Tsunami Wake: Post Apocalyptic Thriller (Calm Act Book 4)

by Ginger Booth

  “No, look, I have real journalism experience,” Eddie said.

  Unlike Mangal and me? We’d worked for the leading news broadcast in the U.S. Sure, we were programmers on that team. But Eddie worked for a two-bit local news station out of Portland. His repeated attempts to develop an Internet local news program since the Calm had flopped. Eddie sat out the past few years, while Mangal and I and the Amenac–PR team found a way to make a difference.

  “Where you can get real ratings improvement,” Eddie barreled on, “is to follow up where people are excited.”

  “Angry,” I murmured.

  “They’re damned right to be angry!” Eddie said. “They’ve been systematically lied to! And who helped the Raj do that, hm? I realize this will be personally awkward for Dee. But you know, Dee, maybe your boyfriend really did collude with the death angels –”

  “Husband,” I said.

  “Well, until this matter is cleared up, gentlemen,” Eddie continued, “maybe it’s best to keep Dee out of PR News. What you need is unbiased reporting.”

  Oy, the man thought he was staging a coup. Then again, from the sound of Mangal’s statistics, I’d failed to deliver on our best chance ever to rescind censorship. Maybe Eddie could succeed at a coup.

  “Look, the masses are right,” Eddie continued to press. “That’s the fundamental basis of democracy, our entire civilization. The majority is right! The Raj gave us their best pitch, and it has been rejected! Their tyranny and brutality. Their unwillingness to defend the little guy from monsters running amok. Misguided scientists who dared to dabble at the South Pole, and committed the greatest act of accidental manslaughter in history. And what does the Raj say? ‘We’ll look into it, but it doesn’t really matter.’ Christ!

  “And then there’s our so-called hero, MacLaren. Who looks like he was in league with the very ‘death angels’ who unleashed Ebola to kill New York, and poisoned our medical supplies.

  “And here’s the little guy, at the mercy of the Raj. Subject to lockdown at any time. He’s seen all his security and worldly goods stolen by the Raj. No career, no decent job, stuck doing manual day labor. His taxes go to fund his oppressors. He’s right to be angry! He’s right to resent the Raj! He’s right to clamor for blood and revenge on our enemies!

  “Now plugging into that, gentlemen,” Eddie closed in satisfaction, “that’s what’s going to raise your ratings, and turn PR News into a force to be reckoned with! That’s what I’m going to do for you!”

  And the horror of it was, I realized, just how easy it would be for someone like Eddie York to do just that. Whip the ordinary people of Hudson and New England into a mob frenzy. Out for blood. But to what purpose? The Raj hadn’t stolen their cars and their jobs and their comfortable ignorance, and that’s what the public was really pissed off about. That old economy didn’t exist any more. The Raj was trying to build a new economy for a new reality. But it wasn’t easy. And Cam had told the truth. The Raj’s priority wasn’t the economy. It was order. Second place was producing the food to feed our millions.

  I looked around Pam and the rest of the steering committee in deep unease. Had Eddie swayed them with his ideals of mob rule? They all looked uncomfortable.

  At last, Dave smiled warmly. “Good segue. Next item of business is Dee’s pitch, to hire herself some new assistants.” He paused a moment to let Dee’s assistants sink in. “Pam, Eddie, I’m going to disconnect you while we discuss.” He leaned over, still smiling, and clicked them off the screen.

  “Not that there’s anything to discuss,” Dave added once they were gone. “I propose yes on Pam Niedermeyer, no on Eddie York. Dee, did you want to argue otherwise?”

  “No. I withdraw support from Eddie York,” I agreed in relief. “I mean, unless you want to vote me out and hire Eddie instead.” I smiled wanly to accompany my offer. “I screwed up, gang, on the Cam special. I’m sorry.”

  Before anyone else could speak, Carlos Mora did. “I don’t think you screwed up, Dee. We decided what information we wanted Cam to convey to the public. The Hudson Raj approved the message carefully. Amiri and Cam stuck to the script. Cam spoke well. He always does. Mangal, I was impressed with your metrics. We carried out an experiment. I’m surprised we got such clear answers. We might have preferred different answers. But well done. Morale wasn’t our only goal.”

  “Does this mean no reversal on censorship?” Dave asked. “The concessions we got.”

