Feed n-1

by Mira Grant

  “George, what—”

  “We have the ratings, Shaun. We have the top slot.” I nodded at his stunned expression. “Yeah. Now get them on the phone.”

  The rest of the ride was a blur of telephone calls, text messages, e-mails, and rousing person after person out of their well-earned rest in order to throw them back into the fray. Most of my crew was too disoriented by lack of sleep to argue when I ordered them out of bed and to their terminals, where the freshly updated site message that appeared as each of them logged in read “Number One News Site IN THE WORLD” in flashing red letters. If that wasn’t enough to jolt them into consciousness, they were probably already dead.

  Mahir put it best: When I called him, he responded first with stunned silence, then by swearing a blue streak and hanging up on me so he could get to his computer. I love a man who keeps his priorities straight.

  All three of us were so engrossed in work that we missed the rest of the drive to the senator’s “secure location.” I was in the process of giving Alaric and Suzy their marching orders when the car doors opened, filling the back seat with light and nearly spilling Shaun—whose feet were braced against the left-hand passenger window—into the parking lot.

  “We’re here,” said Steve. The three of us continued frantically typing on our various handheld PDAs and output screens. Rick was managing to type on his Palm and his phone at the same time, using his thumbs for data entry. Steve frowned. “Uh, guys? We’re here. The senator is waiting.”

  “Sec,” I said, freeing one hand long enough to hold it up to him in the universal “stop” gesture. While he gaped at me, I finished tapping out the instructions Alaric and Suzy would need to keep their portions of the site functional until I could get back online. I wasn’t confident they’d survive the day, but Mahir would back them up as much as he could, and he had most of the same administrative permissions as Shaun and I; it would have to do. I lowered my PDA. “All right. Where do we go?”

  “You sure you don’t need a few more minutes to check your e-mail or anything?”

  I glanced to Shaun. “I think he’s making fun of us.”

  “I think you’re right,” Shaun said, and slid out of the car, offering me his hands. “Ignore the philistine and get out here. We have government officials to annoy.”

  We were parked in a covered garage less than a quarter the size of the one at the hotel. The lights were bright enough that I hadn’t even noticed the transition from real to artificial illumination. I used Shaun’s hands for balance as I stepped out of the car, sliding my PDA into the carrier on my belt before turning to help Rick down. He glanced to me, and I nodded.

  That was his cue. Rick goggled, sparing Shaun and me the trouble of playing hick, before asking, “Where are we?”

  “The senator considers it wise to keep a second local residence for meetings of a sensitive nature,” said Steve.

  I gave him a sharp look. “Or meetings with people who didn’t feel comfortable being around the horses?”

  “I’m sure I wouldn’t be qualified to speak to that, Miss Mason.”

  That meant yes. “Fine. Where do we go?”

  “This way, please.” He led us to a steel-reinforced door, where I was surprised to see a lack of the customary blood testing units. There also wasn’t a doorknob. Shaun and I exchanged a glance as Steve tapped his earpiece, saying, “Base, we’re at the west door. Release.”

  Something clicked, and a light above the door frame flashed green. The door slid open. There was a soft outrush of air as the hall on the other side was revealed; it was a positive-pressure zone, designed to force air out rather than allowing it to flow in and cause a contamination risk.

  “No wonder they don’t need blood tests.” I followed Steve into the hall with Shaun and Rick close behind me. The hallway door slid shut behind us.

  The lights in the hall were bright enough to hurt my eyes even through my contacts. I squinted, stepping closer to Shaun and letting the blurry motion of his silhouette guide me toward the door at the far end, where two more guards waited, each holding a large plastic tray.

  “The senator would prefer this meeting not be broadcast or recorded,” Steve said. “If you would please place all nonessential equipment here, it will be returned to you at the end of the meeting.”

  “You have got to be kidding,” said Shaun.

  “I don’t think he is,” I said, turning toward Steve. “You want us to walk in there naked?”

