by Ginger Booth
“If I added that,” I asked him, “would you be OK with me today?”
Mangal squirmed on his chair. “I’m not your conscience, Dee. You know I’d never dictate your conscience.”
I pursed my lips. “My conscience says you’re right.”
P.S. This is not an act. I am pro-Raj, a member of the Raj, married to a hero of the Raj. If there is actionable material here, something that the Raj needs to fix, I forward it to the Raj. They may have the power to fix it. Our viewers do not. Your investigative reporting will get the Raj’s attention. But know that the Raj cannot solve every problem. Not on a day like today.
I paused before submitting that, turning it for Mangal to view again. Before he could finish reading, I swiveled the computer back to me and added:
Can this approach earn a Pulitzer Prize? Already has. It mobilized the region to save the survivors of New York City, created a nation, and I hope, a powerful regional conscience, and helped shape a new society.
I turned the computer back to Mangal. He quirked an eyebrow at me. “Sure you don’t want to argue with yourself in public some more? You still haven’t pressed the submit button.”
“I’m still asking your feedback,” I said quietly.
Mangal knew I meant it. He read my latest draft, and turned the computer back to me. “Te absolvo.” I forgive you, in Latin. “But do they need to hear this? Or are you trying to convince yourself?”
I jabbed the submit button. “Both.” I pushed the computer away and turned to Mangal. “Share lunch?”
He shook his head and left me, back to his individual office. I considered going after him, to press the point, to rebuild the friendship. But I let him go. We both had work to do. For now, I’d have to earn his trust back by sweat equity.
20
Interesting fact: The ten highest paid U.S. news anchors before the Calm Act commanded salaries of $2 to $25 million a year, as celebrities. However the average news anchor salary was $60,000.
Easily resisting temptation to read push-back on my posts, I checked the reporting on Jersey. As in the Apple Cities, Pete Hoffman’s Rescos were strict about people living at least 10 feet above the old sea level. But the tsunami waves were double that height, and people, especially insurrectionists, squatted on the barrier islands, evading the Raj.
Well, they paid the ultimate price for their defiance. Rest in peace.
We had zoom-lens video footage of the Toms River nuclear plant in Jersey, swarming with army engineers. The script that went with it was fair and balanced. Hero story at Toms River, I scribbled on a notepad.
The rest about Jersey was more or less as I expected from the Raj. Publishing any of it would be inflammatory, and no help to anyone. The death toll from the waves was horrific. No one could blame the refugees from the coast trying to stream inland. Except the communities inland had every right to demand protection from crazed refugees. I trusted Pete Hoffman and his troops were doing the best they could. But like the troops herding civilians in Narragansett, the optics were a nightmare.
We need to explain Jersey, I wrote on the notepad. However none of the stories I saw were compassionate enough, or even dispassionate enough, for PR News. That might take another statement from Governor Cullen. I debated whether to prompt our contestants to present a story equally sympathetic to three groups of people in conflict – refugees, inland safe communities, and the Raj. But I decided I’d already given them a hint, and should allow time for the hint to bear fruit.
At that point I took a break from the contest for a couple hours to advance the map app. The project lead, Alixandria, was newly promoted, and deserved for her work to be carefully reviewed. I believe in delegating, but not leaving someone to sink or swim. I made suggestions – there’s always room to improve. But she’d successfully met the alpha release goals, addressed suggestions and corrections from alpha, and tested thoroughly on the software side.
Cocos throughout the Hudson shore, plus a smattering from New England, Virginia–Del–Mar, even the Carolinas, had supplied their sample data on tsunami high-water lines. I started to walk up the coast on the maps to spot-check for aberrations, but decided to assign this quality control to Reza, my lady on GIS. For purposes of the beta release, I just taught Reza to mark each dubious tsunami data point and return it to Coco for verification.
With that caveat – tsunami contour database still under construction – I approved the map app for wide beta, with a heartfelt attagirl to Alixandria and her team. That email went to everyone on the project. But I also picked up the phone to praise Alix directly, and give her a chance to unload her stress on me. She’d done a phenomenal job in a very short time, was operating on way too little sleep, and needed to vent.