  “Not my call,” Carlos hedged. He directed our censorship, but it was Sean Cullen who decided the rules.

  “What would be your recommendation, Carlos?” I asked. “Or should we discuss that in private?”

  Carlos said, “I suggest we stand by what we’ve said. We said it. We meant it. I liked Pam’s suggestions for leading the public conversation in a more constructive direction. Run with it for a week or so. We can’t unsay what we’ve said. If we clamp down too fast, people will get really angry. Maybe even to the point of action. Not worth the risk. So that’s what I’ll recommend. Stay the course. But again, not my call.”

  “You know what really pisses me off?” Popeye said. “Listening to that f-ing a-hole, I finally understand what the b- is doing.” More colorful words and phrases omitted, along with those few letters. “But what the f- does this mean for the g-d-m-f- darknet? Some of us gotta know, you know? And we can know! So what is this s-!”

  “Yeah,” I agreed.

  “Dee and Popeye agree for once,” Dave said, a twinkle in his eye. “How special. But let’s leave that for another meeting, Popeye, shall we? The issue at hand is whether to hire Pam Niedermeyer to run the daily news. And maybe have better news coverage. More of it, at any rate, and every day. Yay or nay.”

  “You really didn’t find anyone better, Dee?” Genghis asked.

  I sighed. “I liked the format Eddie was proposing. Encourage sports. Recurring coverage of topics. Gardening Tuesdays, Jersey Wednesdays, sort of stuff. And he produces good footage. The special on Jersey was flawless. But from what he was saying just now, those proposals weren’t sincere. He wants to be a muckraker. Feed his ego. We don’t need that. IndieNews has that niche. We go high, they go low. They doubt the Raj, we back the Raj. Though even Indie wouldn’t go that low.”

  Genghis sat back, nodding. “Cool. So we just hire away York’s team and give them to Pam. She gets our angle. I’m down with this plan.”

  Genghis voiced the last reservation. We decided unanimously to put Pam Niedermeyer in charge of our nightly news. Under close supervision by me, on probation. For better or worse, Mangal couldn’t sub in for me any more.

  After the meeting, I called Pam with the good news. Dave called Eddie York with the bad news. Carlos took point on reporting to the Raj on public reaction to our specials. And Mangal electronically banished Eddie from Pam’s virtual newsroom.

  Pam started effective immediately. Bless her, she already had her proposed story list ready for me to approve for tonight’s news. I took my time with that conversation, making sure she had all the validation I could give her, to feel like she’d won a triumph.

  Then I crafted an email of introduction, to praise and present her to the Raj. Including her own husband John Niedermeyer, of course, and Ivan Link, the dual heads of the New England hierarchy. If Pam wasn’t blushing and about to pop in delight after that treatment, it wasn’t for lack of me trying.

  After that I had other things to wrap up. I was headed to Boston to join Emmett.

  27

  Interesting fact: Groundhogs, also known as woodchucks, fatten up in the warm seasons, then hibernate for about three months in winter. Their body temperature can fall from 99 to 37 degrees during hibernation. During this time, they hide in burrows up to six feet deep and twenty feet long, with somewhere between two and a dozen entrances.

  “Hello?” I greeted the inexplicable person at our door. I’d been upstairs packing for Boston. Gladys called me down because ‘a seamstress’ wanted me. The militiamen who guarded that door
looked just as puzzled as I was. But they hadn’t turned the odd visitor away.

  She was an apple survivor, that was clear, gaunt and around my age perhaps. The sides of her head were shaved, topped with a well-moussed orange mohawk, apparently her natural hair color. Tribal tattoos, piercings, chains, and black leathers might have suggested a soul sister to Popeye. Except, unlike most with these sartorial choices, she looked friendly and attractive, even cute. The black leather lines of her jacket were softened by crocheted lace on a dusky lavender tank top beneath. A loopy crochet scarf masked nasty burn scars on neck and décolletage. Like so many during the starving time, she was probably caught in a building fire. Below the tight leather pants, she wore matching crocheted gaiters on dainty lace-up boots.

  I loved those gaiters. I missed my similar boots, long since worn out and discarded.

  “Jewel Colvin,” she introduced herself, sticking out a hand for me to shake, rich in rings and bracelet, chains twining between them. “I responded to your ad for a wedding dress seamstress.”

