by Ryk Brown
“Our families live in San Diego,” Arielle said.
“We know,” Agent Oslo replied. “We’ll find them, and in short order.”
Hanna breathed a sigh of relief. She turned to Brent. “So, what’s next?”
“You have another netcast at noon, a strategy meeting at two, and then another netcast at six,” Brent explained.
“Where do we stay when we’re not working?” Hanna wondered.
“Not working?” Brent Tollison chuckled.
“Sleep, then?”
“There are dorms and suites clustered around this production area,” Arielle told her. “We’re all set.”
“This is probably one of the safest places you could be on the entire planet right now,” Brent added.
Agent Oslo turned to face Hanna. “Miss Bohl, we’ll be departing now. A technician will be here within the hour to set up the link for you. He will pre-program a message link to me as well. You can message me anytime, day or night.”
“Thank you,” Hanna said gratefully.
“No, thank you,” he insisted. “If this works, the people of Earth, and possibly all of humanity, will be in your debt.”
Hanna and the others were silent as agents Oslo and Lund left the room. Graham broke the silence.
“I still say you’re nuts.”
* * *
“Half of Europe has already closed their borders to all but essential traffic, and airports are at a standstill due to screening efforts,” Brent informed his senior staff members gathered at the conference table, as well as the twenty or more technicians and office personnel standing around the perimeter of the room. “The American states are doing the same. By the time the feds get their head out of their ass and order all public transit to stop, it’ll be too late.”
“How the hell are we going to get any of our people out in the field?” someone asked.
“Maybe we should start spreading them out, plunking them down in hotels at key locations while we still can,” another chimed in helpfully.
“Why don’t we just fly them?” the chief of air operations suggested. “We’ve got enough shuttles and pilots.”
“If the feds shut everything down, we’ll need special permits just to lift off,” Mister Beals pointed out.
Hanna sat at the far end of the massive conference table next to Arielle, listening quietly as the senior department heads argued. She looked over at Arielle, who leaned forward in her chair, watching intently. Her manager was totally in her element, but it was a foreign process to Hanna.
“Screw the feds,” Brent said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “What are they going to do, shoot us down?”
“They might,” Mister Beals warned.
“I don’t see it,” Brent argued, “they’ve got enough to deal with right now, and I doubt they want the additional bad publicity. Besides, they may need our shuttles at some point.”
“Bad publicity?” another department head questioned. “You talk like this will be over in a few days and everything will go back to normal. Do you really believe that?”
The room erupted into a heated debate that grew louder with each comment.
“Enough! Enough!” Brent called for order, his voice rising above the cacophony. “Everyone shut the hell up!” He waited several moments, glaring at his staff as the room slowly quieted. “Yes, the situation is bad. I get that. And no, I don’t think that things are going to ever be the same.” He looked at one of his data guys on the side of the room. “What was the last count?”
“Four million infected, five hundred thousand dead.”
Brent sighed. “And that’s just in the nations that have been reporting.” He rubbed his hands over his head and down the back of his neck, massaging the tensed muscles in his neck. “I know this looks like it’s the end of the world, and it very well could be, but I, for one, intend to continue to do my job… And I plan on doing it as long as there are people out there who want to hear what’s going on. You know why? Because I have hope. Because I want them to have hope. And if they see us, continuing on as if there will be a tomorrow, then maybe they’ll believe it as well, and they’ll try a little harder to make it through each day.” Brent looked at the faces of his staff, some of which appeared to be moved by his words. Of course, there were others, like Graham, who appeared unfazed. Brent grinned wryly, “Besides, what am I going to do? Go home and board myself up with my wife and our dogs?”
“Your wife and your dogs arrived twenty minutes ago, sir,” his assistant told him, as if on cue.
Several people laughed.
“See, that’s my point. We’re probably safer here than we are at home. So here’s the deal. Anyone who truly thinks this is the end, and wants to go home and wait for death to come knocking, feel free. Everyone who wants to keep working, call up your families and have them come stay here. Something tells me we’re going to have a lot of extra space in the near future.” Brent turned to his assistant, Jeff. “Same goes to all our regional offices. Everyone who wants to leave can go, everyone who wants to stay can bring their families. But it’s got to happen now, before the feds start locking down the skies. We might be able to get away with moving reporters around, but airlifting refugees, family or not, is bound to get noticed.”
“I’ll coordinate with all the regional shuttle ops managers,” the director of shuttle operations for the New York office said.
“What about communications?” someone asked.
“What about getting our broadcasts out?” another staffer added. “If this thing is spread digitally, it’s only a matter of time before they shut down the internet.”
“They can’t shutdown the internet!” someone protested. “Too many people depend on it for day to day…”
“They can shutdown the public internet,” the previous staffer replied. “They can, and they will. And when they do, we’ll lose ninety percent of our audience.”
“And all of our revenue.”
“People!” Brent exclaimed. “You can’t think in those terms anymore!”
“How are we going to pay people? How are we going to operate?”
