by Ryk Brown
“Hadden?”
“That’s the guy.”
“That’s right,” Hanna remembered. “I forgot all about that guy.”
“He was nobody, just another suit in a sea of suits, until he opened his big mouth to me.” Constance winked. “I made him famous.”
“You ruined his life,” Hanna corrected.
“He ruined his own life by taking bribes and screwing everyone in sight,” Constance retorted. “I just put the final nail in his coffin… and made my way into the bigs at the same time.”
Hanna stared at Constance for a moment. It seemed such a harsh attitude, but she had to admit that she probably would have done the same thing in her place. In fact, she had dreamed of having such an opportunity for years.
“That’s what we do,” Constance explained.
“Not always.”
“True, but often enough. You ruined Donovan’s life.”
“Doctor Mesnard? I didn’t ruin his life. I’m sure it wasn’t his call to hide the truth about the implants from the public.”
“Doesn’t matter. The public sees his face trying to defend the GDCO. He becomes the bad guy in their eyes. Besides, his job has got to be a lot tougher now.”
“It’s not like I had any choice in the matter.”
“Yeah, I heard about that,” Constance replied, her tone becoming sympathetic. “That had to suck, having that guy inside your head like that, knowing he could switch you off for good any moment.” Constance swallowed gulped down the last of her coffee. “I don’t know how you got the nerve to turn that thing back on, even without your nanites.”
“Trust me, it wasn’t easy.” Hanna sighed. “But again, I didn’t really have a choice, did I?”
“Yeah, I guess not,” Constance agreed. “Just another wonderful perk of our glorious profession.”
“You don’t sound like you care for it much?” Hanna commented.
“Are you kidding? I love it. If for no other reason than because I get to be in here most of the time, instead of out there. You’ve seen the chaos. The world is tearing itself apart. And all we have to do is peek our pretty little noses outside once a day, and then run back here and tell everyone about how awful they have it.”
“They have a right to know,” Hanna said defensively.
“Yeah, Brent’s idea of ‘hope’. The truth.” Constance looked at Hanna. “If you were stuck out there, wondering if you had enough food and water to make it through the week, wondering if you were going to be beaten, raped, or murdered if you stuck your nose outside, wondering if you were going to get infected and die… Would you really want to know the truth?”
Hanna didn’t respond.
“I’m not sure that I would,” Constance continued. “At least not all of it… But we’re Netcast News World, and we bring them all the news, and in full immersion.”
“Not to be presumptuous or anything, but if that’s the way you feel, then why are you here?”
“Like I said, it beats being out there. Besides, my parents, my brother and his wife, even my grandfather… They’re all upstairs just like your family. We’re keeping them safe by covering the end of the world.”
“It might not be,” Hanna said halfheartedly. “There’s always a chance.”
“Ah, hope. Yes, there is always a tiny glimmer of hope.” Constance sighed. “Listen to me,” she laughed. “I sound like a real bitch, don’t I?”
Hanna shrugged, not wanting to agree or disagree.
“I guess it’s been a rough week for all of us, huh?”
“Yeah,” Hanna agreed, “I suppose it has.”
Constance placed both hands on the table. “Well, speaking of hope, it’s time for me to give some to the masses, but first, I have to go to makeup so they can make this tired face look happy and upbeat.”
Hanna offered a half smile herself, as she watched Constance get up.
“Nice talking to you, Hanna,” she said as she headed for the door. “Hope I didn’t bring you down too much.”
Hanna watched as Constance exited, turning sideways as she passed through the door to allow room for Graham to enter.
“Damn, she looks like hell,” Graham said once Constance was out of earshot.
“We all do.”
“Not me,” Graham replied as he headed for the coffee machine. “This is how I always look.”
Hanna couldn’t help but smile.
“What did the princess of the netcasts have to say?”
“Nothing important. She was just venting.”
“Sorry I missed it,” Graham said as he poured himself a cup.
“Mind if I ask you a question?”
“Shoot.”
“How come nothing ever bothers you?”
“What are you talking about? Lots of things bother me.”
“Like what?”
“Like this question.”
“Seriously, Graham. Eight-hundred million people have died…”
“Actually, I think it’s up to a few billion, right now.”
“You know what I mean,” Hanna insisted. “The world is coming apart, and you’re still the same guy I saw enjoying a virtual titty bar during a job interview.”
“For the record, it was a ‘gentlemen’s club’, not a titty bar,” he corrected, taking a sip of his coffee. “There is a difference.”
“You see? Why is it that none of this bothers you?”
“Hell, Hanna, of course it bothers me. You think I want billions of people to die? Of course not. It doesn’t bother me, at least not in the way you think it should, because I choose for it not to. If I didn’t, I’d be like all those zombies in the streets we’ve been filming, wandering around like I’m already dead.”
Hanna thought for a moment. “Don’t you ever feel like there’s no point to what we’re doing here?”
“Hell no!” Graham argued. “Of course there’s a point!”
“Well what is it?” Hanna wondered.