  “We can put up an EMP privacy screen if you don’t think we can trust you to leave your toys behind,” said Steve. His tone was mild, but the tightness around his eyes said he knew exactly how much he was asking and he wasn’t happy about it. “The choice is yours.”

  An EMP privacy screen sufficient to secure an area would fry half of our more sensitive recording devices and could do serious damage to the rest. Replacing that much gear would kill our operating budget for months, if not the rest of the year. Grumbling, all three of us began stripping off our equipment—and in my case, jewelry—and dumping it into the trays. The guards stood there impassively, waiting for us to finish.

  Dropping my ear cuff into my hand, I looked to Steve. “So do we have to be totally radio silent, or are we allowed to keep our phones?”

  “You can keep any private data recorders that will be used solely for the purposes of taking personal notes, and any telecommunications devices that can be deactivated for the duration of the meeting.”

  “Swell.” I dropped my ear cuff into the tray and slipped my PDA back onto my belt. I felt strangely exposed without my small army of microphones, cameras, and data storage devices, as if the world held a lot more dangers than it had a few minutes before. “How’s Buffy taking this?”

  Steve smirked. “They said they wouldn’t cut her off until we got here.”

  “So you’re telling me your men are in there, right now, trying to take Buffy’s equipment away?” Shaun said, and looked toward the closed door with a sort of wary fascination. “Maybe we should stay out here. It’s a lot safer.”

  “Unfortunately, Senator Ryman and Governor Tate are waiting for you.” Steve nodded to the guards. The one on the left leaned over and took the tray from the one on the right, who opened the door. There was another inrush of air as the hallway’s positive-pressure zone met the house beyond. “If you don’t mind?”

  “Tate’s here?” My eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, Tate’s here?”

  Steve walked through the open door without answering me. Eyes still narrowed, I shook my head and followed, with Rick and Shaun close behind me. Once the last of us was through the door, the guards closed it, remaining outside in the garage.

  “What,” muttered Shaun, “no blood test?”

  “Guess they figure there’s no point,” said Rick.

  I kept my mouth shut, busying myself with studying the house. The décor was simple but refined, all clean, sleek lines and well-lit corners. Overhead lighting provided a steady level of illumination, with no visible dimmer switches or controls; it was either light or darkness, with nothing in between. It was less glaring than the hallway lights, but I still grimaced. The lights answered one question—this was nothing but a show home, intended for meetings and parties, but never for living in. Emily, with her retinal KA, couldn’t possibly have lived here.

  There were no windows.

  We walked through the house to the dining room, where a brisk-looking security guard in a black suit was finishing the process of taking Buffy’s equipment away. If looks could kill, the way she was glaring would have left us with an outbreak on our hands.

  “We about done here, Paul?” asked Steve.

  The guard—Paul—shot him a harried look and nodded. “Miss Meissonier has been quite cooperative.”

  “Liar,” said Shaun, so close to my ear that I don’t think anyone else heard him.

  “Buffy,” I said, swallowing my smile. “What’s the sitrep?”

  “Chuck’s in there with the senator and
Mrs. Ryman,” Buffy said, as she continued glaring at Paul. “Governor Tate just got here. They didn’t tell me he was coming, or I would’ve warned you.”

  “It’s all right.” I shook my head. “He’s a part of this campaign now, like it or not.” I looked to Steve. “We’re ready when you are.”

  “This way, please.” He opened a door on the far side of the room, holding it as the four of us filed through. When Rick stepped through the doorway, Steve closed the door behind him. The lock slid home with a final-sounding “click.”

  We were standing in a sitting room decorated in stark blacks and whites, with stylized white art deco couches flanked by glossy black end tables and carefully arranged spotlight lamps illuminating tiny pieces of art that probably cost more individually than our operating budget for the year. The only spots of color came from the faces of the senator and his wife, both red-cheeked from crying, and from Governor Tate, who was wearing a tailored dark blue suit that screamed “money” in a politely subdued way. All three turned toward us, and the senator rose, tugging his suit jacket down before offering his hand to Shaun. Shaun shook it. I looked past them to where Governor Tate was endeavoring to cover his own expression of disgust.

