"Any preference? We have -"

"Something from the cellar. Glenfiddich, if possible. No ice."

"Certainly. Your drinks will be with you shortly."

He leaned an elbow onto the table and smiled at his assistant's expression, waiting for her to speak. She seemed to be having trouble choosing one question out of the thousands she obviously wanted to ask.

"Where's your friend going to sit?" she eventually managed.

"He'll cope."

"I guess he'll have to." She looked around. "Are you going to tell me where we are, or -?"

He hushed her with a finger to his lips. "Wait until he arrives. Then he can explain."

They scanned the room to pass the time. Kennedy no longer boasted a decadent social set, but this crowd wouldn't have been part of it even if it had. Roads recognised a number of people, several matching records in the city's Most Wanted datapool. It was almost as if all the riff-raff of Kennedy Polis had gathered for a quick drink before venturing out into the night to pursue their regular activities. A disconcerting number were young - from teenagers to mid-twenties - reflecting the city's growing youth crime problem.

"If only I had my gun," whispered Barney. "Isn't that Danny Chong, the bounty-hunter?"

Roads nodded. "It is, but forget it. This is neutral territory. No-one has jurisdiction in here."

"Except 'the Head'?"

"Right. And I shouldn't have to add that we're outnumbered as well."

"Point taken. As long as the restriction works both ways, I'll keep quiet."

"It does." He was glad she understood. Barney wasn't stupid, but she was still young. At his age, he tended to forget about justice and aim for workable compromises instead.

He was about to point out another celebrity of the underworld when a third voice from within the cubicle cleared its throat and spoke:

"Would you care for a conversation?"

They turned to face a holographic image of the head of a man in his late forties. The head was bald and angular, somehow twisted from true; the nose in particular was obviously crooked. Its lips curled with wry amusement.

The head floated in the air one centimetre above the tabletop. Barney's gasp of astonishment was clearly audible.

"The cost for my time is negotiable." The head continued, radiating dubious goodwill. "It can be debited from your R&R account or settled in cash. Whichever you prefer."

"Really?" Roads settled back into the chair. He doubted that the first option was accepted very often; the Rations and Resources transaction could be too easily traced, for both patron and establishment. Although the alternative, cash money, had only recently reappeared in the city, as a result of the latest downgrade of the R&R commerce network, unofficial currencies had always circulated through the underground economy.

Barney reached out to touch the hologram, as though she couldn't believe what she was seeing. Her hand passed through it unimpeded.

"What is it?" she hissed to Roads.

"I am a computer-generated psychogenic template," said the hologram before he could reply. "A simulated personality, if you like, provided for nothing more than your entertainment."

"But -"

"My existence is highly illegal. I can assure you of that." The head grinned, obviously enjoying her discomfort. Hardware sophisticated enough to generate real-time holograms hadn't been used in decades for anything as frivolous as entertainment.

Roads leaned forward to butt in. "Quit playing games, Keith. I haven't got all night."

The head froze in mid-expression, caught between a frown and the beginning of a word like a movie in mid-frame. An instant later it returned to life. Although its grey features hadn't changed, Roads detected a subtle difference, a nuance of facial tension that suggested another, quite separate personality.

"Ah, yes," said the head, tilting in acknowledgment. "I apologise for the previous personality. A simple ruse to affirm your identity."

"And you are?"

"Tut-tut, Phil. It hasn't been that long, has it?"

"No, but it pays to be sure."

"Quite so, for both of us."

Roads felt the pressure of eyes upon him, and belatedly turned to his companion.

"Keith, I'd like you to meet my assistant, Barney Daniels. Barney, this is Keith Morrow."

Her eyes widened.

"Pleasure," said the Head, bowing at the neck.

She stared at the hologram, then at Roads. "The Keith Morrow?"

"At your service."

"Oh my God."

Roads knew what Barney was thinking. Keith Morrow was on the city's other Most Wanted list, the one the general public didn't see. There was no physical description for anyone on that list, just a tally of suspected crimes against the city - including conspiracy, murder, and resource misappropriation. Standing orders were not to arrest, but to 'decommission'. In Morrow's case, in all the years Barney had been on the force, no Regional Security Department officer had come close to doing either.

Not just 'a' head, but the Head.

Barney's hand slipped down to the radio in her coat pocket.

"Don't." Roads reached across the table to stop her. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the bouncers hovering. "This isn't a bust."

