by Mira Grant
After Houston, it was time to get back on the road, rolling across the country like nothing had ever gone wrong. Not nothing; Chuck was gone, replaced by a pale-faced drone who scuttled around doing his job and avoiding anything that resembled socialization. Our security detail tripled while we were moving, and Shaun was no longer allowed to ride out unescorted. He took an almost malicious glee in forcing his babysitters to follow him into the nastiest, most dangerous terrain he could find, and some of the footage he got out of it has frankly been amazing. The Irwin community has been buzzing about putting him up for a Golden Steve-o award this year, and I’ll be surprised if he doesn’t win.
We spent a month glad-handing our way across the western half of the country while the other candidates stayed in the air and the major cities, assuming major metro areas would have better anti-infection measures. Tell that to San Diego. The devil-may-care approach was winning Ryman big percentage points, enough to keep him in the news even as the media flurry kicked up by this latest tragedy died down. “Man of the People Keeps the World Grounded”—human interest gold. A few outlets made the requisite noises about how Ryman’s insistence on an old-fashioned campaign had dogged him with tragedy from the beginning, but the facts of Rebecca and Buffy’s deaths were enough to pretty much silence them. Maybe you could blame the senator for Eakly if you reached, but you couldn’t blame him for terrorist action or assassination attempts. America is the land of the free and the home of the paranoid, and yet, blessedly, we haven’t fallen that far. Yet.
Six weeks after Memphis, we were overworked, overtired, and about to hit the crowds in one of the country’s toughest, most essential markets: Sacramento, California.
You’d think Shaun and I would be excited about a stop in our state’s capital, being California kids bred and raised. You’d be wrong. California is essentially a bunch of smaller states held together by political connections, water rights, and the stubborn refusal of any segment to cede the cash-cow name “California” to any of the others. The California secessionist movement has been around since before the Rising—not the state quitting the country, but the various parts of the state quitting each other. Sacramento has no love for the Bay Area. We get the good weather, the good press, and the big tourism dollars, and they? They get the state government and a lot of hard to defend farmland. To say that there’s a little resentment there is to understate the case just a little. Whatever fellow-feeling Sacramento had for the rest of the state died when it stopped hosting the annual state fair and started hosting the annual “everybody hide in their houses and pray they don’t die”-a-thon in its place.
The air was hot and so dry it seemed to suck the moisture out of my throat as we stepped out of the Sacramento Airport and onto the partitioned-off loading zone where we’d be meeting the senator’s convoy. It was late afternoon, and the sun was bright enough to stab at my eyes through the lenses of my sunglasses. I staggered, catching myself on Rick’s shoulder. He shot me a questioning glance. Silent, I shook my head. We were all feeling the strain, Shaun as much as any of us, and if Rick said anything, Shaun would spend the rest of the afternoon fussing over me. There was too much to do for me to let him do that.
Senator Ryman had flown in the day before, along with Governor Tate and most of the senior staff. We were supposed to be right behind them, flying commercial air rather than via private jet; unfortunately, a medical emergency grounded our plane in Denver, forcing us to wait on the tarmac with a hundred terrified passengers to see whether our aircraft was about to be declared a closed quarantine zone. I’ll admit, for a few guilty moments, I was almost hoping it would be. At least then we’d be able to get some sleep before heading back to our home state. I was really starting to worry about Shaun. It had gotten to where he only went to bed when I put him there.
A familiar black car pulled up to the curb, and the door opened to reveal Steve, implacable and hulking as ever. “Miss Mason,” he said, with a nod in my direction.
One corner of my mouth curled upward. “Nice to see you, too, Steve. What’s our plan for the afternoon?”
“I’m your escort to the Assembly Center. The convoy leaves for the hall in ninety minutes.”
“That doesn’t leave much time.” I grimaced, grabbing a suitcase in each hand as Steve got out of the car and moved to start hoisting our equipment. Senator Ryman was giving a keynote speech to the California Republicans, and it promised to be the sort of evening that resulted in lots of sound bites, accidental quotes, and competitive reporting. We all needed to be on our game. I’d been hoping to manage it with more rest and less caffeine, but you can’t always get what you want. “Thanks for coming to meet us.”
“Of course.” A second car pulled up behind the first, Carlos getting out and joining in the collection of luggage. Our keepers—the unfortunate Andres and a blank-faced woman named Heidi, who I suspected had only been assigned to accompany us because my eyes meant I would have to go for a private security screening, and they didn’t want “private” to mean “away from our guards”—joined him, first in moving the luggage, then in his car. I suppose a night at the airport with the three of us had rather soured them on our company.
“Ready?” asked Steve.
“Ready,” Shaun confirmed, and we piled into the car, where blessed air conditioning washed over us. Steve glanced in the rearview mirror to be sure we were wearing our seat belts before turning on the flashers and pulling away from the curb.
I raised an eyebrow, and Shaun, taking his cue like a pro, asked, “We expecting trouble, sport?”
“There are a great many politicians in town,” Steve said.