  “Thank you for coming,” said Senator Ryman, releasing Shaun’s hand and reclaiming his seat. Emily’s eyes were hidden behind mirrored sunglasses. She mustered a tiny smile as she folded her hands around her husband’s. He tugged her closer, seemingly unaware of the gesture. He didn’t have much strength to offer, but what he did have was hers without question. That’s the kind of guy we need running this country.

  “We had a choice?” asked Shaun, dropping onto one of the couches and sprawling with intentional untidiness. He’d clearly caught Tate’s look, too; that, combined with the confiscation of our equipment, had him primed and ready to offend. Good. It’s always easier to seem reasonable when my brother is providing a handy contrast.

  “We were glad to come, Senator, but I’m afraid I don’t understand why our equipment had to be confiscated. Some of those cameras are delicate, and I’m not comfortable leaving them with anyone who’s not a member of our staff. If we’d been informed of the need for privacy before we left the hotel, we could have left them behind.”

  Tate snorted. “You mean you could have brought cameras that were easier to hide.”

  “Actually, Governor, I meant what I said.” I turned to look him in the eyes, unblinking. One of the few handy side effects of retinal KA is the lack of a need for repeated ocular lubrication—or, in layman’s terms, I don’t blink much. Being stared at by someone with retinal KA can be very unnerving, at least according to Shaun. “I’m aware that you’re a recent addition to this campaign, and may not be used to working with members of the reputable news media. We can make allowances for that. I would, however, appreciate it if you could also keep in mind that we’ve been working with Senator Ryman and his staff for some time now, and not once have we broadcast or distributed material we were asked to withhold. Now, I’ll admit that part of that can be attributed to the fact that we’ve never been asked to withhold information without good reason. I still believe it establishes that we’re capable of behaving ourselves with tact, propriety, and, above all, the patriotism inherent in the duty of serving as media corps of a major political campaign.”

  “Well, missy,” said Tate, meeting my eyes without a flinch, “those are a lot of pretty words, but I hope you’ll forgive me if I’ve been burned a few times by the media before landing here, and I prefer to proceed with caution.”

  “Well, sir,” I replied, “you’ll forgive me if I believe that our track record should count for something, given that we’ve never been anything other than appropriate in our dealings with sensitive information; further, if I might be so bold, there’s a chance that the media has ‘burned’ you so many times because you persist in treating honest people like they’re waiting for the opportunity to be criminals. For a man who says he’s standing for American values, you’re sure devoted to the suppression of media freedom.”

  The governor’s eyes narrowed. “Now see here, young lady—”

  “My name is neither ‘young lady’ nor ‘missy,’ and I think I see all too well.” I turned to the others. “Shaun, get up. Rick, Buffy, come on.”

  “Where do you think you’re going?” demanded Tate.

  “Back to our hotel, where we’ll cheerfully explain to our many readers that we have no news for them today because—after uncovering an act of criminal bioterrorism on United States soil—we were unable to attend a conference with our candidate since, oopsie, the new man on the ticket thinks the media can’t be trusted.” I smiled. “Won’t that be fun?”

  “Georgia, sit down,” said Senator Ryman. He sounded exhausted. That was no surprise. “You, too, Shaun. Buffy, Rick, you can sit or not, as you prefer. And you, David, will please try to remember that these folks are the only ones who cared enough to really look at the ranch rather than writing it off as a simple outbreak. You’ll be courteous, and we’ll trust them to keep on being as they have been: perfectly reasonable and willing to work with us.”

  “There’s still the matter of our recording devices, Senator,” I said, staying still.

  “That was a bad decision, and I’m sorry. That being said, I’m going to stand by it for now, and ask that you allow me to conduct this meeting.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “And what do we get?”

  Governor Tate sputtered, growing red in the face. Senator Ryman waved him down, looking at me squarely, and said, “An exclusive interview with me, no editing, regarding what you found yesterday.”

