Metal Fatigue (27 page)

Inside, among an assortment of old tools, was a spare set of contact lenses which he rinsed and inserted. They fitted snugly, unfurling on contact to cover most of each eye's surface. Simple machines in their own right, the false retinae reacted to light, contracting and dilating as a normal eye would, and came complete with imitation blood-vessels.

"You'd never guess," said Barney in admiration. "I certainly didn't."

"These were standard-issue for undercover work, for 'sensitive' situations. Even back then, some people were uncomfortable with biomodification, and didn't like to be reminded."

"I can understand that, to a certain extent."

"You didn't have to deal with them." Roads remembered the neo-Luddites clearly. In the late 2030s, the Puritans had preached a modern sanctity of the flesh: no implants, no gene therapy, no metabolic alteration. They had claimed that it interfered with God's plans.

On the reverse side of the coin were those who had been denied the new technology, yet craved it bitterly. One such group had hunted biomodified troops during the Dissolution and drained them of their blood. By drinking the bodily fluids of their victims, they had hoped to acquire the micromachine elements standard in all retrofitted combat soldiers.

"Progress always leaves someone behind," Roads said. "Cars, computers, biomodification — they're all the same in that sense."

"And the Reassimilation, too."

"Exactly. There's nothing to be gained by fighting the future." He replaced the items he had removed and handed her a tiny hemisphere no larger than a grain of rice. "So put this in your ear."

She eyed it warily. "What is it, first?"

"A short-range transmitter/receiver. It'll allow us to communicate directly, without a radio or a phone."

She raised it nervously.

"Don't worry. You might feel a slight sting as it anchors itself, maybe a tiny movement, but it won't do any harm."

She pushed the tiny device into her auditory canal, then wriggled as it tickled its way toward her eardrum.

"How's that?" he asked, without moving his mouth, and she jumped. "Can you hear me clearly?"

"I... As though you're whispering in my ear. Weird."

"To reply, all you do is subvocalise my full name and talk. The bead will pick up the vibrations through your skull and cheekbone."

She tried it, counting slowly from one to ten. Her voice in his ear was gravelly but perfectly clear.

"Good," he said. "I wondered if it was still working. It's been a long time since I last used it."

"How
does
it work? At your end, I mean."

"One of the most common implants in the old days was the cyberlink; sort of an advanced cellular phone or modem without the visible hardware. Mine is a little more sophisticated, but operates on the same principle. My optic and auditory nerves can receive data, via an antenna wired along my spinal cord, from about five kilometres."

"What about power? Don't you have to recharge every now and again? Or do you just change batteries?"

"Most of the power comes from here." He pointed at his gut. "The human body produces its own electric potential. Mine has been boosted, that's all. As long as I don't overdo it, I'll be fine."

She grimaced theatrically.

"What?"

"Sorry. I was just imagining what would happen if you had a short circuit."

"Well — "

"I don't think I want to know. And don't expect me to share a bath with you."

He smiled back. "I won't."

They went into the lounge, where the laptop was still resting on the coffee table by the sofa. Switching it on, he took a data fiche from his case and fed it into the drive. The program took a moment to configure itself to the unfamiliar system, then announced its readiness with a simple command screen.

The logo in the top right-hand corner said: 'PolNet'.

"Now what?" asked Barney.

Roads shook his head and tapped a few commands into the keyboard, opening the modem line to RSD's mainframe and calling up access to its communication towers. When everything was ready, he leaned back into the sofa and closed his eyes.

This was much harder than simply opening a cyberlink to Barney. There were pathways to be explored that he hadn't touched for thirty years — pathways that might have changed or devolved, perhaps even atrophied completely, with forty years disuse — both within him and within the city.

After a moment, he sighed with relief. A list of commands scrolled down the screen.

"That's it," he said aloud.

"That's what?"