I knew what that meant: It meant Senator Ryman was concerned that whoever had been responsible for the attacks on his campaign was here in the city and would try to take care of unfinished business. They only got Buffy on their first try, after all. I forced the jet of fury rising in my chest down, refusing to let myself get riled. He didn’t know the snake was in his camp; he didn’t know it was Tate he needed to be watching out for. So why the fuck did he let us fly commercial?
Shaun put his hand on my arm, seeing my sudden tension. “Easy,” he murmured.
“Hard,” I said, and subsided.
In the carrier Rick was clutching, Lois yowled. I knew exactly how she felt.
Our diminutive convoy cut through the airport traffic in a bubble of open space created by the flashers, heading for the outskirts of town. Once, Sacramento was known for hosting the state fair, along with various rodeos, horse shows, and other large outdoor gatherings. After the Rising made those impractical, the city found itself missing a lot of vital revenue and it started looking for another way to make money. Several local taxes, a few private donations, and several major security contracts later, the fairgrounds reopened, given new life as the Sacramento Secure Assembly Center. Open-air, with standing structures and mobile home hookups for traveling convoys, a four-star hotel, a conference center… and the country’s largest outdoor space certified as safe for public assembly. If you wanted to see a candidate speak outside, looking heroic and all-American against a blue summer sky, you did it in Sacramento. Presidencies were made there; no matter what your politics were or how clean a campaign you ran, it all came down to how the people reacted when they saw your silhouette against that sky.
According to the itinerary, Senator Ryman and Governor Tate were going to be spending the next seven days in Sacramento, giving speeches, meeting the press, and getting endorsements from California’s political leaders. Not just the Republicans. My notes indicated that several prominent Democrats and Independents would be coming to have their pictures taken with the man many were beginning to suspect would be our next president. Assuming the scandal when we outed Tate didn’t kill his career, of course.
“Jesus,” said Rick, whistling as the fence around the Center came into view. “You people don’t do anything small, do you?”
“Welcome to Cali
fornia,” I said, rolling up my sleeves. Shaun was doing the same. Rick glanced at us, wincing, and I smiled. “Don’t worry. They’ll leave you a little bit.”
After four blood tests and a call to the CDC databases to confirm that my retinal KA was legitimately registered and not a recent affliction, we were permitted to move into the Center. From here, blood tests would be required if we wished to enter a standing structure or leave the grounds; we’d also be subject to random testing by the Center’s staff, which could happen as often as twice an hour or as rarely as once a week. Shaun made a game of pointing out the security cameras and motion detectors as we drove toward the spot assigned to the convoy.
“Start moving like a dead thing and they’ll be on you in less than a minute,” he said, with some satisfaction.
“Please tell me you’re not speaking from experience,” Rick said.
“I’m smarter than that.” Shaun tried to sound affronted. He failed.
“Someone else got there first,” I said. “How long did he get in state prison?”
“Two years, but it was for science,” said Shaun.
“Uh-huh,” I said. I might have gone on, but the car was turning, pulling down a narrow drive whose signpost identified it as “Convoy Parking #11.” I sat up straighter, resettling my sunglasses. “We’re here.”
“Thank God,” said Rick.
The Sacramento sun hadn’t gotten any cooler during our drive. I shed my jacket and grabbed my laptop bag, scanning the assembled vehicles and trailers until I spotted my objective. A slow smile spread across my face.
“Van sweet van,” murmured Shaun.
“Exactly.” I started walking, trusting the security detail to bring the rest of our things. Our vehicles and the majority of our equipment were already in place.
“In a hurry?” Rick asked, trotting to catch up with me. Shaun gave him a look. He ignored it.
“I want to see if the boys have made any progress,” I said, pressing my palm against the pressure pad on the van door. Needles bit into my hand. The door unloaded a few seconds later. Looking back over my shoulder, I asked, “Steve, which trailer are we?”
“The one on the far left with your name over the door. Mr. Cousins is in the trailer next to it,” Steve said. “I assume you’re anxious to get to work?”
“Yes, actually—crap.” I paused, dismayed. “The keynote speech.”
“I’ve got it,” said Shaun. I must have looked stunned, because he shrugged. “I can wear a monkey suit and take notes like a Newsie. They’ll never know the difference, and I bet the invite just says ‘Mason.’ Steve?”
“Yes…” said Steve, looking perplexed.
“It’s settled. C’mon, Rick. Let’s let George get some work done.” My brother grabbed the startled Newsie by the arm and hauled him away. Steve smirked and followed, leaving me standing at the entrance to the van, wondering what had just happened. Then, not being one to look a bit of gift productivity in the mouth, I stepped inside.
We removed a few vital system components before letting them ship the van, like the backup drives, our files, and—most important—the data sticks that would unlock the servers. I made my way around the interior, taking my time as I brought each system up and online, ending with the perimeter cameras. There was a certain feeling of homecoming as the screens Buffy had worked so long to get installed began flickering on, showing rotating camera views of the outside. Nothing was happening. That’s the way I like it. Once everything was stable, I flipped on the security systems. They would generate enough static to block any outside surveillance less sophisticated than the CIA’s, and if we were being monitored by the CIA, we’d have been dead already. Sitting down at my console, I opened a chat window.