Her eyes flashed. "Then what is it?"

"A very bad pun," said Morrow, looking pained. "I am a businessman, my dear, not a petty criminal. Ask Phil. Just a smuggler with connections, I swear."

"Hoarding is still illegal," she protested.

"It is, yes, for the moment. These are desperate times. I do what I can to survive, and no more, until the day when I am no longer considered to be a criminal."

"On those charges only."

"On all charges. I do not prey on the weak; only the strong."

She hesitated, but her hand remained in her coat. "Phil?"

"Trust me," he repeated. "I'm not bent, if that's what's worrying you."

"Alas," rued the head. "How true."

"And besides," Roads went on, "we couldn't arrest him if we wanted to."

"Why not?"

Morrow smiled. "Because I'm dead, my dear, that's why not. I died over fifty years ago."

"That's impossible!"

"'Impossible' is a ridiculous word." Morrow rolled his eyes. "You children of the Dissolution are all the same. You always have difficulty accepting the fact that the present is not representative of the past. Many things that once could be done cannot be done now. That is all, my dear."

Barney still floundered. "I don't understand."

"No," said Morrow. "And therein lies the difference between us."

"I'll explain later," said Roads, leaning over the table to place a hand on her arm. "We've got more important things to talk about at the moment."

Barney nodded dumbly, casting a What the hell have you got me into? look back at him.

Their drinks arrived at that moment via a trapdoor in the rear of the cubicle. Roads put his in one corner of the table, away from the flickering hologram. Barney drank half of hers in one gulp.

Roads reached into a pocket, produced a cigarette and a lighter. He lit up and took a deep, sour breath.

"I need your help," he said to Morrow, getting down to business.

"I guessed as much." The Head rotated to face him.

"How much do you know?"

"That you have a serious problem. I'm glad it's you and not me, no offence."

"Thanks. Are you going to help me?"

"That depends. Are you going to help me?" Morrow countered.

"If I can."

"How?"

"I don't know. Put in a good word, perhaps."

"That won't be necessary. I have something more concrete in mind."

"Tell me."

"First, the problem," said Morrow. "You've got a thief to catch. And a killer too."

"How much do you know?"

"Enough. Since the first of August, there have been thirty break-ins and eighteen political assassinations within the city - all of them unsolved. The bulletin boards think that both series of crimes were performed by one and the same person, although RSD is treating them as separate matters entirely. No-one has given the killer a nickname yet, but the thief has been coined 'the Mole'. What little evidence you have in either case is inconclusive. In particular, the identikit pictures of the Mole are . . . how do I put this? . . . interesting." Morrow smiled apologetically. "You can't blame me for having been suspicious of you, at first."

"No, I don't." In the six weeks the Mole had been operating, RSD had learned only one thing about him: that he looked exactly like Roads. After the first break-in, Roads had been on suspension until he could prove his alibi; he didn't like remembering the experience. "Is that all you've found out?"

"Absolutely not, my friend. I know that the murders were of highly placed officials who actively supported the Reassimilation Bill. Mayor Packard is down-playing the political motive behind the killings, but the thought of joining the Reunited States of America has obviously ruffled someone's feathers. I know security has been upped at Mayor's House, and another hundred officers have been drafted from RSD to help with the arrival of General Stedman on Tuesday." The Head winked. "I'm sure that's ruffled still more feathers downtown. Or have RSD and the MSA finally reached a consensus that I'm not aware of?"

Roads didn't dignify the comment with a reply, although it certainly hit home. RSD had evolved after the Dissolution from a small, privately-owned security company. Kennedy's former police department and a small Army garrison had been combined to form the Military Services Authority. While RSD officers patrolled the streets and maintained civil law, the MSA's main tasks had originally been to keep external forces out of the city. In recent years, however, the MSA's authority had been extended to cover many matters dealing with the city's internal safety - a fact many of the old-hand RSD officers, including Roads, resented.

Roads put aside the cigarette and leaned forward. "Go on."

"The thief is another kettle of fish," Morrow said, his face sobering. "And the one you're after in particular - the Mole, rather than the assassin. That's been your assignment for the last six weeks. But you've had no luck thus far, and I can well see why."

"Oh?"

"Of course. The thefts were not of valuable items that would reappear later, as the b-boards depict them, but of information concerning RSD resources, movements of the MSA, reactor status and population figures, among other things. Correct?"

