by Kal Spriggs
Not that the price of food went down, Clarence thought, coldly. He made a decent living, but even he had noticed that the cost of living was steadily inching upwards. God alone knew what was really happening in the countryside. The Forsakers were evicted for nothing.
He looked towards the spaceport in the distance as the rest of the pieces fell into place. The Forsakers were easy targets. Harmless, by and large; unarmed, certainly. And easily demonised by radical politicians. The pressure to do something about them was overwhelming ... no, had been overwhelming. It was clear the government had decided that deporting the Forsakers was a concession they could afford to make, although it was pointless. Clarence hoped, in a moment of naked horror, that the government actually was deporting the Forsakers. There were nastier things that could happen ...
This will not stand, he promised himself, as the police started to drive away with their prisoners. They were heading towards the spaceport, at least, although he knew that proved nothing. There was plenty of room for a mass grave in the wastelands beyond the spaceport complex. I’ll tell the world.
Clarence rolled over and stood, hurrying back towards the ladder. The show was over, as far as he could tell. He had to get his story out before the Forsakers were actually loaded onto a starship - or sold into slavery or whatever other horrible fate the government might have in mind for them - and deported forever. He’d make sure the people knew what was being done in their name. He silently reviewed the footage he’d recorded as he slipped down the ladder and ran towards the fence. The Forsakers weren’t popular, but the right footage - carefully chosen - would change that. He’d have the entire population shouting in outrage by the time he was done.
Scrambling over the fence, he fled into the darkness. There was no sign of anyone on the streets, not even a handful of homeless or a patrolling police car. It was easy to believe that he’d imagined everything, he thought, as he reached a diner and called a hovercab. If he hadn’t had the footage, it would have been hard to convince anyone that it had really happened. It was so unthinkable that ... it was unthinkable. The government was harsh, at times, but it wasn’t monstrous ...
Hard times make people do monstrous things, he thought, as the hovercab dropped him off outside his apartment. And people who think they cannot be called to account can be the worst of all.
Clarence allowed himself a tight smile as he sat down in front of his terminal - his wife had long since gone to bed - and started to review the footage and write the story. It would make his career, he was sure. Every reporter yearned for something that would make him famous, something that would change the world. The truly great reporters had been household names, once upon a time. They’d exposed corruption, they’d caught criminals ... a couple had even had flicks made of their lives. Clarence wanted that kind of fame for himself. And he would have it ...
He finished writing the story, uploading it and the footage to the newspaper’s server, then went to bed. His wife shifted uncomfortably as he climbed under the sheets, but otherwise didn’t move. Clarence didn’t really blame her. She’d been up for most of the day, first taking their son to nursery and then handling her job. Clarence would have liked to be the sole breadwinner - he didn’t like the tired look in his wife’s eyes - but there was no alternative. He simply didn’t bring in enough money to ensure a good start in life for his son.
Things will be different, he silently promised his wife. And they start from tomorrow.
And he was right. The following morning, he received an email that told him he’d been fired.
Chapter Two
That, too, should be no surprise. The difference between what the general public was being told and reality, what they were actually seeing, was too great to be wished away. People refused to believe - and quite rightly too - that their eyes and ears were lying to them.
- Professor Leo Caesius. Crying Wolf: The Media and the Fall of the Empire.
Clarence stared at the email in shock.
It was hard, so hard, to process what he was actually seeing. He’d expected praise, not ... he hadn’t expected to be fired. His thoughts ran in circles as he read the email again and again, trying to make some sense out of it. He’d been fired. He’d been fired. He’d been ...
He swallowed hard, unable to believe what he was seeing. He’d been fired ... it was the end of the world. He was jobless ... he’d never get another job, not if he’d been fired. His heartbeat was suddenly very loud, pounding in his ears. He’d been fired. There was no hope of finding another job, not in the cutthroat world of the reporter. Every news service on Tarsus would blacklist a reporter who’d been fired. And even if they didn’t ... he was all too aware of just how few jobs there actually were. A reporter - a man who wasn’t qualified to be anything else - had no hope of finding another job. He wouldn’t even have a hope of becoming a street-sweeper. The union would make sure of that. He didn’t even have the right qualifications.
Clarence’s fingers shook as he made himself a cup of coffee, his head spinning. It was the end of the world. He found himself looking around the apartment numbly, silently cataloguing just how many things had been bought on account. It wouldn’t be long before the bank started talking tough, demanding to know how he intended to pay his mortgage, let alone his credit chip debts. They’d be right, too. Clarence didn’t have that much in his savings account. It wouldn’t be long before he couldn’t pay his debts and everything would be repossessed. What little he owned that was his would be taken away and sold to offset the debts ...