“The point is to stay alive!”
“We can stay alive without being here, doing this,” Hanna protested.
“Sure, but being here and doing this gives us a much better chance at staying alive than if we were out there.”
“Simple as that, huh?”
“What, you want to quit already?” Graham asked. “I thought this was what you wanted?”
“It was, but not this way.”
“Hanna, you were handed a gift. A horrible gift, to be sure, but a gift nonetheless. That gift saved you, me, Arielle, her fiancé, your parents…”
“I get it, I get it…”
“I don’t think you do,” Graham insisted. “When the sky is falling all around you, you have to seek shelter where you can and ride it out.”
“But how do you do that, and still keep hope alive?”
“Jesus, it’s only been a week and you’re already falling apart,” Graham declared as he pulled up a chair and sat down across the table from her. “You focus on your job, and you ignore everything else.”
“How do you do that, Graham, when your job is to report nothing but chaos, hopelessness, and death?”
“You just tell yourself that everything will be alright,” he replied, leaning back in his chair as he took another sip.
“Even if you know it isn’t, at least not for everyone.”
“You’d be surprised how easy it is to convince yourself that a lie is, in fact, the truth. It’s one of humanity’s greatest flaws.” He took another sip of his coffee. “Might as well use it.”
“Is that what you do?” Hanna wondered, “lie to yourself?”
Graham laughed. “No, I honestly don’t give a shit how many people die. Death comes to every living thing. These nanites we all have swimming around inside of us, they just delay the inevitable, and keep us looking pretty until the inevitable finally arrives.”
“How can you not care that billions of people are dying?”
Graham took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. “Look, Hanna, people
have always suffered, and they always will. That’s just the way it is. If I shed a single tear for every person that was killed by this plague, I’d never stop crying. What purpose would that serve? Would it make any of them come back? Would it keep anyone else from dying? No. It would just make me a useless basket case. So, like I said, I choose not to let it bother me. If that makes me a bad person, then fine, I can live with that.” Graham leaned forward again, pointing at Hanna. “But, if you want to get through this, you’re going to have to learn to do the same.”
Hanna thought about Graham’s words as she watched him take his last sip of coffee.
“Enough of this deep, intellectual crap,” Graham exclaimed, setting his empty mug on the table with a clank. “It makes my butt itch. Let’s go watch Lady Constance pretend to be a real broadcast journalist.”
Hanna smiled as she rose to follow her cameraman. He was a gruff old guy, but on occasion, something intelligent did come out of his mouth.
* * *
“Live in five, people!” the stage manager announced over the broadcast studio’s public address system as Hanna and Graham stepped into the control room. Four technicians sat at their control stations, and the program director was pacing back and forth.
“Cue opening,” the director ordered. “Tight in on Camera one. Head shot only.”
“Live from Netcast News World Headquarters in New York, the hourly update, with Constance Gerard.”
The camera held its focus on Constance as the NCN World logo faded from the screen. “In the headlines this hour: The death toll continues to rise as hospitals begin turning away Klaria patients to make room for those with treatable ailments. Troops are going AWOL in the face of chaos. Disaster relief centers report moving mass quantities of resources, despite problems at distribution points. Riots break out in prisons as inmates infected with the Klaria virus are left to die. People are experiencing reductions in basic services and utilities due to sudden labor shortages. All over the world, mass burning pits are being used to dispose of the dead. And there is still no lead on the identity of ‘Unknown’, the person believed to be responsible for the bio-digital plague. These stories, and more, in this edition of the NCN World hourly update.”
“Cue transition music,” the program director instructed. “Go to wide swing shot and standby camera one.”
Hanna watched the large overhead monitor. It showed a wide, high shot of the set with Constance sitting at the anchor desk. The shot swung from left to right while the standard NCN World theme music swelled in the background.
“Fade transition, standby camera two, and… go two.”
Hanna continued to watch the overhead monitor as Constance turned to look at the next camera in sequence. “Good afternoon, I’m Constance Gerard…”
“How does she always know which camera is next?” Hanna wondered.
“Day seven of the bio-digital plague, and the death count has risen to over three billion. With twice that number infected, hospitals have begun refusing Klaria patients, stating that without a cure, there is nothing they can do but provide supportive care until death arrives…”
“Because she checks the program director’s cue sheets, looks for patterns, and memorizes them,” Graham told her. “You’d think after a week behind the anchor desk, you’d have figured that out already.”
“In light of recent news, authorities have asked that anyone believed to be infected with the Klaria virus remain at home in self-quarantine, and hang a red towel or cloth outside to indicate that they believe that they are infected and are in need…”
“You could have told me,” Hanna replied.
“Like you would’ve listened.”
“Hospitals state they regret the need for this drastic measure, however, it is necessary since there is nothing they can do to save Klaria victims, and there are many people with other injuries or illnesses who can be saved. Protests outside hundreds of hospitals around the world have escalated into violent confrontations between protesters and soldiers attempting to maintain order. Soldiers have had to use deadly force to stop the crowds from doing further damage.”
