Metal Fatigue (48 page)

The cold, abyssal mass of water rose rapidly to engulf him. Fighting the giddy sensation of free-fall in his stomach, he assumed a rough diver's stance and judged his rotation against the passing microseconds. The fall wasn't as high as dives he'd performed during his training in the Army, but it was still risky. With his broken arm tucked firmly to his side, he closed his eyes and breathed one last gulp of air before giving himself over to the river's cold hand —

— which struck like the fist of a vengeful god. His neck snapped backward and he spun out of control into the depths. Stunned, he could only flounder weakly for the surface as the breath rushed out of his lungs.

Boiling rubble sank around him, burning him and making the water a mass of bubbles. Again, he thought he heard muffled screaming, but couldn't pinpoint the sound. He was surrounded by darkness — an icy, impenetrable hell from which he had little hope of escaping. His overcoat tried to drag him deeper, but he couldn't spare the time to take it off: he was already drowning.

If he could discover which way was up, then he had a reasonable chance of making the surface.
Bubbles go up
, he told himself, trying to focus on survival training he had received almost seventy years ago. But his lungs were empty, and only dogged will kept his mouth closed against the water trying to get in.

He called for Barney — for help — over the cyberlink, but there was no answer.

Then his outstretched hand touched flesh: a foot, kicking wildly. He clutched at it, tugged with both hands. It kicked back at him, tried to free itself of his weight, but he pulled himself relentlessly upward.

Katiya's eyes were wide and fearful when he drew level with her face; her head was still below water, not above the surface as part of him had hoped. Her last words drifted diagonally across her face, through her hair, and disappeared behind her.

Up
.

Roads kicked himself in that direction, following the bubbles as well as he could with Katiya's forearm clutched in his one good hand. Oxygen-starved and exhausted as he was, he soon lost sight of the route to the surface, but he didn't let that bother him. He had no other option, now, than to hope he was heading in the right direction.

His thoughts became sluggish, but they held on to one with surprising tenacity: he couldn't survive assassins, Cati and even the Mole, only to drown in a few metres of water.

He began to feel distant from his body.

Then a hand gripped his shoulder. With a feeling akin to vertigo, Roads was pulled abruptly upward. He kept his grip firm on Katiya's forearm as he rose, understanding even as consciousness slipped from him that they were being dragged to safety.

The pressure on his chest and ears eased too rapidly, however, causing his respiratory reflex to kick in. Water gushed into his lungs despite his best efforts to keep his mouth shut. He writhed in agony, suddenly, irrationally, convinced that he was going to die within seconds of safety. Katiya slipped from his grasp and disappeared into the churning water. He struggled to find her again, but she had disappeared.

Then the hand at his shoulder let him go, and he was alone. Blackness enfolded him again, and he fell downward, ever downward, into the immeasurable depths below. And if he ever hit the bottom, he never knew.

1:35 a.m.

His fate was out of his hands. He was entirely at the mercy of gravity; there was nothing he could do either to arrest his downward plunge or to stop the river from striking him. He was falling, flying,
fleeing
...

And for one eternal moment, it felt like Freedom.

Friday, 21 September, 2096, 3:45 p.m.

From the outside, it still looked like a warehouse. Its doors were rusted shut and its windows covered with boards. Its roof had seen worse weather and bore the rain with stoic indifference. An ugly black hole in one wall, where an explosion had recently ripped through brick and reinforced steel, had been curtained off with bright blue tarpaulins.

Kennedy Polis had many such buildings, but only one with a khaki RUSAMC jeep and an armoured personnel carrier parked in front of it.

"This is the place?" asked Martin O'Dell, peering through the rain-spattered window of the jeep. "Doesn't look like much."

"That's what I thought," replied Barney. She glanced at the time on the sophisticated dash. "He told us to meet him here at four."

"Then we'll be early." O'Dell swung open the door and stepped out into the blustery day. After a brief conversation with the driver of the personnel vehicle, instructing the squad to wait until he returned, he turned back to Barney. "Come on. You'll have to show me the way."