"I'm on-line." He opened his eyes. Superimposed at the corners of his vision were glowing green and red menus surrounding a stylised command screen. "My internal processor is broadcasting to RSD communications at several million bits per second. This means I can interface with the RSD mainframe through the program in your terminal. The complete PolNet command network is gone, but the abbreviated backup here will do for now. I can access files, take calls, run programs — all without even closing my eyes. Much easier than the old manual interface I keep in my office at HQ."

He experimented with a few commands. The skills were still fresh in his memory. In fact, it was almost too easy.

His two lives, until that moment, had been quite separate, linked only by the implants in his eyes and ears. Accessing the system was like putting on clothes he had worn in another lifetime; he felt as though part of him had been resurrected. But he was no longer the same person he had been. The young Phil Roads had died in the Dissolution forty years ago, and comfortingly familiar clothes could not change that.

He sent an image in 2-D to the RSD mainframe, then had Barney's terminal display the picture. The process was perfectly clear, but fairly slow. The image grew from the top of the screen down, line by line, in the time it would have taken to download it directly. It showed her staring back at him, eyes wide.

"Very funny." She leaned closer and brushed at his temples. "It's hard to imagine all this gear in your head."

He guided her hand to the rear of his skull. "Actually, it's here."

"Wherever, it's still unbelievable."

"Not really. Better than anything we have today, but based on the same principles. If not for the berserkers, the anti-technology riots and the Humanity Laws, Kennedy might still have retained a crude biomod capacity." He shrugged. "But I doubt it. The technology is too advanced for the reclamation factories. You can't build nanomachines and biochips out of left-over data fiches and broken computers."

"Which is why we have to Reassimilate," she said. "Before we end up in the steam age again."

"To put it bluntly, yes. You could already see it happening when I arrived here, ten years after the end of the War. Datapools were less sophisticated; there had been no technological progress at all, and the number of personal computers was on the decrease. Kennedy's done well to last this long, but it has to open up eventually. In five years, we won't be able to repair the RSD mainframe any more. There'll be nothing left to scavenge."

Barney folded her arms around herself. "I keep telling myself these things, but it still doesn't seem real."

Roads glanced at her, noticing her uncertainty for the first time. "The world is a scary place," he said softly.

She nodded. "It's like growing up, I guess. You want to be an adult, but don't want to leave childhood behind. I feel the same way when I think about Stedman. And you, with all your toys. I feel ...
disempowered
, if that's a word."

"I'm not sure it is," Roads said, reaching to touch her shoulder, "but it should be."

She shrugged, and squeezed his hand. "Don't worry. It's just a mood. Have you got anything else to show me?"

With a flick of a mental wrist, Roads banished all but a basic "ready" icon, in the shape of a stylised police badge, and a clock. The menus he had once known as well as the backs of his hands vanished into the timeless spaces of computer memory, awaiting his command. Just knowing they were there made him feel more confident.

"Actually, it's 9:15," he said. "We really should get going. Better done quickly, and all that."

She brushed her hair back and stood. As he locked the case in a cupboard, she turned to him.

"You have a clock built in as well?"

"Of course. Do you want to know the time in Sydney?"

"No. But why, then, do you wear a watch?"

"To make myself normal. I can't avoid my ears or eyes as often as I'd like to — they're just there — but the rest is optional. If I have to use them, I will, just like I did when I first saw Cati, but the less I think about them, the better. To blend into Kennedy I have to hide the truth even from myself, in a sense. So no more PolNet, and no more magic clock."

She smiled and shook her head. "You'll never be normal."

"Maybe not." He patted the back of her hand. "But that doesn't stop me trying."

10:00 a.m.

The day of the Reassimilation promised many things, as though the weather itself was ambivalent: dark clouds vied with irregular flashes of blue for control of the heavens, while occasional, startling glimpses of the sun turned the city to gold below.

With atmospheric carbon dioxide levels still high, despite industrial emissions being only a fraction of what they were before the War, weather was unseasonal as a rule. Lacking global or even regional data, Kennedy forecasters could only guess what each day might bring. Community efforts — incorporating everything from cloud-watching to casting runes — contributed to this process. When sudden shifts in temperature could halve a staple crop's produce almost overnight, everyone wanted to have their say.