“We’ll operate with what we have on hand,” Brent explained. “I’m freezing all payroll and all assets as of this moment. If the only reason you’re here is for the pay, then the door is right there!” he said, pointing to the exit. “I’m talking about the biggest story in the history of humankind! I’m talking about keeping the public informed! I’m talking about doing the right thing. If you’re talking money, then get the fuck out!”
“I’m just trying to be realistic, Brent. It takes money to operate this company. A fucking lot of it, I might add.”
“Not anymore,” Brent insisted. “Now, it’s going to take commitment. Commitment and resources. That’s all we need. And we’ve got lots of the latter. Stockpiles of it, for Christ’s sake! I’m just asking for the commitment part, and I’m offering people an out if they’re not interested. If and when we make it through this, if there is anything resembling an economy left, I’ll be more than happy to see that those who remain get compensated as best we can. But I can’t promise anyone anything. We may die at our desks.”
Again, the room got quiet.
Brent took another deep breath. “How long will our reactors continue to operate?”
“Years,” the head of utility operations replied. “I’d say a decade if their cores were changed recently.”
“And our satellites?”
“Decades,” his director of communications replied.
“Then we can broadcast via satellites if they shutdown the public internet?”
“NDIs aren’t designed to receive sat feeds,” a staffer reminded him.
“Everyone’s getting their NDIs removed or downgraded,” Brent replied. “Most people will start using smart-comms, and those are capable of receiving satellite broadcasts.”
“Those broadcasts are digital, Brent,” one of his IT directors pointed out. “If Klaria is spread by Twister…�
��
“Has Timmy Twister managed to breach our firewalls in the past?” Brent asked.
“No, not yet.”
“Then until he does, sat broadcasts are the backup plan.”
“And if the feds order us to shut the satellites down?”
“We tell them to drop dead,” Brent replied. “No pun intended.”
“They can shoot our satellites down, you know,” someone said. “Or us.”
“They’re not going to come in guns blazing,” Brent argued. “Not when we’re the only ones left broadcasting. They’re going to need us to broadcast instructions to the general public on how to survive, where to get food and water, when it’s safe to move about, and where.”
“Could we broadcast analog?” another tech staffer wondered.
“We could,” Brent replied, “but I doubt very many people still have analog devices. Museums and enthusiasts, mostly.”
“Then analog is our final fall back plan,” Brent announced. “As long as we have power, we keep broadcasting reports, every six… No, make that every three hours.”
“You want me to go on the air every three hours?” Hanna said in shock, speaking for the first time since the meeting had started nearly an hour ago.
“No, no, you’re right,” Brent agreed. “We have to step up our game here. There is too much going on. We’ll broadcast hourly updates. Fifteen minutes of headlines, followed by fifteen minutes of on-the-scene reports. Thirty minutes total per broadcast. Hanna will be lead, and we’ll bring in Constance, Jonas, and… what’s that guy’s name, the one that works the Asian division?”
“Lee Kwong?”
“Yeah, that guy. He’s got a trustworthy face.”
“You think Jonas has a trustworthy face?” someone said doubtfully.
“No, but the ladies love him,” Brent replied. “That gives us the strong female, the stylish female, the trustworthy male, and the ladies man. That should cover everyone, right?”
“Even with four anchors, you’re talking six broadcasts per day per anchor,” Arielle said, finally joining the conversation.
“We need at least one more to rotate in now and then.”
“Fine,” Brent agreed. “What are we missing?”
“How about a fatherly type?” one of the staffers suggested.
“Bob Ludlow!” someone yelled.
“Is he still working?” Brent wondered.
“At a local desk in Chicago, I think.”
“Great, then get him here, pronto,” Brent directed.
“I thought we would be in the field?” Hanna said.
“Sorry,” Brent replied. “This thing is moving too fast. I mean, four million infected, and four hundred thousand dead? In what, twenty hours?”
“It might be a good idea to send our anchors out into the field on a regular basis,” someone suggested.
“Make them look more involved, increase their credibility.” another person agreed.
“We’ll need a couple more anchors,” the operations director said. “Maybe hourly broadcasts might be too much?”
“No,” Brent disagreed. “It’s got to be hourly. We’re the only ones that can pull it off. Within a few days, the entire world will be watching Netcast News World, every hour, on the hour, and no one else. If there is still a world to broadcast to when this is over, we’ll be the only ones left standing.”
Graham leaned forward from his chair behind Arielle and Hanna, whispering in their ears. “So much for that ‘do the right thing’, speech.”
* * *
Hanna stared out the window of the shuttle as it flew in low over the buildings. From above, she could see the entire scope of the chaos. From street level, it had been terrifying, to the point that she would rather be back at her anchor desk in New York than live her dream of being a Netcast News World field reporter.
The streets below seemed barren for this time of day, with only small groups of people scurrying about. Citizens had already started moving in small packs for protection, trying to avoid commercial districts where most of the disturbances had occurred over the first thirty hours.
Above street level, police drones zipped back and forth, occasionally pausing to hover as they monitored events on the ground and relayed live images back to command. Large fire-suppression drones blasted by, racing to combat the numerous building fires caused by careless looters.
