by John Barnes
“Manckiewicz, you just remember to do your job when I tell you what it is. I need to deliver one thing to 247NN every day: twenty seconds per day of Norcross moving his mouth, to make things balanced. That’s all I need to do.”
“Well, you need to do that, and stay away from the bottle you’re thinking about right now, and not think about your ex-wife with a mouthful of that football player’s dick.”
That drew a long scream, and Chris reached over and hung up the phone. Two true shots. Okay, I’m a mean bastard. What’s a guy got to do to get fired anyway? I’ve got all my clips for my good work, I can hustle a new job in zip flat, especially because that asshole won’t talk about the things I say to him.
Besides, one time recently, he’d provoked Cletus into falling off the wagon, and a story had gone out just the way Chris wanted. This might be the biggest story remaining in the campaign and Chris was all they had.
Bottoms up, Cletus, he thought. Come on, after I was so rude to you, you deserve a drink, bucko. And then drunk dial your ex and violate that restraining order.
He was down in the front lobby three minutes before official go time. The other six network guys weren’t there yet, so Chris had his choice of spots. Just this once, fuck Cletus, fuck 247NN, and do it right.
Norcross actually waved at him, and said, “Hey, Chris,” and he was alarmed at how much he enjoyed that. Jeez, I wish I could just send them the story the way I want to, use it or have nothing. It would be so—
Hunh. Only three reasons he didn’t send out live stories just the way he wanted them, with everything locked. One, it made him nervous because live mix in the field was hard. Two, it was rare that they carried anything Norcross did or said live, even when they had him give them live feed. And three, because if he did it, he’d definitely be fired.
Hunh.
He set up the last of his six wireless remotes, scattering them widely; he was set up for some real reaction shots of the press corps, and some nice side angles that would really show emotions from the hastily-assembled audience—a few supporters who had been holding a post-rally party, about fifty people who had been at the bars or doing some late shopping, maybe another thirty businesspeople and traveling families who had been told history was happening and to come downstairs to see it, and a great number of hastily-dragooned hotel workers.
Three reasons why I can’t do this right, the way I want to do it, Chris thought. One, I’m not sure I’m good enough; two, it doesn’t usually go out live; three, I don’t want to be fired.
Hunh. I’m good enough, it’s going live tonight, and I’ d enjoy getting fired.
He checked his remotes, checked his main camera, smiled when Norcross announced they’d have to start a few minutes late to accommodate the other networks. All the time I need to be ready. Here we go, lock the structure, send only one camera at a time, lock the audio over the video I send . . .
ABOUT THE SAME TIME. WASHINGTON. DC. 10:42 P.M. EST. MONDAY. OCTOBER 28.
Whack! Crash! “Uh, um, damn.” Thud, thud-thud. Heather smiled, visualizing Graham’s awkward, startled fumbling as the secured handset plunged to the end of its cord. “Heather. What’s up?”
“I think your old student”—I don’t dare say the name or the office, but if anyone’s listening in, they’ll know, they just won’t be able to prove it—“may need your, um, advice—like the unofficial advice I’ve gotten from you a few times—and he might need it very, very badly. He’s here at the, um, old hospital where I’ve been all afternoon. The guy I’m working with here is sending a car—”
“Yes, of course, of course, I’ll be down front in about three minutes.”
“You can go eight,” Heather said, looking at her screen. “That’s the earliest the limo will get there. Bring a spare shirt and a toothbrush. Oh, and the Arnie Show was less of a disaster than we expected—he deigned to speak English to the mere mortals. See you soon.”
“Food’s here!” Cameron’s voice cut through the dense fog of chatter around her. “I’ll have to ask you all to stay where you can see your screens and hear your alarms, and a few critical people including me will have to stay fully online, but otherwise I insist that you make this as much of a break as you can make it. We probably won’t have any more major information coming in for the next half hour or more, so eat, relax, rest as much as you can, and take care of yourselves like the valuable people you are.” Aides were wheeling in carts of food.