Barney and Roads arrived at HQ on the dot of ten, breathless from the brisk walk. She went immediately to her desk to prepare for the day while he continued upward to the top floor, ignoring the occasional startled glance in his direction. The only person he met on the way who seemed at all keen to talk was Roger Wiggs, who accompanied him for the last few floors.

"Someone told me you were dead," said Wiggs, brushing his hair in the lift's mirror. "Obviously they were wrong."

"Obviously." The existence of the rumour explained why people had been staring at him. He wondered briefly who had started it. "You in on the meeting?"

"Unfortunately." Wiggs put the comb back in his pocket. "Any idea what it's about?"

"Not really, but I've got a bad feeling."

"Me too. DeKurzak has had me going over the files for two days now and hasn't said shit. That worries me."

"At least you haven't got Blindeye on your back."

"True. But we still don't have anything to go on. We're just as lost as we were a month ago."

Roads said nothing, although he itched to take his fellow officer aside and brief him on Cati. There simply wasn't time to do so before the meeting.

The lift came to a halt and the doors hissed open. Michael, Chappel's secretary, met them and guided them through to the office without a word. Raised voices, heard behind the door, ceased in mid-sentence when Michael knocked.

"Come in."

Chappel was seated behind the desk, facing DeKurzak and O'Dell. A powerful tension filled the air. As Roads and Wiggs entered, the RUSAMC captain looked up with obvious relief and rose to his feet.

"Speak of the devil," he said to Roads.

"Nothing bad, I hope."

O'Dell hesitated. "No, of course not. The foyer guard just buzzed to say you were on your way up. It's good to see you're still with us."

Roads inclined his head in gratitude. DeKurzak pointedly ignored him. As he took the seat on O'Dell's right, he noticed with a sinking feeling what the liaison officer was holding in his lap.

The X-rays.

When Wiggs had settled into the one remaining chair next to Roads, DeKurzak finally spoke.

"Perhaps we can begin now, seeing we're all here." His voice was flat and expressionless, and his face closed, but beneath the surface clearly seethed the argument that had been interrupted. He spoke directly at Chappel, ignoring the others. "I have an appointment at eleven to finalise the security arrangements for General Stedman's arrival, and I must not be late."

She met his stare. "I know. I have to be there, too." To Roads and Wiggs she explained: "General Stedman's arrival has been brought forward to three o'clock."

"Really?" said Roads. "The timing's been to the split-second for a week now. Why the last-minute change?"

O'Dell looked embarrassed. "Apparently the convoy made better time than we anticipated."

Roads smiled graciously, allowing the explanation to pass without believing a word of it. He found it more likely that the General — and therefore the RUSAMC — had chosen to test the readiness of the city.

DeKurzak cleared his throat pointedly. Chappel shuffled printed files on her desk.

"All right. As Antoni and Martin know, I received a memo from the Mayor this morning, which, among other things, makes a couple of recommendations I feel we should discuss."

"Discuss?" DeKurzak scowled in annoyance. "What's there to discuss? They seem perfectly clear to me."

"What does?" asked Wiggs, nervousness showing on his brow, glistening.

"We'll get to that."

"Tell them, Margaret." DeKurzak gestured at the letter on her desk. "Or I will."

She glared at him. "Need I remind you, Antoni, that these are simply
recommendations
? I have the final say in RSD affairs — not the Mayor, and certainly not the MSA."

He waved a hand dismissively. "It doesn't matter who makes the decision, as long as it's the correct one."

"And I remain unconvinced that this is correct." She glanced at Roads and Wiggs, then down at her desk. "Nevertheless, it seems I have no choice." Her eyes rose again to meet Roads'. "In his letter, the Mayor recommends that, effective immediately, all investigations into the Mole and the assassin be handed to the MSA/RUSAMC cooperative, where they will be jointly handled by Antoni DeKurzak and Captain Martin O'Dell."

"The sonofabitch," said Wiggs, shaking his head. "All we need is a little more time."