The shuttle suddenly banked left, dipping lower as it changed course.
“Why are we turning?” Hanna called out toward the cockpit. “I thought we were going back to headquarters?”
“Troops are using stunners on rioters in Brooklyn,” the pilot yelled back to her. “Dispatch wants aerials and voice-over.”
“Don’t they have anyone on the ground there?” Arielle asked.
“It’s not on the ground,” the pilot replied, “it’s on the upper decks.”
“How are we going to get the shot?” Hanna wondered. “We can’t fly low enough, can we?”
“We don’t need to,” Graham insisted as he opened up his pack. “Just get us within a hundred meters or so. I’ll pop the door and toss out a dozen orbs. We’ll get the whole damn thing in full immersion!”
“The military will neutralize those orbs, and you’ll lose them!” the pilot warned.
“Maybe,” Graham admitted. “Or maybe they’ll be too busy to notice. Either way, we’ll at least get a few seconds of FI. It’ll scare the shit out of the viewers!”
“Let’s do it!” Arielle agreed excitedly.
“As if the viewers aren’t already scared enough,” the pilot commented as he brought the shuttle even lower and turned the corner around the next building.
Graham pulled his orb case out from below his seat and opened the lid. One by one, he tapped each of the twelve orbs to power them up. “Just hover near the incident, and I’ll do the rest,” he called out as he flipped open his controller and powered it up, placing it on the bench seat next to him.
“We’ll be over the site in thirty seconds,” the pilot reported. The shuttle continued to descend as its forward motion decreased.
“Grab the porta-cam and get an establishing shot of Hanna!” Graham ordered.
Arielle picked up the portable camera from the floor of the shuttle and raised it to eye level. “What do I do?”
“You never used a porta-cam?”
“No!”
Graham shook his head and reached over to turn it on for her.
“Fifteen seconds,” the pilot shouted.
“It’s set for full auto,” Graham explained. “Just point and shoot. Press the red button to start or stop recording.”
“Five seconds.”
“Hell, just keep it on Hanna and let it run, after the first few seconds, all I need is audio.”
“Dispatch, shuttle two-five alpha is on scene, hovering at one five zero meters.”
“Popping the door!” Graham announced. He pressed the door control pad, causing the side door to slide back into the wall. He picked up his orb case and immediately dumped the contents out the door, tossing the empty case back onto the floor. “Ready?” he asked Hanna and Arielle.
Arielle pressed the button and activated the porta cam.
Graham pulled his control pad onto his lap and watched the screen as the image feed from the porta-cam filled his main screen. He pointed at Hanna, signaling her to start talking.
“This is Hanna Bohl, reporting from the commercial district in downtown Brooklyn, where federal soldiers are attempting to control a riot that has broken out at one of Mercer Industries’ implant service clinics. NCN World has received unconfirmed reports that troops have resorted to using stunners to control… Wait, I’m told we’re getting live footage from full immersion gear on site just above the incident.”
Graham reached out with his left hand and flipped down a twenty-centimeter wide view screen from the underside of the porta-cam that Arielle was operating. The screen showed a standard image from one of Graham’s dozen camera
orbs as it floated only a few meters above the heads of the crowds. There was a sudden flash of light on the screen.
“…Oh my God,” Hanna mumbled without thinking, as dozens of rioters fell to the ground at once.
Arielle flashed a menacing look at Hanna from behind the camera. Had Hanna’s implant been active, she was quite sure that Arielle would be sending her a text telling her to pull herself together.
Hanna watched in amazement as another flash filled the screen. The point of view switched to yet another orb as more people fell to the ground. It shifted again as Hanna continued to speak. “Yes, we have seen two, now three stunner flashes,” she reported. “At least fifty people have fallen.” She watched the small view screen as those who were not stunned rushed to aid the fallen. The orb zoomed in on a woman picking up an unconscious man, blood streaming from his head. “It appears that some people have received injuries, possibly due to uncontrolled falls after instantly being rendered unconscious by the stunners.”
The view screen flashed red several times. Hanna could see red, needle-like beams streaking across the screen as the orb zoomed out to capture the events.
“We’re seeing weapons fire,” Hanna reported. The image shifted to another orb, then another, and another, as a full-on firefight erupted on the elevated decks below them. People ran in every direction seeking cover while federal troops holstered their stunners and reached for their own energy weapons. Personal shields flickered to life as the soldiers attempted to protect themselves from the incoming fire, but several of them were too late, taking energy blasts directly. Fellow soldiers dropped to their knees in front of their fallen comrades, taking the incoming fire with their own shielding to protect the wounded. Then it happened.
“Oh dear God,” Hanna exclaimed. On the view screen, federal soldiers protected by personal energy shields stepped forward through the ranks, lowered their weapons, and opened fire. Powerful bolts of yellow-orange energy tore through the protesters, cutting them down mercilessly. The barrage only lasted a few seconds, after which the scene fell eerily still. “Federal troops have just opened fire on the crowd, after receiving incoming fire from unknown assailants. Dozens of protesters are wounded, possibly dead…”