He took a long breath, forcing himself to calm down. Perhaps it wasn’t as bad as it looked, he told himself. Perhaps ... he sat down in front of the terminal and tapped a key, bringing up the email again. It was hard, so hard, to concentrate. How long would it be before they cancelled his datanet account? It didn’t cost much, in the grand scheme of things, to have access to the datanet, but if he’d been fired ... he tried to imagine life without the datanet and shuddered. He wouldn’t even be able to file stories to the media networks without datanet access ... if, of course, the networks accepted them. The union would bitch and moan about an independent reporter trying to make a honest living. And no one would risk speaking up in his favour.
The email stubbornly refused to change, no matter how he stared at it. Clarence sipped his coffee, forcing himself to read through it once more. It was a masterful piece of bureaucratese, he had to admit, claiming that he’d been fired for a handful of unspecified offences ... he cursed, savagely, as the truth dawned on him. Whoever had fired him had set out to do him a favour ... no, it just looked as if whoever had fired him had set out to do him a favour. In reality, they’d stuck a knife in his back. There was no way he could disprove the claims against him, no way he could defend himself from charges that were maddeningly undefined ... there was no way anyone would hire him, when they didn’t know what he’d done. Clarence found himself shaking in horror. His life was over. A petty thief had a better chance of getting another job than him, now. He was going to starve to death. His wife and son were going to starve to death beside him.
A surge of helpless anger ran through him. He’d been screwed. He’d been thoroughly screwed ... and why? What had he done? He couldn’t understand it. He’d been a good reporter, damn it! He’d written stories covering everything from politics to flower arranging, as his bosses had decreed. And now he’d been fired. He stood, pacing the room as he tried to understand what had happened. Why had he been fired? And why had he been fired in such a manner? He’d never heard of anyone being fired in a manner that made it impossible for them to get another job!
He grabbed his coat out of habit, keying his terminal to call a hovercab before remembering - too late - that he could no longer afford to waste money on indulgences. His finger hovered over the cancel button before he decided that there was no point in trying to claw back half the taxi fare. It was only ten credits ... he shook his head as he pulled on his coat and snapped his terminal into his belt. H
e couldn’t take the time to walk to the office, not when he needed to see Alistair Allrianne before the man’s daily routine of meetings began. The Chief Editor would understand, surely, when Clarence explained that he needed his job. He’d tell Clarence that he hadn’t been fired ... wouldn’t he? Clarence knew he was clutching at straws, but ... he had to try to get his job back, somehow. He’d do anything to get his job back.
The terminal bleeped, informing him that the hovercab was waiting downstairs. Clarence took one last look at the apartment, wondering just how long it would be before he and his family would have to move out, then hurried downstairs to the door. The hovercab driver waved cheerfully at him as he clambered into the vehicle. Clarence barely heard the man’s attempts to chat, even though normally he would have enjoyed bandying words with the driver. The man wouldn’t be so friendly if he knew Clarence had been fired. An unemployed man had no friends or family, for fear that unemployment might be catching ... somehow. Clarence felt his heart sink as he remembered a handful of his fellow students who’d never managed to find good jobs. He hadn’t shunned them, not really ...
You did, his thoughts mocked them. You could have stayed in touch. But you didn’t.
He sagged into the seat as the hovercab passed a pair of aircars and headed north, towards the bustling heart of the city. The sight normally took Clarence’s breath away, but now ... he could hardly think straight. He wondered, morbidly, just how hard it was to live on the streets ... it wasn’t a pleasant thought. There were already hundreds of thousands of homeless people on the planet. Would he and his family be allowed to join them? Or ... he shivered helplessly. How could he do anything for his family without a job?
His terminal bleeped. He glanced at it in sudden hope, then felt his heart sink - again - as he realised it was just a piece of spam advertising a fancy aircar he wouldn’t have been able to afford even when he’d had a job. That was going to stop, he told himself, once the spammers realised he was unemployed. There was no point in trying to get money out of an unemployed man. Clarence had never had that much money in his life. And when he was cut off from the datanet ... a bleak vista opened up in front of him, dragging him down into the depths of despair. If he wasn’t a reporter, what was he? He didn’t know.
Useless, he thought. I’m a useless bastard without my job.
He touched the terminal, one finger lingering over Minnie’s icon. He could call his wife ... he should call his wife. And yet, the thought was somehow unbearable. He couldn’t tell his wife that he’d been fired, not yet. She’d be shocked, then horrified, then finally angry at him for losing his job. She didn’t bring in enough money to keep them off the streets, if she managed to keep her job. Clarence cursed his boss under his breath as he realised that Minnie might get fired too. Her boss wouldn’t know what her husband had done to get fired either.
Go to work, he thought, desperately. Get your job back. Somehow ...
“Here we are,” the driver said, with maddening cheer. “The front entrance, sir?”
“Yes, please,” Clarence said.