“Also,” Cameron announced, “for those of you who care, the Commissioner of Baseball has ruled that since Game Seven of the World Series was tied at the end of the sixth inning when the evacuation began, by the agreement of both the Angels and Pirates management, we have the first tied Series in history; both teams will share the championship. America’s bookies are in total despair. Now, eat, relax, and be ready.”
“He takes care of his people,” Lenny said, stirring wasabi into soy sauce.
“Yeah. One of many things he’s good at,” Heather said. She pried a piece of pizza loose and slipped it onto a napkin. “This is an embarrassing thing for anyone from the Department of the Future to say, but do you have any feeling for how this is going to come out?”
“For the country, no idea. For people like us, same as anything else, free food and overtime.”
ABOUT THE SAME TIME. DUBUQUE. IOWA. 9:55 P.M. CST. MONDAY. OCTOBER 28.
Chris Manckiewicz ran through his cameras and mikes one more time. Clear tight view of the hastily-set-up rostrum. Nice wide angle of the area behind it, get Mrs. Norcross, the Secret Service, the local politicians, check. Clear view of the night cleaning staff and bellhops standing nervously in the back. Clear shot of the small group of press; camera preset to pan across a cluster of biz folks, a family with the dad and mom in sweats, young soldier in uniform with his arm around a dark-haired girl in a nice maroon dress. Hell of an interruption for your leave, guy. Sorry about all the history breaking in. Another camera preset to swing between the dignified black guy in a suit (the host for the coffee shop), the mixed-race-and-gender group of young people in scruffy clothes (bunch of art students from Loras, grabbed out of a bar), and the brown-skinned woman in a pale green uniform with a big ring of keys (the night building engineer). All remotes good, broadband to 247NN open and clear.
It didn’t hurt that the crowd was pretty Frank Capra to begin with, but Chris thought he’d really set things to look all-American. And Lexy, Cletus’s after-hours assistant and the only person who might hate Cletus even more than Chris did, had gleefully slipped the word to Chris: Cletus was drunk and passed out.
So here we go. Edited live and on the fly and direct to air. My personal masterpiece. The story I see, the way I see it, and fuck the network with a garden rake. Gonna be so worth it.
“So, Chris, here we are in another town for another speech.” Norcross’s raspy nasal tenor was instantly recognizable; Chris turned and smiled. The Republican candidate said, “I think you’ve listened to me more than my wife.”
“I’m sure he has,” Mrs. Norcross put in.
Chris smiled. “Break a leg, Senator. I’m ready when you are.”
Norcross clapped Chris’s shoulder and strode to the rostrum. He looks exactly like he knows what he’s doing. People said Pendano was the guy Hollywood would cast as the president; Chris figured Norcross would be cast as the president’s barber—the man usually looked like he had really expected to be out on the road selling vacuum cleaners today. Nonetheless, I almost like the Jesus-spouting batshit-crazy son of a bitch.
The room quieted instantly when Will Norcross said, “Soundcheck, one, two, three, soundcheck; are we good?”
Thumbs went up all along the media tables. Norcross drew a breath, glanced down—probably praying, Chris decided. In his place, I sure would.
ABOUT THE SAME TIME. WASHINGTON. DC. 10:59 P.M. EST. MONDAY. OCTOBER 28.
“Media alert,” Marshall called over the speakers. “Will Norcross’s statement is going in less than one.”
ABOUT THE SAME TIME. I-25, ABOUT FIFTY MILES NORTH OF BUFFALO. WYOMING. 9:01 P.M. MST. MONDAY. OCTOBER 28.
“Norcross?” Jason exclaimed. “We haven’t heard from the President yet, and they’re running Norcross’s speech?”
Zach shrugged. “Well, Norcross is running for president, even if almost everyone is ignoring that fact.”
“I don’t want any damn candidate. The world’s blowing up, and I want my president!”
“Funny remark for an anarchist.”
“Hey, no anarchists in foxholes, or something like—” An emblem appeared on Jason’s laptop screen. “Here we go.”