  I blinked. I just placed that ad last night, half-asleep. As in, who was I kidding, I didn’t have time to sew a wedding dress I’d be happy with. I was a professional with important things to do. Maybe I could just design a dress and hire out the fiddly bits. But I expected to hire someone after I got back from touring New England with Emmett.

  Jewel rushed on without pause. “But I was so inspired about the commission! I’ve been drawing non-stop.” She flipped up her under-arm black portfolio briefly, with a self-deprecating smile. “And I was in Brooklyn Prospect today. And I realized – I have to see your wardrobe. You mentioned that you design. Steampunk! Me, too. Please. May I come in?”

  “Not a good idea,” Sergeant Becque opined.

  I frowned at him. “Aren’t sergeants too important for door guard duty?” A light dawned. “Are you going to babysit me all the way to Boston?”

  “No, ma’am,” he said. “I babysit you to Harlem station. There I turn you over to a captain. He babysits you all the way to Boston.”

  I heard Cam chuckle behind me from his customary station on the couch.

  “Outstanding,” I growled. “Well, sergeant, you can join us to look over my wardrobe.”

  Of course I was inviting her in. I liked this Jewel. She had chutzpah, and fascinating taste. She was a walking advertisement for her seamstress business, and wore it well. Overcome with curiosity, Gladys trooped along behind us up the stairs.

  “Jewel, I think I may have miscommunicated,” I apologized, as I threw open my wardrobe. “I don’t have a date for the wedding yet. I’m actually already common-law married. Ah, to Lieutenant Colonel Emmett MacLaren.”

  Jewel laughed. “I knew that,” she agreed. “Everyone in the Apple knows that.” She pulled out my favorite rose steampunk outfit, with a tight fitted corduroy short jacket over rose sateen striped skirts. She nodded thoughtfully, turning bits inside-out to inspect my jacket seams and tailoring from the inside. “You’re good. Design and execution. Really skilled. But a little too busy for this sort of thing any more, right? Running PR News and all your software projects. Amenac, meshnet. Loved the map app.”

  “Oh, thank you,” I said. “I had short boots and gaiters like yours to wear with that outfit. Brown boots. Oh, and this hat.”

  Jewel laughed in delight at my goofy little hat’s big fluffy feather. She sat it on my head, regarded me for a moment, and tipped the hat the same direction I always did, just a little further askew. I didn’t wear it that far over because it took too many bobby pins to anchor it from falling off. “Such a great color on you,” she said.

  I nodded. “Peach, too, looks good on me. And blue. I usually wear blue for business. Mostly navy.”

  Jewel nodded. “But you’re too old to marry in peach. Or white. That’s too…trivializing. You’re not a young girl. You’re a woman of power and experience. And off-white, that’s neither here nor there. Navy is for business, not celebration.” She rifled through more of my steampunk outfits, often grinning. Then she perused my business attire and other dress clothes as well.

  “I’m not too old to like to play,” I countered. “I still like fun clothes.”

  “I can see that,” Jewel agreed. “But you can dress to intimidate, too. Great! Surely you started your own wedding dress, Dee? May I call you Dee? Drawings, at least?”

  Jewel hadn’t shared her drawings with me yet.

  I drew her over to my wedding dress plastic bin, and pulled off the top without comment. Jewel bent down and dug a hand in much the same way Emmett had the month before, and let the fabric drip off her fingers back into the tub. She looked up at me, stricken.

  “I was trying to do, I don’t know, army wife,” I explained. Jewel was still frozen. “It’s OK,” I assured her. “I know. It’s complete garbage.” Jewel stood in relief, distancing herself from the failed dress. “And that fabric. I wanted hemp because it’s a native textile. We grow and weave it here in the Northeast. But.”

  “But you can’t make a fitted bodice out of gauze,” Jewel completed my thought. “And it isn’t interesting enough to use as a texture overlay over structural fabric. Doesn’t have any swing weight for dancing. You do dance, don’t you?”

  I grinned. “Emmett and I love swing dancing. If we have a wedding – no, when we have a wedding. We’ll swing dance. I want some serious swish in this dress.”

  “Absolutely,” Jewel agreed, wrinkling up her nose in glee. “Maybe even a little can-can action, with frothy petticoats.”

