Ah. So, Fitz was right about Fregg. The man was practically preening himself. And he wasn’t doing it for Izza’s benefit. Well, not entirely.
As Fregg settled into the visitor’s chair, Yanzeung threw an irritated nod at Izza, who remained standing behind her. “Who’s this?”
“This is Fey, my personal assistant. Makes the coffee, carries things, and wipes my arse when I tell her.”
The man flinched at Fregg’s crudeness.
“She’s also my legal expert.”
“Ahh.” He nodded as if that explained everything. “A heavily armed legal advisor to boot. You are most unconventional, Ms. Fregg.”
Heavily armed? Behind her stylish shades, Izza frowned. Had she misread the situation? She was armed only with her hand cannon holstered in full view on her thigh. That and knives hidden inside her boots. It was Sinofar who was waiting outside who was heavily armed, and even she was only carrying one main weapon.
Yanzeung pointed at Izza. “The dark shades too. They are a little intimidating. We are not outside in the sunshine.”
Izza felt a tingle in her gun hand. She’d seen news hate-bait that smeared Fitz and her as well as Creyoh. The news shapers had been playing the angle that a brood of mutant hellspawn lived among them. Now that Izza was in town, she supposed they had a point.
“Mr. Yanzeung,” said Fregg, flattering him with a beautiful smile. “I have come here to consider investing in KIN, not to rob you.”
Greed got the better of the man’s fears. “Of course. Of course.” He looked desperately at Izza.
Fregg stood and interposed herself between the two. “Tell me in your own words how Kadeja Independent News makes its money and why I should invest in your little empire, rather than one of the other independents.”
“O-kay. Well, KIN is a news media outlet, which means our primary business is to sell advertising. For that to work, our consumers have to keep coming back to our newsfeed. Half the stories we run are filler. Sure, some people like them, but we carry these to give our brand respectability. I’m talking weather, local sports, and all that factual crap.
“The real money makers come in two flavors. Freaks, tearjerkers, and weird shit is one part. ‘Hey, didja hear about that woman in Hudstan City who killed her cheating husband and used his skin as a rug?’ That kind of thing. Ran that headline last week, as a matter of fact.
“The most important items we carry are the stories where we tell our consumers who to hate. We get people all riled up, and that feeling is a chemical response in the brain. All species who respond to adverts have that same stimulus hook. We get them addicted so they have to keep coming back to us to get their little fix of rage.”
His face transformed into a red snarl. “How dare they?” he yelled. “They shouldn’t be allowed to get away with that crap! I’d like to see them come here and try that.” He bunched his fists. “I’d tear their damned faces off!”
Yanzeung calmed and smiled. “We want our consumers to scream at us, and that’s the kind of thing we want them to be howling. It’s not pretty, but that’s how the news industry works across the Federation.”
“Perfect.” Fregg brought a transact mini-slate out of her brand new purse. Actually, it was Izza’s. “I’d want to see your books, of course.” She activated the device and casually tilted the screen to let Yanzeung see the credit balance.
Yanzeung’s mouth dropped open. “You’ll inspect the books anyway,” he said in a small voice, “but I’ll save you time and level with you now. Capula Media from two star systems over is trying to bully all us independents and make us sell for peanuts. They’re selling advertising space at a heavy loss to drive down our margins until we’re too desperate to say no. Put your money in, Ms. Fregg, and we’ll draw down on your investment to stay afloat. We’ll be the last independent standing. In the end, Capula will tender an offer to make us go away. A generous offer. You invest two million in KIN now and, within two years, you’ll be walking away with four.”
“I shall make you a different offer,” said Fregg. “Pay attention because it will only be open for sixty seconds. Are you ready?”
Yanzeung nodded like a happy puppy.
“I will pay ten million today to buy your entire organization.”
“Agreed.” There wasn’t a millisecond’s hesitation.
Damn, Fregg. You were supposed to offer twenty. Well played!
Izza allowed herself to admire her logistics manager for a few moments while they finalized the transaction. Then she drew her blaster and pointed it at Yanzeung’s head. “Get up and stand by the wall.”