  “No deal,” said Shaun. The senator and I looked toward him, surprised. My brother was sitting up, suddenly alert. “No offense, sir, but you’re not that impressive anymore. Our readers know you. They respect you, and if you keep on the way you have been, they’ll elect you, but they won’t be razzled and dazzled by the fact that we managed to get you.”

  The senator ran a hand through his hair, looking pained. “What do you want, Shaun?”

  “Her.” He nodded to Emily. “We want an interview with her.”

  “Absolutely n—”

  “Yes,” said Emily. Her voice was weary but clear. “I’m happy to. I only wanted to be left out of things for the sake of… for the sake of my family.” Her voice broke. “That’s not a concern anymore.”

  “You aren’t worried about the safety of your younger daughters?” I asked.

  “They aren’t at the ranch. They have the best security in the world. They’re safe. If I can prevent people from going out and killing other people’s pets because of what happened to Rebecca and my parents, well.” She managed to muster a smile. “It’ll be worth the strain.”

  Senator Ryman reached for her arm. “Emily…”

  “Accepted.” I sat next to Shaun, ignoring the senator’s stricken look. “We’ll be setting up interview times with both of you later this afternoon. Now, I assume there’s a reason we’re all here?”

  “The senator would like to discuss the tragic evidence of tampering that your crew discovered at his family ranch, Miss Mason,” said Governor Tate smoothly, all traces of his earlier aggravation gone. The man was a natural politician; I had to give him that, even if I wasn’t willing to let him have anything else if I could help it. “Now, I realize this may seem as if I’m questioning your journalistic integrity—”

  “Hey, Rick, ever notice how dickheads only say that when they’re about to question your journalistic integrity?” asked Shaun.

  “Oddly, yes,” Rick said. “It’s like a nervous twitch.”

  The governor shot them a glare and continued. “Please understand that I don’t ask this for personal reasons, but simply because we need to determine the truth of the situation.”

  I looked at him. “You’re wondering if somehow, to drive up our ratings, we smuggled evidence of terrorist activity through the checkpoints and managed to plant it while our own cameras were broadcasting o
ver a live feed to an audience that can be conservatively estimated, judging by yesterday’s ratings, as being somewhere in the millions.”

  “I wasn’t intending to put it in quite those—”

  I held up my hand to cut him off, turning to face Senator Ryman. “Senator, you know I’ll ask this again when I’m permitted to film the exchange, but in the interests of killing this line of questioning here and now, I’m going to sacrifice spontaneity in favor of clarity. Have the lab results come back on the syringe?”

  “Yes, Georgia, they have,” said the senator, jaw set in a hard line.

  “Can you tell us what those results were?”

  “I don’t see how that’s relevant to the original question,” said Tate.

  “Senator?” I said.

  “The contents of the syringe were determined to be a suspension of ninety-five percent live-state virus, common designation ‘Kellis-Amberlee’ or ‘KA’, isolated in iodized saline solution,” the senator said. “We’re waiting on additional information.”

  “Like the viral substrain?” I asked. “Right. Governor Tate, my crew and I were several hundred miles from the ranch at the time of the outbreak at the Ryman family home, and security records will support this. Further, with the exception of Mr. Cousins, we were all traveling with the campaign for months prior to the outbreak. Mr. Cousins was traveling with the convoy of Congresswoman Wagman, who should be able to vouch for his whereabouts. I’m not a virologist, but I’m fairly sure it takes special equipment to isolate the live virus without risking infection, and that said special equipment would not only be delicate, but would require special training to operate and maintain. Do you see where I’m going with this, Governor Tate, or should we draw you a diagram?”

  “She’s right,” said Emily. Governor Tate looked toward her, eyes narrowing. She met his gaze and said, “I took virology courses at college; they’re required for an animal husbandry degree. What Peter is describing is lab quality. You’d need a clean room and excellent biohazard protections just to isolate it, much less load it into any sort of a… a weapon. They just didn’t have the resources. You’d need something a lot more secure than a pressure cooker in a hotel room to do something like this.”