ABOUT THE SAME TIME. DUBUQUE, IOWA. 10:03 P.M. CST. MONDAY. OCTOBER 28.
Norcross looked calm but worried; Chris zoomed to catch the firm-set jaw and little wrinkles around his eyes, like your favorite uncle about to break bad news. “Well, thank you all for coming out and listening to me when there’s so much else happening. Let me begin by saying that all our prayers should be with the family of the late Vice President, John Samuelson; I suppose it’s no secret that he and I disagreed about very nearly every possible subject almost all the time, but on the personal level, he was a man who could listen, and care, could hear your—”
Pull back wide to show the ragtag crowd, catch the feeling that everyone, Norcross included, was deciding what to think and feel as they went along.
“—ask all Americans to join me in praying for President Pendano and his team as well. Now, I have no desire to be a backseat driver—”
Apophasis, Chris thought; saying you’re not going to say something in order to say it. Nixon’s favorite device, and Newt Gingrich’s, and Karl Rove’s—fine old Republican tradition.
That’s a beautiful girl with red hair in a Pendano T-shirt, great boobs, and that big cross around her neck helps show them off—cut there for a reaction. Wish she’d jump up and down—not that kind of speech.
“—go beyond politics, because our country comes first. So I am speaking to urge all my friends and supporters, every one of you who rings doorbells and makes phone calls, every blessed one of you with a bumper sticker supporting me or Governor Milton or the Christian Bill of Rights—”
Wow, nice. Cut back to close in on Norcross, look at the firm way he’s laying it down. Okay, next reaction is . . . that slightly bewildered young family in robes and pajamas . . . catch them right when Norcross hits his authority voice—yes! look at Daddy nodding solemnly, and taking Mommy’s hand, perfect! Gotcha!
“—no backbiting, no second-guessing, no analysis of how this affects our chances—just get in there and help. There will be time enough for politics later. So this is my—”
Wow, he’s already winding up. That was fast. Okay, throw in all the reactions I can:
Maid in uniform leaning on a dust mop, next to the obvious Washington guy, face careworn and exhausted, in the pricey perfect-fit suit.
Young black father holding a small girl.
White hair, DAV cap, wheelchair, how come those guys always have a flag with them? Never mind, on to:
Desk clerk in uniform, slumped against a pillar but smiling radiantly, as if she had just heard exactly what she wanted to hear, bowing her head in prayer.
Back to select, close up, focus, hit it:
Norcross’s grin, like a boxer who is half a minute from going back into the ring; here was a guy who believed.
“—beyond liberal and conservative, beyond Christian and secular, beyond business as usual. It’s about our country. So if you support me— support the president. Support our officials, support the nation, and pray for them and for all of us. Thank you and good night.”
Stay on him . . . expression of a man sure he has just done the right thing.
Pull back to show the room. Pop cuts around to:
Stone-faced Secret Service.
Eager reporters clicking away at their computers.
The crowd: young, old, men, women, children, many races, uniforms, jeans, T-shirts, bathrobes, suits—all nodding, solemnly, seriously, as gazes caught, held, were acknowledged in one another’s reactions.
He caught, over and over, that instant when fearful grimaces and stunned slack jaws became weary, determined smiles, like Norcross’s, as they decided we are in it together, and we will get through it.
In the corner of his screen: lexy: strike&go if no qns. Norcross was already at the door, so Chris moved swiftly, automatically, shutting down remotes and slipping them into cases, locking the cases onto his cart.
Residual pride insisted that he avoid taking the phone call that fired him in front of other people. He zipped through shut down and pack up. No call.
Back in the hotel room, he set about the ritual mechanics of pretending to himself that he would relax—pouring a double of Myers’s Dark Rum and RC Cola over cracked ice; taking a fast shower while thinking, don’t-ring-don’t-ring-don’t-ring, I don’t want to be fired while I’m wet and naked at the phone on the sink; settling the thick, soft robe around his shoulders.
The phone didn’t ring.