He pressed his credit chip against the reader as the hovercab landed, half-expecting the transaction to be declined. God knew what he’d do if it was declined. He didn’t carry much cash on him, no one did. Easier and safer to carry a credit chip, unless one had been fired and one’s creditors were breathing down one’s neck. The bank might place a hold on all transactions until he worked out a new payment plan ... if he could work out a new payment plan. He hadn’t realised just how tense he was until the machine bleeped, informing him that the transaction had been accepted. The door clicked open. Clarence wondered, as he scrambled out of the hovercab, just what would have happened if it had been declined. The driver might have flown him straight to the nearest police station.
Which would have been the perfect end to the day, he thought, sourly. Lose one’s job, get arrested ... all in the space of a few hours.
The Daily Truth lived in a colossal building, a steel and iron monstrosity that had been the height of architectural fashion a few hundred years ago. Clarence had admired the design hugely when he’d first started to work for the newspaper; it had, he’d felt, the right attitude for a media company that prided itself on asking the tough questions and giving answers to the public. Fifteen years as an employee, from cub to senior reporter, had soured him somewhat on the ideals of journalism, but ... he still admired the building. Now ... he sucked in his breath and marched towards the door, steeling himself to face the stares of his former colleagues. They’d been his friends, once upon a time. Now ... he told himself that he had to keep going, somehow. He tried not to think, as he stepped into the lobby, that once upon a time had been only yesterday.
He passed through the lobby, silently grateful that it was almost empty. The thought of being seen as he came to plead with his boss - for his job, for answers, for ... he wasn’t sure any longer - was horrifying. And yet ... when he pressed his fingers against the inner door, it bleeped in warning. His access to the upper floors, where the actual work was done, had been cancelled. He wondered, as he turned to look around the lobby, just why it surprised him. There was no shortage of horror stories about disgruntled former employees turning up at their former jobs and opening fire. It had never occurred to Clarence that he might, one day, be one of those poor bastards.
The secretary looked up at him, her eyes widening - slightly - as she saw his face. Clarence felt a surge of sudden hatred that surprised him in its intensity, even though the poor girl had done nothing to him. She was just window dressing, chosen more for her looks than any actual competency ... she had a job. It wasn’t much - there was no shortage of young women willing to sit at a desk and look pretty - but it was a job. Clarence gritted his teeth, telling himself to calm down. The secretary was powerless. There was nothing she could do to help or hurt him. And yet, she had a job. She was a cut above him, now.
And perhaps we shouldn’t have mocked the wretched girls so badly, he thought, with a twinge of shame. If this one remembers me ...
He kept his face impassive, silently grateful that his dark face hid his feelings. The secretaries, receptionists and interns came and went, sometimes so quickly that no one outside Human Resources knew their names. They were terrifyingly vulnerable to predators in the office, Clarence knew. He hadn’t taken advantage of any of the young girls himself, but he hadn’t stopped any of his friends from doing it themselves. Journalism’s dirty little secret was that it was easy to exploit people for personal gain. And not just sexually. He’d intended to turn the Forsaker tragedy into his personal story, the expose that would transform him into a celebrity and catapult him into the major leagues. He’d thought it would secure his place in the history of journalism.
“I need to speak to Mr. Allrianne,” he said, suddenly unsure what to say. Allrianne had always insisted his reporters call him by his first name, but ... now, Clarence wasn’t one of his reporters. “Please could you buzz me through the doors.”
The receptionist gave him a bland smile, but he could see the tension in her eyes. “I’m afraid Mr. Allrianne is busy, sir,” she said. “If you leave your name, address and contact details, he’ll get back in touch with you as soon as possible.”
Clarence felt his temper fray. “You know damn well who I am,” he said, sharply. “You can call him and ...”
He caught himself, knowing it was already too late. The receptionist was young, barely out of her teens. She didn’t deserve to be shouted at by ... by what? What was he, now he was unemployed? There was nothing to be gained by shouting at her. She couldn’t do anything, up to and including going to the toilet, without permission from her superiors. She could no more buzz him through the security doors than she could wear something that actually made her look like a respectable employee. He found it impossible to believe she actually wanted to wear a ridiculously over-sexualised dress.
“I’m afraid Mr. Allrianne is busy,” the receptionist repeated. “If you leave you ...�
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“He knows who I am,” Clarence said. He felt as though he was bullying a child, but he couldn’t stop himself. “Call him. Tell him that ...”
He heard someone behind him, too late. A strong arm slammed into his back, forcing him over the desk. Clarence barely had any time to react before his arms were yanked back and cuffed behind his back. He twisted, but he couldn’t break free. The security guard - he kicked himself, silently, for looking down on the security guards too - searched him roughly, then pulled him to his feet. Clarence knew he’d seen the man before, but ... he didn’t know the man’s name. He really should have learnt their names before he needed their help. They might have been more willing to help him.
“I’ll take care of him,” the guard growled. “You don’t worry about a thing.”
The receptionist gave him a brilliant smile. “My hero.”
Clarence tugged against the cuffs, even though it was futile. “Let me go!”