“Hey!” Horror filling his eyes, Yanzeung looked from Izza to Fregg, but found no refuge in either face. “I thought we had a deal. What’s going on?”
Izza lifted her shades and bent over the desk, pushing the business end of her blaster against the man’s forehead.
His mouth dropped open when he recognized her. “You!”
“Yeah, me.” She thumbed the charge switch and enjoyed the effect on the former owner of Kadeja Independent News as her firearm twitched with power. “Now get out! You’re sitting in my chair.”
* * * * *
Chapter 12: Izza Zan Fey
Getting rid of Yanzeung had been a pleasure. The next step was a bore.
Sinofar was strolling around the four-story building, cradling her enormous Khrone Cannon as she asked terrified staff to stroke the skull that decorated its 15-point force band emitter. Meanwhile, the rest of Phantom’s team interviewed news capture personnel to find any who might be regarded as journalists in the ancient sense.
The role of the news media was hardly the kind of philosophical position that had previously troubled Izza’s mind. Green Fish had studied the history of political philosophy at school, though, and supplied a few key notes and maxims.
Was anyone at KIN prepared to lay out the objective facts about important matters, without fear or favor, to inform their consumers, whose opinions were sovereign?
That’s the line they settled on. Most of the news staff reacted with confusion or anger. Some shrugged and replied that they would write whatever they were told.
It was Green Fish who landed a live one, rushing out of a smoky office room to grab Izza out of her own unpromising interview.
“Tell your new boss what you told me,” Green Fish demanded of the journalist, a human woman Izza judged to be in her late twenties. Like most of the workers at KIN, she wore business attire that seemed to have taken ship suits as their starting point but tailored them out of natural fabrics. Izza noted differences, though. Instead of the conventional fashion of oversized tan boots, the woman wore glossy black shoes. Around her neck was a brightly patterned silken scarf tied in an extravagant knot, and, in contrast to the other workers, her hair was styled asymmetrically.
“I said a lotta stuff,” said the woman. “Where do you want me to start?”
She took a pipe off her desk and snapped out its stem. Izza gestured for her to stop.
“I don’t like the smell of pipe smoke on my coat,” she explained. “And I don’t like the lake of toxic sludge the size of a small sea only a hundred klicks from your office. Do you live in the vicinity, err…?”
“Odette Zal Cohn. No. Used to live in an outer suburb fifteen kilometers to the southeast, but now I commute. From the north. The Great Sludge Lake drains to the south, poisoning tens of thousands of square kilometers on the way. KIN HQ is plenty close enough for me. I don’t want to live here too.”
“So, you don’t deny what’s happening on your doorstep. Why don’t you mention it in your reporting?”
Cohn reached by habit for her pipe. She stopped herself. “We all know it’s happening. We know who’s responsible too. Of course, we do. But KIN would never run the story. I’d lose my job just trying to bring it up. The best anyone can do to draw attention to it is online activism.”
“And do you?”
The color changes in Cohn’s skin were fascinating to a Zhoog
ene like Izza. First, the woman went pale with fear, flicking nervous glances between Izza and Green Fish. It was Green Fish’s gotcha expression that troubled Cohn the most.
Blood rushed back into the woman’s skin, coloring her cheeks to a far deeper shade then they had started.
Humans are so strange.
Cohn stood erect behind her desk and puffed out her chest. “I’ve been running an unlicensed online journalism channel for two years now. I’m not ashamed of it.”
“Careful, Odette,” said Green Fish. “Actions like those have consequences. Personal consequences.”
Cohn blanched once more. She trembled, but she didn’t sit.
Izza piled in with the pressure. “Think very carefully before you answer. When you said you aren’t ashamed, are you telling us you are not ashamed to tell the truth?”