Most online networking is done via message boards—totally text, not quite real-time—or streaming video these days. Very few people remember the old chat relays that used to dominate the Internet. That’s good. That means that if both sides of the chat are on servers you control, you can fly so far under the radar that you’re essentially invisible.
Luck was with me. Dave was waiting when I connected.
What’s the story? I typed. My words appeared white against the black command window.
Georgia? Confirm.
Password is ‘tintinnabulation.’
Confirmed. Have you checked your e-mail?
Not yet. We just got in.
Log off. Go read. I don’t want to waste your time with a reframe.
I paused, staring at those stark white words for a long moment before I typed, How bad?
Bad enough. Go.
I went.
Reading the files Dave and Alaric provided took the better part of an hour. Getting myself to stop hyperventilating took another twenty minutes. When my lungs stopped burning and I was sure I could control myself, I shut down my laptop, returned it to its case, and rose. I needed to get myself dressed; it was time to crash a party.
I always knew I wanted to be a journalist. When I was a kid, I thought they were the next best thing to superheroes. They told the truth. They helped people. I wouldn’t find out about the other things journalists did—the lies and espionage and back-stabbing and bribes—for years, and by that point, it was too late. The news was in my blood. Like every junkie in the world, I needed my next hit too badly to give it up.
I’ve wanted nothing but the news and the truth and to make the world a better place since I was a little girl, and I never regretted it for a minute. Not until now. Because this is bigger than me, and it’s bigger than Shaun, and God, I’m scared. And I’m still a junkie. I still can’t walk away.
—From Postcards from the Wall, the unpublished files of Georgia Mason, June 19, 2040
Twenty-four
Unfortunately for my need to hurry, the instructions regarding the senator’s keynote speech and the dinner party to follow were clear: Formal attire was required for all attendees, even media representatives. Maybe especially media representatives—after all, everyone else paid fifteen hundred dollars for the privilege of eating rubber chicken and rubbing elbows with Senator Ryman, while we were getting in on that damned “freedom of the press” loophole. If they shut us out, we’d be free to start playing dirty. If they let us in, cosseted us, petted us, and put us in our places, they could maintain the semblance of control. Maybe it’s never stopped a real scandal from growing legs, but it’s done a lot to keep the little ones under the table where they belong.
The campaign staff had been careful with our luggage, placing mine and Shaun’s on our respective sides of the trailer we’d be living in for the duration of the Sacramento stop. That was, sadly, before Shaun tore through like a hurricane, looking for his own formalwear. My suitcases were buried beneath a thick layer of Shaun’s clothing, weaponry, paperwork, and other general debris. Locating them took the better part of ten minutes, and determining which case contained my own formalwear took another five. I cursed Shaun the whole time. It kept me distracted.
Men’s formal attire is sensible: pants, suit coats, cummerbunds. Even ties can be useful, since they work as makeshift tourniquets or garrotes. Women’s formal attire, on the other hand, hasn’t changed since the Rising; it still seems designed to get the people wearing it killed at the first possible opportunity. Screw that. My dress was custom-made. The skirt is breakaway, the bodice is fitted to allow me to carry a recorder and a gun, and there’s a pocket concealed at the waist for extra ammo. Even with all those alterations, it’s the most confining garment I own, and the situations that call for me to wear it almost invariably require hose and heels. At least modern pantyhose are made with a polymer weave that’s virtually puncture proof.
I’d wear the heels. I’d wear the hose. I’d even wear a layer of tinted lip gloss, since that would make it look like I’d applied makeup for the occasion. There was no way I was going to put my contacts in for what was, essentially, a snatch-and-grab to get me to the s
enator and my team, convince them I had news, and get them back to the compound. Still swearing, I yanked the shawl that went with the dress out of the side pocket of my garment bag, clipped my ID badge to the right side of my chest, and went storming back out of the trailer, heading for the motor pool.
Steve was on duty, standing at a relaxed sort of attention as he monitored the radio channels for security or vehicular needs. He straightened when he saw me coming, chin bobbing downward as he took in the way that I was dressed. It was impossible to see his eyes behind his sunglasses, but he took no pains to disguise the motion of his head, which rose again as he studied the tailoring of my dress, the shawl around my shoulders, and finally, with a quirk of one eyebrow, my sunglasses.
“Going somewhere?” he asked.
“I was planning on doing a little gate-crashing,” I said. “Give a girl a ride?”
“Didn’t you send your brother in your place?”
“Something came up. It’s important that I get over there.”
Steve studied me for a moment, his expression implacable. I looked back at him, keeping my own expression just as composed. We both had a lot of practice, but I was the one who had more to lose if I slipped up. It was Steve who gave in, nodding marginally before he said, “This got something to do with Eakly, Georgia?”