I capped that off with another email of praise, carbon-copied to the Amenac higher-ups plus the Hudson and New England Raj. If Alix was anything like me, she had a special folder to save that sort of email. The triumph bucket, I called it.
I was touched when Dave and Mangal, Emmett, Cam, Pete Hoffman, and even Sean Cullen, as well as a flood of other Rescos, took the hint and echoed the praise, a lot of it directed at me. The whole exchange went into my triumph bucket.
Well, that was something real I’d accomplished, if mostly via my agents. The East Coast now had maps inclusive of elevation and tsunami high water lines. A timely and highly useful tool was in their hands. To bask in the glow for a moment, I took a break, made some tea, and did my own victory round at Amenac HQ with everyone there this afternoon. Dave actually looked impressed, and offered hand-shake and hug. There was nothing grudging about Mangal’s praise.
Popeye had popped by that afternoon, and enveloped me in a bear hug, redolent with sour sweat. “Good going, whore.” I could have done without that. But it was heart-felt, and I hugged him back.
If life were fair, I could have ended the day right there on a high note. Gone home, enjoyed some wine and cheese and a long hot bath. Yeah, I didn’t live in that world anymore. The witching hour was nearly upon me, 3:30, time to finalize tonight’s news lineup.
I was looking over what we had so far – not half bad. Our double–Pulitzer Prize–winner Amiri Baz had seen and delivered on the hero story at Toms River, complete with video and inside tour, during and after the tsunami, schematics, the works. He even finagled a brief interview out of Colonel Tony Nasser, Hudson’s power czar. Tony looked frazzled but confident that Toms River and Seabrook would both avoid meltdown, and emphatic that Millstone in Connecticut was out of danger. Our followup on the saber-rattling was a brief statement from Hudson, for Jennifer Alvarez to read, assuring the public that no shots had been fired in the discord with New England. Hudson’s sole interest was security for the power plant crews, so they could focus on the critical battle to avoid nuclear meltdown.
To my embarrassment, two stories covered me. Oh, that would win me friends in the editorial contest. Not. A reporter in Nassau, western Long Island, interviewed our software alpha test Coco, and showed off the map app’s features. I made a couple changes and approved the followup statement that the app was now available everywhere, with its database still collecting high water mark data. My other story was Kyla’s edit of our walk in the marsh this morning. The censors approved it, so I didn’t bother. I’d enjoy it on the news tonight, forest fires permitting.
Pam caught me by phone before I was through the list. “Dee! Where’d you go? You were attending to the contest, and then you vanished!”
“Same place, same bat channel, other priorities,” I assured her. “Facing evening deadline now. You have something quick?”
“Stories for your evening deadline, of course,” Pam said crossly. “Log back into the contest. I lined them up for you at the top.”
She had indeed. We stayed on the phone as we worked through them. Brandy O’Keefe of IndieNews, bless her pointy head, had stepped in and reworked the story on martial law actions in Jersey. She credited the original reporters correctly, brought out all sides of the conflict
with compassion, stressed that the first shots fired were insurrectionists in the north and panicked civilians in the south. She even capped it with a brief video interchange with Emmett sympathetically saying it was a tough situation, but order was being re-established.
Brandy topped even that, with a quick video from Carlos saying he imagined Narragansett was in similar shape, only worse. “Sometimes martial law is gonna look like martial law.”
I grinned. I quoted Carlos saying that once to Brandy, while we were captives in West Virginia.
Carlos continued, “But we do it for a reason. Chaos isn’t good for anybody. Civilians shooting at each other. We crack down. Order first. Without order, we can’t help the victims.”
Brandy had sent me a quick private message.
Cool map app, bitch. WTG. Hope you enjoy my gift back atcha.
SOLD! Love you too, Brandy! I commented on the story, then forwarded the whole thing verbatim to Carlos’ team for censoring. I doubted they’d have to change anything. Brandy had wrapped the story up in a bow for us, colored inside the lines for once.
