Metal Fatigue by Sean Williams
Authors: Sean Williams
Tags: Fiction, General, Science-Fiction, Social Science, adventure, History, Sociology, Military, Urban, Political crimes and offenses, Cities and Towns, Nuclear Warfare
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assassination. Roads hung up and frowned. Still? It wasn't usual for Wiggs to remain behind after forensics had finished, which they should have by now. He made a mental note to try again in the morning.
Finally, he dialled Morrow's unlisted number. The Head appeared on the screen of his computer in full colour, looking much the same as he had earlier that day.
"We meet again, Phil."
"Yes." It seemed much longer than mere hours since their conversation in the bar. "I assume Raoul has kept you informed?"
"Naturally. As an observer, few are better qualified than he."
"Should I know him?"
"No. His, ah, field of expertise was not the same as yours."
Roads nodded, remembering his first sight of Raoul in the darkened cellar. The mutual recognition had been instantaneous — not of who they were, but of what they had once been. He'd hoped — and feared at the same time — that they might have had more in common.
Morrow's voice intruded upon his reverie. "I have some information for you."
"Go on."
"Raoul left Old North Street two hours ago to help me process the data he collected. It took us longer than we thought to check the list of hardware, but we made it in the end."
"And?"
"We found a discrepancy." Morrow's face shifted aside to make room for a text-box, in which appeared a single line of data:
EPA44210: 314,315, 318
The numbers made little sense to Roads. "Explain, please."
"Serial numbers for three missing items, and one part number."
"Of what?"
"That I can't tell you, I'm afraid, although I can describe them. Each EPA44210 is spherical, three centimetres in diameter, made of a silver metal, and weighs two hundred grams. The serial numbers are physically inscribed, and cannot be removed."
Roads scrawled the digits on a sheet of scrap paper. "Why can't you tell me what they are, Keith?"
Morrow winked. "Because I can't, my boy. You'll have to find that out for yourself."
"Thanks a lot." Roads yawned involuntarily. "Is there anything else you wanted to tell me?"
"No. Nothing that can't wait."
"Good. Then I'll speak to you later."
"Sleep tight." The Head vanished from the screen.
Roads rubbed his eyes and tried to think. His instincts nagged at him, trying to tell him something, but he couldn't force it through the exhaustion.
He stared at the information Morrow had given him for five minutes before giving up. The numbers meant nothing to him.
He loaded the fiche containing the new data gained from Morrow. Cross-referencing each break-in with those he had already been aware of — involving 'official' datapools rather than Keith Morrow's — he arrived at a comprehensive calendar of the previous forty-odd days.
On every night, the Mole had plucked information from various places in the city, apparently at random. Hospitals, community services, the MSA and RSD itself had been raided, plus the establishments that Morrow had not identified. The stolen data concerned disease outbreaks, population figures, defensive capabilities, staff movements, production estimates, policy decisions, financial flows, and so on.
There was no obvious link from one night to the next, almost as though the Mole had been aiming for a random overview of the city's combined datapool, and the Mole's drunkard walk became even more confusing when Morrow's data was added to the list. The Blindeye strategy gained credence the more Roads thought about it: the Mole's path was unpredictable, so RSD had to force him to a specific location where they could be waiting for him.
If it worked, they would have him. But, if it didn't, the Mole would have them: the city's entire datapool — anything he wanted — at his fingertips.
But what, Roads asked himself, sensing he was getting close at last, did the Mole want ?
Much of the stolen information was sensitive, but much wasn't. One night, the Mole gained access to confidential records that listed every piece of equipment owned by the Military Service Authority; the next, he contented
Finally, he dialled Morrow's unlisted number. The Head appeared on the screen of his computer in full colour, looking much the same as he had earlier that day.
"We meet again, Phil."
"Yes." It seemed much longer than mere hours since their conversation in the bar. "I assume Raoul has kept you informed?"
"Naturally. As an observer, few are better qualified than he."
"Should I know him?"
"No. His, ah, field of expertise was not the same as yours."
Roads nodded, remembering his first sight of Raoul in the darkened cellar. The mutual recognition had been instantaneous — not of who they were, but of what they had once been. He'd hoped — and feared at the same time — that they might have had more in common.
Morrow's voice intruded upon his reverie. "I have some information for you."
"Go on."
"Raoul left Old North Street two hours ago to help me process the data he collected. It took us longer than we thought to check the list of hardware, but we made it in the end."
"And?"
"We found a discrepancy." Morrow's face shifted aside to make room for a text-box, in which appeared a single line of data:
EPA44210: 314,315, 318
The numbers made little sense to Roads. "Explain, please."
"Serial numbers for three missing items, and one part number."
"Of what?"
"That I can't tell you, I'm afraid, although I can describe them. Each EPA44210 is spherical, three centimetres in diameter, made of a silver metal, and weighs two hundred grams. The serial numbers are physically inscribed, and cannot be removed."
Roads scrawled the digits on a sheet of scrap paper. "Why can't you tell me what they are, Keith?"
Morrow winked. "Because I can't, my boy. You'll have to find that out for yourself."
"Thanks a lot." Roads yawned involuntarily. "Is there anything else you wanted to tell me?"
"No. Nothing that can't wait."
"Good. Then I'll speak to you later."
"Sleep tight." The Head vanished from the screen.
Roads rubbed his eyes and tried to think. His instincts nagged at him, trying to tell him something, but he couldn't force it through the exhaustion.
He stared at the information Morrow had given him for five minutes before giving up. The numbers meant nothing to him.
He loaded the fiche containing the new data gained from Morrow. Cross-referencing each break-in with those he had already been aware of — involving 'official' datapools rather than Keith Morrow's — he arrived at a comprehensive calendar of the previous forty-odd days.
On every night, the Mole had plucked information from various places in the city, apparently at random. Hospitals, community services, the MSA and RSD itself had been raided, plus the establishments that Morrow had not identified. The stolen data concerned disease outbreaks, population figures, defensive capabilities, staff movements, production estimates, policy decisions, financial flows, and so on.
There was no obvious link from one night to the next, almost as though the Mole had been aiming for a random overview of the city's combined datapool, and the Mole's drunkard walk became even more confusing when Morrow's data was added to the list. The Blindeye strategy gained credence the more Roads thought about it: the Mole's path was unpredictable, so RSD had to force him to a specific location where they could be waiting for him.
If it worked, they would have him. But, if it didn't, the Mole would have them: the city's entire datapool — anything he wanted — at his fingertips.
But what, Roads asked himself, sensing he was getting close at last, did the Mole want ?
Much of the stolen information was sensitive, but much wasn't. One night, the Mole gained access to confidential records that listed every piece of equipment owned by the Military Service Authority; the next, he contented
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