Metal Fatigue by Sean Williams Page A

The heat of the day was already building, now that the overnight storm had passed, and he rolled his shirt sleeves up to the elbows as he waited for the cab to descend.
    PIN number ... He scowled at the keypad, remembering the days when the lock had been keyed by either retinae or hand-prints. The old systems had been replaced two decades ago, their original components either malfunctioning or required elsewhere.
    It sometimes seemed ironic that, after forty years of Dissolution, the greatest threat to the city's viability came not from the outside, but from within. Materials could only be recycled for so long without fresh input; streets and buildings were not built to last forever; metals had become scarce; complexity was being traded for longevity in a desperate bid to keep the city's computer networks running. It was only a matter of time before the situation became critical, and Kennedy was forced to do what it had resisted for so long.
    The doors to the elevator slid open and he stepped inside. The rear wall of the cab comprised a full-length mirror. He studied his reflection gloomily, trying to coax a semblance of life out of his clothes and hair. Even his moustache looked limp.
    A wave of giddiness accompanied his sudden ascent to the top of the building. When the doors opened again, he entered the floor that housed the senior administrative bloc, a region he preferred not to visit too often. His own office was on the fifth floor; not too far from the rowdiness of street level, but not too close to it, either. He had no aspiration to rise any higher, preferring quiet efficiency and anonymity to conspicuous success.
    Margaret Chappel's private secretary spotted him the moment he stepped out of the cab.
    "Officer Roads — "
    "Hello, Michael. Where's the coffee?"
    Michael handed Roads a cup. "If you'd like to go through, sir, they're waiting for you."
    Roads was tempted to ask who, exactly, they were, but let it pass. Instead, he followed obediently to the main office.
    Margaret Chappel was tall, thin and on the far side of fifty — an age she preferred to show rather than hide behind makeup. Roads had known her ever since he had joined RSD, and had both followed and supported her rise to the top. Their close friendship was well known, but he refused to confirm whether he had coined her unofficial nickname — 'the Mantis' — in order to enhance her already terrifying reputation on the lower floors. Just a glimpse of a scowl, accentuated by narrow cheekbones and grey hair worn habitually in a pony-tail, had been known to silence the most vehement protests.
    When he stepped into her office, she stood, smiled and gestured at a seat. Two other men occupied the room. One — a wide-faced red-head with freckled, pale skin — was Roger Wiggs, head of the specialist homicide team assigned to hunt the assassin; he looked about as fresh as Roads, despite being in more formal uniform. The other was an unknown, dressed in a black, casual suit that matched his hair and briefcase. His features were narrow, but not disproportioned; even seated it was clear he was the tallest person in the room. Had Roads been asked to guess an age, he would have started at thirty and worked his way up — but not too far.
    Margaret Chappel performed the brief introductions. "Phil, this is Antoni DeKurzak. He's acting as a special liaison between us and the Reunited States Military Corps, on behalf of the MSA and the Mayoralty."
    DeKurzak stood and shook hands with Roads. "My job is to keep the Reassimilation as smooth as possible," the liaison officer said, his voice mild and unassuming. "We don't want any mishaps along the way, do we?"
    "Naturally not." Roads collapsed into a chair and felt his bones creak. He wasn't in the mood for pleasantries. His reaction to meeting the MSA officer consisted of annoyance, mixed with surprise that his superiors hadn't sent someone more senior. "You'll have to excuse the blood and sweat, folks. One of our little