  “Ooh.” I liked that idea. “Careful not to look like a saloon girl, though.”

  Jewel nodded an ‘of course.’ “Will you have maids of honor?” she asked skeptically.

  “You don’t think so,” I observed. “Why not?”

  Jewel’s head remained canted to the side. “You stand alone. Colonel MacLaren has the entire Resco Raj standing behind him. You can’t match that. So instead you say that you don’t need it. You stand strong enough alone.” It was a challenge.

  “I have female friends,” I returned, jutting my chin toward Gladys, who watched rapt from the doorway. Sergeant Becque held up the wall beside her, rifle at ready position, looking powerfully bored. “But not lifelong close girlfriends. I don’t even know who I’d pick as a maid of honor,” I confessed. “Gladys, maybe.”

  Gladys shook her head no. She didn’t look offended. She just didn’t think it felt right.

  “You’ll figure that out,” Jewel assured me. “Or stand alone. Or maybe screw the maid of honor thing, and have your closest male friend stand by you.”

  “Ooh.” Would he be willing to do that? Cam most assuredly would not. As a gay officer, I could never ask him to stand as a ‘maid of honor.’ He’d be ridiculed. Besides, he would likely stand as Emmett’s best man. But Mangal might be willing…

  “I stand alone,” I said decisively. “Just the one dress, anyway.”

  Jewel nodded, with half her body. “Right on!” she agreed. “Would you like to see some of my…?” She pretended to bite her lip in nervousness, while throwing open her drawing portfolio on the bed. She squared its angle to face me. She pushed the top few drawings – beautiful dresses – off to the side with a fingertip. Then mock-bit her lip again and crossed her fingers, as her choice of drawings was revealed.

  She’d drawn me in the pictures, Dee Baker, in each of them. Not just fashion sketches, of androgynous willow people with a few squiggles to suggest hair. She’d captured my body, my face, my mannerisms, my smile. They were fashion sketches, in that fabric was only a wash of pastel color. A sunny blue, in this case, though of course Jewel would change it to dusky rose now.

  A fitted, fully tailored jacket on top, complete with watch fob, with the widest, lowest neckline I’d never seen in jacket lapels. The padded shoulders and puffed jacket sleeves ended at a deep buttoned cuff at the elbow, giving way to long fingerless gloves, buttoned down the forearm. The jacket bottom, pleated, jutted out a little just below the wais
t. Below that, the skirt fit tightly to just below the hip, then exploded out into flounces, petticoats visible in a layered fall beneath an over-skirt, knee-length to the front, falling with bustle to ankle length at the back. Over ankle boots. With gaiters.

  “How could you know this about me?” I murmured in wonder. I tilted my head, to marvel at a smaller side sketch showing the skirt in full swirl from the back, while a barely-drawn willow Emmett held my hand above me.

  “You’re in the news all the time, Dee,” Jewel said. “You are the news half the time. It’s no wonder you don’t have time to make a wedding dress. You work in a bigger medium now than that flimsy hemp.”

  It’s funny how unnerving I find it, when someone really sees me, notices me, appreciates me, with open eyes. I’d never met Jewel before in my life, yet she floored me almost as much as Emmett did when he proposed marriage, saying he knew full well who I was.

  “You’re hired,” I told her. “That dress. In rose.”

  Jewel nodded happily, again with the full-body yes! “Thank you! Oh, you’ll love it, I promise! In corduroy? Or satin?” She leaned toward me to whisper her vote. “Do it now. Make it corduroy to keep warm. That tsunami really scared people. We need something to celebrate.”

  My eyebrows flew up. That was it. I’d been trying to manage public morale by telling the citizens the truth, or not the truth, or encouraging them or whatnot. But bread and circuses, pomp and circumstance, that would work. I’d been so intent on apologizing for the Raj and its power. Feeling embarrassed – why should I have so much, when so many had so little?

  But no one had any use for my apology. They wanted a spectacle. Americans have always loved a spectacle. Who cared about the wisdom of giving all power to the military. Hadn’t we spent like a tenth of the gross national product on the military even before the Calm? People would enjoy seeing the Raj all done up in shiny uniforms, with fruit salad medals galore. And a glorious wedding dress. The princess marries the prince.