“Standby Three,” the program director called out. “Go three.”
“Increasing numbers of soldiers have been reported as absent-without-leave by units around the world, as members of the military find themselves unable to use the force necessary to control their own neighbors in the face of the crisis. For more on the story, we…”
“Standby on the live feed from Donnelly,” the program director instructed.
“Did you see how she anticipated that last camera change?” Graham asked.
“Go with Donnelly.”
“She started to move as soon as she finished her sentence, before the camera light even went out,” Graham continued. “Very smooth. That’s what studying the cue sheets does for you.”
“So, she memorizes every camera change?” Hanna asked, finding it difficult to believe.
“Not every change,” Graham explained, “but by analyzing it, she can see the patterns. NCN likes to change cameras with each change in story.”
“What about when they go away to a live feed?” Hanna asked.
“They always come back to the same camera that they left from. It provides continuity, and gives the anchor a moment to appear concerned with the details of the story, inferring that the audience should be equally concerned. Then they change cameras as they transition to the next story.”
“Standby camera one,” the program director announced.
“Thank you Kim,” Constance said, looking troubled by the news that had just been reported from the field. Again, she started to turn toward the next camera.
“Go One,” the program director ordered.
“Christ, she’s practically leading the PD at this point,” Graham said with a touch of admiration in his voice. “There’s no denying, the girl’s got skills.” He noticed Hanna’s forlorn expression. “Don’t worry, kid, you’ll get there.”
“Although massive amounts of relief aid have been distributed, local authorities still report complaints of fraud among the recipients, with accusations of hoarding, as well as people being attacked for their relief bags on the way home. Authorities warn that soldiers are armed and are authorized to use deadly force if such crimes are witnessed.” Constance closed her eyes. Her head wavered slightly, so little that it might have gone unnoticed by most. When she opened them a second later, she appeared confused for a moment. “Prison authorities have reported riots in several facilities in response to the quarantine of inmates infected with the Klaria virus.”
“What was that?” the program director asked. “Did anyone see that?”
“Inmates attest that they are being refused medical care, and that those infected are being left untreated in the medical wards. Repre… Representatives from one institution told NCN World that inmates infected with the Klaria virus were being removed and quarantined for the good of the general prison population, and not to provide treatment.”
“She stumbled,” Hanna whispered.
“Something is wrong,” Graham muttered, one eyebrow raised.
“In some cases, all personnel have been removed from the facility and have taken up armed positions encircling the compound with orders to shoot… anyone…” Constance closed her eyes again, grimacing as if she was struggling to remain conscious. “I’m sorry… I…”
“What the hell is going on?” the program director wondered, his voice rising.
“She looks pale,” one of the technicians said.
“She looks like a fucking ghost,” Graham added.
“I don’t think…” Constance’s eyes glazed over and she fell to one side, then both she and her chair crashed to the floor.
“Holy fuck!” the program director yelled, grasping his head in disbelief. He spun around, scanning his personnel, hoping one of them would have an answer. Finally, he spotted Hanna at the back of the control room and pointed to her “Hanna! Get out there and
take over!”
“But, I’m not…”
“GO! NOW!”
“Go!” Graham said, pushing her toward the door.
“Roll the footage from the riots at Block Island!” the program director ordered.
“It’s not even…”
“Just fucking roll it!”
Hanna ran out of the control room and down the corridor toward the broadcast studio.
“Hanna! Wait!” someone called from behind.
Hanna stopped in her tracks and spun around.
“Real quick,” one of the stage technicians said, holding up a makeup plate. “Stick your face in here.”
“Is this my plate?” Hanna asked.
“Yes! Quickly!” the woman said.
Hanna stuck her face into the cavity and closed her eyes, forcing herself to relax as the machine quickly adjusted her makeup. She pulled her head up and looked at the woman. “How do I look?”
“Fine, go!”
Hanna turned and ran to the studio entrance, bursting through the doors. She snaked her way through the equipment and around the camera rigs hanging from their tracks along the ceiling. As she approached the set, she could see two men carrying Constance away from the set.
Another man tossed Hanna an NCNW blazer as she approached. “Put this on!” he ordered.
Hanna did as instructed as she stepped onto the set, turning to her right to see the men carrying Constance’s unmoving body toward the exit. “This isn’t my blazer,” she said, realizing it was too large in the bust.
“It’s Constance’s,” the technician replied.
“Where’s mine?” Hanna asked.
“No time, we go live in fifteen,” he replied, backing away.
Hanna picked up the fallen chair and moved it back into position, taking a seat behind the anchor desk. She peered between the hanging cameras, trying to see beyond the lights as medics burst through the doors at the back of the studio and moved the gurney into position under Constance.
“Live in five!” the stage manager reported. “Are you ready, Hanna?”
Hanna nodded, turning her attention to the prompter. Her eyes flitted back and forth, scanning the unlit red lights on top of each camera when she realized that she had forgotten which camera had been in use when Constance had suddenly passed out.