“That’s it?” Pam complained, still on the phone, though I frequently asked her to stop talking so I could review story. “Not even my piece on Turkey Point and St. Lucie?”
I glanced at the time. “What’s a Turkey Point? I’m sorry, Pam, this is why I need someone else as editor of PR News. It’s too much for me part-time.”
“I’m following up what set off the tsunami,” Pam said. “This is a story bid, not editor. But it’s the story of the year. Who drowned the East Coast.”
I blinked. “What’s a Turkey Point?”
“Turkey Point and St. Lucie are nuclear plants in South Florida,” Pam said. “They were shut down last week. Before the tsunami. While Florida invaded Alabama out of the blue and declared Floribama vs. Georgia.”
“Jesus,” I breathed. “Give me a moment to review it.”
As smoking gun stories go, Pam’s was compelling. There was little doubt she followed up a crucial question. A glacier sliding sideways at the South Pole, no matter how humongous, should not have sent such a powerful tsunami all the way to us in the North Atlantic. It beggared belief.
“I’m sorry, Pam,” I told her. My regret was genuine. “I can’t run that tonight. I will forward it to Carlos and Sean Cullen. They’ll send it to whoever’s investigating for the Raj.”
“Hell!”
“Pam, you might want to ask your husband why that might be.” I wasn’t willing to say more over the phone. America wasn’t the 500-pound gorilla in the world anymore. If someone nuked the South Pole, it was unclear to me what poor little Hudson could do about it. If Florida was responsible, John Niedermeyer should know how Hudson would fare in open conflict with that super-state. John refereed such war games at Leavenworth while they vetted the Calm Act. But I couldn’t mention Emmett and John’s secret past at Leavenworth, while sitting there at Amenac HQ.
Pam took the hint, with thin grace.
We quickly reviewed the rest of her curated list of top stories. I picked three more to send on for censorship, one a carefully neutral piece showing tsunami aftermath in Boston, another of man-in-the-street reactions in Upstate, and a detail piece with a trauma specialist explaining tsunami injuries. Combined with the rest of PR’s coverage lineup, they filled out a good night’s show.
“Pam, you’ve done an awesome job,” I assured her. “This virtual newsroom you’ve set up is incredible. They don’t quite get our editorial bias yet. But that’s to be expected. Our angle is quirky.”
“Thanks for the few flowers, Dee,” Pam said, and signed off.
I was afraid she’d gone away mad. But when I checked back after watching the news – I really was pleased with the night’s program – Pam had left an announcement in the editor contest.
I hope everyone took time to watch tonight’s excellent PR News broadcast. I understand PRN editorial is foreign to what democratic journalism used to be. But I’ve worked with them. Amenac-PR is a team of martial law sympathizers, Resco Raj, and militant anarchists; unruly hackers and disciplined software pros; technologists, spies and censors; rank amateurs and top-notch professionals; criminals and law enforcers; revolutionaries, reactionaries, fascists, democrats, technocrats, and autocrats; idealists, realists, and doom-sayers; and one odd duck who sees all these points of view and agrees with them simultaneously. It’s a terror and a privilege to work with them. Still think you have what it takes to wave the baton at PRN? Tomorrow let’s try to warp our brains a little further into PRN’s quirky bias, and deliver a few more stories they can use verbatim. Thank you for outstanding journalism. - Pam Niedermeyer
I loved it. I forwarded the statement to Emmett and Carlos, Mangal and Dave, and Brandy. They’d appreciate it. Thanks for the few flowers, too, Pam. I spared a moment’s nostalgia for the days when my friends didn’t call me bitch, whore, and worse. Gentler times.
No, there’d never been an easy time to be a woman in power. Bitch it was.
I declared the day done, and left to bid Zack good-bye one last time in person, beside his drowning grave. I cried a lot. But I cried for the drowned shoreline I cherished as much as the man. Zack had been gone so long, he’d hardly recognize the world anymore. Nearly two years. So many new normals ago.