He nerved himself and dared to look on BackChanL, the instant archive on demand; they had broadcast it just as he’d sent it. He watched right to the end. Yep, my best work. Ever. And it went out to the public and look at all those hits, twenty times the nearest competition, my work defined that event for history! Worth getting fired for.
Cletus still didn’t call. Now, that was interesting.
Chris took a slow, welcome, savored sip of the rum and cola. Till it rang, life would be good. It might even be okay after.
ABOUT THE SAME TIME. I-25 SOUTH. ABOUT THIRTY MILES NORTH OF CASPER. WYOMING. 9:13 P.M. MST. MONDAY. OCTOBER 28.
The headlights swept out a long path as they descended the hill, and for a moment a fox’s eyes shone back at them like tiny, starry mirrors from the pointed face; then the bushy tail flickered over the railing, and the fox was gone.
All the news feeds filled up with chattering commentators, and Jason said, “I think I can do better commentary than any of those guys. Sheesh. That’s a way I’ve never seen Norcross. Is that what everybody on your side talks about, that he’s real different in person than he is through the media filter?”
“Well, I didn’t see the screen, busy driving, but yeah, it sounded more like the two times I saw him in person and not like the usual chopped-up version on TV.”
“I guess I can see why people vote for him.”
After a little while, Zach said, “You know, I hope when everything settles out from Daybreak, and this, and all, we will still have a President. Having one is kind of comforting.”
“Like Pendano would be, if he’d just talk.”
“Yeah.”
After a while, because no more news was coming in, and it didn’t sound like the president would be making a statement soon, they put the laptop into news-warn mode and talked about family, and music, and how confusing and wonderful it was to deal with women. The lights reached out in the darkness, and Jason watched for more wildlife, but apparently that fox was going to be it for the night.
ABOUT TEN MINUTES LATER. WASHINGTON. DC. 11:25 P.M. EST. MONDAY. OCTOBER 28.
Graham Weisbrod arrived and went straight into a small conference room with Pendano. Though Weisbrod was twenty years his senior, the president hung on his arm. The silence in the ops room was even deeper and more awkward than it had been, until Cam said, “All right, everyone, break’s over, noses to the screens, let’s have some good options waiting when the President comes out.” People got back to work, but much too quietly.
Cameron coughed politely behind her. “Heather, I’d like to borrow Arnold Yang for a couple of minutes, because I need a public-opinion expert, and you, because I need a Weisbrod expert.”
“Better get Allison Sok Banh in on it too. She’s good at keeping Arnie focused, and she’s even more of a Weis
brod alum than I am.”
A minute later, the four of them huddled in a conference room. “Dr. Yang,” Cameron said, “I remember how useful you were with helping to prevent panic during Hurricane Gordon.”
Arnie nodded. “I had actual data and could monitor it in real time, then—I don’t know how useful I can be this time.”
“Noted. I know I will have to go on guesses, but it’s my guess that you will have a better guess than I will.” Cam adjusted his glasses as if he might need to read some complex, subtle message from Arnie’s face. “Here’s how I see it. Will Norcross just finished making a public statement, and we still haven’t heard from the President of the United States yet. And it’s bedtime on the East Coast. People will be staying up to see how the crisis comes out. Individually, they’re brave and reasonable. In small groups of neighbors, especially if they know each other well, and there’s something they can do right away, they are often downright heroic. But as an audience, powerless to do anything but watch, people spread their anxiety and sense of defeat around the Internet like a bad cold. So we don’t have a lot of time. Right?”
“That’s consistent with my experience and everything I know,” Arnie said. “And I have no idea what to do about it.”
They nodded, not sure where Cam was going. He turned his intense gaze on Heather and Allie. “Heather. Ms. Sok Banh. You’re both Weisbrod—um, whatever you call the former students who . . .”
“Disciples, if you want,” Allie offered.
“You won’t offend us,” Heather added.
“So Weisbrod is a good friend and a kind man and all that, but—what are the odds of having a reasonably confident, ready-to-make-hard-decisions, President of the United States come through that door in the next ten minutes?”