She did so, down a flight of stairs between two buildings, then along a short lane to an open steel door. Inside the corridor, the air was humid and warm. Nothing searched them — none of the automated devices she had encountered the last time — and no-one asked for her weapon. The low counter where bouncers had waited to take ID was unoccupied. The only sign of life came from above: the lights were on.

"Maybe we've missed him," she said.

"He said he'd be here, didn't he?" said O'Dell. "Although it does seem a little quiet, I'll grant you that."

O'Dell edged past the counter to the entrance to the bar. "If no-one's around, maybe we should help ourselves to a drink. I know I could use one."

"Go for it." Barney took a deep breath and followed him inside.

The bar was empty apart from furniture and a large wooden crate in the centre of the floor. Judging by the lack of mess, the room had been hastily cleaned before being evacuated, although the air still stank of years of cigarette smoke and spilled drinks. The bar must have closed in the middle of the previous night, an event possibly connected with the explosion that had knocked such a large hole in the building. Exactly how, though, was a mystery.

Another one. She couldn't speak for the RUSAMC captain, but she was tired of debriefings and guesswork. Her only respite came when she was active, and all she really wanted to do was crawl into bed and sleep for a week.

Finding no sign of life elsewhere, Barney crossed the room to study the crate. It stood a metre high, a metre wide and two metres long. When she tried shifting it, it scraped heavily along the floor. The lid was nailed firmly shut. A black stencil along one side pronounced: "MiMIC Industries, 30/8/40."

"This is old," she said. "Whatever it is."

O'Dell prowled restlessly behind the bar. "And the drinks are gone."

"To be expected, if the bar is closing down." She stood up and wiped her hands. "This might be a test, a puzzle for us to figure out on our own. Or a trap."

"I doubt it. More likely he's just playing with us." O'Dell's watch chimed the hour with a single beep. Out of patience, he cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted: "Hello? We're here!"

"Yes, I can see that," said a voice from behind them. "There's no need to shout."

Barney turned to locate the source of the voice and caught movement in the row of cubicles along the far wall. Something flickered on one of the tables: a ghostly image dancing in the gloom, well-defined despite the distance.

"I told you four o'clock," said the head of Keith Morrow. "You're early."

"Sorry," she said, forcing herself to relax. "Things have been a little disorganised back at the office."

O'Dell stared at the hologram. "Is that him?" he whispered to Barney.

"Yes." She couldn't help but smile at his discomfiture. Just days ago, she had felt the same.

Stepping forward, she made the obligatory introductions: "Martin O'Dell, Keith Morrow."

"A pleasure," said the Head. Its angular features displayed a familiar crooked smile beneath a completely bald pate. "I'd shake your hand, Captain O'Dell, if I could."

"Likewise." O'Dell eyed the hologram warily, his face a mask of guarded fascination.

The trapdoor on the interior wall of the booth opened, revealing a bottle of vintage champagne and two long-stemmed crystal flutes.

"Please," Morrow repeated. "On the house."

Barney performed the honours, uncorking the bottle and pouring golden fluid into the glasses. Champagne of a twentieth-century vintage — the date on the label said 1976 — was to be treasured. A chance to sample such a delicacy might come only once in her lifetime.

"Tasty," said O'Dell, nodding appreciatively. "I'm honoured."

"As you should be." The Head regarded them both with an expression approaching envy. "Although I can simulate the taste of any wine with a fair degree of accuracy, nothing comes close to the real thing. I once knew people who would not have traded places with me, no matter what I offered them."

"And I'd be one of them." O'Dell tipped his glass. "Still, I'm amazed. I had no idea such things as you would ever be possible."

"They were, my boy, however briefly."

Barney put down her half-empty glass, keen to forestall Morrow's boasting before it got out of control. "But we mere humans have our strengths, right? You yourself just suggested as much."

"And your weaknesses." Morrow conceded her point with a wink. "I am trusting that the former will outweigh the latter, inasmuch as my future is concerned."

O'Dell just smiled to himself, and took another sip.

Barney could guess what he was thinking. Morrow had made the offer to turn himself in two hours earlier — a day and a half after the events on Patriot Bridge. In exchange for his surrender, he had demanded a fair trial before the Reunited States High Court in Philadelphia, plus a guarantee that he would not spend long periods disconnected from a power source.