Cohn appeared confused by the question. “First thing they taught us in journalism school,” she said, “is that there is no such thing as the truth. There are many truths, and your job as a journalist is to define the most appropriate one for your consumers. I’m not convinced it is even theoretically possible to have a single objective truth. But I do believe we can narrow any story down to a range of…let’s call them high-truth versions. In my independent work, I explore these most plausible versions of events and their contexts as objectively as I can. Then I invite my consumers to draw their own conclusions.”
“Does this work?” asked Izza.
Such a simple question, but Cohn slumped, defeated, supporting herself with her hands on her desk. “Hardly anyone wants to know,” she answered. “People are so used to being told what to think and who to hate, they prefer it that way. They deny this, especially to themselves, but it’s a solid fact.”
“When I hear you speak,” Izza told her, “I get a sense of revulsion in my gut. I don’t like it.”
Her words had a very human effect on Cohn. The woman stood erect once more and jutted out her jaw.
Izza had seen this response before. When most species lost hope, their spirits crumbled. Humans were the other way around. Hopelessness just sharpened their resolve and concentrated their minds. With all the crises hitting the Federation, it was the humans who would get them out.
She smiled at the journalist. “The consequence of your action, Odette Cohn, is that I hereby appoint you editor-in-chief.”
The woman’s eyes fogged with confusion. Then she realized the truth. “Thank you,” she gushed. “I think.” Her face grew suspicious. “What does the post entail?”
“You set journalistic policy. Your journalists will explore the truth, as you just described it to me. Anyone who doesn’t will be out. You won’t run the paper because I can easily find people to handle that. Other than the toxic lake, I know nothing specific about this planet’s politics or institutions. I have no editorial policy except to demand your…range of high-truth explanations. And it won’t be enough for you to sit here at your desk and smoke your pipe. I expect you to go out and lead by example.”
“I see.”
“You don’t look as enthusiastic as I’d expected.”
“Please. Understand that I am honored. I guess you give me hope.”
“But?”
“But KIN is a small operation. If we go ahead with your idea, we’re about to piss off everyone of influence across the planet. I have a husband at home with my twin babies. If I do as you say, it will flatter your sense of morality, but it could mean a horrible death for them.”
Izza walked over to Green Fish and told her to wait outside.
Once they had a little privacy, she told Cohn, “What the newest recruit to my ship’s crew doesn’t need to know is that I have more money than you can imagine. On the other hand, as my husband would say, my account at the Bank of Karma is heavily in the red. Combine those two facts and know that I am both willing and able to keep you safe.” She activated her comms. “Sinofar, could you join us for a moment, please?”
“Holy shit!” Cohn observed when Sinofar walked in toting her Khrone Cannon, a weapon regarded as a crew-served support gun by most people.
“How many weapons do you need?” Cohn stuttered, eyeing the blaster rifle slung over Sinofar’s shoulder and the pistols holstered at each hip.
“As many as are required to do the job,” Sinofar replied. “What’s the problem?”
“Ms. Cohn here has doubts about your ability to protect her, her family, and her team.”
Cohn held her hands out in surrender. “No. No, I wasn’t criticizing you.”
“Not a problem,” said Sinofar. “It’s a fair question. I can’t always shoot all the bad people myself, but I can organize a team to ensure we do. Would you like me to waste someone to demonstrate?”
“That won’t be necessary,” said Izza. “I want you to run through security with my new editor-in-chief. It has to work even when Phantom is not in system.”
Sinofar stretched out her hand to the newly promoted journalist. Izza had to stifle a chuckle as the woman shook it reluctantly, as if she expected Sinofar to crush her bones into dust.
She didn’t of course. Although Verlys was perfectly capable of doing so if she wanted.
Sinofar gave a shy smile. “Rest assured, Ms. Cohn, I’ll keep you and yours safe. And I’ll ensure those who wish you harm will be either looking over their shoulders in fear or staring through sightless eyes from the bottom of their graves.”
* * * * *
Chapter 13: KNS Studios
Hudstan City, Kryzabik
“Welcome to KNS Priority News, bringing you the stories you need to hear at the top of the hour.”