"Yes." The MSA break-in tended to overshadow the other thefts, but Roads knew them all by heart.

Morrow went on: "It's hard to see why anyone would bother stealing this data at all. There's so much of it, for a start, and of such variety. Who could possibly find a use for it all?"

"That's what we've been trying to determine." Roads leaned back into the seat, away from Morrow's probing stare. "As you say, the evidence is nonexistent, and the few suspects we've uncovered all had alibis. Motive is all that's left, and it's getting us nowhere."

"So you've finally come to me for help," Morrow said, the suggestion of a grin at the corners of his mouth. Do you suspect that I am involved, perhaps?"

"No," Roads said grimly. "You could break into any system you wanted without sending in the heavies."

"Exactly. The computer sciences employed by this city are not what they used to be." A fleeting regret clouded the Head's face, almost as though he missed the challenge.

"They're still not exactly easy to break into," said Barney irritably. "Whoever the Mole is, he knows what he's doing."

"True," the Head conceded. "So it would seem."

"I'm hoping you might have heard something," Roads prompted. "A rumour, anything."

"If I had, I would tell you for free."

"Does that mean you haven't?" Roads tried to keep the disappointment from showing.

"Not exactly." Morrow hesitated. "But it's strange," he said. "I thought you would have guessed by now."

"What?" asked Barney.

"Let's study the Mole's behaviour, shall we? He works under the cover of darkness, often three or four nights in a row. He is a meticulous professional, and he works alone. He does not socialise or talk to others, for, if he did, someone would surely have seen him doing so by now."

"We know this, Keith," Roads said.

"Yes, but have you ever stopped to ask yourself what he does do on his nights off?"

He had, frequently. "I've got a feeling you're going to tell me."

"Exactly. And the time has come for me to ask for that favour in return."

"Go ahead."

"It's quite simple," Morrow said. "I too want you to catch the Mole."

Roads performed a mental double-take. "You what?"

"I want you to catch him, for even I am not immune to this invisible thief. On every night the Mole has not been robbing you, he has been locking horns with me. And winning, I should add."

Roads almost laughed at the Head's expression. It must have hurt Morrow plenty to even contemplate asking an RSD officer for help, albeit that Roads had come to him first.

Barney shook her head. "Shit."

"My sentiments exactly."

"What have you lost?" asked Roads.

"Not much. Invoices, inventories, securities, private records and so on. I get the feeling the Mole is simply testing my defences, waiting until he's ready to pull off the big one."

"Have you kept a record of what he took?"

"Naturally, and of the time each break-in occurred. Like you, I have been unable to determine a pattern."

"Regardless . . . I need your data."

"And you shall have it. But only you, not the entire Regional Security Department."

"You have my word. They don't even know we're here."

"Good."

The trapdoor opened in the back of the booth, revealing a data fiche the size and shape of an old smart card. Roads gently picked it up and pocketed it, keen to study it but trying not to raise his hopes too high. The revelation, unexpected thought it was, might still might lead nowhere.

Morrow had closed his eyes, and appeared to be thinking to himself. Roads looked at Barney, who shrugged. He waited as long as he could before breaking the silence.

"I don't suppose you have a card reader here, Keith?" he asked. "I want to get started on this right away."

Morrow's eyes snapped open. "Of course; you must be keen to explore the depth of my vulnerability. But not right now. I have other work for you to do."

"Oh?" Roads said cautiously.

"Yes. The time is two-fifteen. You are still here, which I take to mean that you have not received a report from RSD HQ regarding the latest robbery."

Barney glanced at her watch. "That's right. But that doesn't mean we won't. Sometimes it takes a while for a break-in to -"

"I have just had word from one of my subordinates," Morrow interrupted. "An entry alarm was triggered twenty minutes ago. Our friend has been busy."

Roads gripped the edge of the table. "Where?"

"One hundred and fourteen Old North Street. If you hurry, you might catch him on the way out."

Barney lifted her coat into her lap. "It'll take at least ten minutes to get there."

"I know," Roads said.

"And he has an annoying habit of triggering alarms when he leaves, not as he enters." The Head shrugged with his eyebrows. "Still, someone will meet you there. Call in the troops and see what you can find, but remember: I didn't tip you off."

"Of course not. Thank you." Roads clambered across his seat.

"A pleasure - and to have met you, my dear." Morrow smiled at Barney. "Do keep in touch."

The Head flickered once, and vanished.