Barney had seen the footage of the conversation. Towards the end, immediately after rejecting an offer of clemency if he identified the group of nomads he had been dealing with outside the city, Morrow had protested O'Dell's description of their arrangement as a deal.

"Deals become tiresome after a while," Morrow had sighed, his characteristic smile slipping. Underneath he looked much older than usual — certainly a deliberate affectation, since he no longer had a true face to reveal. "Even for someone like me, who thrives on them."

"Then what is it?" O'Dell had asked.

"Justice."

"I don't know about that," O'Dell said carefully, "but a trial I
can
guarantee you. The High Court will probably regard your processor as a form of life-support to avoid any unnecessary precedents. If found guilty, you'll be sentenced to one of our penal institutions — although exactly what amenities you'll have will be up to the judge. Hard labour is out of the question, of course, and I don't think we'll trust you with menial data processing instead. You'll be given something to do, though, or else we'll be contravening the human rights laws on sensory deprivation."

Morrow nodded solemnly. "That sounds fair."

"Does it?" O'Dell raised an eyebrow. "You're not really in any position to bargain."

"You misunderstand me. I have taken a great risk handing myself to you like this. If I didn't believe that I could trust you, then I would never have contacted you at all. That's what I meant by 'fair'. All I ask is that I be given a chance to repay my debts."

"If that's so," O'Dell had replied, "then we're going to get along famously."

"Indeed." Morrow had terminated the conversation shortly after that point, apparently satisfied with the arrangements.

Even now, Barney still couldn't believe it had happened so easily. Kennedy's most notorious underworld figure had turned himself over to the newly appointed government without so much as a fight. Of all the things she had guessed would happen, this hadn't even crossed her mind. As a coda to the events of the previous few days, it was surreal.

She frowned, wishing Roads was there to share the moment.

"Well," said O'Dell eventually, breaking the silence. "I'll organise the squad outside to collect your hardware and take it to base camp, where it'll be safe for the time being. When we head back to Philadelphia, you'll come with us."

"Whatever you wish." Morrow shrugged with his eyebrows. "My all-too-mortal remains, complete with original packaging, lie on the floor behind you. I advise you to treat it gently. Destroy the contents of the crate, and you effectively destroy me, too."

Barney glanced over at the box she had studied on her way into the bar. Roads' description of it in terms of a coffin portrayed it and its contents all too vividly.

"I wouldn't dream of doing such a thing," O'Dell drawled, with a certainty Barney could not have mustered.

"I'm glad to hear it," Morrow said. "And now, if you'll forgive me, I will spare myself the indignity of seeing myself hauled away. If you require my attention, I can be aroused by a short burst of white noise on the FM band. Otherwise, I will not speak to you until we reach base camp."

The Head closed his eyes, clearly for effect, and said: "Goodnight."

"Wait!" Barney held up a hand, and Morrow's eyes reopened. "I want to ask you about Phil."

"Yes?" Morrow inclined his head.

"Where is he? Do you know?"

"Answering that question would require breaking a confidence," said Morrow. "What Phil does, or chooses not to do, is his own business."

"But — "

With one last, enigmatic smile, the Head flickered and went out.

O'Dell exhaled heavily, then drained the champagne left in his glass in one gulp. "Thank God," he said. "I kept waiting for him to spring something at the last moment."

Barney forced herself to speak through teeth clenched tight with frustration. "He might still do that."

"Unlikely," said a voice from behind her.

She spun to face its source. O'Dell dropped the glass and drew his pistol in one movement.

Someone was standing in the shadows.

"Phil?"

Roads raised his hands and stepped into the light.

The first things Barney noticed were the mottled bruises on his face and the arm in a sling beneath his coat. He was dressed in jeans, boots and coat — clothes he must have borrowed from one of Morrow's ex-employees — and carried himself stiffly. But the most dramatic change was to his hair: it was cropped short to match where it had burned away in the explosion, and his moustache was gone. He looked like an entirely different person. Only his eyes, with their deceptive contact lenses, were the same.