Sea level was up 4.8 feet, and that howling wind just wouldn’t quit.
21
Interesting fact: Before the Calm, Northeast power was 45% natural gas, 30% nuclear, 20% hydroelectric, and 5% other renewable energy sources. Coal and oil had been phased out in favor of natural gas, which produces half as much carbon dioxide when burned. However natural gas is methane, a more potent greenhouse gas. Some questioned whether natural gas leaks offset the reduced carbon dioxide emissions. After the Calm, the natural gas power plants were closed, and the Raj rationed use for home heating, from both renewable and fossil sources.
“Hey, darlin’!” Emmett greeted me at the door with an enthusiastic kiss, and picked me up in a hug. He held me clamped under his chin while he extended a hand to Carlos. “Carlos, glad you could make it!”
Carlos’ reply was cut off by Gladys arriving at the door, to tackle him for her own welcome kiss.
“We’re early,” I pointed out to Emmett hopefully. On our way into the Apple Core, Carlos stopped several places, and drove all over western Connecticut. But I got work done in the car, and we still made it to Brooklyn by 2 p.m. “Any time for a…nap?”
“Uh-huh,” Emmett agreed. He peeked a guilty glance around the staircase toward the office, where his interim boss Ash looked occupied, but not harried.
The coast was clear. We snuck upstairs.
Neither of us were sleepy. But we did wash and primp for the evening’s Valentine party. And we did use the bed, as well as our deluxe massage table. Having the house full of Resco guests had an upside. We left our phones downstairs. If anything cataclysmic required our attention, an actual person would yell for us. If no one was yelling, nothing was more important than finally getting a couple hours alone together.
Best Valentine’s present of the day.
“Emmett? How are you really doing, work-wise?” I finally asked. He was lying molten on the massage table under my hands at that point. Our massage table had a face rack so you could lie face-down without neck strain. Between hot showers and a small space heater, it was even almost warm enough in the bedroom, though he wore socks and sweatpants for his massage.
He sighed. “No talk about work. No world. Just us. Deal?”
“Unless the world intrudes,” I quibbled. “Or unless there’s something I ought to know before the party. So I’m not blind-sided.” I considered, and decided that covered my bases. “Other than that, deal.”
His shoulders tensed up during this. I kissed him at the base of the neck, and applied another layer of heated oil, in long firm strokes, smoothing his muscles again. Heating his massage oil brought out its scent of tea tree oil and grapefruit. Rose petals wafted up from my own sk
in, from my turn on the table.
Emmett didn’t have an especially handsome face. Nothing wrong with it, just an ordinary guy with an unflattering military haircut. His wry charisma and smiles animated his face, but the base features were nothing special. His body was a different story. Wiry and lean, nicely buffed by daily running and exercise and clean eating. His arms and shoulders and chest were built up just enough, not too much. Abs flat and lean, legs smooth-muscled, butt still firm and high. I trailed a hand down his back in appreciation.
“I don’t say it enough, Emmett. But you are gorgeous.”
“Am not.”
“Are too!” I drew my hands down his sides, in a firm stroke from armpit to hip bones, then squeezed his hips while I planted a kiss at the base of his spine. “Gorgeous.”
“You’re pretty hot yourself,” he murmured happily.
“Of course we’re too sophisticated and spiritual to care about looks,” I said. “Ours is a loftier attraction.”
He cracked up laughing and sat up to grab me to him. “Well, darlin’, I gotta admit. I didn’t fall in love with you for your looks. Just an added bonus.”
“Guess that’s true for me, too. You know, I was thinking about that in the tree, almost naked hugging Cam –”
“What?” he barked.
“Borderline hypothermia, Emmett. Took our wet clothes off and hugged each other for warmth. Don’t get weird on me.”
“Uh-huh.” He pulled me more firmly to him on his lap, so that we touched from head to toe. That kept us warmer, and also nicely slippery from our clashing massage oils. “You know Cam is bi, right? More gay. But he’s had girlfriends.”