“Storm warning!” announced the Zhoogene co-anchor. “Hurricanes building over Lufferey Ocean to lash Hudstan Capital Zone in two days.”
“Democracy in peril!” warned the human who’d kicked off this segment. “Jacobin Party dusts off dirty tricks playbook to smear ruling coalition candidates.”
“But first, this is the evil we face! An exclusive report details Panhandler atrocities on Planet Bisheesh.”
The view closed in on the Zhoogene anchor and the concern she wore on her face. “A world formerly torn apart by religious intolerance, Bisheesh became a peaceful world following its incorporation into the Federation in FL-2316. Harmony. Prosperity. And the charm of the Anori, the indigenous race who like to go about their daily business naked.” She laughed. “The Anori don’t merely do away with clothing, their skin is completely transparent. You can literally see right through them! For many of us living here on Kryzabik, the world of Bisheesh would make us sick with envy. Until two years ago.”
The KNS feed cut to footage of Anori people fleeing in terror. Several were cut down by blaster fire. An aerial view of craggy mountains showed flames jetting out of a cave entrance. The info-window named this place Azoth-Zol. Since this version of the feed was tagged for viewers who had selected the disturbing material opt in, it proceeded to show a line of Anori corpses hanging from a pole slung across a city street. All had been disemboweled.
The feed cut to a mountain plateau where smiling Panhandler foot soldiers unloaded unmarked equipment crates from a light transport aircraft. They looked so carefree, they could be on vacation. Most were human, but there was a Gliesan and a chubby squid-like Xhiunerite too. Their utility clothing sported the emblem of the Rebellion and so did the footage itself. Perhaps this was a Panhandler recruitment video? The camera closed in on a human woman with a sword slung across her back. Her lilac-flecked eyes were striking. She gave a self-conscious laugh as she pouted for the camera while making a Rebel hand gesture.
Once more, the feed showed heaps of mutilated Anori corpses before returning to the safety of the KNS studio.
“This is the true face of the Pan-Human Progressive Alliance,” said the Zhoogene woman. “They swear they are merely peaceful protesters, but after those images we’ve just seen, we know that’s a cynical lie.”
Suddenly, the Zhoogene flinched. “Those rebels might use the word
‘progressive’ in their name, Lonstanzo, but that doesn’t look like progress to me. Plus, eww. Pan-Human! Is it just me, or does that sound more than a bit racist? Are we reverting back thousands of years to the era of inter-species hatred?”
“I’m sorry, Fhu-Reynahu,” said the human anchor, “but I need to correct you on an important point about the Pan-Human Progressive Alliance. When the Exiles showed up at the Zhooge system three thousand years ago, they explained they were using the word human as a kind of rallying cry for all disadvantaged species of the Orion Spur.”
“Thank you for pointing that out. But…” Fhu-Reynahu frowned. “Remind me, who was it that explained that the word ‘human’ didn’t actually mean human? Was it the Littoranes?”
Lonstanzo raised a carefully crafted eyebrow. “I guess it was just the humans. My ancestors.”
Fhu-Reynahu placed her hand over her co-anchor’s, green over brown. “In modern Kryzabik, we’ve learned to get along. It would be such a tragedy if that were undone by people listening to the lies of these Panhandler murderers.”
A commotion was kicking off in the studio, out of the camera’s view.
Fhu-Reynahu snatched back her hand. “Who the fuck is that?” She stood and pointed at something behind the camera. “Get that ugly blue bitch out of my studi-oh-gods! Don’t shoot me! I’m a journalist!”
The anchors dropped behind the desk. Fhu-Reynahu’s whispers were clearly picked up by a microphone. “We’ve been invaded by a godsdamned Pryxian warrior princess. Get security in here and shoot the freak dead. No negotiation. Just shoot the damned bitch!”
The intruder came into the shot. It was a Pryxian woman, the contours of her bare blue arms bulging with muscular power as they couched an enormous firearm decorated with a burnished skull.
She laid the weapon on the news desk and leaped over. Then she bent down and lifted the human and the Zhoogene anchors by the scruff of their necks.
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